chapter SIXTEEN #2
The students continue to enter, each taking their places. With each new face, my heart races a tiny bit more. I bite down and look straight at my computer screen, appearing to be very busy. When he enters, I want to seem all business.
Hopefully my outsides are appearing that way because my insides are racing at prestissimo tempo.
Consider that racehorse fast.
My eyes momentarily close when my stomach drops a beat. That’s how I know he has entered. Keeping my jaw clenched and my attention fixed, I try to ignore how he stops in the doorway for a fraction when he sees me, before carrying on like he hasn’t a care.
Keenly aware of my excellent peripheral vision, I watch him sit down and open his cello case.
When he is engrossed in the task, I glance up and take a look at him.
He’s once again wearing a suit. That makes three encounters in a row I’ve seen him in formal attire.
His hair is combed back, his entire appearance structured.
I miss his shorts and crew-neck shirts, his wind-blown hair and sun-kissed skin.
When he rises, his gaze meets mine, briefly, without a hint of acknowledgment, before greeting the class.
He takes a place in the center of the room, addressing the students who are formed in a circle around him.
“Today, we are going to learn to listen. The key to playing great music is to be able to listen to great music. I want you to develop your own musical voice. Find what gives you the most satisfaction. When you hear it, when you feel it, you’ll be able to play it.
” Asher’s words remind me of my own inability and those brief moments a few months ago when I felt the music again.
He hands each student a notebook made of brown leather-like material, asking them to take notes and starts the lesson by placing Bluetooth speakers on a table and synching his iPod to them. I assume he’s going to play something classical. Instead, he completely shocks me when I hear heavy metal.
The song is one I recognize easily. The students look up with mild curiosity. You start to feel old when you meet people who have never heard Metallica.
“‘Enter Sandman’ moves at a tempo of 123 beats per minute. Listen to the E minor chord at the top.” The class, me included, listen to the sound of the guitar playing. “Now, hear the buildup of the beats. It hits you fast and then never lets up. The riff continues throughout the song.”
It’s hard not to be sucked in. The tune is quite catchy for a song about a child’s nightmares and the destruction of the perfect family.
The students bob and move their heads, some closing their eyes trying to listen for the rhythm.
Asher is entranced as well, lost in the song, almost too familiar.
Its heavy undertones of a child being frightened by the dark remind me of the story he told me about being an orphan.
That is, if his version of the truth was, in actuality, the truth.
Ignoring the memory, I go back to watching the class as they soak in the song.
When it is over, he talks to the students about the rhythm, and together they describe their emotions when hearing it.
In my head, I do my own assessment. I felt a gust of energy.
I could have taken a run or charged the field.
The faster the song got, the harder the beats hit my chest, and I felt a rush.
When the discussion is over, Asher turns to his iPod and plays them the same song by a band using only four cellos. The students are mesmerized that the song they were just listening to was recreated using only the instruments they are learning to master.
By the end of the sixty-minute class, with the room sectioned off into groups of four, Asher has the students playing the main riff. It’s incredible. So incredible, I stopped taking notes because I was so caught up in the lesson.
When I saw him play the cello last week, I knew he was skilled. What I was not aware of was how good he was with the students. Some, I am learning, have known Asher for years. Imagine my surprise to find out he’s been teaching underprivileged kids in Harlem for the last five years.
His rapport with his old students is apparent in the way they address each other with respect and familiarity. His newer students are given the same attention. If he was telling the truth about his mother being a music teacher, teaching out of their home, than he gets his grace from her.
When the students gather their belongings, I watch as they thank Asher and tell him they’ll see him next week. I gather up my tote bag and am walking back toward my office when his deep voice calls out from behind me.
“How’d I do, boss?”
How did he do? Amazing. He was kind and interesting and a truly exceptional teacher.
I won’t tell him that. Instead, I turn my cheek letting my voice travel over my shoulder. “You should have submitted a lesson plan for approval.” And then I walk into my office and close the door.
I stay in my office until I am positive Asher has left the building. When the coast is clear, I rise from my desk and walk into Crystal’s classroom.
Halfway through the door, I stop short at the sight of an exotic-looking woman standing in the middle of the room.
I fall back and straighten myself, trying to emulate the composure of the woman standing in front of me. She is tall, with jet-black hair and matching eyes, wearing a blood-red wrap-around dress. Her shoulders are back, and she has a stance so fierce I want to ask how she does it.
Her irises enlarge when she sees me. “You.”
“May I help you?” I say, straightening out my cardigan.
She offers me a wicked smile and assesses me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. “You work here?”
I hold out my hand in greeting. “I’m Emma Paige, the assistant director.” There are many beautiful women in New York so it shouldn’t surprise me there is something familiar about her. “Have we met?”
She doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, she looks me up and down with a knowing look. “I’m looking for Alexander Asher.”
Of course she is. I narrow my eyes at her. “May I ask what this is about?” I may not like the man but, apparently, he is somewhat important to this city. She could be a deranged fan or a scorned ex-girlfriend. On second thought, maybe I should send her his way.
“His office told me I’d find him here . . . teaching.” She says the word teaching in mockery.
With my shoulders pushed back, I answer her as honestly as I can. “His class ended thirty minutes ago.”
The dark-haired woman looks at me again the way a feline looks at catnip the moment before it pounces. Her eyes linger on the scar on my right hand.
I turn in my injured hand, hiding the scar. Something about the way she is looking at it—at me—makes me feel like she knows more about me than I’d like. Though I know it’s impossible.
“Did Asher bring you on board or did you make your way here on your own?”
It is not any of her business, but I feel compelled to let this woman know I am not at the beck and call of Alexander Asher.
“Frank Leon contacted me.” I pause a beat and then add, “How do you know Mr. Asher?”
The tip of her tongue is riding along the underside of her teeth. “Interesting. Hundreds of people applied and you get a phone call.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name.”
“If Asher comes back, tell him Malory Dean was here.” Her heels click on the hardwood floors as she walks to the doorway.
“I will,” I say, even though it’s a complete lie.