“What do you give him in exchange for practicing there?”
Her smile falls as she realizes what I’m implying. “Nothing! He’s the kindest man I know.” She winces. “No offense.”
“We both know I’m not a kind man. Continue.”
She bites her lip, but her grin reappears, tugging at the corners. “He’s also very old and stubborn and refuses to take his medicine. So he made me a deal. If I learned Islamey, he would take his pills without my nagging.” She shrugs. “It took me all summer. All day, every day.”
“Dedication.”
Her smile lingers. “My hands still hurt.”
“Get used to it. While you played that piece beautifully, it wasn’t perfect. Let’s start with Chopin’s Etude Op 10 No.5 to get you more comfortable with the appropriate amount of pressure on those black keys.”
As she pulls out the music sheet and dives into the etude, I don’t move, don’t give her space. I’m reluctant to give her any leeway at all.
I sat with Prescott Rivard this morning in an impromptu session with his guitar tutor. Then I made the rounds with other top musicians at Le Moyne. The talent is impressive, but none are as proficient or driven as Ivory Westbrook.
I intend to cultivate, polish, and discipline her, while deriving every twisted ounce of pleasure I can from it. But I can’t give her the one thing she desires. I want this job, which means there will be no Leopold in her future.
“I’m going to Leopold.” I pause the marker mid-scrawl, the tip pressed against the whiteboard, as the creak of Mr. Marceaux’s shoes approaches from behind.
The sheer height of him casts a shadow over my back as his breaths stir my hair, his whisper like a satin ribbon trailing over my shoulder. “Less talking, more writing.”
It’s only the fifth day of school, and I’m already plotting all the ways to murder him.
I want to poison his coffee for beginning today’s private lesson with a punishment. While I forgot all about disrupting his class on the first day, he was happy to remind me by shoving a marker in my hand and leading me to the wall-length whiteboard.
I want to strangle him with his obnoxious yellow-flowered tie for making me write an endless loop of I will not waste Mr. Marceaux’s time.
With large, angry lines, I scribble another sentence and say, “I’m seventeen, not seven.”
Whack.
A sharp sting burns across my bicep, and my hand flies up to rub the hurt.
I want to rip that conductor baton from his fingers and impale it in his throat. Because seriously, where is the orchestra? There isn’t one, yet he’s twirling the damn thing like Pherekydes of Patrae and slapping it against my arms like a ruler-wielding nun.
“This is wasting time for both of us,” I mumble, scrawling another sentence that states the opposite.
Whack.
A snap of heat blooms on my back, right above my tailbone. Motherfucker, that hurts. But it’s not the worst pain, either. If anyone else raised a baton at me—Lorenzo or Prescott, for example—I’d snarl and throw punches. But this is my mentor, and I want to please him. While plotting his death.
I want the teacher back from three days ago. The one who touched my face so tenderly and said my performance moved him. Where did that guy go?
Maybe it’s my fault. I’ve been off-kilter, dreading tonight all week. I can’t put off Prescott any longer. His homework is done, and I’m a twisted-up bundle of nerves and anger. And with the weekend starting tomorrow, I’ll have two days at home. Two days with Lorenzo and his outrage at not being able to track me down all week.
“What did I say about questioning me?” Mr. Marceaux’s footsteps pace behind me, his icy eyes shivering the hairs on my nape.
If I didn’t know him better, which I don’t, I’d think he’s enjoying this. “Telling a student not to question her teacher is the worst rule in the history of rules.”
I tense for another swat, but it doesn’t come.
He leans a shoulder against the unwritten section of the board beside me, his hands behind his back and a smirk on his too-pretty face. “I’ll rephrase. Don’t question my methods.” His sharp gaze moves to the board. “Erase the last five sentences, and try again with penmanship befitting a seventeen-year-old.”
I thrust the eraser over the board with belligerent swipes and begin again. “I can write and talk at the same time, and I want to talk about Leopold.”
“You’re not good enough for Leopold.”
I whirl toward him as the crescendo of my heart crashes past my ears. “You said my interpretation of Islamey was extraordinarily passionate and stunning.”
Standing a couple of feet away, he watches me with hooded eyes—Bored? Sleepy?—and shrugs half-heartedly. “Those are meaningless superlatives, which I now regret using.”
My muscles quiver as a rush of fury slams into me. My hands ball into fists, and before my brain catches up, I rear back the marker and hurl it. Right at his forehead.