Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Lifelong Enemies
I haven’t been up this early since I got fired. I’m standing in the middle of a high school football field, batting away gnats. The grass is dewy and my sneakers are wet.
Oliver stands a few feet away from me. On my other side is Lana, the choreographer I hired for Tina.
In front of us are roughly fifty students holding a variety of musical instruments.
Oliver got permission from the school to allow me and Lana to come watch his students practice and get an idea of how we can fit them into the flash mob routine.
Lana and I watch as Oliver directs his students to form a few rows on the track that wraps around the field.
Then he takes a step back, waves his hand, and the students begin marching and playing music.
I don’t recognize the song, but it sounds professional.
It’s better than I expected a high school marching band to be.
Then again, I guess I didn’t really know what to expect.
“This is a great idea,” Lana says. “I’m just trying to think of how I could fit this in with what I already have planned for the flash mob.” She seems skeptical.
“What if the band members could be part of the flash mob?” I suggest.
She brings her hand up to her chin, watching the students with narrowed eyes. “Go on.”
I clear my throat. “One of the kids could pull an instrument out of a backpack. Maybe a flute—and start playing the song that Tina picked out.”
“That sounds lovely, but don’t you think the flute might clash with the actual song playing?
Not to mention the whole band. We’re going to have this,” she gestures toward the students who are wrapping around the far end of the track now, “competing with Sara Bareilles. I love the idea of the surprise and all, but not at the expense of what Tina wants.”
“What if we hire an actual singer and my band plays the instrumentals?” Oliver suggests. I turn to look at him. I hadn’t realized that he came back over.
Lana tilts her head. “That could work. The singer just needs to be perfectly in time with the original song, because that’s what I’ve designed the dance to be.”
“Do you know of anyone?” I ask.
“That’s not my job.” She crosses her arms.
I exchange a look with Oliver. He grimaces. I fight a smile even though Lana isn’t looking at us. Her gaze is still fixed on the band, which is on the other side of the field now, making their way back around.
“I’m sure I can find someone,” I say. “Thanks.”
Her gaze flicks to me for just a second. “Do you have dancers yet? I need dancers for this to work.” She seems impatient.
I’ve only had a couple of people respond to my ad, but I don’t want to worry her. “Of course,” I tell her. “I just need to iron out some details. I’ll get them all to your studio next week.”
“Great,” she says, her tone clipped. She keeps her eye on the band for a few more seconds before nodding and then turning to face me and Oliver. “I’ll see you and the dancers next week, then.”
She heads back across the football field toward the parking lot. I can’t help but feel a little bit happy knowing that she’s wearing open-toed shoes and her feet are getting soaked right now.
“She was a real treat,” Oliver says.
“Yeah, if you like sour gummies.”
“You don’t have dancers yet, do you?” he asks.
“How can you tell?”
He smirks. “Your voice went up an octave when you told her you just need to iron out the details. I figured the details must be finding the dancers.”
“If your students can dance then we might not be in bad shape.”
“Let’s see,” he says.
He turns toward the band. The students are just completing their circuit around the football field and it seems like the song they’re playing is coming to an end.
Oliver whistles and gestures for them to come over.
At once, the music stops and the students relax their instruments, then take off in a jog toward us. They gather around us in a half circle.
“Who here would like to dance in the flash mob?” Oliver asks.
All fifty students stare at him blankly, no one making a move or speaking up.
“What about for extra credit?” he asks.
A small girl holding a flute raises her hand shyly. “Mr. Edison?”
“Yes, Marissa?”
“I thought we were already getting extra credit for this,” she reminds him.
“You’ll get double the extra credit. That’s basically a whole letter grade.”
Another girl raises her hand. “Kayla?” he says.
“But we’re playing at the fair. Isn’t the school year going to be over by then?” she asks.
“Fair point,” Oliver says. “How many of you are going to be back at this same school next year?”
Everyone raises their hand.
“And how many of you plan to continue on in band class?”
All of their hands stay raised.
“Great,” he says. “So that means you’ll all be coming to band camp here at the high school this summer, right? And I’ll still be your teacher next year. You’ll see that extra credit on your first report card.”
A murmur erupts as the kids begin whispering to each other. I look at Oliver, unsure of what’s going on. He nods at me, then turns back to his students. The murmur dies down, and then a boy holding a trumpet steps forward.
“We’ll do it for double the extra credit,” the kid says. “We want half the points now, and half the points on our report card next year. And a pizza party.”
I’m impressed by how they all came together to decide on this so quickly. I look at Oliver. He purses his lips, making a show of thinking it over.
“Fine,” he says. “You can have a pizza party, but only after the performance.”
Another murmur erupts. This time, the students are all smiling. The rumble of their voices grows louder and it’s clear that they’re getting off topic. Oliver claps his hands to get their attention.
“Okay!” His voice is loud and authoritative.
His students all turn to face him, their voices quickly dying down.
Even I stand up a little straighter. “There will be a sign-up sheet and permission slips in the classroom after practice. Make sure you fill those out and get those permission slips back by the end of the week. You’ll need to be at the…
studio…” His voice grows less confident. He turns to look at me.
“I’ll give Mr. Edison the details for the sign-up sheet,” I announce.
“Thanks,” he says to me quietly. “There’s a notepad you can use on my desk. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” I turn, ready to head back to the building.
“Do you need help getting back to my classroom?” he asks.
I hesitate. It’s the first room in the hall on this side of the building.
It’s not exactly easy to forget, but for some reason I want to tell him that I do need help.
I wonder if he would really leave a bunch of high school students alone on a football field.
What’s the worst that could happen? Probably a lot.
Or maybe he doesn’t plan on escorting me back at all.
Maybe he plans on sending one of his students back with me. I decide that I can get back on my own.
“I remember where it is.” I leave him with an awkward wave as I head across the field. I make it to his classroom and find the notepad he mentioned. I write down the name and address of Lana’s studio and also the date and time we all need to be there.
I go back outside and head for the parking lot.
I can see the football field from here. Oliver and his students are still out there.
I watch them for a minute. They’re all moving into some kind of formation.
They start playing music. It’s far away, but I can tell that it’s a different song than what they were playing earlier.
I’m about to turn back toward the parking lot when I notice Oliver turning his head around.
He looks at the building first, and then keeps turning until he sees me.
We hold each other’s stare for several beats until he turns back around and faces his students again.
* * *
I’m sitting at a coffee shop, taking the last sip of a cup that’s been cold for a while, reading my emails and coming up with a plan.
Thirty-five of Oliver’s students have signed up to dance in the flash mob.
Those same thirty-five students are also going to be marching for Ryan’s part of the proposal, plus ten more who want to play their instruments but don’t want to dance.
I still need at least a dozen more dancers so that the crowd is as big as Tina wants it.
I go on Facebook and find a local improv group with a lot of followers.
I make a post with the details of Tina’s flash mob.
I hope I can get at least a few more people to commit to it.
Just as I post it, I become aware of someone standing next to my table.
I look up, expecting to see an employee, but instead, I’m startled to see Malcolm Ridges, the president of the charity who got me fired from my job.
He’s standing right next to me, staring at me with an odd look and a half smile.
It’s the kind of look that’s usually reserved for two friendly acquaintances who have run into each other and are happy to see each other.
Seeing this look on his face is confusing and a little bit irritating.
I close my laptop and stare back at him without a word.
He clears his throat. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
The fact that he doesn’t know who I am makes this all the more infuriating.
How nice it must be to ruin someone’s life, go about his own without a care in the world, and then smile at that person in a coffee shop because he has no idea who they are.
I want to tell him off. I want to say exactly what’s on my mind, and I want to wipe that stupid smug smile off his face.
I must take too long to answer, because he takes a step back and, scratching the back of his neck, says, “Or maybe not.”