Page 5 of Echoes of a Silent Song
I don’t need to see him work with them to know I don’t like him.
You don’t have to like him.But you do have to get along with him.If not for your job satisfaction and mental health, then do it for the children.
Blair stifled a sigh.The children.That sea of faces she anticipated greeting every morning, whose trenchant observations and unabashed wit often doubled her over with laughter.Whose determination inspired her, whose musicianship drove her to give her all every single day.A bad day at Peterson High was still better than a good day anywhere else.
Why do they have to be so lovable?
Right?SO inconsiderate of them.
Joy paused, her crimson lower lip sliding between her teeth as it did when she was deep in thought, then her beringed thumbs danced over the screen again.
Please, for me, try being nice to this one.I’ve got a good feeling about him.
Blair shot her friend a withering glance and tapped out a reply.
You just have a thing for guys who look like Beethoven.
You say that like it’s a bad thing.Beethoven was HOT.
Blair clicked her phone into Airplane Mode and tucked it back into her purse.“We are not having this conversation,” she whispered.
“Avoiding the truth doesn’t change it,” Joy shot back.
Blair stifled a grin and forced herself to pay attention to Cash.
One thing was certain with Joy—Blair couldn’t live without her.
But sometimes, some days, she wondered how in the world she would ever livewithher.
Callum sank into the creaky chair at his desk with a sigh that emanated from somewhere deep in his bones, then reached for the insulated lunch sack into which he’d thrust a hastily constructed ham sandwich and a handful of chips.Three days of meetings, and now his first school lunch—his first “first day of school” in over a decade.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to pop around the corner for some ceviche at that place in Somerville, or grab achowdahfrom Legal Seafood like he had when he’d lived in Boston.But there was no chowdah in Peterson.No ceviche.Probably no one who’d even heard of chowdah.Instead the only restaurants nearby were a mediocre Mexican place, a pancake house that catered to octogenarians, and a dingy burger place that seemed to be open only when the mood struck the proprietor.
On the other hand, the lack of dining options might further his goal of saving every penny so he could walk out that door next May and never look back.
Had he ever been so exhausted in his life?The morning had been a blur of policies and procedures, syllabi and safety instructions, and a dozen other things that didn’t involve making music.And though all his new colleagues had waxed rhapsodic about what gems the students of Peterson were, how polite and kind and selfless they were, all thestudents who had graced his classroom had regarded him with either undisguised loathing or total apathy.
He wasn’t certain which he preferred.
And Blair had been only marginally helpful.During the scant few minutes of actual singing during Mixed Chorus, she’d faithfully given pitches and played for warm-ups, but other than that she’d seemed perfectly content to watch him twist in the wind.Her expression at the piano had been one of someone who’d thought they were sipping coffee only to find they’d sipped soy sauce by mistake.
But a funny thing happened when she got around the kids.Her pinched expression morphed into one of the sweetest, sunniest smiles he’d ever seen.And the same kids who’d glared at him swarmed her with hugs and high fives and how-was-your-summers.His ice-cold accompan—collaborative pianist had simply transformed when the kids came in.She’d come to life.
She’d become almost pretty.
But this joyous reunion, this transformation, further emphasized the adversarial relationship between the Peterson choral program and its new director.Obviously the lack of continuity at his position would lead to a certain closeness between the kids and their one constant, but that closeness came across as a concrete wall he had no hope of scaling.An exclusive club he would never be welcomed into.
The office door opened, and he jumped.“What?”It came out as half word, half growl.
Blair stood in the doorway, eyebrow arched, a cardboard coffee cup in her hand.“I’m sorry.”Her tone contained no apology whatsoever.“Am I disturbing you?”
Yes.“No.”It was her office too, after all.She even had a desk near the upright.Smaller than his but in much better condition.A vase of artificial flowers and a candle adorned its otherwise pristine surface, and the wall behind it was littered with mementos and photos and thank-you notes.
More evidence he was on the outside looking in and always would be.
Not that he wanted in.By no means.
He’d only be here for the year.
