I fumbled my cell free from my pocket and pulled up the text messages. She wouldn’t be alive for at least another hour or two—Girl needs her beauty sleep after all—but she was in for a doozy upon waking. My phone sang a soundbite from Cher just as I leaned to shove it back in my pocket. I wondered why Scarlet was awake at such an ungodly hour, when the ID flashed as someone I’d only recently put into my address book.
Felix Hansen.
I grinned and opened the message.
Good morning. Please send me your home address. -F
As if I wouldn’t know who was texting me?
Morning, Handsome. 164 Cherry Lane. How are you?
There was always something about those three bubbles that pop up when your text buddy was typing that made me anxious. I mean, in this circumstance, it was a good anxious, but still.
OK.
Oh. That was anticlimactic.
I waited for a follow-up but got nada.
Periods after one word. I hated that. There’s something so passive-aggressive about it. Sure, Felix was more than likely totally fine, but the abruptness of such responses always seemed to have atoneto me. Maybe he wasn’t a morning person either.
I struggled with something suitable to say, but the room’s door was yanked open and I looked up with fingers poised over the screen. Alan Hansen stared at me from the open doorway.
Act cool.
“Good morning,” I called, quickly pocketing my cell.
“Morning,” Alan said.
“Coming in or going out?”
Alan looked around and quickly stepped inside. “I heard you playing down the hall.”
“I’m going through the new concert pieces.” I collected my bow, loosened the hairs, and slid it into its case.
“Why are you assigning new music?” Alan asked, dropping his backpack onto a chair.
“I think you guys are more talented than what was originally picked.” I smiled. “Plus, I just hate some of those songs.”
A hesitant smile crossed Alan’s face. “Please tell me you dropped ‘Santa Baby.’”
“First one to go.”
“Thank God.” He smiled wider, sat down, and opened his clarinet case.
Huh. Nothing weird from the kiddo. Maybe Felix didn’t think dropping a potential bomb over a breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch was the brightest of moves. To which I had to agree.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I began.
Alan held two pieces of his clarinet, pausing from fitting them together.
“I’m going to be moving you to first chair. I understand there’s a seniority thing to contend with, but I’m more interested in having my best players lead their sections, regardless if you’re fifteen or eighteen.”
Alan’s eyes widened. “Is that why you were talking with my dad last night?”
“Er—s-sure. Yes.”
“Holy crap.” He looked at his half-assembled clarinet briefly, then back at me. “I’m going to be first?”
