My Professor(95)

No sheet music means I’m forced to play everything by memory. Even with the practice I’ve had over the last few months, there are only a few songs to draw from, the old melodies that live in my bones.

I choose a piece my dad used to play for me when I was young, something I would never play for near strangers unless I truly believed they would feel it like I do.

Rêverie.

The piece resonates so quickly with a familiar audience that Cornelia sighs.

“Ah, Debussy. What wonderful taste you have.”

I smile as I continue to play, concentrating on the succeeding notes so intently that Mrs. Buchanan has to walk over to the piano and wave her hand in front of my face before I realize she’s been trying to get my attention for the last few moments.

I immediately stop playing.

“I’ve been standing at the door calling your name,” she chides.

“She was playing for us,” Cornelia says, coming to my defense.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Buchanan’s annoyance isn’t lessened by Cornelia’s explanation. She’s made it clear on multiple occasions that the nursing home isn’t paying me to sit on my butt, even if I am playing at the request of one of the residents.

I open my mouth to defend myself. I’m on break; I wasn’t slacking off. I could go sit in the locker room like everyone else does, but I see there’s no point in speaking up. She’s not here to get onto me for playing the piano.

She nods her head toward the door.

“We need to have another chat.”

I’ve been interrogated by police officers before, and my second meeting with Mrs. Buchanan feels a lot like that.

Her words read right out of a bad cop film. Is there anything new I’d like to tell her? Have I told her the whole truth? She wants to help me. She’s on my side.

When I hold my ground and insist on my innocence, she sighs and presents new “evidence”.

Apparently, since last night, two eye witnesses have come forward and claimed to have seen Mrs. Dyer’s ring in my possession.

“I didn’t steal her ring,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time.

And if I did, why would I be so stupid as to keep it in plain sight after the fact?

“So you’re accusing these two individuals of lying?” She emphasizes that crime as if it’s worse than the theft itself.

I shrug. I don’t know what their motive is for implicating me. Maybe they think they saw me with the ring. Maybe they’re covering up for someone else. I should tell her point-blank that they’re lying, but I don’t want to get on anyone’s bad side. I know better.

In response to my silence, she rearranges some papers on her desk then straightens her glasses on the bridge of her thin nose. When she glances back to me, her eyes are narrowed.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, Maren. I know how important this job is to you, but I went out on a limb hiring you…”

I tune out the rest of her spiel, having heard it plenty of times before. Mrs. Buchanan enjoys rearranging the narrative to cast herself as the hero and me as the serf, but I know for a fact Holly Home gets a tax credit from the state for employing me.

Her next words do catch my attention though. In fact, they pierce straight through me.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to contact your group home. They’ll be calling me in a few days anyway for your monthly check-in,” she says, dropping the threat like a grenade and hoping it’ll do the trick.

I come close to giving her what she wants: an emotional response. My lower lip trembles and my stomach clenches tight. I didn’t think I had any hope left in me for people like her, but I was wrong. After all this time, I’m still somehow wounded.

She knows she’s backed me into a corner. My group home is for young adults with criminal records who’ve aged out of the foster care system and need a safe place to go. We have to adhere to certain rules in exchange for the low rent. One of those rules is not breaking any laws.

“But if you confess…” She lets the suggestion hang for a moment before she continues. “Well, I’d be willing to come to some kind of arrangement with you.”

So she’s offering me a plea bargain: confess to a crime I didn’t commit in exchange for a lenient sentence. It’s bullshit, and instead of saying that to her face, I jerk to my feet and walk right out of her office.

I don’t have a moment to spare either. Tears are personal. My pain is my own, and I’m grateful that I make it out into the hall before I start to cry. I give in to one or two moments of soul-crushing anger, and then I inhale deeply, wipe my cheeks, and throw back my shoulders, unwillingly to succumb to the self-pity knocking at my door. I’ll figure out who’s trying to pin this on me. I’ll get an alibi. I’ll ask Mrs. Archer to vouch for my good character. I’ll hunt down Mrs. Dyer’s ring and get it back to her myself! Anything but admit to a crime I didn’t commit. I won’t do it—consequences be damned.

“Oh good, I was hoping to find you before I left.”

I jump when a voice speaks from down the hall, and I realize to my shame that Mrs. Archer’s visitor, Cornelia, has just witnessed my embarrassing breakdown.

Oh god. I wipe aggressively at my face as if trying to force the tears back to where they came from.

If she notices my state, she doesn’t let on. She strolls toward me on quiet feet with a brown leather bag swishing back and forth on her forearm. I recognize the bag. I don’t know the name, but I’ve seen it on the covers of magazines and know it’s worth more money than I’ll ever have in this life or the next.