I shouldn’t have come in today. What I saw told me that Niveus itself is somehow at the center of this all, but Chiamaka wasn’t answering her phone and I needed to tell her. I should have told her and left, taking her with me.
Instead of using my common sense, I found myself wandering off to music class, like a zombie. I even saw Daniel. He smiled his big handsome smile at me, but all I could see was his name on that list, and him pretending to be nice to me but ruining my life behind my back.
I can’t “act normal” when I know something really fucked up and dangerous is going on. I shouldn’t have listened to her. I shouldn’t have stayed.
The wrinkles on Mr. Taylor’s face bunch up on his forehead. “I was once in high school too. Kids can be horrible, so I can imagine what you’re going through.” Something in his eyes changes; it’s a small flicker, but I notice it. Sympathy, I want to say, but it feels like something different. “Especially with college applications coming up, I know how stressful it can be,” he finishes.
I nod. “Juilliard is the only thing keeping me sane right now.”This piece is coming together—kind of. I think Terrell was right about the drums. The drums will definitely make it better, but then what if it’s still not good enough?
I look up at Mr. Taylor, who is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’m not sure why.
“You’re applying to Juilliard?” he asks. Which is so strange, because,obviously. He and I discussed it at length at the end of junior year. It’s all I’ve been working toward.
I don’t feel like I can give an answer to that, I’m so confused. But I nod slowly.
“Son—” A laugh jerks out of his mouth, then another, and then he’s full-on laughing. “I’m sorry—I just—seeing your face—I can’t keep this up,” he says between breaths, laughing like I told areallyfunny joke, slapping his knee with exaggeration, basically screaming. “Son, you’re not going to Juilliard.” He wipes his eyes and I feel something sink.
What the fuck? I know it’s hard to get into and everything, but… Mr. Taylor doesn’t sound like Mr. Taylor right now. He’s the most optimistic person I know; he encourages all of us to do things we want to do—he’s encouragedmesince I joined.
“What?” I manage, my throat burning. “Why?”
He reaches forward and plays B-flat on my keyboard.
“They tend to only accept high-achieving students…”
“I get straight As in all my classes,” I say.
His voice lowers. “I wasn’t finished.” He stands, towering over me, and places his hand in his gray pants pocket. “They also tend to be pretty strict on class attendance—which, if my memory serves me right, is pretty poor for you.”
What the actual fuck?
“I thought seniors were allowed to do that?” I say breathlessly.
“Of course they can… with sign-off from a teacher,” he says, like that’s not exactly what I did.
He gave me permission; he said I could; he told me it was okay, he—
“I—I thought you sorted it out?” I stammer.
“Son, you should never leave your fate in the hands of someone else,” Mr. Taylor says, stepping back now. His eyes, which were a light, soft blue, now look like a gray storm.
“You told me you sorted it out,” I repeat like a broken record.He told me he sorted it out. “That it was okay to practice whenever I needed to.” My voice rises, and the bile in my stomach itches to crawl through my throat and spew all over him and his suit.
Mr. Taylor walks back over to his piano and strokes his fingers across the keys as a loud, discordant pattern of notes screeches out.
“That I did. But it’s okay, it’s okay…” He pats the air, like he’s patting me from afar. “It’s okay not to go to college, it’s okay.” Smiling wide. “Not all people are suited for higher education. Especially your kind.Your kindneedn’t have an education.”
I want to scream for help, but he’s suddenly up and by the door now, blocking the entrance. And anyway, who is going to help me?
Mr. Taylor is one of them.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”
Mr. Taylor’s face morphs, his expression confused. Like the answer is so obvious, and I can’t see it. He leans back against the oak doorframe.
“Because I can.”
He turns and leaves, and the door to the classroom closes behind him, slamming shut,bang, like a gun.
