His eyes fell on me again. Examining me until I felt almost naked—as if he were staring into my soul, my courage, and seeing all the questions I had. The doubts I had that I even wanted to pursue music. Because that was the truth. Sometimes I thought I’d chosen this path only to please my mother. My mother, the world-renowned opera singer. My mother, who I rarely saw, except in between engagements.
I looked away from him, swallowing back emotions I couldn’t even identify. I didn’t need his hassle right now. I didn’t need any of this.
“Class is dismissed. Miss Marshall, please stay behind for just a moment.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. And in my mind, I told Gregory Fitzgerald to just shut the hell up.
I heard, but didn’t see, as the rest of the class filed out. Finally I opened my eyes, just in time to see Nathan looking toward me from near the door. His face was oddly fixed, as if he were trying to restrain emotions too big to express.
“Mr. Connors, is there something you need?” Fitzgerald asked.
Nathan looked at him, anger washing over his face. “No. Nothing. Sir.” His limbs tense, he turned and walked out of the room. I sighed a little. I couldn’t put off talking with Nathan for too long, because my refusal to talk now was hurting one of my closest friends.
I wiped thoughts of Nathan from my mind. I could only deal with one crisis at a time, and at the moment, Mr. Fitzgerald appeared to demand my attention. He was approaching me now, with what appeared to be my paper in his hands.
“Miss Marshall. I’ve been considering our discussion from Monday.” He looked uncomfortable. Tense. His eyes swept over me, then away, then back to me again. Then he said, “You are correct. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on you. I see a great deal of talent in you, the potential for … for greatness. I see now that I’ve pushed too hard. Your paper, in fact, met all of the requirements which were assigned.”
He set the paper down in front of me. The F was crossed out, replaced with a B+. I narrowed my eyes. It was an A paper. I waited, not saying anything, wondering if he intended to explain himself.
It seemed that he did. “I told you the first week of class that before you break the rules, you must thoroughly understand them. Therefore I’m still counting off one letter grade for the extraneous material in your paper. That said,” he took a deep breath and looked away from me, “it was quite brilliant.”
Brilliant? My head was swimming. I went from an F to brilliant? I stood up and tucked the paper in my bag. Unaccountably, I wanted to cry. I wanted to shout. I wanted to tell him to shove the paper up his ass. I didn’t even know what I felt.
He gave me a questioning look. What? Did he want me to thank him? For backing down on being an ass? Being wrong? Did he expect me to fall to my knees in gratitude? What the hell did he want from me?
“Miss Marshall...” he said. His eyes were on me as he said the word, his expression unreadable, his eyes tightly focused. “Savannah…”
I stepped back, putting another foot of distance between us. He sighed, his expression suddenly hardening. He said in a much softer voice than usual, “I’ll see you in class Friday. Please have your personal affairs in enough order that you can pay attention in class.”
Adjusting the straps of my backpack on my shoulders, I turned for the exit. In the next breath I was facing him again.
“Gregory?” My voice shook, but I did my best to ignore it.
He looked up from his papers, waiting for me to continue, uncertainty on his face. “Yes?” he asked after my silence ran over “normal.”
“I … never mind. Thank you for fixing the grade.” I sighed and left the room in a hurry, stopping just outside the door to rest against the wall for a minute.
Just go back to your room, Savannah.
Gregory
I left class that day angry with myself. Angry at my lack of self-control. Angry that I’d almost said something to her, which I would surely have regretted. Angry that I couldn’t stop thinking about her, that when I sat down to draw music out of my cello, it was her that I thought of. Angry that when I woke up, I thought of her. Angry that for the two days after our confrontation in my office, I’d found myself continually returning to the argument. Angry at myself that I’d graded her unfairly, and angry that my thoughts kept returning to her reaction.
Angry that I cared about her reaction.
For the next three weeks, I mechanically went to teach my classes, to rehearsals, to performances. I met with Robert and his parents twice more, and introduced them to a young cellist, a former student, who agreed to take on teaching the boy. At Karin’s insistence, we went out twice for dinner, and both times she became angry at my inability to pay attention. Because I kept circling around the same thought. The same formless, overwhelming emotion. The same question. Because somehow, despite all my protective armor, despite all my focus on the music and the music alone, I’d become … infatuated. Obsessed. With Savannah Marshall.
I kept a professional, distant relationship with her. Anything else would have been a tremendous mistake. But sometimes, when she wasn’t looking, my eyes would fall upon her in class. I examined the arch of her eyebrows, the flow of her hair, the curve of her hips and calves. It was disturbing, on far too many levels. She was my student. She was volatile and emotional. She was a disaster waiting to happen. And all of that aside, even if I wanted to throw caution to the wind, even if I was willing to throw away my hard earned discipline, the fact was, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with me.