“Would he do it?”
“No! Of course not,” she says, not sounding convinced.
“Who else was in the shop?”
“I didn’t see clearly—but we’ve got four days until Sunday, when we can catch them. Or at least catch whoever Aces got to do it. In the meantime, I’m going to ask the janitor about that power outage.”
I nod. I’ve been able to breathe a little more, as Aces has been quiet for a few days. But I’m still on edge; I hate not knowing what might happen next—and I want to know who is behind this.
“I’ll give you updates when I can.” She pauses and gives my keyboard a look, like it’s beneath her, which reminds me of why I don’t like her. “Bye.”
Chiamaka’s clicking heels echo as she walks down the hallway. I turn back to my keyboard and grab the sheet of music I was writing on before she came in and disrupted my flow. I hope she doesn’t make a habit of visiting me in my happy place. Too many people are ruining it lately.
I don’t know what our regular chats make us, but I know for sure that we are not friendly enough to ruin each other’s happy places. I don’t go into her labs without warning, but I guess she doesn’t have the same courtesy. I almost mentioned Terrell’s race theory, butstopped myself because 1) I don’t know if she’d buy it, and 2) the thought of some racist student doing this because I’m Black—we’re Black—is too sickening to even make it a prime possibility.
I stare down at the sheet, and I touch the keys with my left hand, trying to make sense of the rhythm, trying to make it perfect. Right now it sounds so clunky and disjointed. Juilliard would reject it in a second.
I rub my eyes and move away from the keyboard once again. I can’t work or play when I’m this frustrated, so I text Terrell, hoping he doesn’t find it weird that I’m texting him during school.
Want to hang after school?
My phone buzzes right away.
Sure, how’s your day going?—T
My lips stretch as I look down at the message. That’s something I really like about Terrell—he always answers.
It’s going… Trying to write and make this song better, but I can’t. How’s your day?
Buzz.
My ears are always available, so bring it with you when you come later. My day is pretty chill, didn’t feel like school so I’ve just been at home.—T
I wish I couldnot feel like schoolwithout being all guilty for wasting Ma’s money. But my attendance is perfect, even if I’m in the music practice room more than classes these days. One day off from school won’t ruin that, right?
I’ll bring it over with me, thanks:)
See you later:)—T
I switch off the keyboard, shove all my things into my bag, and rush out of the practice room and down to the school office.
“I’m ill and need to go home,” I tell the woman at the desk.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “Name?”
“Devon Richards.”
Her long red-nailed fingers tap away on her computer keyboard. She glances up at me, all haughty as she surveys me, then back down at the screen. She stops typing as the printer slides a form out.
The scratch of her signature permanently inking the page makes me cringe.
“Sign here, and you’re free to go.”
Senior privileges mean parents aren’t involved when it comes to calling in sick—which I don’t ever do, because for some reason I’m never sick—and when I used to try to pretend, Ma always knew I was faking. I sign the sheet, trying to push the guilt away.
I’m always in school, this is nothing.
I repeat it to myself over and over as I rush through the hallway, freeing myself from the prison behind the double doors and tall black metal gates.
