Resonance - Erica O'Rourke Page 0,47
power of those secrets fizzed in my blood like champagne.
But knowing the truth about Ms. Powell ate through me like battery acid. Concealing her death didn’t just feel sneaky, or sad. It felt deeply, deeply wrong. The Consort had taken her life, but we’d taken the chance for people to mourn her.
The orchestra room had an air of freewheeling, good-natured chaos. At the podium, Principal Sayers, a thin man with a dusting of dandruff on his shoulders and a fondness for knit ties, spoke with a woman who didn’t look old enough to drive, let alone control sixty-odd teenagers.
Eliot bent and murmured, “Looks like they bought the note.”
“Great,” I said, but the words lacked conviction.
The sub looked fresh out of college—but drab and lifeless, especially compared to the memory of Ms. Powell. I searched her face for a sign she knew me, but her expression was frozen in terror. When Dr. Sayers introduced her with a brief speech about Ms. Powell’s unexpected departure, the baton trembled in her grip. Probably not a Free Walker plant, then.
By lunchtime, the school was buzzing about Ms. Powell’s absence. The usual rumors sprang up: rehab or an affair with a student or something equally scandalous. Eliot listened, genuinely baffled. “How do they come up with this stuff? Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would know better.”
“You’re giving them too much credit.”
By the time we were headed back to music, with our pocket-size sub and Bree’s big mouth, things had shifted from speculation to accusation—and I was at the center of it. People fell quiet as we passed, whispers swelling in our wake. My skin itched under their scrutiny.
“This is not good,” Eliot said out of the corner of his mouth. “They’re looking at us. Nobody ever looks at us.”
“As many of you have already heard,” Dr. Sayers began, launching into the same speech he’d given in orchestra, “Ms. Powell has been called away due to a family emergency. She has resigned her position effective immediately.”
“What kind of emergency?” Bree demanded.
Dr. Sayers tugged at his maroon knit tie before answering, “According to her letter, the situation came up quite suddenly.”
“Her letter? She didn’t call? Or tell you in person?”
“I admit it’s a shock,” he said, looking chagrined, “Not to mention highly inconvenient, but—”
“It’s not a shock. It’s weird. And it’s a lot like Simon Lane.”
“Maybe they’re together,” snickered a pothead senior whose attendance was even more sporadic than mine. “Holed up in some hourly motel, and he’s hot for teacher.”
One of his friends leaned across the aisle to high-five him, braying with laughter.
Bree wheeled on him. “Shut your mouth, you cretin.”
The principal cleared his throat. “I can assure you that Ms. Powell’s absence is perfectly legitimate. I think it would be best for all involved if we look forward instead of back,” he added. “Ms. Powell may not have shared information about her home life, but that was her right.”
“I bet she shared with Del,” Bree said. “She was Ms. Powell’s favorite, after all.”
A murmur of assent rippled around the room.
“Sorry,” I said, shrugging. Next to me Eliot went still. “I barely saw her outside of class.”
“What about Friday? I could swear I saw the two of you walking downtown. Wouldn’t she have told you if something was going on?” Bree asked.
Now the principal turned to me. “Del?”
“Orchestra,” I said. “There’s a Debussy sonata she wanted me to polish up; she thought I had a shot at getting into a conservatory. But she didn’t say anything about family stuff.”
“Such a weird coincidence,” Bree said sweetly. “I mean, you were the last person to see Simon before he disappeared. You were the last person to see Ms. Powell before she disappeared. Better look out,” she said to Eliot. “The people she likes don’t seem to last long.”
He nodded. “Imagine what happens to the people who piss her off.”
“Enough,” said the principal. “This is not a good use of our time. Ms. DeAngelo will be your teacher for the rest of the year, and I’m sure she’d like to get started.”
But he watched me as he left, narrow-eyed and thoughtful.
• • •
“This cannot be good,” Eliot said at the end of the day. He leaned against the locker and stared at the light fixtures, pencil spinning faster and faster. “I told you Bree was a problem.”
“Bree is not a problem,” I replied, throwing a book in my bag and slamming my locker. “Bree is an annoyance, same as always.”
“Two people have disappeared from this school