Rise (Excerpt)

Part 5

FALLON

It's like him, I guess, to not take responsibility for anything he does—for not realizing his bad choices affect other people, too.

Inadvertent.

Like he had no control at all.

God. What was he even thinking?

I'm still waiting for Nick's reply as I grab my violin case, lock the house behind me, dump my belongings onto the floorboard in the back of my Eclipse—except for my violin. The violin gets the seat. A seatbelt. Exceptional treatment.

The drive is slow, tedious. The sun melts the ice in patches, but shadows are treacherous. Side roads haven't seen salt, and traffic creeps along. It's beautiful, though, the light bouncing off every frozen tree, branches bending beneath the weight. Our school a crystal palace.

Thomas Hunter High is nestled on a block near downtown West Hamilton, situated near some housing projects, high-rises tempting us from a distance. It's old. Brick. Two stories. Tall windows. With renovations, it could be gorgeous. As it is, we don't have enough money for books. Testing materials. To pay teachers what they deserve to deal with us. Not me, necessarily, but students who make life miserable for the first years—fresh out of college, wide-eyed, thinking they can make a difference because they watched Freedom Writers.

I tread carefully across the pavement, the grass and sidewalks, avoiding slick spots. The trees lining the property are dead. Bare. But the sun is high, warming my face despite the cool air.

Nick never texts me back.

I'm not even sure if he made it to school.

My best friends, Caroline and Jon, bail today, too. Hallways are half empty. Ensemble is weak. I eat lunch alone in my car.

And then, just after the final bell dismisses us all, just before I enter practice room seven in the music suite, violin in hand, a voice:

"A moment, Fallon?" Mrs. Martin calls.

I enter her office, close the door partway.

The space isn't much bigger than the practice rooms—an afterthought, really. Desk covered in papers and stacks of music books. There's only one rectangular window, and the view is of the projects. A reminder why she's here, I guess. Other walls are empty except for her diplomas—three of them. The carpet on the floor is thin—industrial grade. We may as well be standing on concrete. But there's a tall green plant in the corner, filling the room with life and energy, and a framed photograph of her and her husband on their wedding day. Her husband watching her, handsome; her head tipped back, laughing.

What is it even like to live in that world?

Is it worth it? The risk? The label?

Because I'm almost convinced.

"How was your holiday?" Mrs. Martin asks.

"Okay, I guess. I was able to get in some practice time."

"That's good news. Because I have an opportunity I'd like to discuss with you."

The violin came home with me on a Friday in fourth grade—letter included.

A permission slip.

It was a brand-new initiative. In its start-up phase. An effort to re-integrate the fine arts into city schools. Select students in each fourth grade class were issued violins and would attend music class three days a week.

I made the cut.

"What do you think?" Mrs. Martin asks.

"I'm sorry?"