Staccato (Magnum Opus #2) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,17
groove in the stage where it always stood, and he released Anya to her spot as he touched the stand, then turned to the audience and found the mic with a sweep of his hand through the air. “Welcome to the Primary and Intermediate Orchestra Spring Concerto. As you know, the students have been working very hard all year, and I’m very impressed with how much they’ve improved,” he said—a half-lie, but there wasn’t much he could do about it when they’d relegated him to two days a week per class. “The Primaries have four songs for you tonight, and then the Intermediates will take the stage. I’m asking all my primary kids to please respect their fellow students and stay until the end of the concert.”
He knew it wouldn’t happen. He could already hear parents shifting in their seats, just waiting for the moment they could grab their children’s tiny hands and beeline for the exit, but he didn’t care. It was what it was, and none of this would be his legacy, so what did it matter?
Nik turned to his students, offered a smile he hoped was calming, and he lifted the baton. They squirmed in their seats and banged their instruments against the sides of their metal chairs as they lifted to their chins. He breathed out a long sigh. “On my three,” he said, then braced himself for the assault.
Ears ringing, Nik gulped down some of the stale, weak coffee at the little snack station. He knew there were cookies and brownies provided by parents, and probably some fruit from the more granola moms, but he didn’t dare tempt fate with small hands grazing everything.
He managed to make it through last year with only one stomach bug and two colds, and with end of the year coming up, he didn’t want to take the risk. He wanted to spend his summer lounging on his sofa and feeling the soft breeze, and the rains that did nothing to combat the oppressive, humid air that kept him house-bound.
It was half an hour past the show, and since almost all of his primary students were already on their way home to be tucked into bed, Nik finished up with the intermediate parents who talked to him like he was some sort of performing monkey on a street corner in spite of him having done this year after year.
“It’s just amazing what you can get them to do without…you know…” one would inevitably say.
Without eyes, he wanted to retort. Hell, he had used it in his younger days, when there was still a little fire left in him. Now he just smiled, offered a weak laugh, something like a shrug. “They’re all very talented students. And they follow instruction well.”
Nik braced himself against the wall, arms over his chest, cane strap dangling from his arm, and he listened to the sounds of fading footsteps. Each door slam brought another level of quiet to the hall and lifted another weight of responsibility from his shoulders.
“Mr. Mandroux?” It was a woman Nik didn’t recognize, but he’d heard the soft lilt of her voice for most of the evening, weaving in and out of the dwindling crowd.
He turned toward her and extended his hand, unsurprised by her hesitance before she gripped his, her own fingers like a limp fish. “I hope you enjoyed the show tonight.”
“It was…” she said, and hesitated. “Sorry, my name is Catherine. I’m Bryce Carlisle’s mom.”
His fourth grader who had tried out for first chair against Nik’s recommendation because the poor kid was struggling. He was miserable in the class, and Nik had more than once asked his teacher why he was assigned to orchestra, but the only answer he got was that his mother preferred it.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Carlisle,” Nik said, taking his hand back and fighting the urge to wipe it on his trousers.
“Oh, it’s Miss Peters, actually. Bryce’s dad and I divorced years ago.” She let out a laugh, the awkwardness familiar from over-sharing. Parents did it a lot, though, and he was used to it. He wasn’t sure if it was him that had the bartender vibe—like people felt like they could tell him anything—or if they did it to all the teachers. “I just wanted to talk to you about booking you for additional lessons.”
Nik fought back a groan and did his best not to grimace. “I’m sorry, Miss Peters, I don’t actually teach strings with my private students. I’m a