At risk of turning into a bobblehead, I kept nodding enthusiastically. “I understand, sir. Thank you again, and I won’t let you down.”
He grasped the briefcase with a sigh. “You won’t, because the only person you’ll be letting down if you fail is you.”
He handed my quiz back to Blaise, and they walked out together while I trudged back to my desk to gather my things. My shoes dragged like they were made of lead. I kept replaying Slade’s smooth baritone voice over and over in my head as he told me I’d gotten anF.
AnF!
This called for a pick-me-up, but it was too early for a cheeseburger Happy Meal. I settled for the next best thing: visiting the music room across the hall to fully distract myself with the piano stored there.
And if I happened to brush up on some fundamentals that would help me with the next quiz, all the better.
Westcroft’s music room was the size of an average classroom. Reserved for students in the school’s music programs, it was a hidden-away practice room that required badge entry to keep out undesirables.
The room easily would’ve fit forty students comfortably at desks. But instead, there were rows of chairs set up for a practice choir, a teacher’s desk, and a smattering of instruments and music stands. One lonely orange couch sat off to the side next to a small mountain of sound equipment. Bookcases filled with music sheets, books, and binders lined the walls. The main event was the black baby grand piano sitting off-center from the rest, bathed in sunlight.
I peeked down both sides of the hallway while swiping my card. The subterfuge made me feel like a secret agent on a mission, but a loud chime interrupted from my backpack. I fumbled for my phone, and my lip curled back when I recognized the email’s sender—my mother.
Dear Emmaline,
How was Music Theory this morning? I spoke with Rita in Admissions, and she mentioned you aren’t signed up for a piano independent study this semester. She must be mistaken, but please verify.
I do hope you’re keeping up with your piano practice. Your father still isn’t convinced you should take the time off for college, but he’s distracted with a new merger at work for the moment.
Call me when you read this,
Mother
My jaw dropped, and I froze on the spot. She’d called the Admissions Office? That was so…sobeyond inappropriate!
I scowled at my phone before stuffing it in my bag and shoving the door open. I’d worry about that later. There were bigger fish to fry.
There would be plenty of time before Friday to hit up the library. Right now, I needed to remind myself why I was taking something as dreadful as Music Theory in the first place. I needed to play.
What I didn’t expect was to see a certain pen connoisseur I owed money to. Noah stood next to the corner of bookshelves, flipping through one of its binders. He glanced up as I stepped over the threshold, before looking back at the binder like I didn’t exist.
Well, that did wonders for a girl’s self-esteem. I hovered uncertainly, eyeing the piano sitting innocently beside him before sucking up my courage.
“Fun class today,” I said to break the silence as I let go of the door. It clicked shut behind me, the sound echoing ominously in the still room. “Slade sure knows his stuff.”
Noah flipped to another page, and my confidence wavered.
“So, what kind of pen costs ninety-nine dollars?” I asked, before hastily adding, “Plus tax.”
“The kind that I should’ve known better than to lend out,” Noah said flatly without lifting his gaze.
Ouch.
“Does it have magical powers or something?” I nibbled on the tip of my thumbnail before catching myself and pulling my hand down. “Or come with a membership to some secret society?”
“If it did, do you really think I’d be allowed to tell you?” he asked, earning a stare. Did he just make a joke? “The only magical power it holds is very fine quality.”
“If the quality was so great, you’d think it would be more dent-resistant,” I said under my breath as I traced the hem of my shirt with a finger.
Noah snorted and flipped the page. “I’m afraid the creators may not have accounted for such determined canines having their way with the pen,” he said, but I caught one side of his lips twitching as he scanned the page, and it gave me hope. “Or maybe they just didn’t account for you.”
Another joke? I let out a slow breath, not wanting to push my luck.
“What kind of college student carries around fancy pens? Aren’t you afraid of getting mugged?”
