Kimberly Stuart by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch Page A

exactly the typical professor, are you?”
    I sniffed. “Not by a long shot. Practice hard and I’ll see you next week.”
    He grinned and ambled out the door. I propped it open behind him and looked down the hall. Mallory Knight, my elusive student assistant, held the next slot and was late yet again. Her initial Little Miss Can’t-Do-Wrong impersonation with the neatly inked index card and syrupy smiles had been solely for the benefit of Ellsworth. I’d seen very little initiative from the girl since. Once, after two phone messages and three e-mails, I’d gotten her to photocopy some materials for my students. But the effort involved in coercing work out of her had prevented me from enlisting Mallory’s services again. I’d thought about broaching the topic with Ellsworth but decided I’d rather get my own coffee and Xerox copies if I could avoid Mallory’s incompetence and snobbery in one fell swoop.
    I sighed to think of the half hour before me and headed back into my office. The view outside my window was pristinely white. We were well into February and had been hit by a series of snowstorms in the previous weeks. I’d come to prefer snow to the gray. Delicate white lines outlined the branches arching past my window. I watched a group of boys pelt each other with snowballs. A passerby ducked to avoid being hit.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” Mallory said letting the door shut with a bang.
    I turned from the window.
    Mallory flopped down with a thud on a chair by the piano, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
    â€œIt’s fine,” I said slowly, “though you’ll end up with a shorter lesson.”
    â€œOh, well,” she said, smiling sweetly. “My loss, then.”
    I sat at the piano. “Mallory, do you have a problem with being late to other classes as well?” I cringed even as the words came out of my mouth.
    Her eyes widened. “You know what, Ms. Maddox? Now that you say it, I don’t think I do. You’re the only one I’m consistently late for.” She shook her head in bewilderment.
    I studied her a moment. Chocolate-colored hair cut just above the shoulders so that it swung when she walked. Long lean legs, showcased today in an A-line skirt and tall boots. Olive skin, brown eyes, full lips, and straight teeth that matched the white Peter Pan collar peeking out from the top of a fitted sweater. Most of my students at Moravia were like James, sweet, compliant, deferential to the fact that I knew far more than they did about most things. But this tart before me was a test of my goodwill.
    â€œShall we then?” I said briskly. “Take out the Mozart.”
    She riffled through a small stack of music.
    If she couldn’t bring herself to be civil, I thought as I waited, I’d just watch her flounder until forced to ask for my help. During our lessons in weeks prior, Mallory had fumbled through her assignments, clearly having neglected the many practice rooms in Kjellman. I knew she was double majoring in voice and viola performance, something I thought absolutely ludicrous and an indulgence that would be openly mocked at more prominent conservatories. Even with divided attention and demands on her time, or perhaps because of them, I expected her to bring her absolute best to my office. I’d been promised the cream of the vocal performance crop, and she was failing miserably.
    I opened my score, glanced over the page, and couldn’t help but smile. Kind-hearted educators probably ached in the face of their students crashing and burning, but I knew as I looked over this particular aria that a few moments of revenge were to be mine. This piece was a killer, with an Italian text that demanded an emotional maturity I was sure she didn’t have. She’d picked the piece herself, though, and had lobbied for her readiness. I plunked out a few chords to set her up for the recitative and brought her in with a