Dark Notes(9)

He isn’t the only entitled prick at Le Moyne, but I limit my services to those with the biggest wallets and the most to lose. We all know the risks. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Unfortunately, my little circle of cheaters is largely made up of Prescott and his friends.

And sometimes they take more than they pay for.

I peer into the lunch sack, salivating at the sight of roast beef on crusty bread, grapes, and chocolate cookies. “Tonight where?”

“The usual.”

Which involves picking me up ten blocks from school, parking his car in a vacant lot, and doing a lot more than homework. But I’m the one who established the rules. No swapping homework assignments on school property or public places. It’s too risky, especially with the way the dean watches her son.

“See you in class.” He strides away, his attention locked on the dean’s window and the shadowed silhouette within.

He swears she doesn’t suspect anything, but she’s been gunning against me since she stepped in as Mother Superior my sophomore year. Maybe it’s my slutty reputation or lack of wealth. Or maybe it’s my choice of college.

Leopold Conservatory of New York is the most selective university in the country and only accepts one Le Moyne musician each year. That is, if they accept any of us at all. Dozens of my peers have applied, including Prescott, but Mrs. McCracken said I’m the best. I’m the one she was going to recommend. Which makes me Prescott’s biggest competitor. At least, I was. Without her referral, I may very well be back to square one.

Curled up beneath a tree, I devour Prescott’s lunch and convince myself not to worry about him. Marceaux will like me. He’ll see that I deserve the spot. And tonight… Tonight, I won’t get in Prescott’s car. We can go over his assignments on the sidewalk, and if he has a problem with that, I’ll leave. Let him fail his coursework and drop out of the running for Leopold. I’ll find another slacker to make up for the loss in income.

As I run the three-mile track that winds around the tree-covered property, I strengthen my mind and body with the solidity of that plan.

When the five-minute warning bell rings through the buildings, I’m showered, dressed, and weaving through the crowds in Crescent Hall, my stomach lurching into a roil.

All you need is a moment.

Stogie’s confidence in me lightens my steps, but it’s the memory of Daddy’s energy that lifts my lips. If he were in my shoes, walking the halls he dreamed about, he would’ve been humming with unrestrained enthusiasm and gratefulness. I can feel it, his infectious dynamism, pumping my blood and hurrying my strides as I enter Room 1A, the same music room I was in last year.

An impressive display of brass, string, and percussion instruments line the far wall. Six or so of my fellow musicians gather around the desks at the center of the huge L-shaped space. If I walked around the corner, I would see the B?sendorfer grand piano in the alcove. But my attention snags on the man in the front of the room.

Perched on the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, he watches the congregation of students with a brooding, irritated expression. Thank God he hasn’t noticed me yet, because I can’t seem to unglue my feet from the floor or look away.

He’s unexpectedly young, not student young but perhaps my brother’s age. His profile is ruggedly sculpted, his jaw cleanly shaved, yet so dark I suspect the sharpest razor doesn’t scrape away the shadow.

The longer I stare, the more I realize it’s not his face that looks youthful. It’s his style, so unlike other teachers with their conservative suits and modest demeanors.

It’s the way his black hair is arranged, short on the sides, long and messy on top, like a shove of his fingers left it falling across his brow in perfect chaos. His long legs appear to be encased in dark jeans, but closer scrutiny confirms he’s wearing slacks that are cut like jeans. The sleeves of his plaid button-up roll up to the elbows, and his tie has a different plaid design, which doesn’t match but somehow totally works. His brown fitted waistcoat is the kind a man wears beneath a suit jacket. Except there is no jacket.

His overall look is casual cosmopolitan, professional with personality, challenging the dress code without violating it.

“Take a seat.” His booming voice reverberates through the room, jarring my insides, but it’s not directed at me.

I exhale a moment of relief before he swivels toward me. His blue eyes move first, followed by his whole body. His hands grip the edge of the desk as his face comes into full view. Sweet merciful f*ck, words like shockingly pretty dilute the effect of his image. Yeah, the first glimpse is a shock, but it’s not just his attractiveness. It’s his presence, his projection of self-assurance and command that makes me feel disoriented, breathless, and really f*cking weird deep in my core.

He stares at me for an eternal second, expressionless, and his dark eyebrows pull into a V.

“Are you…?” He glances at the hall behind me and returns to my face. “You weren’t at the staff meeting this morning.”

“Staff meeting?” Realization punches me in the gut.

He thinks I’m a teacher, and now he’s looking at me like guys do, his gaze dragging over my body and arousing a twisted sickness in my belly. It reminds me how different I look than other girls my age and how much I hate those differences.

I pull my satchel over my chest, hiding my most noticeable parts. “I’m not…” I clear my throat and force my feet toward the nearest desk. “I’m a student. Piano.”