Aunt Millie to deal with the fallout felt icky. “Do you need me to come back and help? It sounds like things got out of hand.”
“Don’t worry about me, dear. The day I can’t handle a bunch of inebriated women is the day I die. Besides, once I get enough coffee in them, they’ll feel so guilty they’ll triple their orders. You go run down your lead and save that boy. I’ll take care of the rest.” I heard another crash, and Millie disconnected.
I still felt bad about ditching my aunt with the drunken debutantes, but I knew better than to interfere with Millie when she in Mary Kay sales mode. And she was right. The minute the women realized they’d trashed her living room, they’d get out their credit cards and charge them to the limit. By the time the day was done, Millie would probably earn another pink car.
Cranking the air in my car, I dialed Larry. I hoped he’d have time to get together and chat. Damn. Voice mail. I opted not to leave a message, hung up the phone and hit the gas. No way was I going back into Aunt Millie’s house until the coast was clear. The clock on my dashboard read 3:14 P.M . The school would still be open. Maybe Larry was putting the finishing touches on his lesson plans.
Football practice was still going on in the field to the left of the school, which meant at least one door to the school would be unlocked. Larry had given me a key to the choir room and another to his office, but I wasn’t entrusted with a key to the front door—yet. Guess they were waiting to see if I could resist the urge to steal the erasers.
The side door near the practice field was open. I walked down to the Fine Arts wing, trying not to look as out of place as I felt. My high school experience hadn’t been terrible. In fact, compared to those of a lot of my friends, my high school life had been downright wonderful. I’d gotten better than average grades, scored leads in the musicals, and even got elected to prom court my senior year. Still, despitethe fond memories, returning to high school in any capacity wasn’t something to which I’d ever aspired. And yet, here I was cruising the halls and championing one of the students I had never wanted to teach. Life was strange.
The choir room door was locked. I knocked just in case Larry was inside. Nothing. I got out my shiny new key and twisted it in the lock.
No one was inside. The adjoining office was also dark. Drat. Still, now that I was here, familiarizing myself with the space wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps I’d poke around some desk drawers, flip through whatever papers I could find—all in order to understand Larry’s organizational system, of course. And if I found something incriminating, well, I couldn’t help it.
I went over my reasoning twice to make sure I could spout it back to someone if I was discovered. As a performer, I liked knowing my lines. Certain I could bluff with the best of them, I crossed the room and began pawing through the stacks of paper on the piano. Lots of bad choral arrangements. I resisted the urge to hide the worst of them and looked in the piano bench. Larry’s metronome and conductor’s baton sat inside along with several ancient-looking cough drops. The rest of the room was filled with equally professional items. Not exactly a surprise, but under the circumstances, disappointing.
That left the office.
I got out my other key, took several deep breaths, and let myself in. Hitting the light, I stepped into the room. Just standing in the small, cluttered space made my muscles tense. Two filing cabinets and an upright piano were positioned against one wall. A large metal desk sat on the opposite side of the room. A desktop computer sat on the desk, alongwith enough paper to throw a ticker tape parade. On the wall were photos of kids in glittery costumes smiling wide at the camera. In the middle of each group of kids was Larry.
That’s when it hit me. This was Larry’s personal space. Yeah, I was allowed to use
“Don’t worry about me, dear. The day I can’t handle a bunch of inebriated women is the day I die. Besides, once I get enough coffee in them, they’ll feel so guilty they’ll triple their orders. You go run down your lead and save that boy. I’ll take care of the rest.” I heard another crash, and Millie disconnected.
I still felt bad about ditching my aunt with the drunken debutantes, but I knew better than to interfere with Millie when she in Mary Kay sales mode. And she was right. The minute the women realized they’d trashed her living room, they’d get out their credit cards and charge them to the limit. By the time the day was done, Millie would probably earn another pink car.
Cranking the air in my car, I dialed Larry. I hoped he’d have time to get together and chat. Damn. Voice mail. I opted not to leave a message, hung up the phone and hit the gas. No way was I going back into Aunt Millie’s house until the coast was clear. The clock on my dashboard read 3:14 P.M . The school would still be open. Maybe Larry was putting the finishing touches on his lesson plans.
Football practice was still going on in the field to the left of the school, which meant at least one door to the school would be unlocked. Larry had given me a key to the choir room and another to his office, but I wasn’t entrusted with a key to the front door—yet. Guess they were waiting to see if I could resist the urge to steal the erasers.
The side door near the practice field was open. I walked down to the Fine Arts wing, trying not to look as out of place as I felt. My high school experience hadn’t been terrible. In fact, compared to those of a lot of my friends, my high school life had been downright wonderful. I’d gotten better than average grades, scored leads in the musicals, and even got elected to prom court my senior year. Still, despitethe fond memories, returning to high school in any capacity wasn’t something to which I’d ever aspired. And yet, here I was cruising the halls and championing one of the students I had never wanted to teach. Life was strange.
The choir room door was locked. I knocked just in case Larry was inside. Nothing. I got out my shiny new key and twisted it in the lock.
No one was inside. The adjoining office was also dark. Drat. Still, now that I was here, familiarizing myself with the space wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps I’d poke around some desk drawers, flip through whatever papers I could find—all in order to understand Larry’s organizational system, of course. And if I found something incriminating, well, I couldn’t help it.
I went over my reasoning twice to make sure I could spout it back to someone if I was discovered. As a performer, I liked knowing my lines. Certain I could bluff with the best of them, I crossed the room and began pawing through the stacks of paper on the piano. Lots of bad choral arrangements. I resisted the urge to hide the worst of them and looked in the piano bench. Larry’s metronome and conductor’s baton sat inside along with several ancient-looking cough drops. The rest of the room was filled with equally professional items. Not exactly a surprise, but under the circumstances, disappointing.
That left the office.
I got out my other key, took several deep breaths, and let myself in. Hitting the light, I stepped into the room. Just standing in the small, cluttered space made my muscles tense. Two filing cabinets and an upright piano were positioned against one wall. A large metal desk sat on the opposite side of the room. A desktop computer sat on the desk, alongwith enough paper to throw a ticker tape parade. On the wall were photos of kids in glittery costumes smiling wide at the camera. In the middle of each group of kids was Larry.
That’s when it hit me. This was Larry’s personal space. Yeah, I was allowed to use
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