3. Niles

Chapter three

Niles

L unch break took forever to arrive. I spent the entire morning in a wretched mood, snapping unfairly at students and deviating from my lesson plan after an unexpected early morning visitor had degraded not only my curriculum but my entire existence and sense of self.

I shouldn’t have let it bother me. My bruised ego and hurt feelings were rooted in resentment and fertilized in jealousy. But could the man have been a bigger pompous jerk?

When the noon bell rang, I dismissed the class and hustled down the long corridor, past the gymnasium, and to the nearest stairwell, where I scaled two steps at a time in my haste to catch Koa before he departed for lunch.

Rushing proved unnecessary. I found Koa burrowed in stacks of books, surrounded by mountains of papers, and reading a tattered copy of Sound and the Fury , his face contorted with concentration.

He didn’t react or move his attention from the novel when I barreled into the room and deposited my ass on the corner of the nearest desk, arms crossed and fuming from a morning of contained rage.

Koa’s quirks could be grating on a good day. No one could block out the world and the people in it better than a classic literary professor hell-bent on finishing a book. But I had no patience left, so after a full minute without Koa acknowledging my presence, I obnoxiously cleared my throat.

“A moment, Master Edwidge.”

I wasn’t in the mood for the soul-soothing moniker he’d given me years ago and didn’t respond as I usually might.

He continued to read, turning a page like we had all the time in the world.

“I hate Faulkner,” I snapped. “That book was nothing but stream-of-conscious writing. God help your students if that’s what you’re teaching.”

“It’s personal reading, and don’t bring god into my classroom, thank you very much.”

“It’s junk. If it was meant to deliver a message, it failed. I had a migraine for a week after finishing it.”

With a petulant sigh, Koa set the book aside and removed his reading glasses. “It’s about the moral and social decay of a prestigious family. It explores the thought process of the human mind. The stream-of-conscious style is intentional.”

“It’s annoying.”

“You’re tetchy.”

“You would be too if you’d had my morning. They hired him. He’s a paid staff member. Do you know what that means? I’m being replaced. No one has come out and said it, but how obtuse do they think I am? The board has always taken issue with my credentials. Parents complain, and now, a solution has landed on their doorstep. He isn’t merely better qualified, he’s a goddamn maestro. They can pretend he’s here to temporarily enhance the musical curriculum, but it’s bullshit. They’re phasing me out. I told you this would happen.”

“I’ll assume the him in question is Maestro Augustus Castellanos?”

“Oh, but please, you can call him August. He’s not one for titles,” I said haughtily. “I’ve never met a more pretentious asshole in my life. Do you know what he did?”

Koa glanced longingly at the discarded book, but I barreled through the excuse before it crossed his lips.

“I was practicing Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit —”

“Tricky piece.”

“I’m aware. Thank you, Koa. Please read the sarcasm in my tone. Well, doesn’t Mr. Maestro sneak up behind me for a listen. Do you know what he said when I finished? He said I performed reasonably well .” I tore the elastic from my hair, letting the long strands fall around my face. “Reasonably well.” I mimicked August’s mild accent. “Asshole.”

Huffing, I raked fingers through my thick mane, gathered it at my nape, and secured it in a messy bun. A few shorter pieces instantly tumbled free, framing my face.

“Considering the piece’s complexity, ‘reasonably well’ sounds like praise. I’m failing to understand your temper.”

“No, it’s not praise. It’s insulting. I can paint a picture reasonably well . I can cook reasonably well . I can quote Shakespeare reasonably well . I can—”

“You can’t, actually. You often get it wrong.”

“Not the time for nitpicking, Koa. I’m making a point.”

“A tenuous point at best.”

“Can you not?”

“So, it was not a compliment.”

“No, and I’ll tell you why.” Unable to sit still, I launched into an aggressive pace. “The man proceeded to sit on the bench and play the entire sonata by heart . He handed me the sheet music and commanded me to follow along. I refused. And he performed it without a single error. But what’s more? While playing, he spent the full twenty-two minutes of the three combined movements informing me of where I went wrong and demonstrating how I could improve. He called it, giving me feedback on my attempt . My attempt!”

I paused, waiting for a reaction, wanting Koa to endorse my claims or defend my rage, but his expression conveyed confusion. “Still not a compliment, I assume?”

“No, Koa. It was demoralizing. He said my pacing was all over the place. Can you believe that? The nerve.”

“You often rush that piece.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“I wasn’t aware we were at war.”

“Well, we are.”

“I’m struggling to understand why any of it matters. Who cares if he offered constructive criticism of your playing. Isn’t that good? Don’t you want to improve? If you didn’t like it, don’t listen to it.”

“You’re missing the point.”

Koa held his hands aloft. “Then help me find it.”

“I’m going to lose my job to this prick. Contrary to what I was told, he isn’t taking the role of guest teacher for a week or so. He’s usurping half my curriculum for several months. Don’t you see what they’re doing? In June, I’ll be shown the door, and by September, Timber Creek will welcome a new, highly regarded, better-educated faculty member. The parents will be so pleased, and I will be jobless.”

“Your logic is flawed.”

“It’s not.”

“In what universe would a world-renowned musician, a maestro , want to teach high school music?”

“In this world.” I stabbed a finger on Koa’s desk.

“I think it’s highly unlikely.”

“You didn’t meet the guy. He of the perfect suit and impeccable hair. You should see the way he carries himself. Shoulders back, chin high, oozing confidence because he knows I’m nothing but a subordinate. And the way he stared. Judgment in his eyes. Is a guy not allowed to have long hair? Do I have to wear a tie to be acceptable in his world? God, his voice alone was grating. So… cultured and suave.”

My best friend quirked a brow.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Koa checked the time on his phone. “How long is this rant going to take? I was hoping to eat lunch before the bell.”

I ignored his pettish comment and sat again, deflated, weary, and in no mood to play games. “The worst part is… he’s fucking gorgeous.”

“And there it is. It took enough meandering to get to the point.”

“I hate him.”

“And yet you’re halfway in love.”

“I’m not.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“I’m not,” I emphasized.

“Can I have an opinion?”

“Only if it endorses my own.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion. You know I despise repeating myself, but it warrants reiteration. He is a prominent figure in the world of classical music. He’s performed all over the world and won dozens of awards. He’s celebrated as one of the finest musicians and composers of the twenty-first century. The man must be worth a fortune.”

“Please, rub it in more. It doesn’t hurt enough yet.”

“He isn’t going to want your job, Niles. Shocking as this may sound, especially since it’s a known sore spot, but he’s over qualified. There is no reason for you to feel threatened.”

“What I feel is inadequate.”

“That’s a you problem. Take it as an opportunity to learn. You couldn’t find a better teacher if you tried. Are you going to use this to your advantage or bitch about it until spring?”

Koa was right, in theory, but I’d always feared being replaced.

“Look at the bright side.” Koa stood and gathered his phone and book. “At least the view will be nice for a few months.”

“Just what I need. Sexual frustration on top of everything else. I know better than to ogle straight married men. It never ends well.”

“He’s not married.” Koa gestured to the door, indicating we were leaving.

“He has a daughter.”

“And it’s not the nineteenth century. Haven’t you read his bio?”

“God no. I already suffer from an inferiority complex. I have no desire to research the acclaimed maestro. Salt on a wound.”

Koa locked the classroom door. “I’m running to Peterborough for coffee and a sandwich. I refuse to subject myself to that sludge in the staffroom. Do you want to join me?”

“You’re buying.”

“On one condition. You leave the sour attitude behind.”

“Did you ever think there would come a day when you said that to me?”

“No.”

I chuckled. “Fine. Consider it left.”

“And, since I’ve listened to you bemoan your situation for the past twenty minutes, we will spend the rest of our lunch hour discussing The Sound and the Fury .”

I groaned, and Koa hooked his arm with mine, dragging my miserable ass down the hall.

***

What was worse? Having a pompous maestro as a guest teacher or his genius daughter in my fourth period class. I was about to find out as third period students filtered from the room, and my last class was about to commence.

The Timber Creek faculty had been given a perfunctory overview of Constantina Castellanos’s academic testing results. The gifted young woman landed in the ninetieth percentile for her age bracket. Her education was not of great concern. Her mental health, however, was said to be fragile. The focus of the staff meeting included a detailed medical summary of Constantina’s challenging childhood.

The teenager—who, according to her file, preferred to go by Constance—had been diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma at age seven, an extremely rare and aggressive form of cancer more commonly found in children. Due to its location and risk factors, Constance underwent three complex surgeries over the course of two months to remove a troublesome tumor in her neck.

The final surgery resulted in a partial laryngectomy. At age twelve, when the doctors were ready to proclaim Constance in remission, the cancer returned with vengeance. Despite chemotherapy, she’d undergone surgery for a fourth time. In the end, to halt the spread of the cancer, Constance ended up having the whole of her voice box removed, resulting in a tracheoesophageal puncture or voice prosthesis.

Although the cancer hadn’t been gone long enough to warrant saying it was in remission, things were looking up. Since the surgery, however, the teenager had battled a different disease.

Depression.

Although Constance had undergone intensive speech therapy to teach her how to speak with the artificial device, she refused. According to her father, Constance didn’t like how her voice sounded. It embarrassed her, and on more than one occasion, the teen had openly stated she’d wished the cancer had killed her instead. Because her mother had taught her sign language as a child, the girl resorted to using it for communication instead of the prosthesis she’d been given.

In accordance with her family’s wishes, we were to dissuade her from using signs and promote speaking in class.

The warning bell rang, and my ninth-grade students streamed into the classroom, chatting noisily as they took their assigned seats on the risers, dictated by what primary instrument they played.

Each student carried an instrument case along with their standard backpack. Our routine never fluctuated. We started every day with scales.

Constance entered as the final bell rang. Tight flaxen braids hung over each shoulder. Her uniform did nothing to hide her petite frame. Knobby knees showed under the hem of her skirt, while bony fingers clasped the straps of her backpack. Nervous eyes glanced around the room, taking in everything and everyone at once. I could imagine it had been a daunting first day.

Her wary attention fell on me.

“Hush. The bell’s gone. Instruments out. You have ten minutes of free practice time before we get started.”

The noise settled to hum and the clamor of instruments being assembled. The squeak of adjusting stands, the preliminary honk of a horn, a screech of a bow on an untuned string. I motioned for Constance to join me at the desk in the back corner of the room.

Constance looked nothing like her father. Her fair skin and lighter hair contrasted August’s darker features. Where he was tall and broad, she was short and willowy. Fragile, which I feared was a result of the cancer.

Before she reached the desk, the hectic commotion of twenty-one students running scales overtook the room, reverberating against the walls.

Constance didn’t carry an instrument, only a school bag. I directed her to pull up a chair, and when she sat, she placed the backpack at her feet.

“I’m told you go by the name of Constance. Is that correct?”

The girl nodded, her body language the epitome of misery. I didn’t have to know a thing about her to know she didn’t want to be here. It was torture.

A patterned scarf circled the girl’s neck, drawing my attention. She didn’t wear it for fashion, but how many other girls had accused her of breaking the Timber Creek dress code rules because of it? Had they teased? Tattled?

I knew what the fabric covered and told myself not to stare or make her uncomfortable. Having worked in a high school for my entire career, I understood teenage sensitivities regarding self-image. I could only imagine how such a drastic change in the girl’s life had affected her—not purely her fight against cancer and having surgery, but Constance had spent her whole academic life with private tutors.

Koa had been homeschooled, and I knew the social struggles he’d encountered when his grandfather eventually put him in a regular curriculum.

But here was a girl battling depression after a life-altering surgery, and instead of allowing for a period of adjustment, her parents had made it worse by plunging her into a school system where Constance was at the mercy of potentially mean-spirited peers.

I offered the fretful teen a warm smile as I leaned across the desk, getting closer to be heard over the racket. “If no one has said it yet, welcome to Timber Creek. I’m Mr. Edwidge, the one and only music teacher. Let me start by saying I’m pleased and rather embarrassed to have you in my class. I saw your performance at Roy Thompson Hall. I have to be honest, Miss Castellanos, I don’t think I’m a worthy instructor. You should be teaching me , not the other way around.”

My comment earned a soft smile and a modest head shake. The girl’s cheeks flushed pink.

“What? You’re not that good? I misheard? That wasn’t you playing the piano the other night?”

Her smile grew, and she shrugged.

“I think you’re humble. I met your father earlier today.”

The smile faded. Constance’s chin dipped until her gaze landed on the bag at her feet. The same melancholy I used to see on my best friend slipped over her body like a comfortable sweater, so I said something I shouldn’t.

“Your dad’s a bit of a show-off, isn’t he?”

Constance lifted her head, eyes sparkling with humor. She nodded briskly in agreement. I’d spent one period with the man. I couldn’t fathom growing up under his tutelage.

I chuckled. “You’re not going to waltz in here and make me feel small too, are you? I’ll hand in my teaching badge right now. I don’t think I could handle it.”

She shook her head, still grinning.

“Good. Phew.” I dramatically swiped my brow. “Now that we got that out of the way, I see you didn’t bring an instrument. How about we take a stroll and find you something to play for today?”

With her disability, I had no idea if wind instruments were possible. Not wanting to make her unnecessarily uncomfortable by asking, I encouraged Constance to follow me to the storage room outside the music department, where we kept our stringed instruments.

The noise dampened beyond the classroom, so I didn’t need to raise my voice as I guided her to the storage closet adjacent to the gymnasium. I unlocked it and held the door wide.

“Pick whatever your heart desires, mademoiselle.”

With less strain in her shoulders, Constance peered into the crowded room and scanned the full shelves. She moved immediately to the violins and selected the shiniest case. Giving her options seemed to have made her happy.

Constance opened the case and inspected the instrument from the scroll to the chin rest before reverently removing it from its soft velvet cushion and cradling it under her jaw. The bows were kept separately. I selected one and handed it to her. She carefully adjusted the tension on the bow until it was to her liking and glanced up as though seeking approval.

“Do you want to try it first before we go back?”

She nodded, and I told her to go ahead.

Eyes closed, fingers balanced with precision over the strings, Constance played. She started with a simple scale, a C major, but moved rapidly into scale variations, something I encouraged my students to practice all the time for warmup. Few of them listened, which was why scales were part of our daily routine.

The violin’s tuning was off, but Constance caught it immediately and adjusted a peg. Satisfied, she balanced the violin under her chin again and went right into a piece of music I didn’t recognize.

A dreamy expression came over her. At the show, I’d been too far away to register an emotional impact, but in the storage room, I had front-row seats, and the music transformed her.

Forget it. Never mind the crusty rules. I didn’t care who her father was or what his demands were. Constance’s parents could force her to speak, but I wasn’t doing it. It wasn’t my job. My job was to teach. My job was to nurture the heart and soul of music. This girl had a talent like none I’d ever seen, and despite envy and jealousy, I wanted to be part of her growth. Without knowing a thing about her, I could tell Constance needed an adult on her side.