I stood on my toes to inspect Stephen’s hair. “Nah. Looks full to me.”
He grinned, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Better watch it, Mr. Merlin, or you’ll have more than just fantasizing sixteen-year-old girls hanging around outside your classroom.”
Wow. I wasn’t eventryingto flirt this time.
Stephen motioned to a door on the left side of the hall. “Teachers’ lounge is in there. Don’t get too excited about it—the coffee machine is on the fritz and someone left cheese to rot in the fridge, so the whole room smells funky.”
“Funky, got it.”
He then pointed to a door on the right. “Here’s the music room.”
We stopped, and I peeked through the door’s window. Two girls sat with flutes on their laps, looking through sheet music together. A few boys hung out in the back of the room, chatting, and one sat alone practicing the clarinet—and he was quite good, I might add.
“So what’s your schedule like?” Stephen asked.
I glanced at him once more and took the folders back as he opened the door for me. “I spend the first four periods here and teach at the elementary schools in the afternoon.”
“Eat lunch here too?”
“Assuming the weather permits and I don’t have to leave early to beat snowstorms.”
Stephen smiled. “I’ll see you around, then. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
I spared a lingering glance, watching which turn Stephen made at the end of the hall, then stepped into the classroom. It had tall ceilings and good acoustics, but the color palette was something out of a playbook from 1976. Seriously. Brown and orange will never look good together. Part of me was concerned for the well-being of the art programs if the school hadn’t been able to give this room a decent paint job for four decades running, but I wasn’t about to start fretting before the bell had yet to ring on my first day. I walked up the built-in steps that chairs and music stands had been spread out on, heading for the closed office door in the corner.
The lights were off, but through the window I could see a tiny room with a desk and computer, chair, bulletin board, and an overhead storage shelf. Better than nothing. Setting the cello down again, I tried the door.
Locked.
Well, shit.
“There’s no teacher,” a voice called across the room.
Realizing the clarinet player had stopped, I turned around. He and the few others students were all staring. “I’m the teacher.”
The boy’s face colored. “Oh. Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”Do I look that young?I was thirty-five.
I schlepped my crap back to the front of the room and piled it near the piano as the first bell chimed.
“So, what’s your name?” the clarinetist asked in a light blue voice. He had a young face and a head of thick brown hair that could have used a visit from the hairbrush fairy that morning.
“Mr. Merlin,” I said, finally getting out of my jacket and suit coat.
He smirked. “For real?”
“For real,” I echoed. “What’s yours?”
“Alan.”
“Alan….” I started to roll up my sleeves. “That was some good playing. What’s the piece?”
His face colored again. “Nothing.”
I walked toward him, leaned over, and inspected the sheet music upside down. It was written in pencil. “Something you wrote?”
