“My clarinet. I left it in the band room yesterday before rehearsal. The competition is on Friday.”
“Chloe, you’re not playing in the competition. You’re not going back to that school.”
“I need my instrument, Marcus,” I insisted, my voice hardening. “It’s a three-thousand-dollar Buffet Crampon. I’m not leaving it there. If my dad won't let me go during the day, then we go now. While everyone is in class. I’ll walk in, grab it, and walk out. It will take two minutes.”
Marcus looked at me for a long moment, weighing the determination in my eyes against his orders. He knew me well enough to know that if he didn't take me, I would find a way to sneak out.
“Five minutes,” Marcus said finally. “I clear the hallway first. You do not speak to anyone. If I see even a shadow of a threat, I am carrying you out over my shoulder.”
“Deal.”
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling up to the back entrance of the high school. The delivery bay was empty, the heavy metal doors propped open by a janitor’s cart. The halls were dead quiet; third period was in session.
Marcus walked a step ahead of me, his eyes constantly scanning the intersecting hallways, his hand resting near his waist. I kept my head down, a baseball cap pulled low over my face, my heart pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth.
We reached the band room at the end of the arts corridor. The door was unlocked.
I slipped inside, Marcus taking up a position right outside the door, watching the hall.
The room was dark, smelling faintly of cork grease and stale coffee. I walked toward the instrument cubbies, my eyes scanning the familiar black cases. I found mine in the third row, the small silver nameplate reading C. Miller.
I grabbed the handle and pulled it out.
As I turned to leave, something caught my eye.
Ms. Harrington’s office was located in the back corner of the band room. The door was wide open. The small desk lamp was on, casting a warm yellow glow across the chaotic piles of sheet music on her desk.
But it wasn't the sheet music that stopped me.
It was the corkboard on the wall behind her desk.
I took a hesitant step forward, leaving my clarinet on a chair. I knew I shouldn't be snooping. I knew Marcus had given me five minutes. But my feet moved on their own, drawing me into the small office.
The corkboard was covered in standard teacher material—rehearsal schedules, competition brackets, a calendar circled with red marker.
But pinned to the very center of the board was a photograph.
It was an old newspaper clipping, yellowed at the edges. The headline read: VANCE CORP SECURES TAKEOVER OF SHAW ENTERPRISES. Beneath the headline was a picture of my father, looking ten years younger, shaking hands with a man who looked utterly defeated.
Robert Shaw.
But that wasn't what made my breath catch.
Surrounding the photograph were printed emails, financial documents, and a detailed map of the auditorium where the regional band competition was being held this Friday. Red strings connected the documents to specific times on the schedule.
My father was the keynote speaker at the regional competition’s opening gala. He was a major donor for the arts program. It was a massive public relations event, covered by the local news, attended by the school board, the mayor, and hundreds of parents.
I stared at the board, the pieces suddenly falling into place with sickening clarity.
The parking lot incident wasn't the main event. It was just the opening act. It was designed to enrage my father, to ensure that he would show up at the gala to publicly demand her termination.
She wanted him on that stage.