“Why is trouble spelt like that? And what’s that little shape?” Elise asks, handing me both the note and a little black rectangular box.
I read the note again. And a third time because it keeps getting cuter. My teeth catch my bottom lip, but I can’t stop the smile that breaks through, anyway.
“It’s a music joke. Treble, like trouble,” I explain, pointing to the rest symbol. “And imp-rest,like he’s impressed.”
“He?” Elise’s eyes widen. “Who’s ‘he’?”
I blush. “Konnor.”
She bounces on her toes. “What’s in the box?”
My fingers trace the edges before I carefully lift the lid. Nestled inside on black velvet is a silver harmonica, gleaming and perfect and pretty.
My breath catches.
“A harmonica?” Elise leans closer. “You’ve been here less than 48 hours, and guys are already giving you instruments?”
I lift it carefully, feeling its weight. It’s not a cheap one. How did he manage to get a harmonica between last night and this morning? I flip it over in my hand and notice a little tarnished patch of metal on the rear side. It’s his. It’s second-hand.Oh!I practically squeal. I love it even more!
Elise is staring at me expectantly. So, I explain about the gig at The Grill, how I don’t like playing with other people, and about Konnor. I leave out the Erik stuff, of course, because it is nothing. Less than nothing.
The harmonica’s sleek silver body cools my fingertips while something inside me glows like embers.
The lady at the admissions desk doesn’t like me, or maybe she doesn’t like the world, but either way, she’s been glaring at me since we walked in here.
It was Elise’s idea to come.
Not mine.
“I’m not a stalker.” I give her a soft smile. “I just have Mr Slater for a class, and I need to find a way to contact him.”
“Is that right?” She scrutinises me from head to toe. “Mr Slater seems to get a fair number of female students needing his”—her bony fingers make air quotes—“digits.”
My stomach turns.
That reminds me of the person Erik described, but… But I bet he doesn’t leave them all notes and musical instruments.
“Mrs…” Elise stands on her tiptoes, leaning across the desk as she reads the name tag pinned to the woman’s cardigan. “McKenzie,” she confirms, before dropping back to her heels. “Mr Slater has Miss Bellamy’s wallet. She left it at the bar last night, and he found it. She plays there on Tuesdays and Fridays. You can check with the manager. He called her, telling her to pick it up at his place.”
My eyes widen, but I try to school my expression, and nod along with her. She is stacking lies like Jenga blocks, and I won’t be the one to take the vital piece. “Mr Slater gave her his address,” she goes on. “But she lost it and she doesn’t have any way to contact him. She has to say goodbye to her terminally ill grandma at the hospital tonight and has no money for a taxi, and she is her only fam?—"
Mrs McKenzie’s hand snaps up to stop us from talking. “Alright!” she huffs. “My God, girls.” Glaring at us, she drums her fingers on the desk, once, twice, thinking, before snatching up the phone receiver.
The curly cord stretches as she leans back, never breaking eye contact with me.
Each ring echoes in the quiet office.
Mrs McKenzie’s nails start again.
The receiver crackles. “Yes, hello,” she says. “Did a young lady by the name of Blesk Bellamy work there last night?” Her nails stop as she listens. “Mmhmm. And Konnor Slater was—" She pauses. “Yes, that one.”
She pauses again.
“Mmhmm.”
The receiver lands back into its cradle before Mrs McKenzie leans forwards, punching various keys into her computer, huffing with irritation.
Sneaking a peek at Elise, I bite my lip to suppress a squeal. Her hands are clasped neatly on the desk, not a single bead of sweat visible. She’s a proactive little schemer with a level-headedness that tells me this isn’t her first rodeo.
