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The bright sunlight warms my skin as I pull my cello case from the car. Then, I grab my large work bag and pull it over my shoulder.
“Here goes… well, everything,” I whisper to myself as I head for the metal detectors. Just as I suspected, they aren’t even turned on. I have to hope the cops in this town are slightly better equipped to handle things should something go wrong. I walk up the three steps that lead into the building and cast one last glance over my shoulder.
He can't find me here. I'm as safe as I possibly can be. My grip on my cello case tightens as I walk back into the main building, pushing the door open in front of me with my hip.
To my surprise, the principal is standing at the door in an ill-fitting suit. He greets me, a smile hidden beneath his full black mustache.
“Ms. Petrov!” The principal says with a happy chime. The dove gray color of his suit flatters his dark, golden skin well. His brown hair has been shaved close to his scalp, but he missed a spot just beneath his chin when he must have shaved this morning. These are things I would never dare remark upon out loud but that I can’t help but notice. It’s my nature to be observant. It goes hand in hand with the constant paranoia. “How lovely to meet you. It’s great to have you on board!”
“Hello,” I say softly, trying to hide as much of my Russian accent as possible—yet another remnant of my life that needs to fade as quickly as possible so that I can become Sofia Petrov. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“I was hoping you would make it here nice and early so that I could introduce myself. I’m Principal Alexander Martinez. We spoke on the phone before. The students should be starting to file in shortly, and I wanted to make sure that I personally gave you a tour of the place.” He extends his hand to take my cello case, and I gladly hand it over. He makes a broad motion for me to follow him but I'm still not sure where I'm going. I try to keep up with him at a reasonable pace. At least the inside of the school is much nicer than the outside.
“So, I can’t say just how pleased we are to have arealmusician joining us here! I tried to look up some of your symphony performances online, but I had some trouble locating you. I’m not great at all that tech stuff, though I’m sure you can point me in the right direction,” Principal Martinez rambles on. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort of fellow. If he wasn’t so sweet, I wouldn’t feel so bad lying to him.
“Oh, I’m grateful for the opportunity. Really, it’s an honor to be here and share my love of music with the kids,” I answer plainly. No extra details, just like I’m supposed to.
“Is that a hint of an accent I’m picking up on?” Martinez asks with a smile.
“You have a good ear, sir. It is my grandfather’s accent. He comes from Russia, and he had a hand in raising me. I suppose it stuck more than I am aware of.” I try to make it sound like it’s a painful subject. Even justalludingto the fact I have Russian ties is more than I am comfortable with. Again,with the paranoia. Better safe than sorry.
“Ah, can’t say that Russia is high on my bucket list! I haven’t traveled much though, so what do I know?” The principal says with a gentle scoff as we turn into the music room. “Here we are! The music room.” Principal Martinez places my cello case on the ground with a softthunkagainst the old, flat carpet. A cloud of dust wafts up, but he pretends not to notice. “I know it’s not like the fancy places I’m sure you’re accustomed to working in, but we like to keep things… modest, here.”
He looks around the room, both hands on his hips. It's designed in the shape of a half-circle, with four sets of risers spaced about two feet apart. Heavy brown drapes are pushed open against the back wall, concealing large, bulkywindows. The carpet was probably once a nice shade of red that went well with the off-white walls, but it's now faded, and the paint appears yellow and sad. I'm sure I'll be allowed to spruce up the place and make it feel more like my own.
Black music stands are folded together and pushed up against the far wall beside what I’m guessing is my desk. Said desk is a small, orange, wooden mess with no more than three drawers on one side, and nothing but spindly legs on the other. There is a closet door off to the side where I’m supposed to keep my personal belongings. I place my work bag on the floor beside the desk and turn in a small circle to properly take in the room. It might not be much now, but it has potential.
I clasp my hands in front of my body and tuck my elbows into my sides, imagining what a fresh coat of paint might do. I feel hopeful, as if the place is full of possibilities... until I remember I'm broke.
The bell rings and Principal Martinez jolts and glances at his watch. “Shoot! Fifteen minutes until the buses start to arrive. I meant to show you around the rest of the school, but it will have to wait.” He speaks quickly as he walks back toward the door to the classroom. “Ms. Olivia is across the hall. She’s not too much older than yourself. I think the pair of you will get along famously! She’ll be happy to help you with anything you might need or answer any other questions you might have.” Principal Martinez pauses at the door and reconsiders his exit. He jogs quickly across the room and grabs my hands and shakes them vigorously. “I’m just so happy to finally have the chance to extend our Arts program! Thank you, again. Adios!”
He rushes off in short, shuffled steps back out the door and disappears out of view.
Suddenly, I feel small.
Not just because of the size of the room. I feel insignificant in comparison to the person I used to be. At the very least, I have something to do to keep myself busy. And this isn't my first time impersonating someone else. I take a seat at my desk. On top of it is a blue folder with the school's logo embossed in gold. I open it to reveal the onboarding paperwork and my schedule. My own time at school feels so very far away. In just a few moments, I will have to set my new personality in stone and start introducing myself. Already, my nerves and anxiety are starting to give way to excitement. Everybody is so nice… maybeIcan be nice here, too.
On that positive note, I push back from my desk and move for my cello. I have always had an affinity for music, ever since I was young. No matter what was happening in my life, music was my way to escape from it all. One of the only things that helped me get out of my recent depression was the cello. It produces such dark, chilling sounds, and it soothes me more than any other instrument I've tried.
I open one of the few folded chairs from beside the music stands. I'll need to get a good sense of the acoustics to determine whether I need to quickly rearrange things for my students. I can't say I'd ever given much thought to becoming a teacher before now.
I came into my love of music at such a young age; it feels like a natural extension of my soul. My mother taught me how to play. I suppose, in some way, it makes me feel connected to her. That being said, I don’t think she would approve of my choices, as she never thought I was good enough. She said I had the “wrong fingers” for it. Perhaps it’s nothing more than spite that fuels my desire to play.
I’ve never wanted to be a mother, even though I always thought it would happen. I still don’t know whether or not I would be any good at it—hopefully better than the one that I had, at least. It’s a low bar. I just want to be happy again, and music makes me happy. If I can show just one kid the joy of music too… Well, that just might be enough.
My skirt is stretchy, but not as much as I would like. When the cheap nylon doesn't move the way I want it to, it's even more irritating. I have to hike it up past my knees to properly fit my cello between my legs as I begin to tune the instrument. To my delight and despite its simplicity, the sound reverberates beautifully through the space. As I position my fingers over the strings, I rotate away from the door. My callouses will take some time to return. And I can hardly wait.
I can do this. Yeah, this might just work.
CHAPTERTWO
Daniel
“Idon’twantto go to a new school!” Henry’s voice rings out from the seat behind mine with a low-pitched whine. Anyone would think I was sending him to jail, even though a move is never easy for a child. My nephew sits with his arms tightly crossed over his sweater vest. This morning had been yetanother battle. I had tried to persuade him that overdressing would put him at a disadvantage. The kids in this neighborhood will not be the same as the ones he's used to from wealthy private schools. The designer labels may make him a target. He doesn't want to alienate himself before he even gets a chance to speak. I wanted him to blend in and take his time. Naturally, he refused.
Henry had been quick to counter my comment with a retort I knew all too well:‘There’s power in being the best-dressed in the room.’I can’t argue with him, and he knows it. Hell, I’m the one that taught him that. I know it will only be a week max until he begs me to go buy the same clothes as whatever his friends are wearing.
I had hoped the change might humble him slightly as he’s never attended public school before.
