Page 33 of The Sound of Harmony

“What’s to improve?”

“The rosebushes, for one thing. If you want to—”

“No,” Kendrick said. “I don’t.”

“Okay,” Emma rushed to say. “Forget I mentioned it.”

“I shouldn’t have cut you off,” Kendrick said. “You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

Her reply was too quick. He was used to Emma weighing every word. This felt wrong. Kendrick closed another packing box, wishing he could just as easily close his runaway mouth. “Please,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.” Now he desperately wanted to hear what she was going to say. She probably wanted to tell him the rosebushes were overgrown and needed replacing. She’d say that it was no big deal since they weren’t heirloom varieties, but just ordinary roses you could get at any nursery. Just because they were his grandmother’s didn’t make them special. Mitch had told him the same thing, and here he was, being a jerk to Emma for bringing it up.

“You can say what’s on your mind,” he said.

“It’s usually better not to,” she said with decisive finality. “The customer is always right.”

And there it was. The constant refrain beating between them like a drum. This was a business arrangement. It was foolish of him to want more than that, but every time he spoke with Emma, his resolve to keep things professional slipped away.

“I’m not right about most things,” he said. “I’m extremely good at blowing air into a funny tube and drawing dots between lines on a staff. Other than that, I screw most things up. And I’d appreciate you telling me when I’m being a jackass.”

“No can do,” she said, her voice as sour as a bowl full of lemons. “That’s not one of the services I provide.”

Kendrick could sense that she wanted to say more, but he wasn’t going to speak for her. He decided to salvage things by making a hard turn into a new subject. “I should finish packing. But before I go, I was wondering if you’d had a chance to listen to that playlist I made you.”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re going to?” He’d spent hours curating tracks. He wanted to give her the emotional ride of the ideal songs in the ideal order.

“I might,” she said. “I’m waiting for the right time.”

She’d added some sugar to those lemons, and Kendrick found himself enjoying the balance of tart and sweet. He decided a small push was worth the risk. “When do you think the right time will be?”

A pause. A breath. And then a very Emma-like response. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Kendrick knew how lucky he was. He’d been given every opportunity to thrive in the world of classical music—encouraged by his parents, funded by his grandmother. They’d sent him to the finest teachers and enrolled him in expensive summer arts programs, where he’d learned from working composers and made lifetime connections. He’d been born into privilege that multiplied as time went on. The more his compositions were performed, the more they would be performed in the future.

Which was why it was important for him to give back. Twice a week, he spent an hour at Ben’s school, working with the flute section. He couldn’t do much in such a short amount of time except smooth out their worst trouble spots, but with the public schools chronically underfunded and understaffed, that small contribution meant a lot.

Or at least it would mean a lot if he was actually contributing some instruction today instead of spending the last twenty minutes on the sidelines of the practice field, consoling a senior named Chloe Thompson.

The marching band had been putting together their halftime show since July. And now, at the end of August, it was time to select a drum major—the student who would lead the band at shows and parades. Five kids had competed for that baton. Chloe didn’t get it.

“It’s just that I worked really haaaard,” she bawled. She used her shirt hem to wipe her eyes, smudging her makeup. Chloe was wearing a full face, even though it was ninety degrees and so humid it was like marching in Satan’s armpit. “I attended all the practices and trainings,” she said.

“But everyone else attended them too.”

“I know,” she sniffed. “But this is my senior year and I thought I’d get it.”

The new drum major was also a senior, but Kendrick didn’t point that out. Logic had nothing to do with heartbreak. He wanted to give the poor girl a hug, or at least pat her back while she melted down, but all he could do was talk to her in a soothing voice and try to get her back to the field. So far, nothing he was saying was getting through.

“Everyone blows an audition at least once in their lives,” he said. “I remember when I was in—”

“I didn’t blow it, Mr. Bell,” Chloe wailed. “I tried my verybest.”