Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(76)

I nod. “Juilliard is the only thing keeping me sane right now.” This piece is coming together—kind of. I think Terrell was right about the drums. The drums will definitely make it better, but then what if it’s still not good enough?

I look up at Mr. Taylor, who is looking at me with a smile on his face. I’m not sure why.

“You’re applying to Juilliard?” he asks. Which is so strange, because, obviously. He and I discussed it at length at the end of junior year. It’s all I’ve been working toward.

I don’t feel like I can give an answer to that, I’m so confused. But I nod slowly.

“Son—” A laugh jerks out of his mouth, then another, and then he’s full-on laughing. “I’m sorry—I just—seeing your face—I can’t keep this up,” he says between breaths, laughing like I told a really funny joke, slapping his knee with exaggeration, basically screaming. “Son, you’re not going to Juilliard.” He wipes his eyes and I feel something sink.

What the fuck? I know it’s hard to get into and everything, but … Mr. Taylor doesn’t sound like Mr. Taylor right now. He’s the most optimistic person I know; he encourages all of us to do things we want to do—he’s encouraged me since I joined.

“What?” I manage, my throat burning. “Why?”

He reaches forward and plays B-flat on my keyboard.

“They tend to only accept high-achieving students…”

“I get straight As in all my classes,” I say.

His voice lowers. “I wasn’t finished.” He stands, towering over me, and places his hand in his gray pants pocket. “They also tend to be pretty strict on class attendance—which, if my memory serves me right, is pretty poor for you.”

What the actual fuck?

“I thought seniors were allowed to do that?” I say breathlessly.

“Of course they can … with sign-off from a teacher,” he says, like that’s not exactly what I did.

He gave me permission; he said I could; he told me it was okay, he—

“I—I thought you sorted it out?” I stammer.

“Son, you should never leave your fate in the hands of someone else,” Mr. Taylor says, stepping back now. His eyes, which were a light, soft blue, now look like a gray storm.

“You told me you sorted it out,” I repeat like a broken record. He told me he sorted it out. “That it was okay to practice whenever I needed to.” My voice rises, and the bile in my stomach itches to crawl through my throat and spew all over him and his suit.

Mr. Taylor walks back over to his piano and strokes his fingers across the keys as a loud, discordant pattern of notes screeches out.

“That I did. But it’s okay, it’s okay…” He pats the air, like he’s patting me from afar. “It’s okay not to go to college, it’s okay.” Smiling wide. “Not all people are suited for higher education. Especially your kind. Your kind needn’t have an education.”

I want to scream for help, but he’s suddenly up and by the door now, blocking the entrance. And anyway, who is going to help me?

Mr. Taylor is one of them.

“Why?” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

Mr. Taylor’s face morphs, his expression confused. Like the answer is so obvious, and I can’t see it. He leans back against the oak doorframe.

“Because I can.”

He turns and leaves, and the door to the classroom closes behind him, slamming shut, bang, like a gun.

This doesn’t feel real. This can’t be real. Mr. Taylor; Jack; Daniel … all these people I’ve known for years, trying to ruin my life. But I know it is. This is happening.

I shove my things into my bag and rush out, running down the stairs so fast that I almost trip and fall. I’m terrified of bumping into Mr. Taylor. I’m terrified they’re all watching me. I have to leave; I have to get out—but I need to take Chiamaka with me.

I dial her number, hoping she’s found her phone by now.

Voicemail.

I call her again. Nothing.

I run across the school, checking random rooms, the libraries, the girls’ bathroom even. Chiamaka’s nowhere to be found. She’s probably in class. We should have left sooner. Should have jumped to conclusions, should have pieced everything together.

I rub my eyes roughly. I need to leave. I need to get help.

I push through the big entrance doors, out into the open air.

“Hey! Stop right there!” a deep voice says. I feel spikes at the back of my neck. This feels like one of those nightmares I used to have when I was young, where I was trapped inside a cell of some kind, screaming for help, but no one would hear my pleas over the sound of the evil nightmare monster’s laughter.

I run as fast as I can toward the black gates, slamming the exit button by the steps.

I need to get out.

The gates start to open, grinding slowly, until suddenly they stop.

I want to scream, I’ve got to run.

I stumble, looking back at Headmaster Ward, a remote control gripped in his bony fingers. I look at the gap in between the gates; it’s small, but I can make it. I jump through just as the gates start closing, wrenching my bag through as the metal clinks together.

I turn one last time. Ward is at the top of the stairs, expressionless as he watches me.