“Kelly and Merlin!”
We both turned to see Cass meandering toward us among the rush of students enjoying the break before the fifth period bell. I tried to be open-minded about the principal, despite the dick comment about music education yesterday, but Stephen had stiffened at my side, and that told me I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t a fan of Cass.
“Yes, sir?” I asked.
“Cass,” Stephen said, politely inclining his head.
“After school, stop by my office so I can discuss the yearbook predicament with you both.”
“The yearbook?” Stephen echoed.
“Amy’s had to step down from the position of advisor. Kelly, you’re one of our more popular teachers, and Merlin, I think the kids like you. I figure if we have you guys tag team the yearbook, it won’t be quite as overwhelming to play catch-up.”
Stephen and I both looked at each other.
“Ah, sir,” Stephen began, “I’m already the advisor for the newspaper.”
“I have a Christmas concert in three weeks,” I added.
Cass waved a meaty hand at us, like,oh pshh with those petty goings-on!“We’ll talk later today!” he insisted with a big smile before slapping Stephen’s shoulder heartily, almost intentionally roughly, and continuing down the hall.
“Oh, wait, Mr. Cass!” I called. “I’m teaching at Whitefield Elementary School!”
“Swing back this way when you’re finished!” Cass said back.
“Jesus,” Stephen muttered.
“Is he really going to make us do this?”
Stephen looked at me. “Probably.”
“But—”
“Welcome to a rural, underfunded, public high school, with astellarboss, Bowen.” He touched my arm lightly and stepped away. “See you later.”
About tomorrow! I have to cancel our date!But I didn’t get the chance to tell Stephen.
MY AFTERNOONwith the kids was pretty enjoyable. Sure, I had a splitting headache from a percussion player destined to be the drummer of a metal band one day…. And my group of brand-new fourth-grade flutists needed to be reminded that the mnemonic was Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge, not Every Day Good Boys Eat Fudge, so they wouldn’t keep asking me where the second E line is on the treble clef. But still. It was heartwarming to see bright young things having fun with music.
By the time I’d made it back to the high school and reached the office, I was late and out of breath from the freezing, dry air outside.
“There you are,” Stephen said, glancing up from idly filling out some papers on the reception countertop. “Thought maybe you’d gotten lost.”
“Do you have any aspirin?” I countered, trying to catch my breath after running from the parking lot in the cold.
He glanced back at me, raising an eyebrow.
“Enthusiastic seventh-grade drummer.”
Stephen set his pen down and reached into his inner coat pocket.
“I got tackle-hugged by some kids as I was trying to leave,” I continued. “Then I think I met the Wicked Witch….”
Stephen offered a little travel pack of aspirin. “Let me guess—irate parent?”
“On the school board, no less,” I added, taking the pills and thanking him.
“Not upset with you, I hope.”
