Page 12 of Second Song

We both paddle out, battling the tide and current together. Then he surfs right beside me up to the base of a cliff where he minds my board so I can clamber around jagged rocks. That’s where I find what Rowan lost, what left him so vulnerable that I couldn’t leave him.

His glasses are wrapped with strands of seaweed in a rock pool. The frames are scuffed but the lenses are intact, so I raise them like a trophy—like the stupidest prize ever.

Matt shakes his head, but he also tips his head up and howls. And for the first time since the medical discharge I never wanted, I don’t feel like a complete loser.

5

ROWAN

It’s a miracle I get to drive through the school gates with six minutes to spare. Because of Liam, I’ll get to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat even if my track record means the odds are stacked against me. And they have to be stacked; teachers should be role models, not national failures, so I can’t help worrying that my past will snatch this second chance from me regardless.

My stomach still swoops at how much I want this as I park the car in front of a school built from the same rock as the cliffside. Glynn Harber’s just as stark too, the diamond panes of its old windows its only bright spots. They sparkle like the crystal trophy that last slipped through my fingers, and who knows why seeing that means I restart the car engine, although I don’t pull out of that parking spot or leave.

Not yet.

The engine idles as I wage a silent, anxious battle before choosing another spot to park in. This time I pull up beside a weeping willow, the tree shielding me from those windows while kettle drums boom in my chest and almost drown out the sound of children playing.

I can see them dead ahead in an outdoor classroom, along with several adults. The children’s laughter rises above a deafening drumroll, a timpani that should make me hurry. I still can’t let go of the steering wheel in the exact same way that I couldn’t let go of Liam on that cliffside.

This is panic, plain and simple, the same all-encompassing flood that’s washed me away three times already. Once was in front of a row of judges, another was when that photo surfaced. My very first flood of panic happened in a headmaster’s study and is still too raw to relive. I’ve locked it away, but I can’t hide from this stone-cold fact: yet again, I’ve put myself in a position where failing is most likely because here’s my real problem.

Who wants a musician who can’t perform in public?

So here I sit, smelling strongly of soap and, more faintly, of sheep shit, when it’s my own shit I need to get together. That’s what I tell myself in the shadow of that willow, except that I hear it in Liam’s Yorkshire gruffness.

Dig deep for some more of your grit, Row.

My grit doesn’t listen, so I try closing my eyes, only I don’t see what I’ve worked so hard on manifesting and what this school’s website promised.

What if there isn’t a second chance here for every loser?

It isn’t that stupid contest that keeps me frozen in place today. It’s the fact that this isn’t my first teacher-training rodeo. If this is only going to be a repeat of what happened last time, I’m not sure I can face it.

Minutes pass while I relive examiners failing music lessons I should have easily taught instead of drying up, over and over. Minutes I don’t have to spare if I want to make a good impression. But here I am, barely breathing and stuck, only this time I don’t even have a lamb to cuddle or an ex-soldier to hug me.

One minute passes, then two. The third canters by even faster while minutes four and five gallop, speeding like my breathing when I prise my eyes open. My phone on the dashboard warns there are only sixty more seconds until I’m officially late—after all it took to get here—and all I can do is rest my head on the steering wheel and close my eyes again, defeated.

“Hi.”

My eyes shoot open and I lift my head to see a man wave from the other side of my car window. His smile is a bright welcome, and something in his neat beard sparkles as he makes a winding motion that surprises me into complying. It also surprises me into stating the obvious in a way my last school tried to train me out of. “I’ve never driven a car with a wind-down window.” I make a button-pressing motion. “That’s what I’ve always done.”

He blinks at me as I curse myself for making a twattish first impression. Why didn’t I just shake his hand like a normal person? I do that now and get a reminder of my last rescuer because his hold is gritty.

“Sorry,” he says as I brush away grains of sand. “Bit of an occupational hazard.” He points back to that outdoor classroom. “We’re building bridges with planks across the sandpit, but you’re absolutely right about that hand gesture.” He repeats his winding motion. “I’m going to ask the children how they’d do it. They already do this when they pretend to make a phone call.” He holds his hand flat to his ear in another Liam reminder. “They don’t ever do this.” He makes a different gesture, modelling an old-fashioned handset, and his next smile is pure sunshine. “Isn’t that amazing? And how observant of you to notice. Anyway, if you’re having a bit of trouble crossing the car park, we probably have enough spare planks to build a bridge for you.”

He’s posh. Or his accent is, at least. It chimes with cut-glass clear notes I remember from the school where I never fit in. I don’t expect to hear it from someone wearing a cartoon sticker. And here I go again, saying what I see with zero filter. “I’ve been a very brave boy.”

“Oh, you poor lamb.” He crouches, his face creasing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I mean…” I reach out. “Your sticker…”

“Oh, of course.” His laugh echoes. It’s free and floaty, a sweet reminder of someone who thought I was magic. His warm smile is another reminder. It’s like having Mum here for a moment, and the world blurs so fast I have to take off my glasses to rub their lenses. This teacher is still blurred when I put them back on. He only comes slowly back into focus, but that’s okay. It sounds like he really means what he says. “You take your time.” He also hands me a hanky, eventually saying, “Well, anyway, welcome to Glynn Harber. You’re here for an interview, yes? You’d like to join us in September to train to be a teacher?”

“I already am. Training to teach. I mean, I was training.”

His head tilt asks a silent question. Fuck knows why I let the one thing I should keep to myself slip out.

“I’m failing.”

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