Page 27 of Second Song

Mum loved it if I called him Dad. I’d started to, before… I close my eyes again, remembering the few times it slipped out. She’d been so fucking happy. I open them to another blurred view, and what the fuck is up with my eyes lately? I clear my throat and force this out. “He gave me access to a school with plenty of instruments and a professional studio setup. He even gave me permission to take a break from studying to follow my dream. That’s hardly traumatic, is it?”

He doesn’t answer. He only steeples his fingers before saying, “Educators who understand themselves bring the most to teaching. That’s why we’ll gather all of our new teachers and support staff for trauma-informed training before the new school year starts in September. That training involves this workbook.”

He flicks to a contents page and, unlike the topics he traces with his finger, his voice is soft.

“Substance abuse and self-harm. Consent issues and coercion. Eating disorders and dysphoria. Autism and masking. You don’t need to be an expert on any of these subjects, Rowan. We have those on hand. Counsellors like Reece Trelawney, who helps everyone at Glynn Harber. But mapping out our own life paths with him is a compulsory first stage for new staff because being a rock for anyone else means knowing yourself and your limits. You could make a start however you like. Write a letter, a song—as long as it helps you know yourself better.”

Luke tilts his head in the direction of his daughter, who stops collecting petals to listen to a blackbird singing high above her. “Doing that is nonnegotiable for good reason. When we understand what we unconsciously bring to the classroom? When we’re able to cross our own scary bridges? That’s when our children really flourish.”

That use of our and we pushes against a stiff door just hard enough that something dark slithers into Cornish daylight.

“You advertised for a music teacher. What if I can’t ever make myself perform in public?” It’s wild that all of my freedom plans used to hang on reaching the finale of a singing contest. I froze under a spotlight before the world got to hear the first song I’d ever written. Now a second chance at winning seems even further from me.

Luke Lawson throws me a lifeline, only shaped like a promise instead of a rope.

“You can sing with children?”

I nod.

“Then that’s all I’d ask of you, but knowing yourself first before training to teach with us in September is still crucial.”

That’s another Liam reminder.

Save yourself first.

Luke Lawson stands. I do as well, and I’d thought my legs had been weak while on the side of that cliff. That’s nothing compared to trying to stay upright when he says, “Yesterday, you were on that bridge every step of the way with Hadi. I’d like to return the favour.”

“You mean, I can come back in September?”

Luke Lawson’s gaze meets mine, and maintaining eye contact this unwavering is hard. So is hearing what sounds like a final answer.

“No.”

I slump.

“Not because you aren’t ready here, Rowan.” He touches his own chest, and my heart clenches. “You’re almost the full package. Observant, attuned, musically gifted? You’d be a very welcome trainee teacher in September. But it’s here that I need to be sure of.” He touches his temple. “Because children are the absolute best, but they’re also the absolute worst. They’ll find wherever you’re bruised and poke it hard if that deflects attention from where they’re hurting. Charles says that one of your bruises is public. Very public, to anyone with the right information.”

I slump even further as he tells me what that means.

“Some of our more challenging students could use it to confront you. It would be wrong to let you face that without strategies to manage those moments. My staff can’t be in survival mode, Rowan. There’s no fawning or freezing possible in a classroom. Fight or flight can’t ever be an option. Not when vulnerable students need us to be their rocks to lean on. Dependable. Steady. Self-aware. That’s what they need and why I don’t want you to come back in September.”

Above us, that blackbird sings again. Its repeat tune is a bittersweet reminder, because second songs really aren’t for me, are they? Nor are second chances. I had one and lost it in front of TV viewers. Now I lose another in a Cornish sculpture garden.

At least, that’s what I think until Luke Lawson gives me a lanyard complete with a hidden sticker.

“Rowan, I want you back much sooner.”

11

ROWAN

I do come back to Cornwall much sooner than September. It only takes a week to pack up my room and put my uni course on hold. I also reply to a text message before leaving.

Rowan: Sorry I haven’t got back to you.

Here’s what I’ve been putting off saying to my stepdad.

Rowan: Thanks for letting me know the production company have been in contact.

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