The grey sedan cut the corner too fast, tires shrieking against the painted curb of Millbrook Middle School. Naomi Reed did not wait for the engine to finish shuddering. She threw the door open with one hand and kept the black folder clamped under her other arm, heels striking the asphalt in a hard, uneven rhythm that did not care about dignity. Behind her, the parking lot swam with noon light. Ahead of her, the auditorium doors stood ajar, as if someone had already been running.
Brick walls rose on either side of the corridor like a throat. Dark curtains hung half-drawn across the stage bay. A United States flag sagged on its pole near the wooden podium, and music stands glittered in a crooked line, some tipped, some still holding sheets of half-finished scales. The air smelled of varnish, spit valves, and the metallic tang of fear.
Naomi heard her son before she saw him.
"Please, stop!"
Isaiah's voice cracked on the second word. He was on the podium, slim shoulders hunched inside a mustard yellow cardigan over a white shirt, short dark hair pressed forward by a larger hand. In his arms he clutched a clarinet as if it were the only solid thing left in the room. Tears striped his face. His knees had buckled; he was half kneeling, half held.
The man above him was solid in the way older coaches are solid—fifty-something, white, short grey hair clipped neat against a navy blazer worn over a light blue shirt. His hand was on the back of Isaiah's neck and shoulder, pinning him down against the wood. He did not look panicked. He looked certain.