chapter Nine
Mr. Cline sputters and clutches his chest when I open the front door.
“Julianne, you are simply magnificent. You grow lovelier every time I see you.” He bows a formal bow, and his cane creaks.
“You said smashing, so I did my best. You think it’s okay?” I twirl to show him the back of my dress.
“More than okay.” He grins. “You take my breath away. You remind me of a Southern Greek goddess.”
I convinced Daddy I needed a new ball gown that I could also wear for Mardi Gras. I chose a dark navy floor-length dress with sheer fabric draped from each shoulder to just above the elbow. I haven’t scraped since August, so it’s okay to show my arms. The skirt has a ruche overlay gathered at the left side just below my waist. It hugs the right places and drapes perfectly. The color goes well with my fair skin, and the saleslady said it made my blue eyes sparkle.
I swept back the sides of my hair, twisted and pinned them in place. The rest cascades down my bare back in loose curls. I lean forward to give Mr. Cline a peck on the cheek when Daddy comes up behind me.
“Robert, always good to see you. You doing okay?”
“Better than ever, thank you. I even got myself a cane.” He hoists it in the air. “My sister says it makes me look distinguished. I’m inclined to think ‘old and gimpy,’ but I like ‘distinguished’ better.”
“Have a nice time tonight. That was generous of your nephew to give Juli a ticket. Please tell him I said thank you.”
“Of course. Julianne, are you ready, dear?”
“Yes, I’ll just get my bag.” I grab it off the hall table and leave Daddy in the doorway. Mama lurks in the shadows of the foyer.
Mr. Cline offers me his arm and his tuxedo tails flap. I giggle.
“Costume de rigueur, you know.”
I beam at him but feel a twinge of sadness when I realize I’m not holding his arm as much as he’s holding mine, the rest of his weight on his cane. Still, he opens the car door for me and closes it behind. He hobbles over to his side, angles in and tucks his tails underneath. I realize then how much I’ve missed him—his easy conversation, impeccable manners, and the special talent he has of putting me at ease.
“So tell me, Julianne, how are you? I haven’t been able to talk with you much.”
“I know, and I’m so sorry, Mr. Cline.”
“Whatever for, dear? You have a life to live. I’m just curious about it.”
“You mean with lessons? They’re still going well.”
We pass a city bus, and I think of the little girl with the Red Bull. I look down at my expensive dress, and the cold finger of shame pokes me in the middle.
“At least I think they’re going well. It’s sometimes hard to tell with Isaac. He’s not big on positive feedback. Though we just finished my recording two weeks ago and sent it in.”
“Wonderful.”
I don’t tell him about the printed e-mail in my handbag.
“Tell me more.” He fidgets in his seat. “About Isaac.”
“What about him? You said before that I was good for him. Gave him a challenge. What did you mean?”
“Only that he needs someone like you to shake him up. Snap him out of his gloom. He’s had a tough road. It’s not my place to tell you the details—you can ask him yourself—but you both have…” He purses his lips. “You are both very stubborn. And sensitive. You each remind me of the other.” He takes a hand off the steering wheel to wag a finger at me. “You are the student he needs, and he is the teacher you need.”
He’s quiet after that pronouncement. I let his words sink in for the next few blocks.
When we arrive, Mr. Cline hangs up his handicapped tag so we can park close to the theater. He insists it’s so I won’t have to walk far in high heels. The evening is cool, and a few leaves skitter across the sidewalk in front of us. It reminds me of the images I see when I play Rachmaninoff.
A panhandler across the street turns the corner and disappears behind an empty storefront. I notice some of the bulbs on the theater’s marquee are burned out. It isn’t the most lavish venue, but it’s ours.
We push through the lobby doors and immediately bump into many of Mr. Cline’s acquaintances and colleagues, as well as some of his former students. I wave to a few girls I know from school, though none come over to talk. That’s what happens when your mama scares your classmates.
As I study the mural painted above the entrance, the lights dim—the signal that it’s time to take our seats. An usher escorts us to the front of the theatre, and I realize with pleasure that when Isaac said we had front-row seats, he really meant it. We are front and center next to Isaac’s mother, his two sisters and their husbands.
The curtain is a deep rose and soaks up the soft glow from the cream-colored walls and gilded trim. Cherubic trumpeters grin down from above the stage. I’ve been here countless times and played a few sets, but never a full program like Isaac will tonight. It includes the Mozart I helped him with, and Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in F# Minor. I assume this is why he invited me.
The musicians complete their final warm-ups, and the audience applauds as the maestro strolls onto the stage. After an eternity of bows and introductions, Isaac appears at stage left and briskly takes his place at the grand piano. But not before another round of bows to the maestro, the musicians, and the audience. His eyes search past the footlights to the front row. Our eyes lock, and his widen for a second before he nods and sits at the bench. I blush from my bare toes to the tops of my ears. Mr. Cline even glances at me, a small look of amusement lighting his features. Isaac’s mother doesn’t look quite so amused.
I know her from church and Mystics functions. She was my Sunday School teacher, but I never knew Isaac or any of her daughters because they were so far ahead of me. She’s a pleasant woman. Tonight she looks much older. I guess I haven’t paid much attention to her in the last few years. Her chestnut hair is grayer, the lines around her eyes deeper. She’s tall and sturdy like Isaac, but carries it well.
She beams up at Isaac, and the stage lights reflect off her dewy eyes. I wonder what it’s like to have a mother so proud of you. How wonderful to have her sit in the front row as love radiates in the air so it shimmers like an aura.
Before I realize it, the first half of the performance is over, and the house lights come up. I help Mr. Cline stand and we both stretch, trying to be inconspicuous about it. Mrs. Laroche and her daughters slip off, and their husbands debate the Crimson Tide’s as-yet-undefeated record.
Mr. Cline is the first to break the silence. “Julianne, tell me, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Shouldn’t I be? Do I look sick?”
“No, I mean, how are things?”
Ah, he means things at home.
He’s the only person outside our family to know something’s been going on. He’s seen the signs the last few years, and while he can’t really do anything to stop it—short of confronting my parents—he’s always done his best to be there for me. He’s seen the scrape marks more than once, too. I don’t think he knows what they are, but he knows something is seriously wrong.
He tried more than once to get me to talk to someone about it, but I refused. He even threatened to call the police or social services, but I went into hysterics and he backed down. I was fifteen when that happened. He never brought it up again.
“Just know that I’m here for you, dear. Anything you need. A place to stay, someone to talk to. Just call.”
I love him for that. I know he’s sincere.
“Tell me about your audition repertoire. Isaac said you squeezed in Rachmaninoff?”
We talk about the recording, but I leave out the part that happened afterward.
Then I tell him my really big news, the news I can’t keep secret one moment longer. I haven’t even told Isaac. I didn’t want to call him this afternoon—that’s sacred performance preparation time. And I didn’t want to tell Mr. Cline before now, because this is Isaac’s night. But I have to tell someone, so I cave. The performance is half over, right? Besides, I know I was right to spill the details when I see Mr. Cline’s face. He lost some of his spark after the stroke, but tonight, I see some of that joie de vivre shine through again.
The lights flicker and we settle back into our seats. Mr. Cline takes my hand and doesn’t let go. Between Isaac’s performance and Mr. Cline’s obvious pride, I could burst from happiness.
Is this how Isaac feels when he sees his mother’s face?
I can’t wait to tell him.
The second half of the performance takes my breath away in its liveliness. Mozart, of course. Like the first half, it flies by. My advice on that run helped, because I don’t notice any mistakes. Isaac earns two standing ovations and placates the audience with a short encore.
I gasp when he strikes the first roll of Rachmaninoff’s Etude-Tableau No. 5 in D Minor, the piece he played for me in August when I first lost my temper with him.
When he let me touch him.
Mr. Cline hears me and glances over. Tears well up and spill over before I can stop them. Mr. Cline discreetly hands me a handkerchief. He knows better than to ask what’s wrong. Actually, there’s nothing wrong. It’s very right. The music hits in just the right place, and there’s nothing I can do but let it take me under.
Isaac lightly presses the last few chords, and I breathe again. I tuck the handkerchief in my handbag and jump to my feet with everyone else to applaud Isaac’s unparalleled performance. Isaac’s sisters and their husbands say their goodbyes, mumbling about babysitters. That leaves Mrs. Laroche, Mr. Cline, and me to head backstage to congratulate Isaac.
Mrs. Laroche bustles through the crowd ahead of us, but I hang back with Mr. Cline to help him navigate the steps. To my left, I see a familiar flash of blonde bob. She’s too far ahead to holler at, but it’s definitely Mrs. Swann, and she’s got a younger version of herself in tow that must be Heather.
When we catch up to Isaac, his mother’s lipstick decorates his face. She beams at the orchestra musicians as they pass, chatting while they pack up. Lucky for me, she turns to talk to the conductor when Mr. Cline and I approach. Isaac looks me up and down.
“Uncle Robert, I thought you were bringing Julianne with you tonight. Who’s your hot date?”
“I saw her first!” Mr. Cline declares. They laugh and shake hands, then Isaac turns to me.
After a slight pause, we settle on a light, awkward hug. He whispers a single word in my ear: “Stunning.”
His breath tickles the small hairs curled around my neck and makes me shiver. I’m pleased at the compliment, but also surprised.
Must be the post-performance high.
“So was your performance,” I say. “Why don’t you ever play like that for me?”
“Isaac, have you been holding out on her?” Mr. Cline asks in mock horror.
“No, she’s heard part of that before. The encore.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Cline points his cane at me. “That explains it.”
Isaac looks confused. “Explains what?”
“Nothing, Isaac. I just really liked it, that’s all, and I told Mr. Cline.” I send a mental message to Mr. Cline to drop the subject, which he does. I’ll die if Isaac finds out he moved me to tears.
Mrs. Laroche rejoins our group and announces she’ll turn into a pumpkin if she doesn’t get home soon.
“Robert, I’ll ride with Isaac so you can take Julianne home.”
“Actually, Mama, I wanted to discuss something with Juli. Could you wait?”
She gives him an exasperated look but stops when the percussionists walk by.
“Then why don’t you and I just go home, Robert, and let the two young ones talk? You’ll drop her off safe and sound, won’t you, dear?” There’s an odd tone in her voice, almost like a threat.
“Of course, Mama.” He smiles and gives her a kiss on the cheek.
Mr. Cline turns to me. “Is that all right, Julianne? I feel like a bad date, tuckering out so early. Excuse an old man’s bad manners?”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Cline. Good night.” I hug him and he places a hand on the back of my neck to hold me in place.
“Be sure to tell him your news. He’ll want to know.”
I smile. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mr. Cline. You’re the best date I ever had.”
He puts his hands over his heart and rolls his eyes. He offers his arm to his sister and they shuffle off together, bantering back and forth like only siblings can.
I turn to Isaac, and he stares at me, hands in his pockets.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…”
“Just what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“You said you wanted to discuss something with me?” I prompt him and he laughs.
“Yeah, I said that, didn’t I?”
“Are you okay? You’re acting goofy, which is cool, but definitely not your usual MO.”
“Sorry. Just distracted. Yeah, let me get my things and we’ll get out of here.”
He disappears for a few minutes, and I say hello to some of the musicians milling around.
“Hey there, Miss Juli. You doin’ okay?” Curtis Moore, who plays third-chair viola, is a skinny, pale, middle-aged man with a wild mop of red hair.
“Just fine, sir. How’s the family?”
“Getting big, the lot of ’em. Jimmy’s heading into middle school this year and Lucy, well, she’s eight going on eighteen.” He fiddles with the handle of his voila case and shifts it from one hand to the other.
“Tell them I said hey. Have them stop over some time, if they’re not too old to be seen with their former babysitter.”
“Sure will. You have a blessed night, now. Good to see you again.” He smiles and turns to leave but spins back around. “You need a ride home or something?”
“No, I’m good, thanks. Isaac is taking me home.”
“Isaac? You mean Isaac Laroche?” He arches an eyebrow for effect. What that effect is, I’m not sure.
“That’s the one.”
Curtis’s left eye twitches just the tiniest bit, and where his wide smile sat just a second ago, a strained one takes its place. “You sure that’s a good idea? Is he even allowed…” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head. “Well, have a nice evening.”
With that, he spins on his heel and marches away. I watch as his viola bumps his leg.
What the heck?
Isaac returns with his tux jacket over his arm, and we head out the back door behind the stage. As guest performer, he has a prime parking spot. I shiver and he drapes his jacket over my shoulders. It’s early fall, but the night air carries a chill that wasn’t there a few weeks before.
He opens the car door for me, and I tuck my dress in around me.
“Where to?”
“What do you mean, ‘where to?’ Aren’t you taking me home?”
“I will if you want, but I’m too keyed up to call it a night. Besides, you look mighty nice, and I’d like to show you off a little.” He winks.
“You feeling okay? You’re seriously weird tonight.”
“Never said I wasn’t. So how about it?” He repeats his original question. “Where to?”
“Well…Felix’s is still open.”
“Nah, too crowded. And they’d look at us funny if we went in dressed like this.” He has a point. “How about ice cream? Is it too cold for ice cream?”
“It’s never too cold for ice cream.”
“All right then, ice cream it is.” He stomps the gas.
We stop at a place in Midtown. It’s late, and the girl behind the counter shoots daggers at us. Isaac gets a triple scoop of butter pecan, and I order a strawberry milkshake. I don’t want to run the risk of dripping any on my dress or Isaac’s tux jacket, plus I don’t think I can gracefully lick a cone in front of him and not blush. It seems a little too…intimate.
We perch on top of a picnic table in the parking lot. The lights of the ice cream place flick off, and we hear the girl lock up for the night. I squirm in the silence, but Isaac doesn’t seem to notice as he works away at his three scoops.
“This side,” I say. “It’s dripping over on this side.”
He licks it off his knuckles, and that’s when I notice the shiny cufflink.
I put out a hand to look at it. “May I?”
He nods and switches his cone to the other hand but never misses a lick. I turn his wrist to see better in the dim light.
“It’s monogrammed—ALB. But those aren’t your initials. Wait, let me guess. You have an evil twin named Alexander Bubba Laroche. Am I right?”
His eyes twinkle. “Partly right. About Alexander, anyway. Hang on.” He finishes off his cone and wipes his fingers.
“They were my dad’s: Alexander Beauregard Laroche. Quite a mouthful, eh? Nine syllables of name, eleven if you get someone from upstate to say it.”
“Is there a story behind them?” I never thought about his dad, or lack of one. Actually, I never saw or heard of his dad at church or anywhere else.
“No, no story really, just that I got them when he died.”
“I didn’t know. I should have since I never met him.”
“No, you probably don’t remember him. Died when I was young, so maybe you weren’t even born yet. I keep forgetting you’re jailbait.”
I punch him in the shoulder.
“Ouch! Hey now, I’m supposed to be grieving, and you’re supposed to feel sorry for me. Or at least not give me bruises.”
“You deserved that one. Anyway, continue. You were telling me about your daddy.”
“Not much to tell. Don’t have a sob story. He was a great guy, a great father and then he got sick. Cancer. Went fast after they figured out what was wrong.”
I study Isaac’s profile in the streetlamp light and imagine what his dad had looked like. As big as Isaac but maybe a bit heavier, leathery skin from being outdoors, and more age lines. Definitely some gray hair at the temples.
Isaac catches me staring. “What?”
“Nothing. What did your mama do after he died?”
“She was a rock. Had the three of us to take care of, so she didn’t have time to sit around and feel sorry for herself. Plus, Uncle Robert stepped in. Especially with me. Took me fishing and boating and taught me how to drive. And piano, of course, but I started that before Daddy died.”
I’m not sure what to say. “Sorry” doesn’t seem right since it’s been so long.
“That must have been tough.”
“Yeah, he didn’t leave us much of a nest egg, so Mama worked like crazy. We did okay.”
“Well, you’re lucky you have so many people who love you. And the cufflinks are really nice, too.” It’s time to change the subject. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Pardon?”
“At the theater. You said you wanted to talk to me. That’s why you offered to drive me home, right?”
“Oh, that. Just wanted to get out of there, away from all the people. Wasn’t ready to go home yet and figured you wouldn’t mind. That okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” I need to tell him my news. But there’s something else I have to do first. “Isaac, I need to ask you about something.”
“Yeah?”
How do I ask this?
“Did something happen before you left Mobile?”
He stiffens. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I remember bits and pieces of things, and sometimes when I tell people we’re working together, I get a weird vibe.”
He turns his head away and mumbles. “No. There’s no reason we can’t work together.”
I shiver and pull his jacket closer.
“Where are my manners?” His voice is a little too loud. “Forgot you have thin skin down here. Been in Boston so long that this is a heat wave. Let’s go.”
“It’s okay, it’s just the milkshake.”
He stares at my lips.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just get in.” As he closes the door, I swear I hear jailbait again.
In our driveway, I realize I still haven’t told Isaac my news.
How could I possibly forget?
A gentleman like his uncle, he walks me to the door, even though there are only a few steps from the driveway to the back door. He was here every day over the summer, but this feels different. For one, it’s well after dark. For another, his warm fingertips rest on the small of my back as we walk. I try to summon the confident girl who appeared after we finished the recording. She seems far away right now.
This is like the end of a date, with that awkward will he or won’t he? moment. I haven’t had to worry about that since sophomore year with Patrick Mumford. He saw Mama have a come-apart—one of her fits—one time and made sure to tell everyone he knew. That took care of the will he or won’t he? problem. Until tonight.
“Isaac—”
“Good—”
We speak at the same time. He waves his hand to let me go first.
“There’s something I have to tell you.” I cringe at how corny that sounds, and Isaac’s eyes get big. It makes me giggle and gives me the push I need to spill the news. I take a deep breath. “I got the audition. In February.”
He grins from ear to ear. All the weirdness dissipates when he lets out a little rebel yell.
“Shhh! Don’t wake the neighbors.”
“That’s great! Congratulations! Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“This was your night. I didn’t want to take away from that. Although I did tell your uncle during intermission.” I give him a sheepish look and hope he’ll forgive me for not telling him first.
“Well damn, now we should go out and celebrate some more.”
“I’m sure you’ve had a long day. Going to your performance and spending time with Mr. Cline was the perfect celebration. But thank you for the offer, really. It means a lot. Oh, and thanks for your jacket.” I shrug it off and hand it over, sorry to lose the warmth and scent. Cool night air bites at my bare skin and I feel naked.
And things are weird again. I can’t look him in the eye, so I concentrate on one of his shirt buttons and fidget with my handbag. He stares at my bare shoulder but doesn’t say anything. I hear his teeth grind.
And he still doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
He lifts a hand to touch me but drops it. “Good night. And congratulations.”
***
November speeds by with no major catastrophes. My nightmares aren’t as frequent, and I haven’t scraped in weeks. Haven’t needed to. Mama’s adjusted to her new medication—I don’t know how she keeps track of them all—and seems pretty normal most of the time. She even made cookies this week and told me I looked nice. These small miracles make me think maybe, just maybe things have turned around.
The next few months might not be bad if I can contain my stress and Mama stays on her meds. I’ll figure out what on earth is going on between me and Isaac—if anything—and what all these whispers and snatches of whispers are about. I don’t think it’s just about his ex-girlfriend in Boston.
R.J. comes home from college, and we pick up where we left off—who spends more time in the bathroom, who put the empty cereal box back in the pantry, and whose turn it is to walk the dogs.
“R.J., you’ve been gone since August. I’ve been pulling double-duty ever since.”
We sit at the kitchen table in our flannel pajamas. Beaux rests his chin on my knee while Belle does the same to R.J.
He points his spoon at me. “Yes, but you still live here full time. I’m practically a guest, and guests shouldn’t have to walk their hosts’ dogs.”
“That’s so pathetic, R.J., even for you. Did you fail Logic 101?”
“Hah. Hah. I can tell you passed Smartass 101.”
“Lame.”
“It’s early, give me a break.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Let’s see. First, I guess I’ll walk the dogs. Then I have to meet Geoffrey and the guys for a meeting and another fitting.”
The Mystics decided to let Geoffrey Swann be king after all. I guess his parents are too important to piss off, so they didn’t vote to replace him or go without a king. Mr. and Mrs. Swann have to pay for everything. Again.
“Have fun with that.”
“Yeah, thanks. What about you? You’re on Junior Court again, right?”
“Nope. I turned it down so I could concentrate on the audition. I’ll be at the ball, but that’s it.”
“God, Juli, are you turning into a spinster? There’s a convent on the north side of town, you know.”
“Shut it, R.J.”
“But if you went all nun on us, what would Isaac do?”
“I said shut it.”
“Oh, looks like I hit a nerve.”
I box the side of his head and he yelps. I’m halfway to the sink when he grabs me by the middle and starts tickling.
“Stop! You suck!” I gasp for air between laughs and manage to shake him off.
“Do I need to separate y’all?” Daddy wanders into the kitchen and scratches at his fuzzy orange-gray hair.
“He started it.”
Daddy rolls his eyes and grabs a coffee mug from the cabinet. “What are you two up to today?”
“That’s what we were talking about when R.J. attacked me.”
“She totally had it coming, Daddy. I have to go to the costume shop for a fitting with Geoffrey and the guys. Not sure what we’ll do after that, but I’ll probably be gone most of the day.”
“What about you, Juli? Let me guess, you’ll be in the studio.”
“No. Isaac asked me to help with the Christmas cantata at church. Rehearsal is today. He put together a really great program for the choirs and convinced a couple of people from the symphony to do accompaniment.”
“Sounds like a blast.” R.J. pretends to gag. I throw my spoon at him.
“I’m glad you’re getting out. Isaac still being a gentleman?” Daddy’s voice is casual but his insinuation is not.
“What is with you two?” I look from Daddy to R.J. “Why are you always asking me stuff like that? God, you’d think he was all over me the way y’all check up on me.”
“Just looking out for you, sweetie,” Daddy says. There he goes with the sweetie crap again.
R.J. joins in. “Yeah, just looking out for my baby sister.” His sincerity is called into question when he crosses himself and folds his hands like a nun in prayer.
“R.J., you’re so going to hell.”
***
The church parking lot is a zoo. It’s filled to capacity, and several car trunks spew gold and white glittery decorations. The sanctuary looks even worse. Ladders rest on either side of the altar, and plastic containers litter the vestibule. Overexcited parishioners weave in and out of the mess in response to others who yell instructions and point.
In a corner of the choir loft, I spot Isaac. His back is to me, but it’s clear he’s arguing with someone. His shoulders look tense, and he shakes his head. I move closer but stop when I catch bits of their conversation.
“Do I really need to remind you?” The female’s voice is familiar but too quiet to identify.
“Course not. Made yourself clear a long time ago.”
“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. I thought you might have, considering.”
“How would you know? It’s none of your business.” Isaac sounds tired.
“You made it my business. It’s your word against mine. We may be in a church, but I haven’t forgotten or forgiven.”
“Oh, come on. Give it up.”
“Not a chance.”
That can’t be…
“You’re sick. You enjoy this. Make mountains out of nothing. Wasn’t a big deal then, and it isn’t now. You made it a big deal.” Now he sounds pissed.
“That’s right, and I’ll do it again.”
That voice…
“Did you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Her voice purrs.
I duck into the shadows when high heels clack on the hard floor. They approach and recede, so I peek my head out just in time to see a blonde bob disappear around the corner.
Marcie Swann.
No one told Isaac the Decoration Committee planned to trim the sanctuary at the same time we’re rehearsing the Christmas cantata, so we pack ourselves into the choir room, which hasn’t had a redo since before I was born. The adults wrangle the kids onto scratchy orange couches, and the musicians attempt to keep their instruments from getting smashed in the melee. I stay out of Isaac’s way as he fires off instructions like a military captain.
“You. There. You. Over there. Juli, you play while I direct.”
While he points in everyone’s face, I sit at a 1970s upright piano unworthy of anyone’s talent. The cantata has an organ part, too, but I think that’ll have to wait for another day.
“Brass, are you ready? Strings? Everyone warmed up?” Isaac doesn’t wait for an answer. He hustles everyone into position, nods to the harpist shoved in the corner, raises his arms and flicks his wrist.
The choir sounds good, and the children sound like…well, a bunch of children. Not great, but cute. It’s not bad for a first full rehearsal, but the close quarters make everything difficult. Pretty soon, the overcrowded room smells like my school’s gymnasium—eau de sweat and stinky socks. The kids are restless, and I’d love to throw a tantrum right along with them.
Worst of all is Isaac. He moves well beyond moody musician and enters chain-saw-killer territory. I glance at the children and see a little boy’s eyes get big when Isaac yells at the altos to “back the hell off.” Before he drops an F-bomb in church, I tug his sleeve.
He whips around. “What?” There’s sweat on his upper lip and stains under his arms.
“Calm down,” I say quietly. “There are children here.”
“Like I need to be reminded?” He jerks his sleeve out of my grasp.
“Clearly, you do.”
His nostrils flare and, for a moment, I wonder if he’ll go postal. Through clenched teeth he barks another order at me, “Outside. Now.”
A hush falls over the room, and even the kids sense the change. Isaac grabs my elbow none too gently, yanks me out into the hall and slams the door. A hundred dollars says someone’s got their ear pressed to the other side.
“Don’t you ever, ever talk to me like that in front of a roomful of people. Understand? Do that again and I’ll drop you faster than you can blink.” He squeezes my arm so hard my hand is tingly and numb.
My first reaction is to knee him in the nuts. No, my first reaction is to cry, but kneeing him is a close second.
Whooosh. The flames of my temper ignite.
Here it comes.
“What crawled up your butt? May I remind you that I’m a volunteer? So are all those people in there, including the children. And their parents don’t need to be hollered at like children, Isaac. Neither do I.”
“You”—he closes his eyes and shakes his head—“are replaceable.”
The monster rears up.
“Yeah? Knock yourself out, Maestro. I’m sure one of your other students will jump at the chance to be your bitch.” I yank my arm free and walk away. Down the adjoining hall, the sound of high heels recedes.
I had set aside most of the day for the cantata rehearsal, so now I’ve got little to do. I don’t want to answer anyone’s questions, so I lock myself in my room and make an honest attempt to do homework. Daddy says I need to spend more time on school stuff, so that’s what I’ll do. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. Still, I pull back the collar of my shirt so I can see my upper arm. Isaac’s fingerprints are stamped there. For some reason, it’s comforting.
He doesn’t show up Monday afternoon. Or Wednesday. Or any other day.
He dropped me. I’ve been replaced.