Page 5 of Checking All Her Notes
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My dad takesa sip of coffee, makes a face, adds more sugar.
“We’re doing a Music & Sticks fundraiser,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “You’ll run the music part.”
I choke on my toast. Actually choke. Crumbs spray across the kitchen table and I have to grab my orange juice to wash down the chunk lodged in my throat.
“I’m doing what?” I manage once I can breathe again.
He grins, completely unfazed by my near-death experience. “You love kids. You love music. You love chaos.” He ticks each point off on his fingers like he’s presenting an airtight case. “You’ll fit right in.”
“Dad, I already have seven students who think fortissimo is the only dynamic marking that exists. I don’t need?—”
“It’s good for the community. Good for the team.” He’s using his coach voice now, the one that’s closed about a thousand locker room speeches. “Plus, it’ll show everyone you’re settling back into Briarwood. Making your mark.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“There’s always a catch with you.”
He takes another sip of his sugar-coffee and delivers the kicker with perfect timing. “Blockton’s in your group. Needs a little off the ice softening.”
I set my toast down very carefully. “Jude Blockton. The man who broke my window three days ago.”
“That’s the one.”
“The defenseman who can only glower and almost not glower.”
“He’s got range,” Dad says, clearly enjoying this. “I like that in a player.”
“And you think music lessons will help?”
“I thinkyouwill help.” He stands, rinses his mug in the sink. “Guy’s got walls up higher than the boards. Figure if anyone can crack him, it’s you.”
Perfect. A grumpy defenseman who already broke my window and apparently thinks conversation is a form of torture.
I should say no. I should tell Dad I’m busy. I really am still adjusting to being home. And frankly teaching hockey players about rhythm sounds like the kind of situation even a monster size piece of pie can’t fix.
But there’s a challenge in Dad’s eyes. And if I’m being honest, I’m curious. Curious if Jude’s frown has a setting other thanpermanent. Curious if there’s more to him than storm cloud eyes and one-word answers.
“Fine,” I say. “But if anyone breaks another window, it’s coming out of the team budget.”
Dad grins. “Deal.”
Which is how I find myself at the community center Thursday afternoon, setting up like I’m preparing for an invasion. I’m taping labels to folding tables.Triangles, Shakers, andHand Drums.The smell of popcorn from therink next door mixes with crayons and that industrial cleaner they use on the floors. Somewhere down the hall, I can hear kids laughing in the after-school program.
My music room has been transformed into what looks like a percussion store exploded.
The door bangs open and Finn Travers strolls in first, all confidence and charm. He’s got that easy smile that probably gets him out of speeding tickets. He points at the triangles laid out on the table.
“What’s this, a cowbell for toddlers?”
Dax Rogers follows him in, snorting. “You’d still miss the beat, Travers.”
“I have excellent timing,” Finn protests, grabbing one of the triangles and giving it an experimentalding.
