Alan nodded and swiped the paper, stuffing it into a folder.
“Are you in my composition class too?”
He shook his head.
“Oh.” I didn’t have a chance to say much else as the classroom door opened and students started filing inside with instrument cases, laughing and talking. “Everyone take a seat, please!” I called.
The kids all seemed startled by my being there, and I answered the “Are you our new director?” and “We actually have class now?” questions no less than a dozen times before morning announcements rolled. I pawed through my paperwork for first period’s roster as some bubbly teenage voice over the speakers told us basketball practice had been canceled for the day and what was on the menu for lunch.
“Didn’t we have spaghetti last week?” someone in the woodwind section asked.
“He’s so hot,” a student in the first row whispered, and I made surenotto look up and confirm the conversation was about me.
When announcements ended and the final bell rang, I took a deep breath and gave the band a smile. “Hey, everyone.”
A few said hi back; others waved.
“The rumors are true: I’m your new band director.” I walked away from my small explosion of stuff at the piano to stand in front of the class. “My name’s Bowen Merlin. Just to tell you a little about myself… ah, I’m from New York City. I have a master’s degree in music theory and composition, with a bachelor’s in music education. I’ve been a member of two bands and an orchestra in New York, as well as a private instructor. I play all the instruments in this band, so I’ll know if you’re not practicing. And… what else? Oh, I also play piano, cello, violin, and the bass guitar.”
I held up the roster. “Anyway. Time for me to butcher names and learn faces.”
“ALAN, HANGon a second,” I called after first period ended and students were leaving the room. “I want to ask you something.”
He tightened his hold on his clarinet case and approached me. “Yeah?”
I slid my hands into my pockets. “Why aren’t you first chair?”
His entire face seemed to light up at my question. “Wh-what do you mean?”
I’d conducted the band with a piece of music they’d been learning from their previous director, and it taught me a few things that morning. One, since the teacher had been abruptly let go, some of these students hadn’t been practicing nearly as much as they should have. Two, the piece was far too easy for high school level musicians. And three, but most importantly, some of these kids weren’t first-chair material, yet there they were. A critical position in any band or orchestra, first chair took solos, guided the other players, and was, in general, a leader and talent that stood out among their peers.
“I mean, you’ve clearly got the skill and ability to be first chair. The other clarinetists are taking their cues from you. May I ask why your previous teacher didn’t assign you to that position?”
He stared at his Converse.
I glanced around, but the current first-chair clarinetist was already gone. “It’s okay.”
“First chair is reserved for seniors. I’m only a sophomore.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Alan looked back up.
“All right… interesting.”
“Are you going to change seats?” he asked quickly. “Because the Christmas concert is in three weeks and some students are already learning solos—”
“What Christmas concert?” I interrupted.
“The… one we do every year. Did the principal not tell you about that?”
Oh fu—la la la la, la la la la.
FIGURING OUThow to get fed, now that I was a teacher and not a student, was interesting. I hadn’t packed a meal from home, which was quickly beginning to look like a mistake. I stood at the very end of the hot lunch line, stomach growling and clock ticking. I was still preoccupied with the news of the concert. What a way to be judged and graded as a new teacher. Three weeks into my first public-school job and I was literally going to be under a spotlight with students I hadn’t even learned the names of yet.
Yeah, no pressure.
I saw the principal making his way through the congested cafeteria. Joshua Cass. I’d spoken to him twice now. Nice-ish, I guess. He had a strange yellow kind of voice that I wasn’t particularly fond of. It grated on me.Andhe was a talker.
