by Kathy Krevat
Geez. I’d run into control freaks like this in the junior music theater world and never knew why parents put up with them. There was always someone else who could teach the same thing and didn’t have all the baggage. But Yollie was Steven’s mom so she got to decide.
I jogged back home and found my dad in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee, still in his bathrobe. Trouble meowed as soon as she saw me. The cranky look on her face said, What took you so long?
I told my dad about Yollie’s call while I fed Trouble.
“Doesn’t he drive?” my dad asked, his before-coffee crankiness coming through.
“Yeah, but they share a car.” I grabbed my keys before he could get into a kids these days discussion. “Can you wake up Elliott while I’m gone? He has to set up for the costume committee.” Elliott was the co-vice president of the middle school drama club and had volunteered to host the costume committee. For weeks, our dining room had been home to swaths of different material, four sewing machines, and various masks made out of papier-mâché.
“No pancakes?” my dad asked.
I usually made pancakes for breakfast and was planning to make them in the shape of lions in honor of Elliott’s play. “Sorry! Tomorrow for sure.”
“Okay,” he said, disappointed.
My dad had grumbled a bit about the costume chaos, but I think he was actually pleased that Elliott was comfortable enough here to bring his friends over. I was happy that my dad had been able to see Elliott in a leadership position, something he didn’t realize happened off the football field.
Elliott had been firmly against the club choosing The Lion King as the fall musical until my best friend Lani Nakano had volunteered to design the costumes and lead the committee. Lani had her own company called Find Your Re-Purpose. She recycled used clothes to create amazing fashions for people willing to wear wild colors and who had the money to pay for them.
Elliott and the rest of the drama club had fallen in love with her concept of dark pink-spotted giraffes, purple elephants, and antelopes with daisy print fur, while the main characters would have regular costumes.
She’d also brought in the local puppetry guild to show the student actors how to make some of the more elaborate costumes come to life. They’d been teaching them how to use the puppets safely and decided that the larger animals would enter the stage from the wings and wouldn’t be part of the parade down the aisles.
I’d been having nightmares about giraffe heads falling on audience members, so having experts around made me feel much better.
Elliott had become even more delighted when he was cast in the role of Zazu, the red-billed hornbill who advises the King.
With just a couple of days until dress rehearsals, Lani had scheduled a full day of costume work, and the early birds would be arriving soon.
At first, Trouble seemed to hate the mess in her kingdom, but lately, she had taken to batting around the masks. We now made sure the doors stayed closed to keep her away from wayward pins, sequins, and anything else she might decide to chew on.
I entered the address Yollie had texted me and arrived with ten minutes to spare. Unfortunately, I was beside a large hedge that ran the length of the property with no house in sight. This couldn’t be right. I pulled behind a black BMW with dark tinted windows that must be as lost as I was, since the other side of the street was an empty lot.
I texted Yollie a photo of the hedge. She texted back right away. Sorry! The GPS gets weird in that neighborhood. You’re at the back of the property. Take two rights and you’ll be there. You can’t miss the flamingo mailbox.
Following her directions took me right to the big pink bird with stork-like legs holding up the mailbox body and a curved head sticking out of the top. Someone really loved flamingos.
The curb had been painted green with the sign, Ten Minute Parking Zone, in white. It didn’t look like the lettering of other short-term parking zones. Had Benson Tadworth painted it himself?
The house was the last one on a dead-end street. It was a one story bungalow with Old California charm, the narrow front steps leading up to the porch edged with Mexican tiles. The yard was overgrown and the garbage bin was on the curb, its open lid announcing that the garbage truck had come and gone. It was the only one on the block that hadn’t been brought back to the house. My dad would’ve tut-tutted and brought it back himself, but I wasn’t trying that at a stranger’s house. The detached garage had been renovated, and the regular garage door for cars had been replaced by a wall with a normal door for people. It had been painted a beautiful sky blue that looked like it didn’t belong with the rest of the property.
I opened the car window and could hear faint music coming from the garage. I’d become friends with Yollie a few months before but had never heard her son play the oboe. She’d talked about how much he loved it and that he hoped to study music in college. It couldn’t hurt to move a little closer and listen, I told myself. I’d be back in my car in a few minutes.
Dried leaves crinkled as I approached the garage and the music slowed into a melancholy wail. Steven was so talented! I leaned against the wall, noticing the changing colors of the tall maple trees that a transplant from the East Coast must have planted ages ago.
I closed my eyes to listen, relaxing, when I heard a loud slam followed by a man screaming, “No. No. No!”
I gasped and straightened.
He continued yelling, “Are you an idiot? I’ve told you a million times that it’s abafando. Abafando!”
I heard another slam. Had he hit Steven?
Rage boiled up and I wrenched open the door. “Stay away from him!” I yelled before seeing that Steven was totally safe, holding his oboe to his mouth. A slim man stood behind a podium with his arm out as if he’d stopped in the middle of waving it around, well out of hitting range. A large book of sheet music was on the floor in front of him. It must be the source of the loud thump.
“Get. Out.” The man hunched over his wooden podium, eyes nearly popping out of his head. “You’re ruining my lesson!”
Steven pointed to the door, frantically mouthing the words, “Get out.”
“I will not get out,” I said to the teacher, who must be Benson Tadworth. “You’re abusing this boy and I won’t stand for it.”
Benson pushed aside the strands of his long shaggy hair that had fallen across his face. He stepped from behind the podium wearing a black button-down shirt and black jeans, with black biker boots that didn’t fit my image of an oboe instructor. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m here to pick up Steven,” I said.
Steven stood up. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re early. Please wait outside.”
“Steven,” I said. “You don’t have to take this—”
“You misunderstood. I’m fine,” he said. “Wait outside.”
The teacher crossed his arms, looking smug.
I stood still.
“Colbie, please.” Steven’s voice was thick with emotion.
The teacher turned his back, as if knowing I’d leave, and bent over to gather the music.
I couldn’t resist Steven’s pleading eyes, and went out the door, passing an artist’s desk full of bamboo, razor blades, and tiny metal measuring tools.
I walked down the driveway and got back into the car, fighting with myself while I slammed the door shut. What the hell was going on in there? Why did Steven allow the teacher to yell at him like that? Did Yollie know? She couldn’t. No mother would allow that treatment of her own kid.
The maple trees had lost their charm and I could almost sense the desperation in the music coming from the garage. Had my outburst caused it?
A minivan arrived, the sliding door opening automatically to let out a young teen girl. She smiled and waved to her mother, carrying her music case and a notebook as she made her way to the garage. I had to hold myself
back from telling her mother what I’d overheard.
At exactly five minutes to eight, Steven came out. Benson stuck his head through the door, talking on his cell phone, and lifted a finger for his next student to wait.
Steven walked stiffly to my car, anger and embarrassment emanating from him in every step. He got in without looking at me and slammed the door as hard as I had. “Where’s Mom?” He could barely get the words out past his clenched jaw.
“Her car broke down and she asked me to pick you up,” I explained, as I pulled out and then made a U-turn to head to his house.
He didn’t respond.
I sent a few glances toward him. It had been a couple of months since I’d seen him and he seemed older—taller with more definition in his face. Maybe that’s what happened to teen boys at that age. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nodded, his bangs falling across his eyes. He kept his head down, maybe to avoid looking at me.
“Why do you put up with that?”
“You don’t understand!” The words burst out of him. “He’s a genius. I’ve learned so much from him in such a short time—”
I cut him off. “That’s no excuse,” I argued. “I’m sure there’s another oboe teaching genius who wouldn’t yell at you.”
“That’s not how it works.” He raised one hand as if to pull on his hair. Then he took a deep breath and relaxed his hand. “He’s the only one anywhere close to here that we can afford.”
“But—”
“Stop it. Just stop.” His voice was shaking but firm. “My mom has worked her butt off. I’ve worked my butt off to pay for his lessons. I will put up with anything to become a musician.”
I stayed silent the rest of the way to his house.
He finally met my eyes when I stopped in front of his house. They teemed with determination. I recognized that look from Elliott when he was auditioning for a new role.
“Does your mom know?” I asked, resigned.
“Yes,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
He nodded. “Thank you for the ride.” He took off his seat belt and gathered his things. “Shoot.”
“What?”
“I forgot my Zoom recorder,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said. “Do you want to go back?” I offered, even though I was worried about getting to the farmers’ market in time.
He shook his head. “My mom will take me later.”
Obviously he didn’t trust me.
I watched him go into the cute cottage that Yollie rented, wondering what I was going to say to her. I still wasn’t sure by the time I got home. A bunch of drama kids had invaded early, probably at Elliott’s invitation. They were playing with the costumes but Lani would get them settled down into their tasks once she arrived.
I tried to act normal, putting out the snacks and drinks automatically. My dad must’ve noticed my distress. “You okay?” he asked.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure the students were occupied and told him what happened.
My dad shook his head. “Stay out of it. Steven’s not a little kid. He can take care of himself.”
“Stay out of what?” Elliott asked from behind me. I turned to see him holding a large empty bowl that he used to make papier-mâché.
I looked at my dad who answered for me. “Your mom heard Steven’s music teacher yelling at him.”
Elliott frowned. “Do you think he yells at Franny too?”
“Quincy’s Franny?” I asked.
He nodded. “He told me she’s taking lessons from some oboe teacher who normally only takes high school students.”
Oh man. I’d forgotten all about that. Franny was Quincy Powell’s granddaughter.
I knew he would not like the idea of someone yelling at his granddaughter.
“Well, she probably goes to another teacher,” I reassured him but as soon as he filled up the bowl and went back to the dining room, I texted Quincy. Does Franny take lessons from Benson Tadworth?
Yes, he texted back. Why?
“It’s not your business,” my dad warned.
I pushed the button to call Quincy. “I have to tell him.”
Trouble meowed. Busybodies never win.
My dad shook his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter 2
My cell phone buzzed the next morning as I was stirring chopped bison for a new cat food recipe that I was already pretty sure Trouble wouldn’t like. But being in new product mode had me trying all kinds of strange things.
Trouble took turns sitting on her windowsill perch surveying the neighborhood and dropping down to twist around my ankles. Finish already and let me taste test!
Another early call? That couldn’t be good. I glanced at the screen and then immediately whipped off my gloves and grabbed it. Only bad news would make my head chef Zoey call me on a Sunday.
“Zoey? What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Quincy got in a fight last night!” I couldn’t tell if she was proud or upset.
“What?”
“I’ve had like ten people text me saying they heard he was in a fight on Main Street, right in front of Happy Aprons Grocers,” she said. “Like, actually punching someone.”
I couldn’t imagine easygoing Quincy fighting. “Who? Why?”
“Something about his granddaughter,” Zoey said.
My stomach sank. “Did you talk to him?”
“I’ve texted him a couple of times and he hasn’t responded,” she said.
“Oh man,” I said. “Let me try calling him.” Quincy was one of the few people I knew who woke up earlier than I did.
“Then call me back and tell me what’s going on!” Zoey asked.
“I will,” I said and hung up before hitting the button for Quincy.
“I’m fine,” he said by way of answering.
“Oh good,” I said. “What happened?”
“I asked Franny if she liked her oboe teacher and she told me he was mean and she wanted to quit,” he said.
Oh no. This was so my fault. “So what’d you do?”
“I went to his house to have a little talk with him and saw him driving away. I followed him to the grocery store.”
“Happy Aprons?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”
“’Cause everyone is talking about it!” My voice rose an octave.
He sighed. “Everyone should mind their own business.”
“But why did you punch him?” I still couldn’t believe mild-mannered Quincy could do such a thing.
“He was insulting,” he said.
“Just tell me everything,” I said.
“I introduced myself and told him that Franny would not be coming back,” he said. “He lost his nut and yelled, ‘Good riddance.’”
“Okay.” I drew out the word, knowing there had to be more.
“He said that the only reason he took her as a student was because I was…”
“Rich?”
“Yes!” He sounded outraged. “And that Franny didn’t have an ounce of talent and it was a waste of his time to work with her.”
“Oh.” I thought how I’d feel if someone said that about Elliott. “I would’ve punched him too.”
Trouble meowed. Me too.
“Damn right,” he said. “He went down like a sack of potatoes. Cried like a baby.”
I stayed quiet for a minute. “He could sue you.”
“Let him.” But he sounded unsure. “Don’t worry. This will blow over.”
“I hope so,” I said. I heard someone yelling in the background and thought I recognized his wife’s voice.
“I gotta go,” he muttered quietly into the phone. “See you tomorrow.” He hung up.
Trouble meowed again. It’s not blowi
ng over.
I was about to call Zoey back to tell her what I’d learned when the front doorbell rang. I looked through the kitchen window to see who was on the front porch.
It was Yollie. Uh-oh.
I put the pan on the back burner and turned off the stove, then took a few deep breaths and answered the door.
“What did you do?” It was Yollie, angrier than I’d ever seen her. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and she had pulled her hair back into an unruly ponytail. As a hairdresser, she usually made sure to look her best in public.
“I had to tell Quincy,” I said. “I didn’t know he’d punch the guy.”
“That guy is the only chance Steven has of getting into a conservatory!” she said. “You ruined that for him.”
I tried to calm her down. “Yollie, Benson won’t connect Quincy to Steven.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “Benson is not an idiot. You’re publicly connected to Quincy. He’s going to figure it out and then refuse to teach Steven anymore. He can’t change teachers in his senior year. He’s so close.” She sounded like she was going to cry.
I had to try reasoning with her one more time. “But Steven is so talented. He’ll get in no problem.”
“You have no idea how it works!” she yelled, waving her arms around. “Steven needs Benson’s recommendation or he won’t even get an audition. Music is his life!”
Oh man. What did I do? “I didn’t know,” I said, my voice quiet with embarrassment. “Should I go apologize to Benson?”
“No!” she shouted.
“Okay,” I said. “What can I do?”
She shook her head, taking a few breaths. “I guess an apology is worth a try. But I have to go with you to make sure you…”
Don’t screw it up even more? “I understand,” I said. “Should we go now?”
