All characters in this story are age 18 or older.
*
Craig Stewart was having a bad day. It was January second, the first day of spring semester of his senior year in high school. Everybody else had enjoyed vacation for two weeks. Craig, along with Hank Jones and Jeff Mullins, had been out for ten.
The three of them had been expelled for fighting and attempted sexual assault of a classmate. They had not been permitted to contact one another during their time of probation. Craig was not eager to talk with them now, either. All morning long it had been the same. Conversations in low tones would stop when he came into a classroom. His peers gave him a wide berth.
Now it was lunch time, the most dreaded time of day for outcast students across the nation. Craig swept the room uncertainly. The stares brought a flush to his cheeks, and the sense of his own hot face made him angry. As quickly as he could, he moved toward the emptiest looking table.
Hank and Jeff entered the cafeteria just as Craig sat down. Their attitudes were cocky. They laughed and talked a bit too loudly and looked around as if daring anyone to speak to them. Everyone could smell the negative emotions emanating from the pair: anger, bitterness, embarrassment.
They gravitated toward Craig, who started wolfing down his sandwich as fast as he could.
Hank started bitching right away. "Fuckers. I threw one punch and they act like I'm a fuckin' leper."
Craig eyed his compatriot coolly, thinking of his own fall from grace: getting kicked off the football team, which meant losing every chance he had for an athletic scholarship to college. He tore another huge bite out of his sandwich and didn't reply.
Jeff grumbled, "I didn't even hit anybody. All I tried to do was shut that bitch's mouth."
That was a particular sore spot for Craig. In an instant he remembered the feel of Allison's floaty white skirt in his hands. How pretty she was, even when her eyes were full of terror. Craig was repulsed by what he had done. He and Jeff had been in a race to see who would bed her first. As he looked back on his actions, all he could think was
stupid, stupid, stupid
.
"I'll see you guys later." Craig nearly ran toward the door, stopping long enough to drop his tray on the conveyor belt. As he whirled toward the exit, of all people, he bumped directly into Allison Katz. This time his face burned red as a Bud sign.
"I'm sorry!" he gasped, and bolted down the hall.
The rest of the afternoon went pretty much the same way. Craig had one study hall with Allison, in the library. He didn't dare approach her, and she ignored him thoroughly. He couldn't blame her for the ice.
He wondered whether, he fervently hoped, one day soon there might be a thaw.
The last bell couldn't ring soon enough. At the same time, Craig fussed in his locker, wondering exactly how to go about it. Maybe it was too soon. He eyed the black oblong shape that took up most of the skinny rectangular space and chewed at his lower lip.
Finally he decided against it and slung on his backpack. He wandered the halls as if he had somewhere to go, thanking the little star of fortune that helped him avoid his two former friends. For fifteen minutes he drifted, settling for a time in the library, where he pretended to read the day's paper and in truth stared a hole in the clock.
They had to be started by now. Of course, it was just a guess, but it was an educated one. Craig dreaded his destination, and hungered for it at the same time.
He slunk down the now-empty halls and found he was right. Piano and clarinet splayed their notes down the hall like marbles flung from a child's hand. Craig shut his eyes and stepped closer. He was right outside the door of the music room now.
The music broke off in a spurt of laughter. Bitterness welled in the outcast's throat. The desire for acceptance carved a great hollow shell in his gut. The laughter got in there and bounced inside him, cartwheeling gleefully, yet failing to invite him into the dance.
The young man took a deep breath and risked a look through the tiny window. He knew if they saw him they wouldn't be happy about it. He couldn't stand there and stare, either, because sooner or later one of them would look up, and then he'd be toast. This one glance would have to conclude his eavesdropping.
He peered in just as Allison bent to plant a kiss on David Hemingway's upturned face. The look of love on David's face was so obvious, it hurt. Jealousy tasered through Craig at 50,000 volts. He could not escape the feeling that, had he not been such an ass, had he treated this girl like a human being, she might at this moment be kissing him.
* * *
Next morning before the first bell, music teacher Jacob Olaffsen was penciling an arrangement of "My Funny Valentine" when a hesitant knock sounded on his door. Without looking up, he sounded his usual command: "Come!"
The drill-sergeant bark intimidated the former football star, but he straightened his back and pretended it didn't. The young man glanced around the room; he'd never been in here. Shelves full of thin-spined books took up most of the wall space. A fax/copy machine squatted on a credenza adjacent to an old wooden desk. A plaque on the wall read, "
Here And Now
." There were several old pictures of men in uniform, and Olaffsen surrounded by alumni, but Craig didn't have time to inspect these too closely.
"Mr. Olaffsen, good morning."
Olaffsen's face showed only a mild hint of the surprise that he was feeling. It was he, along with Allison's father, who had stopped Craig from sexually assaulting the young clarinetist right after the fall concert. Jacob could not imagine what Craig wanted, but the familiar shape on the young man's back gave him an idea.
"Have a seat, Mr. Stewart. What can I do for you?"
Craig worked to meet the older man's eyes. He swallowed. "I'd like permission to try out, sir."
Olaffsen tipped his chin back slightly. He would make the boy work for it. "Proceed."
The senior drew in a sharp breath. He pulled the guitar case off of his back and laid it in his lap, unsure if Olaffsen would consent to hearing him play.
"As you know, I was expelled after the — after what I did last semester. I'd like a chance to make amends and I, I've been studying hard for ten weeks now."
Olaffsen nodded, knowing the kid needed some affirmation to go on. "Continue," he granted.
Encouraged, Craig unzipped the case. "I know I'm not as good as your other students, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd hear me play."
Olaffsen looked at his watch. "I can give you twelve minutes, Mr. Stewart. You may begin when ready."
Craig smiled broadly and Jake could see why the girls used to fall for the young man. Somber, he was a handsome sonofabitch, but when he looked happy, his smile was dazzling. The Stewart family wealth probably didn't hurt, either.
Craig was off-book on only two pieces, and he played both of them: "Walk, Don't Run," and an advanced piece from a lesson book. Olaffsen tapped a pencil in his teeth as he studied the young man's hands from a professional standpoint. The kid was not bad. But no high school student deserved a Les Paul like that. Parents!
Craig concentrated for all he was worth. A hundred hours of practice paid off. His fingers stumbled once, but he righted himself quickly. When he was done, he looked up. The longing was plain on his face.
The weight of the moment was not lost on Olaffsen. "Uh-huh..." The teacher considered, then asked: "Who taught you?"
Craig named a local guitarist, one of the few musicians of Olaffsen's acquaintance who made a living playing gigs full-time. Olaffsen nodded and stood.
"So?"
"So tell me exactly what you want to audition for. Do you want to play in the jazz band?"
