That night, after a delicious beef stroganoff and a catch-up session with Liu, Cal laid awake for a good while with a knot in his stomach. Flashes of the boys that tormented him when he was in eighth grade, pangs of resentment, helplessness, and hurt swirled in his head. He scoffed to himself as he turned over. How silly was it for a grown man to be hung up on something that happened in middle school? But his mind eventually settled, and sleep overtook him.

  He awoke with a jolt to a toaster popping in the kitchen. A chaotic dream with no story faded fast in his thoughts. It took him a few seconds to figure out where he was, but when he did, he reached over and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. It was seven o’clock. Soon, he would be in the classroom. A new wave of anxiety rolled through his nervous system. His stomach lurched with a tight growl. Cal had faced audiences worldwide even in Italy, where they kept the tradition of booing at singers having off nights. Still, his fear of performing in front of kids was old and deep in his psyche.

  He thought of James and how timid and anxious he had been with him the day before. Why did he act that way? After all, they had shared what he thought was an uncle-niece bond unbroken for thirteen years. Why should uncle-nephew be any different? Backing out of career day now could further the distance between the two.

  He drew a deep breath and held it for a moment, holding the choice to back out for a few more seconds. Then he released it slowly, surrendering to the morning and all that it meant. With a determined swing of his legs over the bed’s edge, he planted his feet firmly on the ground. “Time to face the music,” he grumbled, his hand running through his wavy hair on the way to stretching away the last remnants of sleep.

  When he made it into the kitchen, Liu, dressed for work, was moving sizzling bacon around an iron skillet. His nervous stomach didn’t make the shift to hunger.

  “I’ve made arrangements with the bus system not to expect James. I thought you could take him to school yourself.”

  “Oh? And when did you make this arrangement?” Cal inquired a hint of resignation in his tone.

  “Last week,” she said without looking up, though she could not contain a grin as she reached over to pour Cal a cup of coffee.

  Then, there was a clunk as the front door opened. Liu called out, “James? You’re not taking the bus today. Uncle Cal is driving you.”

  Cal seized a strip of bacon still cooling on a plate of paper towels. The heat singed his tongue as he hastily chewed. As he turned to face James, Liu stopped him with a touch on the arm. She spoke no words, but her face communicated gratitude and reassurance. It steadied him. He chased the bacon down with a gulp of steaming coffee, tenderly kissed Liu’s cheek, and turned to find James by the door, silent and looking down pensively at his sneakers.

  James called back to Liu, “If you don’t see me by sunset, call the police. Death by eighth graders.”

  Cal found Liu’s inherited Nissan Z entombed in the tidy one-car garage and thought of the day Lou-Ling had zipped into their driveway with it for the first time, a gift to herself for making partner at her law firm. Although Liu never drove it, she found comfort in Cal driving it when he visited. He imagined he could still smell her in it as he backed it out onto the driveway, where James fidgeted in the chill autumn morning air.

  James slid into the passenger seat and buckled in. With a destination of a building full of hundreds of other fidgety young people, Cal drove up the winding road out of town. He tried to thaw the ice with attempts at conversation. He asked James about his classes and friends and even tried to share a funny story from his school days. But James remained cocooned in his quiet world, offering only monosyllabic responses or none at all. Upon arrival, the school’s bustling corridors swallowed James as he hurried to his classroom. Cal stood there for a moment longer, alone with his thoughts, searching for the words he might say to bridge the gap between them.

  As Cal stepped through the school doors, he couldn’t help but mutter to himself, “What is it about middle schools smelling the same for all eternity?” The scent was unmistakable and slightly nauseating to Cal—a blend of aging institution, the sharp tang of floor cleaner, the aroma of last week’s grease reheating wafting from the cafeteria, mingled with the musty scent of well-worn socks, and the sporadic trace of adolescent body odor. He watched the young teens with their career-day moms or dads stream into the classroom, some chatting excitedly to each other, others more sullen like James.

  He supposed he could talk about his travels and what rehearsals and performances were like. But what would he sing? He entered the classroom and walked to the back to join a line of parents sitting in chairs chatting amiably, but the chairs were all taken, and he did not know a soul except for a nephew who no longer seemed to like him. He planted himself in the back corner and stared out the window until the teacher, a young African-American woman with an air of seasoned command, began to address the gathering with rote enthusiasm.

  “Good moooorning students and parents! Welcome to Benville Middle School. Before we get started with Benville Middle School’s Annual Career Day, Principal Frazier has an announcement to make.” She turned to the door. “Ms. Frazier?”

  A tall, trim woman strode through the classroom door; her somewhat formal late-thirties elegance was accentuated by her pale blond hair coiled into a neat bun and the scholarly chic of her brown-rimmed glasses. Clutching a clipboard under one arm, her lips pursed in a subtle display of discipline and bother as she took her place at the front. A flash of familiarity crossed Cal’s mind. As she spoke, a jolt of realization struck him, as sharp and disquieting as the shock an unsuspecting child receives from a wall socket for the first time. It was the woman from the plane, her gaze fixed intently on him.

  “Boys and girls,” she said, raising the clipboard and staring at Cal. “This is the signup sheet for this year’s musical. You are not required to participate, but may I remind you that this is one of our most important fundraisers. This year’s musical will be…” She paused for drama. “Cinderella.”

  There was an audible moan from one of the kids.

  “Quiet,” her lips compressed into their now familiar, disciplined line, prompting Cal to scoff audibly. But in a moment too fleeting to register, a sunbeam darted through the window, briefly igniting the edges of her hair with a transient glow that subtly softened her features. “Ms. Samone? Please continue,” she said, gesturing to her, then turning back to the class with a sharp scan of their faces. “And please, boys and girls, I expect strong participation this year.”

  As she handed the clipboard to the teacher and marched out, his defensive feelings and arguments about their encounter on the plane ignited–to be chastised like he was one of her students who, by the way, must hate her. She was leaving a trail of classic burnout, irritability, and authoritarianism that his nephew was being subjected to regularly. And what were the chances that out of all the people flying to a city of eight hundred thousand people, he would end up in the same room as the one person on that plane he wished never to see again? His blood steamed.

  “Mr. Stevens? I understand you are James’s uncle?”

  Many turned to see who Ms. Samone was addressing, but he was wrapped up in his stewing.

  “Mr. Stevens?” she repeated, tone politely raised.

  Suddenly, he came to, and he spouted, “Uh….yes…of course.”

  He walked to the front, stumbling briefly over the leg of one of the desks. A few kids chuckled. His face flushed red as he regained his balance.

  When he reached his spot at the head of the class where Principal Frasier had just stood, his stomach suddenly churned, and a wave of nausea rolled all the way to his fingertips. He looked to Ms. Samone with a wordless appeal.

  “Please give Mr. Stevens a warm B.M.S. welcome.” She led a lukewarm applause and then handed it back to Cal.

  “Yes. Well, I’m Cal Stevens, and I’m Jamie’s uncle,” he said, gesturing to James, whose face went flush.

  Ms. Samone leaned in and quietly said, “It’s James.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m James’ uncle, and…um…I’m a professional opera singer.”

  The same kid that groaned at the mention of Cinderella groaned again.

  “Yes, well…”

  And so he began his talk. He spewed a steady, monotonous stream of words about traveling, rehearsals, training, and performance until the teacher interjected.

  “Mr. Stevens? Why don’t you sing a little bit for us? Give us a sample of what you do!” she said, signaling to the class for a little clapping encouragement. There was a smattering. James sat on his hands and turned to the window.

  “Oh, of course. Let’s see.” He still had not chosen a song. He had a couple dozen time-tested arias and songs at the ready, ones he had performed so often that they were starting to lose their appeal, but a quiet yearning prompted him to choose one that he had never sung in public. It was from an opera intended for the more powerful voices–a power he had not yet achieved in his vocal development. In a flicker, it occurred to him that he may never get another chance to try it out for an audience with low stakes. Without further hesitation, he closed his eyes, filled his highly-trained lungs, and trumpeted out the opening phrase of the opening aria from Verdi’s Aida as if he were at the Metropolitan Opera House.

  “Se quell guerrier io fossi!” he sang, causing the windows to vibrate.

  Before mounting the next phrase, he opened his eyes to find that most of the class looked as if they had just been in a bus accident together. One girl had covered her ears.

  He did not sing another note but looked at Ms. Samone, who stepped forward and said, “Well, alright!” and once more encouraged the class to clap. “That was…um…very powerful!”

  Cal turned to the doorway, wanting to escape, but there was Principal Frazier with a sour grimace of a smile on her face. “Yes, Mr. Stevens, very powerful. Can I see you in the hall?”

  The class immediately made an “Ohhhhhhh?!” sound as if he were a naughty student about to be taken to the principal’s office, which was precisely how he felt.

  Hesitantly, Cal exited the classroom to be firmly ushered out of earshot of the students and parents. “Mr. Stevens, why are you at my school?”

  “Well, my nephew–”

  “Yes, your nephew. No, I’m asking why, why God,” she gestured skyward, “is this LOUT at my school?”

  “First off, I looked up lout in the dictionary; I’m not very fond of you calling me that,” he began, his voice rising.

  “Shhhh! Keep it down,” she hissed, motioning for him to follow her into her office a few doors down

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  .

  When they entered the reception area, the administrative assistant locked the screen of her phone and set it down with a clatter. Then she sheepishly snatched her mouse and feigned busyness.

  As they blew past her, Principal Frasier said, “You’re not fooling anyone, Josie,” and then she shut the door.

  “Please have a seat,” she said, as she settled behind her desk. “I think maybe we just got off on the wrong—”

  She was interrupted by two quick knocks at the door which immediately opened. “Ms. Frazier?” said the assistant.

  “Josie, I am busy, can this wait?” said Principal Frazier.

  “I don’t think so. Mr. Har—”

  A furious, balding, fifty-something man shoved his way past Josie and dramatically placed a sheet of paper on Principal Frazier’s desk.

  “Cinderella? Rodgers and Hammerstein? I don’t get to choose my own productions, now?”

  Principal Frazier picked up the piece of paper and looked at it briefly. “What is this, Frank?”

  “It’s a letter of resignation, Dot! I have a feeling you’ve seen quite a few of these! This is just the last straw. From day one, you have bullied me, undermined me–you’ve humiliated me in front of my kids? That’s it, Dot! Done! And I happen to know that I was the only candidate for this job.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked, sincere concern etched in her eyebrows.

  “Music teachers talk, Dot! News flash: you have been blackballed! No one will take this job!”

  “Frank, please be reasonable.” Her voice bordered on pleading. “You don’t understand the pressure from parents. We can’t have another ‘Rent’ disaster. We–”

  “NO ONE! And Rent is a theatrical masterpiece!”

  With that, he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

  “Not appropriate for a middle school musical!” she called after him.

  “Whatever!” he shouted from the hall.

  “No one wanted to see a twelve year old girl play an HIV-Positive, drug-addicted S&M dancer, Frank!”

  Dot picked up the letter, glanced at it for a few seconds, balled it up, and dropped it in the waste basket beside her desk with a defensive scoff.

  The more he saw this woman interact with people, the more vindicated he felt. She was a disaster, and the very fine thread of attraction he unknowingly felt for her became entangled with a thread of pettiness as their eyes met and he grinned.

  “Unless you know any music teachers, please leave my office,” she said, her embarrassment and desperation barely concealed.

  He stood. “Gladly.”

  #

  As she often did when the stress of being a principal overwhelmed her, Dot settled back into her vinyl upholstery executive chair with a creak and thought back to her first day as an English teacher. She had been terrified but excited, had wanted to open up student’s minds to the great literature that had kept her company in her lonely youth, and had a belief that what she did could mean something. Was it a mistake to become a principal? Despite her confident appearance, she was an inner storm of self-doubt. The role of principal was so much harder than she expected. There was so much more to be concerned about than getting kids to look for symbolism and foreshadowing in literature or getting papers graded. She’d been at Benville Middle School for five years. She’d started strong. She had the right skills and vision to lead, except for one: the ability to inspire. Even if she knew how to, how could she now that she had lost her inspiration? All she had left was the ability to drive her staff relentlessly. How else was she to do it?

  She grabbed her reading glasses from the desk and tapped her laptop keyboard. After a couple of seconds, it popped out of sleep mode to a picture of a tropical beach. For a fleeting moment, she entertained her fantasy of escaping the relentless gray of the Seattle area and the perpetual demands of her role to lie on a warm, sandy beach somewhere. She dispelled the thought as quickly as it came and focused on the task at hand.

  With a few precise keystrokes, clicks, and taps, she logged in and pulled up her budget spreadsheet. She released a sharp sigh as she looked over the revenues section: state funding, federal funding, bonds, and fundraisers. She placed her elbow on the desk and rested her cheek on a balled fist as she mentally checked off each line of the expenses section, imagining what would happen without the musical, the prime fundraiser. What else could she possibly cut? Her budget was already a skeleton picked clean by greedy politics. She took off her glasses and rubbed her temples. Did no one care about educating this community anymore? Her school was dying and her with it.

  The shrill ring of her desk phone sliced through the silence of the office. Before picking it up, she scanned the spreadsheet again, thinking there might be a math error or anything that might get her out of the corner she always felt she was in.

  “Ms. Frazier, I have the superintendent on line one?” said Josie, a hint of trepidation in her voice.

  Her heart shifted into high gear. “Put him through,” she said steadily despite her worry. She knew what it would be about.

  The line clicked, and Mr. Korahan’s voice erupted from the speaker, each word laced with frustration. “Dot, your latest music teacher’s resignation just landed in my inbox!”

  “Yes, Mr. Harmon—”

  “This is the third music teacher since you’ve been at Benville, Dot!” he interjected sharply.

  “Mr. Korahan, I assure you–”

  “This is it for you, Dot. If you can’t get a music teacher here for your fundraiser, you need to find another fundraiser or another job!”

  Click.

  That evening, Dot settled into her kitchen chair, finding solace in the late-night quiet of a tidy, modest house graced only by a feline companion, Claire. She was engaging in her evening ritual of sipping herbal tea and emptying her email inbox–reading, responding, unregistering unwanted subscriptions, deleting spam, archiving receipts and other messages she might want to refer to later, adding any necessary action to tomorrow’s to-do list, and any essential events to her calendar until her inbox was once again empty. After particularly chaotic days, her rituals restored some sense of control.

  She stroked Clair and said, “Why on earth does the internet think I’m interested in ‘hooking up’ with hot, older men in the Seattle area?” She took a last, tepid sip of her chamomile. “I suppose I should count myself lucky not to be receiving penis enlargement and ED emails anymore. Do they think the most pressing issue in the world is addressing the size and hardness of male genitalia?”

  Claire voiced her agreement with a short meow.

  “All I want is a hot cup of tea, an evening of baking shows, and a clean inbox.” Claire meowed again, almost belligerently. “Yes, yes, of course, and you!“

  She paused to consider any tasks to add to her list. She had omitted the most obvious, the most pressing one. At the top should have been “Find music director for the musical,” but she didn’t know where to begin. The school had six weeks until the performance; no director was in sight. She tried to imagine someone else on her staff doing it but knew she had already pushed them to the limit. She tried to imagine herself doing it but couldn’t get more than two seconds into that thought before it ended in a fiery crash.

  She clicked the logout button on her email app, powered down her unadorned laptop, and closed it for the night. Sighing, she slumped in the chair for a few seconds. Then she patted her unadorned laptop gently and scooted back. She stood on tired feet, cinched her plush bathroom snuggly around her waist, and paid attention to any sign of a change in girth from the last time she’d tied it. None. At least she had that going for her–less a product of a healthy lifestyle and more with stress.

  She geared the kitchen faucet handle to the hot side and let the water flow over her hand until it got warm enough to handwash her teacup. The whole set of wedding china teacups that her grandfather had bequeathed to her, along with the house and everything in it, was in nearly mint condition, not just because she was as meticulous as he was but because not a soul had sipped from one since his passing except for her.

  She spent most of her childhood hours in this house, under the care of her grandfather, while her single mother worked her way through school and earned a living for her. Happy scenes from those years still danced in the corners of the old house, comforting her and giving her little motivation to leave for anything other than work.

  Other than spotting him at her college graduation and in a coffin only a week ago, she had had no relationship with her father after he left in her eighth-grade year. She debated for a week to attend his funeral, her emotions waging a fierce battle within her.

  Her grandfather was the only man, the only person in her life she ever felt important to, seen by, or entirely secure with. His death was the death of her rudder in life and her love, leaving her engulfed in a profound sense of loss. Now, her life was her school, and certainly, no one there loved her.

  After putting away the teacup, flossing, and brushing her teeth, she began her second flossing, followed by her second brushing, the last step of her evening ritual. As she thought through the next day–anticipating parent complaints to address and district paperwork to file—she paused mid-floss, becoming aware that Frank’s parting words, “No one will take this job!” had been playing off and on in her head, keeping her in a low-level state of agitation all evening.

  She felt a recurring sense of injustice that the staff and students hated her. She always had the school’s best interests at heart. Why couldn’t people just see that? She took her final brush, wiped her mouth with a hand towel, looked at herself in the mirror, and punctuated her ritual with a nod and a sniff. She knew that if she allowed herself to dwell on these thoughts, she would never get up in the morning. It was her self-control that kept her going despite the inner struggle.

  She settled into her bed and laid down on her settle-down side, the right side. She wouldn’t turn to the left until she was ready to sleep. Breath by breath, drowsiness began to descend. The moment she rolled to the left, a split second before she fell into unconsciousness, the uninvited face of Cal Stevens formed in her mind and the faint notion that, somehow, he might be her only hope–the final insult of the day.

  #

  The following day, headed for school, she gripped the steering wheel and drove hard through the curves of the tree-lined road as she thought it through. Even if Cal Stevens agreed to do it, would he be successful? And even if he was successful, could she stand him being in her school? He was absolutely insufferable, and besides that, the kids hated him almost as much as she did. If career day had been his audition for the job, she would have crumpled up his resume and dropped it in the trash along with Mr. Harmon’s resignation letter, but that was just it: Harmon was gone, and she knew in her heart that what he had said was true. Music teachers were a rare commodity even if he had only said it as a final insult to her. Big schools had band directors, choir directors, orchestra directors, and drama teachers. Her school had a budget for one teacher, who was expected to take on as many of these roles as possible.

  On the other hand, he must be talented and dependable, with a career like that. He must know more about music and plays than any of the increasingly pathetic music teachers she had lost during her tenure at Benville Middle School.

  As she burst into the school office, her tone was urgent, “Josie, I need James Chin’s mother’s number now.”

  Startled, her smartphone clattered to the floor. “Is he in trouble?”

  “Don’t be a gossip, Josie,” she snapped. “I’m looking for a substitute music teacher, not drama.”

  Josie ducked under her desk to search for her phone. “James’s mom is a music teacher?” she asked, absently, muffled.

  “Oh my God, Josie. Quit being nosy and get me her number.” Dot checked her wristwatch impatiently.

  “Ha!” she shouted, raising her device triumphantly but then grunting as she bumped her head on the way back up.

  “Josie. Focus!”

  Sitting back up, she rubbed the back of her head with one hand and checked her notifications with the other.

  “The number, Josie!”

  Josie set her phone down and turned to give Dot her undivided attention with a smile. “So! Ok! You have my full attention, Ms. Frasier. Do what now?”

  Roiling with frustration, Dot shoved Josie’s rolling chair with her in it out of the way, searched up Liu’s number on her computer, scribbled it on a sticky note, and rushed into her office, muttering “incompetent” under her breath just loud enough for Josie to hear.

  She huffed as she sat down and put her hand on the receiver. She closed her eyes for a moment of resentful prayer punctuated by a scoff before picking it up and punching all but the last number, pausing once more for a final, desperate search of her stress-addled mind. Still, there was no remaining option but Cal Stevens, and it was insane to think he would consent.

  She let out a breath and punched the final digit, formulating her words to Ms. Chin. It rang once, twice, then a click—Cal Stevens’s voice greeted her, jarring her a little.

  “Mr. Stevens, uh….yes, you are the person I’m looking for.” She took a deep breath and sighed quietly. “I’m calling about a temporary position at the school.” She tightened her grip on the receiver as she braced herself for the conversation ahead. "It's only six weeks," she continued, her voice betraying a hint of desperation.

  “I’m sorry…what?”

  “Just long enough to direct the musical.”

  “Uhhhh…I’m gonna go with…no? But good luck with that.”

  The insolence of his tone shot pangs of loathing into her gut, but the fight was draining out of her. She began to plead. “Please, Mr. Stevens.”

  "No, no, no, no, no," he chanted.

  She leaned forward, her other hand clenching the edge of the desk. "Think of your nephew, James. This could be his chance."

  There was a pause, then a sigh from the other end. "Look. Even if I wanted to remember the disaster when I last stepped into a classroom?”

  She paused, filled with unspoken thoughts.

  "Mr. Stevens?" she prompted, her voice softer now.

  "You were wrong about the airplane seat," he finally said, his voice low and steady.

  "The what?" Confusion laced her question.

  "The seat, on the plane. You were wrong. Admit it."

  She couldn't believe he was serious. "You're joking."

  "You want something from me, I want something from you. Say it."

  She stood abruptly, her chair rumbling back. "You want me to admit I was wrong about that ridiculous seat? After everything—"

  "Take care," he said.

  "Wait! Okay!" she yelled into the receiver.

  "Okay, what?"

  She took a deep breath, begrudingly accepting that he had her in a corner, her voice louder. "Okay, you were right!"

  "About?"

  She stomped her foot, the sound echoing in the empty office. "About the seat!"

  "And you are?"

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, "Wrong."

  "I didn't catch that."

  She closed her eyes, took a resolute breath, and said louder, "Wrong, okay? I was wrong, and you were right."

  "Cinderella is the musical, correct? I suppose it's time for me to look for glass slippers. See you tomorrow."