“You look mighty smart this morning.” His shrewd eyes bore into mine. “And nervous.”
I close my eyes while he blots the blood away. He already knows my strongest ally at the academy resigned from her position as the head music instructor. My relationship with Mrs. McCracken was three years in the making. She was the only person at Le Moyne who had my back. Losing her endorsement for a scholarship is like starting over.
“I only have one year.” I open my eyes, locking onto Stogie’s. “One year to impress a new instructor.”
“And all you need is a moment. Just make sure you’re there for it.”
I’ll catch the 91 line a few blocks away. The bus ride lasts twenty-five minutes. Then a ten-minute walk to the campus. I check my watch. I’ll be there, missing buttons, lip busted, but my fingers still work. I’ll make every moment count.
I run my tongue over the cut and cringe at the fatness around the broken skin. “Is it noticeable?”
“Yes.” He slides me a narrowed glance. “But not nearly as noticeable as your smile.”
Unbidden, my lips curl up, which I’m sure was his intention. “You’re such a charmer.”
“Only when she’s worth it.” He opens the clutter drawer at his hip and digs a quivering hand through the guitar picks, reeds, nails... What is he looking for?
Oh! I snatch the safety pin beside his probing finger and search for another. “Do you have any more?”
“Just the one.”
After a few strategic adjustments, I manage to pin the front of my shirt together and give him a grateful smile.
With a soft pat on my head, he makes a shooing motion. “Go on. Get up outta here.”
What he’s really saying is, go to school so I can get out of that house. Out of Treme. Out of this life.
“I plan on it.” I slide the bread across the counter.
“Oh no, now. You take it.”
“They’ll feed me at school.”
I know he hears the lie but accepts it anyway.
As I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist with more strength than I thought he was capable.
“They’re lucky to have you.” His dark eyes flash. “Damn lucky sons-a-bitches. Don’t you let them forget it.”
He’s right. Just because my family can’t offer wealthy donations or powerful connections doesn’t make me a charity case. My four-year tuition was paid in full when I was ten-years-old, and I passed the required auditions when I was fourteen, just like my peers. As long as I continue to outshine the others in coursework, recitals, essays, and behavior, the academy might not be so hard-pressed to drop me.
With a kiss on Stogie’s wrinkled cheek, I head toward the bus stop, unable to stop the dread from returning to my stomach. What if my new music instructor hates me, refuses to mentor me or support me in the matriculation process for college? Daddy would be devastated. God, that’s my greatest ache. Is Daddy watching me? Has he seen the things I’ve done to make ends meet? The things I’ll have to do again, as soon as tonight? Does he miss me as much as I miss him?
Sometimes the terrible hole he left behind hurts so badly I can’t bear it. Sometimes I want to give into the pain and join him, wherever he is.
Which is why I’m moving my biggest challenge to the top of my task list.
Today, I’m going to smile.
As the early morning faculty meeting adjourns, my shiny new colleagues file out of the library in a monochrome of starched suits and clicking heels. I remain seated at the table, waiting for the herd to disperse while watching Beverly Rivard out of the corner of my eye.
She hasn’t shifted her authoritative stance from the head of the table, hasn’t given me so much as a glance since she introduced me at the beginning of the meeting. But she will, as soon as the room clears. No doubt she has one more agenda item to discuss. Privately.
“Mr. Marceaux.” Her eyes cut to mine as she glides across the marble floors, surprisingly quiet in her pretentious pumps, and closes the doors behind the last staff member. “A quick word before you go.”
It’ll be more than a word, but I won’t use semantics to unbalance the position she thinks she holds over me. There are more inventive ways to put her on her knees.
Folding my hands in my lap, I recline in the leather chair, an elbow on the table and an ankle on my knee. I give her the full force of my gaze, because she’s the kind of woman who wants something from everyone, something powerful she can manipulate according to her own will and vision. For now, all she’s getting from me is my attention.
Beverly strolls around the long table, her modest skirt-suit tailored to fit her slender frame. Twenty years my senior, she carries her age with remarkable elegance. High, pronounced cheekbones. Narrow, aristocratic features. Barely a wrinkle in her pale complexion.