Salvation's Song

by Pearl Love

  While Mr. Crabtree organized the sheaf of papers he pulled out of his satchel, Jeremy took the opportunity to study the rest of the band. In addition to the three-part clarinet section, there was a first and second flute section, and two oboe players. Jeremy was particularly pleased to see four alto and three tenor saxophones. Rounding out the woodwinds were a bass clarinet and a bassoon. The usual assortment of brass instruments was also present, including three coronets, five trumpets, six trombones, a couple of euphoniums, and three tubas. Behind the last row of seats was the percussion section. The bass drum player was twirling his stick while chatting with a girl who was lounging in a chair behind the xylophone. Jeremy wondered at the empty chair behind the snare drum and guessed maybe the player was merely absent that day.

  All in all, he was pleased by the variety of instruments. It would make for a well-rounded ensemble. Patricia had said the group was good. Maybe they could go even higher than regionals that year should Mr. Crabtree choose to enter them in the statewide competition. He looked toward the front of the room when their conductor tapped his baton on his stand to get everyone’s attention.

  “Good afternoon!”

  Mr. Crabtree didn’t raise his voice, but he could be easily heard over the silence. Jeremy marveled at how quickly everyone had responded to his request. It was obvious the students held him in high respect.

  “It’s great to see so many familiar faces and quite a few new ones as well. As you can see, we have a new oboist, Ms. Starling, and a couple of new alto sax players, Mr. Rice and Ms. Tran.” The teacher called out a few more people before turning his gaze toward Jeremy. “And finally, we have a new concertmaster, Jeremy Michalak.”

  Jeremy glanced around with his hand raised in a meek wave. A couple of the other first clarinets returned his gaze with less than friendly stares, but it was to be expected. Concertmaster was a highly coveted position, and the competition was fierce. Still this wasn’t some horror movie where he needed to worry about a rival dipping his reed in poison or something to take his spot. Or at least he hoped that was the case.

  “Mr. Crabtree?”

  The teacher raised his head as he glanced toward the back of the room. “Yes, Tina?” he said, addressing the percussionist.

  “Am I doubling on snare today?” Tina tilted her head toward the unmanned instrument.

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” Mr. Crabtree sent her a grateful smile. “Though I expect to have the position filled shortly.”

  The room broke into surprised murmurs. Apparently Jeremy wasn’t the only one who thought the teacher was being unnecessarily cryptic about the identity of their missing snare drummer.

  Mr. Crabtree ignored the commotion and picked up the sheets of paper before hopping off his stool. “All right, let’s begin with something simple and familiar.” He handed a stack to the first person in each row. “Hopefully I put these in the correct order.”

  Jeremy took his copy and passed the rest of the stapled sheets to his left. He sighed when he saw the title, the sound drowned out by a general grumble as everyone else realized what they were playing.

  “Aww, Dvořák’s Ninth Symphony again?”

  Jeremy turned to glance directly behind him at the first chair second clarinetist. She looked to be a senior and had expressed his sentiments exactly.

  “Yes, Stacy. Again.” Mr. Crabtree’s expression remained serene.

  “But it’s the same song we play at the beginning of every year,” she whined. “Can’t we play something different this time?”

  “No, because I happen to think this is the perfect warm-up song,” Mr. Crabtree explained. “The fact that it’s familiar to most of you is a bonus. It means you won’t have to waste time figuring out what it should sound like. At the same time, it’s complex enough to give each section a good work out. So, if there are no more complaints, let’s begin.”

  Jeremy couldn’t fault the man’s logic. He’d learned the piece when he was still in grade school and could probably play each of the three clarinet parts in his sleep, having performed each of them over the years. Mr. Crabtree raised his baton high and gave them two quick counts of four before bringing the stick sharply downward in a signal to begin.

  Despite the complaints, everyone played the admittedly gorgeous piece with enthusiasm. The finale of the symphony was fast-paced and gloriously bombastic. The brass players in particular seemed to be having fun with it, and Jeremy feared he might hear the trumpet line in his dreams that night. Yet, mostly he was thrilled to be part of such a talented group of musicians. The only stumbles came from the percussion section. Jeremy had figured Tina wasn’t all that comfortable on the snare since she hadn’t claimed the instrument from the beginning, and his supposition turned out to be correct. He hoped the unnamed drummer Mr. Crabtree had hinted at arrived soon. Missing rehearsal was inexcusable in his book.

  The hour passed swiftly, and before long, Mr. Crabtree was wishing them all a good afternoon. “Tomorrow, I might even bring in some Holst to whet your appetites.” He laughed when a cheer went up.

  Jeremy packed up slowly as he waited for the room to clear. He’d hoped Mr. Crabtree would linger to lock up, and was relieved when the two of them were the last ones remaining. The teacher had exchanged his conductor’s stool for his desk, and he looked up at Jeremy with a smile as he approached.

  “What can I do for you, Jeremy?”

  “Uh, I meant to ask after my audition, but I forgot. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d be interested in starting a jazz ensemble. We have such a deep pool of talent it’d be easy to draw from interested members of the existing band.” Jeremy scuffed the toe of his gym shoe against the carpet. “I’ve always wanted to be in a swing group,” he added with a self-conscious chuckle.

  “That’s a very intriguing idea.” Mr. Crabtree sat back in his chair and studied Jeremy thoughtfully. “And you’re right, given the mix of brass and woodwind we have, it could definitely work. However, we may need to wait for a bit.”

  Jeremy frowned. He’d been thrilled by Mr. Crabtree’s enthusiasm for his suggestion and was confused by his sudden hesitancy. “Wait for what?”

  “I believe I mentioned that I’m still adding players to the roster.”

  “You mean the missing snare drummer?”

  Mr. Crabtree nodded, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously as he returned Jeremy’s gaze. “Indeed. I’d like to wait until the band is complete before tacking on a side project. But don’t worry,” he added with a grin. “I have a feeling it won’t be too much longer.”

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” he said slowly, hoping his confusion didn’t show too much on his face. Mr. Crabtree seemed like a good guy, but he clearly had a few quirks that would take some getting used to. “Thanks for agreeing, by the way. I don’t mind taking the lead with getting the music and stuff.”

  “We can talk about that later.” The teacher leaned forward abruptly, and Jeremy took an unconscious step back at the sudden intensity in Mr. Crabtree’s gaze. “I heard you had a bit of a scare yesterday, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy’s confusion rapidly changed to shock. How in the hell had Mr. Crabtree heard about that? He had very deliberately not mentioned what happened to anyone. “Um, I don’t know what you mean.” He sounded less than convincing even to his own ears.

  “I heard it from someone who witnessed your frantic dash toward the UIC campus.”

  Shit, Jeremy thought. “Oh that,” he said vaguely, adding a hopefully nonchalant shrug for effect. “I was late meeting my older sister, that’s all.” The story had worked with Cynthia and Tyrell, so he decided to stick with it. The fact that someone had seen him was extremely embarrassing. However, Jeremy couldn’t help but wonder how it was possible someone from the school had tracked him so closely. He’d been running as fast as he could and had covered quite a bit of territory.

  The intensity in Mr. Crabtree’s expression softened as swiftly as it had appeared. He smiled comfortingly, leaving Jeremy feeling completel
y at sea. “So long as it wasn’t anything serious. But, Jeremy, I want you to remember that you can come to me with anything that might be bothering you. Anything at all. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jeremy replied. When the teacher had made the offer the first day of school, surely it hadn’t encompassed Jeremy’s imminent loss of sanity. Like he’d ever tell another living soul that he’d had auditory hallucinations of his dead brother’s voice urging him to flee from… well, whatever had been chasing him. Assuming that hadn’t all been in his imagination too.

  “I mean it, son. I always feel protective of my students. Being a teacher isn’t all that different from being a parent. It’s my job to worry about you kids, especially the remarkably talented ones.”

  Mr. Crabtree’s smile told Jeremy he was being both sincere and making a small joke. He tried to match the teacher’s expression and mumbled something about needing to catch the bus. Mr. Crabtree dismissed him with a final nod, and Jeremy fled before the man could bring up any more awkward topics.

  Outside the sun was shining, though fortunately, a bank of clouds obscured some of the late-day brightness. Jeremy shrugged the straps of his backpack higher on his shoulders and headed toward the stop for the #20 Madison. He heard voices coming from the steps of the main building and glanced back in that direction. Four guys were lounging in front of the school. He’d again used the side door near the band room, so he wasn’t all that close to the squatters as he made his way toward the sidewalk. Still he noticed from a distance that more than one of the figures looked familiar.

  He easily identified his homeroom classmate, Ryan Gage. Ryan was wearing a varsity jacket in spite of the fact that it was well over eighty degrees outside. Jeremy guessed risking a heatstroke was worth it for the bragging rights of being on a sports team. He didn’t care since sports weren’t really his thing. Jeremy had never seen two of the guys Ryan was talking to, but the fourth made him pause. A shiver went down his spine as he recognized the kid’s large frame and shock of short blond hair.

  Jeremy stood dead in the middle of the sidewalk as he stared at the guy. He would have sworn the kid was the same one who had been following him the day before. Was he the one who had chased him? Though Jeremy hated to think a classmate had given him such a fright, it was better than believing he’d been pursued by a phantom of his own making. He knew he should just forget about it and go home, but he kept staring, trying to decide whether or not he was right.

  Of course the kid chose that moment to look up, the large blond staring directly at him. Jeremy tensed, his body preparing for flight should it become necessary, but the kid merely shot him a derisive sneer before turning his attention back to his friends. Jeremy frowned, feeling equal parts relieved and bewildered.

  That smile hadn’t been nice, but it had none of the menace Jeremy had sensed from the figure yesterday. He must be mistaken about the blond kid. Still, he considered whether he should ask Ryan about the guy in homeroom tomorrow just to be safe. In the next instant, he thought better of that plan. If Ryan and the kid were indeed teammates, Ryan probably wouldn’t take kindly to Jeremy asking invasive questions about him. After all, he and Ryan weren’t exactly friendly. No, best to leave it alone. It probably hadn’t even been that guy in the first place, so making a big deal out of it would be pointless.

  Jeremy continued toward the bus stop, thinking about what jazz pieces he wanted to pick up from the library and whether he could convince Irina to do his econ homework for him. She worked in a bank, and though he wasn’t sure exactly what her duties were, surely a high-school-level assignment wouldn’t be a challenge for her.

  I wonder if Tyrell is on a sports team? He would look great in a varsity jacket.

  Jeremy caught himself before he could dwell any further on that subject, blaming his wandering thoughts on the stubborn early September heat.

  Chapter TWELVE

  AFTER LUNCH on Thursday, Tyrell had made up his mind not to accept Mr. Crabtree’s offer to try out for band. His resolve held firm all throughout Friday, even though Jeremy had come to homeroom that morning yawning adorably and rubbing his eyes as though something had kept him up late. Tyrell couldn’t have cared less. He wasn’t interested. Friday afternoon Cynthia once again sat Jeremy down at their table to have lunch. Tyrell remained sanguine about the situation. Jeremy losing a fight with his soft serve—one of the rotating treats the school provided at the end of the week—and ending up with ice cream smeared temptingly across his lips did nothing to alter Tyrell’s position.

  The weekend arrived, and the teachers had seen it as the perfect opportunity to load their students with copious amounts of homework. Tyrell’s mom had enrolled him in a Saturday PSAT prep course, so he’d been far too busy to remember Mr. Crabtree’s pointed glances during homeroom. Sunday was, as always, for church. Unless he or Kevin were on their deathbeds, Joanne expected them to join her in praising their Lord and Savior. Kevin greeted the matter with all the enthusiasm one might expect of a twelve-year-old, though he did enjoy playing on the Spirit of Zion’s baseball team.

  Tyrell was still on the fence about the whole God business. He’d believed wholeheartedly as a child, though lately his interest in the subject had begun to wane. The only enjoyment he got from service was trying to ferret out the meaning of the scriptures from the antiquated King James text the preacher insisted on using. Tyrell was glad the man had held firm in the face of his congregation’s pleas that he switch to something more accessible like the New International Version.

  By pure happenstance that Sunday, Reverend Thomas invited a band from another church to accompany the choir. Tyrell had stared enthralled as the musicians jammed the boring gospel songs the choir usually performed, transforming them into something altogether superior. The drummer in particular had been electrifying to watch, playing with his eyes closed as he lost himself in the beat. For the first time, Tyrell seriously thought about what it would be like if he were sitting up there, going to town while other musicians played around him.

  Of course, he made the mistake of mentioning the possibility to his mother only to be instantly shot down.

  “Tyrell, what on earth are you going on about? Band? Boy, you’re a junior this year. Do you know what that means?”

  Tyrell knew from the way she’d positioned her hands on her hips that he was about to find out.

  “That means this is the most important year of your high school life. You need to buckle down and study like you mean it! College admissions may be based on the SATs you take next year, but scholarships are decided way before then. It’s your junior year grades and your PSAT scores they’ll be looking at.” Joanne had thrown her hands up to the heavens as though praying for help. “Jesus Lord, help me with this boy!”

  And that, Tyrell accepted, had been that. If his mother was against his joining the band, there was no use in even thinking about it anymore. In their house Joanne’s word was law. Not for the first time, Tyrell wondered what it would be like if his dad were still alive.

  Monday morning arrived, and Tyrell began his day like any other. He walked Kevin to school and then hopped on the bus toward downtown. He’d spent the better part of Sunday night finishing his homework, so he took the opportunity of the long bus ride to catch a much needed nap. After transferring to the last leg of his trip, he’d dozed again, but the bus driver’s announcements pierced the fog in his brain at a crucial moment.

  “This is Madison and Halsted.”

  Not since that first day of school the week before had Tyrell seen Jeremy on the bus. He figured either that morning had been a fluke and Jeremy didn’t usually ride this bus, or Jeremy’s normal schedule was simply different from his. Or maybe Jeremy was deliberately avoiding him. Dwelling on that possibility made Tyrell’s chest unaccountably tight, so it was with a mixture of relief and disbelief that he saw a familiar figure rush through the doors before the driver could close them.

  Jeremy saw him immediately. The seat next to Tyrell was taken,
and he wasn’t certain whether he was happy or annoyed about that fact. Jeremy didn’t walk to where he was sitting, but he did nod in silent greeting from across the bus. Tyrell nodded in return, noting with alarm that the odd music he hadn’t heard for nearly a week was suddenly back and stuck in his head. His breath caught painfully in his throat when Jeremy looked away, clearly uninterested in further interaction.

  Tyrell considered whether he should try to catch up with Jeremy when they got off the bus, but Ryan was waiting for him on the front steps of the building, apparently having just finished morning practice. Jeremy went ahead into the school while Tyrell was obliged to stop to chat. By the time he and Ryan made it inside, Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. Not that it mattered. Jeremy was just another guy in his homeroom, nothing more. Tyrell certainly didn’t care how Jeremy spent his time before they were forced to sit next to each other for fifty minutes.

  First period came and went, though Tyrell blamed Mrs. Brooks for the regrettable direction his thoughts took. They were studying British poets, and in particular, poets who penned romantic verses, including the Bard himself, William Shakespeare.

  Tyrell wondered if his grandmother could have imagined that reading the Bible to him when he was little would have sparked a lifelong love of British writers. He could barely understand the text at the time, but something about the lyrically rhythmic words had sung to him even at such a young age. By the time he was in grade school, he could often be found hiding away from the world—in front of which he projected the typical image of a kid ambivalent about the written word—in order to indulge his passion. He’d since read all of Shakespeare’s comedies and had started digesting his historical works, though he had yet to read any of the Bard’s sonnets.

  Those lips that Love’s own hand did make

  Breathed forth the sound that said “I hate”