“Mrs. Tuttle.” The board president’s voice sounded like one reserved for the detention room.
“What?”
“You can lower your hand. We’ve heard your opinion. There are others waiting to have their say.”
Lower her—? That’s what she needed. Another reason to be embarrassed. She slipped her hand down and bent to retrieve her bottled water from the floor. It bought her enough time to refocus.
Charlie patted her knee. Could have been his “Steady, girl,” or “There, there now,” or “Way to go, honey.” Probably one of the first two options.
The next speaker’s rabbit trail wandered so far afield, Lucy feared his point had already crossed into the next county without him. Hope followed—a string of community members, many of them parents of her students—voicing logical, well-expressed reasons to look someplace other than art and music for the necessary cuts.
For a small town like Willowcrest to maintain a private school without federal funding for more than four decades, they’d danced to the edge of tough decisions more than once. The seriously sports-minded usually transferred to a Woodbridge school. But thanks in large part to Lucy’s father’s influence, the music program kept students in Willowcrest.
That point worked its way into the next speaker’s impassioned plea. Ellie’s mom. And the next. A parent from a student long graduated.
Lucy watched as the panel of school board members scribbled notes—or graffiti—onto memo pads. Evelyn Schindler’s shoulders sagged. Could the tide be turning?
The next community member given the floor presented an anti-music-education argument so flawed, it drew snickers from the crowd. He grabbed his frayed baseball cap from his folding chair, pointed toward the board and said, “You know we got no choice.” His exit brought Lucy relief she assumed was shared by others, judging from the expressions on the faces of more than half of the attendees.
Who was that leaning against the wall near the exit? A reporter? Mid-twenties, she guessed. Not someone she’d seen around the community, that she could remember. From where Lucy sat, she could pay attention to the proceedings and keep an eye on the intense young man, too, if she turned a few degrees in her chair. Charlie took that gesture as a reason to put his arm around his wife.
“When did Olivia get here?” she whispered into the better of Charlie’s ears.
“She’s here?” He swiveled his head toward the standing room only spot not far from the reporter. He waved like a second grader might wave to his parents in the audience.
“Charlie!”
“What?”
Evelyn Schindler made her microphone squeal. “If we could have everyone’s attention? Time limits being as they are, we’re going to need to wrap this up for tonight. The board will agree with me, I’m sure—”
Don’t they always?
“—that we’ve been given more than enough food for thought in this matter. As always, we remain open to your comments via e-mail or personal contact. Let’s call it a night, shall we, folks?”
Well. No pronouncement of doom. Had Lucy’s music program dodged another wrecking ball for the moment? She glanced back toward Olivia, who stood talking with the reporter guy. What did her daughter have to say to him? What was he asking? Lip-reading would come in handy at a time like this.
Part of Lucy’s brain allowed her to converse with community members voicing their ongoing support while she watched Olivia and the note taker leave. Together.
***
Lucy texted Olivia on the short drive home. “Cute guy. Someone special?”
Olivia texted back, “Could be. We’ll see.”
“You coming over?”
“Heading back to Woodbridge now. See you soon. Praying for you, Mom.”
“Thanks.”
Lucy had to admit texting came in handy once in a while. It kept her better connected with her kids.
“Nice of Olivia to show up,” Charlie said, adjusting his rear view mirror.
“I haven’t talked to her for a couple of days. Thought maybe she’d spend the night.”
“She isn’t?”
Lucy unlooped the lightweight infinity scarf around her neck and tucked it into her purse. “Heading back.”
“I should have asked her to go out for frozen custard with us.”
“Them.”
“What?”
“Should have asked them. She was with someone.”
Charlie’s eyebrows registered his surprise.
“You’re not suggesting you want to stop for custard, are you?”
“You don’t want to?” His voice wavered as if she’d told him he couldn’t have a puppy.
“Could we just go home?”
“These meetings take a lot out of you, don’t they, LucyMyLight?”
If you’d ever had a passion, Charlie, a job you were invested in, a career or interest that meant as much to you as mine does to me, you’d get it. You’d understand why nights like this are reason enough for a heart attack. “I’m tired. And I still have work to do on next week’s concert schedule.”
“Can we go through the drive-thru? I had my heart set on—”
“Sure.” One day, she’d stop saying sure when she meant no.
***
It was probably too much to expect the school board members to attend the students’ spring concert. Boycotted it, apparently. Lucy didn’t mind that Evelyn Schindler stayed away last night. She rarely showed. But some of the missing board members were parents or grandparents of students in Lucy’s band and chorus. Last concert of the year. They couldn’t all be under the weather.
Community support made up for their absence. Who does a standing ovation for a K-8 concert? Too bad the members of the school board hadn’t seen it.
It wouldn’t be wrong if Lucy sent a copy of the video to each of their in-boxes, would it? It would be informational, inclusive, and thoughtful of her.
With the new school day an hour away from starting, she let herself into the still quiet music room, settled into her office, opened her laptop and calendar, and made a note to send the file when the tech team had it ready. The afterglow of the concert lingered. She’d heard every note in her mind through the night, seen the faces of the young people lit from within as the music took hold in their souls. And that—budget-fussy people—is why you can never cut this program.
Her computer dinged. E-mail. From Ania.
Before she opened it, she keyed in another note to herself to have the music students write a group thank-you to the art students whose work lined the lobby for last night’s concert. Ania might be young, but she’d made great strides with her students her first year of teaching.
Lucy clicked the e-mail.
“Did you open your mail yet?”
The letters and catalogs sat on the edge of her desk. With so much accomplished electronically, her stack of mail rarely amounted to much anymore. She thumbed through it. One envelope wasn’t postmarked. Hand-addressed. A thank-you from one of the faculty members?
It had been sealed in one spot only—at the point of the V of the back flap. Who