“I’m sorry, what?” sputtered Liu, her voice a mix of disbelief and thrill.

  Cal, nursing his third cup of coffee, let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. I’ve agreed to direct your son’s middle school musical in my spare time. Liu, there is no way I can do this.” He took the final swig and slammed the mug down on the kitchen counter. “She totally manipulated me. I mean, how is this supposed to help me win James over? Is he even a singer?”

  Liu shushed him and stepped in closer, a smile tugging at her lips. “Uh…not that I know of, but come on…I mean that’s a really cool thing to do for his school. That’s gotta mean something, and you know? You can drive him to school in the mornings if you want. Maybe you two can bond. Look, it’s gonna be fine. You are a professional stage performer. You know everything there is to know about this stuff. You are going to be amazing!”

  Cal shook his head, the frustration evident in his brow. “Liu, I’ve never directed anything and if you’d seen me with James’s class yesterday you would know that I have no business doing something like this.”

  Liu set her coffee down on the kitchen counter, grasped Cal by his broad shoulders and looked up into his face. “Listen to me,” she began, but he would not look at her. “Listen to me, Cal!” She shook him, demanding his attention. “You are one of the most amazing people I know. Any school would be lucky to have you. You have to get past this fear, darling. Think about what you’re capable of already. Think about your career. On stage, you’re not just a performer; you’re a freakin alchemist! You transmute the mundane into the extraordinary every time you get on stage. But that’s not really magic, is it? It’s method. You just need to apply it to a bigger organism than this big hunk of muscle and talent,” she said; then, with every word, she squeezed and shook him, “You. Can. Do. This…ya big lout,” she added with a loving tease of a smile.

  Cal’s panic eased. He looked deeper into Liu’s eyes. She hadn’t always been his supporter. In fact, she had tried to dissuade her sister from marrying him–he would be on the road too much, didn’t want kids–but here she was, with such fierce friendship in her eyes.

  “Mom?” James’ voice floated from behind, ladened with the morning’s grogginess.

  Liu’s hands fell away from Cal as she reached for her coffee, her gaze shifting. “Good morning, sweetheart,” she greeted, masking her previous intensity with a warm smile.

  “Am I taking the bus today?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “No,” Liu replied, her tone light. “Your Uncle Cal will drive you.”

  James looked puzzled. “Why does he have to?”

  Liu glanced at Cal, a silent cue for him to step in.

  Cal cleared his throat. “Hey, buddy. I’ll be lending a hand at your school for a bit.”

  James’s continued to address Liu exclusively. “I don’t get it. What’s he helping out with?”

  Liu nudged the conversation back to Cal. “Your music teacher left, and Ms. Frazier needs me to step in for the musical.”

  James finally turned to Cal, skepticism in his eyes. “The musical? But why you?”

  James’s sharp candor startled him. It felt like the first time he had fully acknowledged him since his arrival. He returned a half-smile. “She was short on time, and I’m around. So, she asked me.”

  James processed this with a stiff stare, then he hoisted his backpack and exited, leaving Cal’s explanation in the air.

  Cal didn’t know which was worse: standing in front of a room full of teens or getting the cold shoulder from the one teen he actually cared about. He had been distant at first, but there was something more now. He thought back to the moment he had called him Jamie in front of the whole class. That had to be it.

  Liu’s hand rested on Cal’s arm, her touch light but firm. “You got this,” she assured him in a half-whisper.

  Cal drove James through the village square and began the trek to school in silence, although his mind was anything but silent. A dozen thoughts grew and collided, and he couldn’t grab hold of one long enough to prevent himself from becoming overwhelmed–mostly questions and doubts. Everything he had to do would require learning something new, and he was no longer accustomed to that. His career was settled. His repertoire, his abilities, everything he needed to know, and ever aspect of his life since Lou-Ling’s death, was settled and could not change—no more room for chaos.

  As he approached the end of Turan’s Road, he was barely aware of driving. His heart rate was increasing. He felt a bead of sweat trinkling down his temple and wiped it off with his thumb. He barely tapped the brake as he reached the main road and started his right turn. Then, in an instant, he was stunned violently into awareness with the blair of a horn and a flash of silver from his left periphery. He stamped the brake with reflexive force as he screamed, “Shit!”

  The horn of the silver SUV continued for a full three seconds as it sped on, sounding like a blast from a slide trombone and leaving only the sound of the blinker when it stopped.

  “Are you okay?” said Cal breathlessly, turning to James.

  James took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering shut in a moment of silent composure, then opened them steadier. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  The shock of the near miss broke Cal’s caution with him. He jammed the stick into park and turned full on. “Look, I’m sorry I got your name wrong in front of the class yesterday. It’s just gonna take a minute to get used to it. You are so important to me, James. I am hundred percent on your side.”

  James turned full on as well, his gaze softening. “It’s ok, Uncle Cal. Don’t sweat it.”

  “We’re good?”

  “Yeah. We’re good,” he said, with a glimmer of the wide smile Cal was more accustomed to.

  After taking a good look both ways, he popped back into drive, completed his turn, and continued their trip to the school. The tension he’d been holding in his gut since arriving in Turan’s Hollow had eased. It was going to be ok. They chatted easily for the rest of the journey, catching up on the touchpoints that uncles form with their nieces or nephews to become reacquainted. By the time they reached the school, things were back to normal with them, except that James was a year older and showing a new maturity, a more solid sense of self.

  “Where should I park?” asked Cal as he slowed into the parking lot.

  James pointed. “That’s where the teachers park. You should take Mr. Harmon’s spot. He was the last music teacher.”

  The sound of Harmon slamming his resignation on the desk echoed in his mind. As he drove toward the empty slot, he saw a silver SUV at the head of the faculty parking line. “Isn’t that the car that almost killed us?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Oh, that’s Ms. Frazier’s car. She’s the principal.”

  “Oh, I know who she is.” He shook his head as he pulled into his new temporary parking slot. “Well that just figures,” he muttered bitterly to himself.

  As they parted ways, James went to his homeroom, and Cal went to the main office. Cal offered a fist bump, which James reciprocated.

  He walked the hall, still fuming over the near miss with the silver SUV. He slowed as he neared the office. Through the glass, he spotted Josie, the assistant greeting him with a laid-back wave. “Hey, Mr. Stevens!” she sang, muffled by the glass. “Swing on by and grab a seat.”

  Josie swiveled in her chair with a relaxed smile on her face as she pulled out a stack of papers. “Got a little bit of this and that for you to look over,” she said, her tone light and breezy. “You’ve got your driver’s license, right? We’ll need it for the ol’ background check. Plus, there’s a bit of online stuff to go through—nothing too…um….” she trailed, as her eyes lingered on a hard line of pectoral muscle forming under his crisp, fitted dress shirt as he pulled a chair back and sat. “…taxing,” she finished, regaining her decorum, a hint of blush in her cheeks. She tapped her keyboard, a dance to her hips. “I’ll shoot the details to your inbox. We like to keep things smooth for our subs!”

  "A sub...huh," he mumbled to himself, thinking back over the often abused subs from his middle school days. "So this pays?"

  She leaned in. "You won't get rich if that's what you mean, but of course. Our rate and any other information you need to know will be in the email.”

  Ms. Frazier’s door open sharply interrupting their friendly banter.

  Stevens, please come into my office," Dot said curtly. Josie’s eyebrows went up as she gave Cal a very telling, private look. He felt as if he were about to be in trouble and his anger

  over the SUV immediately flared up.

  As soon as Dot closed the door behind him, he exploded. "Do you realize you could have gotten us killed this morning? You ought to have your license revoked!"

  "What on earth are you talking about?" she said, moving around to her side of the desk.

  "I’m the guy you almost drove your monster SUV into this morning.” Any calm he had gained in the ride with James was completely gone.

  “Oh, you nearly pulled out before me like a mindless lunatic?”

  “So, here we go again! You have just got to be right, don’t you? You know what? I don’t need this!” Cal’s voice was hot with anger as he reached for the door.

  “Wait, please,” Dot implored as she quickly moved to intercept him. “I need you, Mr. Stevens. Can we set just aside our disagreements for now?”

  He stopped, frustration and an underlying sense of anxiety thumping through him. He knew his desire to escape wasn’t about her but the sheer terror of what lay ahead. Memories of the progress with James in the car came flooding back. Could he risk all that by walking away now, disappointing not just his nephew but the entire school? He drew in a deep, steadying breath. "Just show me my room."

  She closed her eyes and made a single nod. "Of course." Then she checked her wristwatch. "Your first class is in forty-five minutes.”

  He bravely opened the door and motioned her through with a hesitant grace, akin to a ma?tre d’ in a fine dining restaurant guiding a patron. The scent that lingered in her wake was disarmingly gentle—a blend of lilac and cardamom with an undertone of cedar, contrasting the stern set of her lips and the rigid line of her posture. He allowed himself the briefest of pauses, taking in the complexity of the woman before him.

  The halls were quiet save the hard clicks of her heels as she led him to what would be his classroom. He passed by classroom doors and glimpsed students writing with pencils and teachers standing in front of dry-erase boards, giving instructions or drawing equations on them. They all seemed to know what they were doing. They had lesson plans, education degrees, and certifications. What did he have? Voice training? A career of singing the same nine roles for an audience he would never know, would never have to speak to. His hands began to tremble and sweat as they turned the corner and veered to the other side of the hall toward a particular classroom.

  She paused at the door marked “Music Room,” her hand resting on the handle for a moment, giving him a look that communicated a silent final chance to turn tail, but he did not. She opened the door for him. In the stillness that followed, the world seemed to hold its breath—no footsteps, no whispers, just the soft buzz of fluorescent lights promising a stage of a different kind. The room was a blend of familiar scents—trumpet valve oil, musty sheet music, and a carpet holding the ghosts of middle school past. Folding chairs stood in disciplined rows, forming a semicircle around a solitary stool and music stand.

  “This will be your classroom for the next… what is it? Six weeks?” Dot’s voice trailed off as she scanned the calendar on her phone. “Yes, that’s right. The show is on November eighteenth—the Friday night before Thanksgiving.”

  As he checked his phone calendar, a part of him hoped for a conflict, a way out that wouldn’t leave him feeling like a deserter, but Madame Butterfly would take its final bow with a Sunday matinee well before the school’s musical.

  “Mr. Stevens?” Dot’s voice snapped him back to the present.

  “Uh… yes, that works–November eighteenth. I’ll be there,” he replied, more to himself than to her.

  Her lips contorted into what barely passed for a smile. She sauntered to the stand, her hand gracefully lifted a baton, and she turned to him. “Maestro?” The title hovered between them--a challenge waiting for him to accept.

  He took the baton, its familiar weight surprisingly comfortable in his grasp. He flashed back to a conducting class at the Juilliard School of Music twenty-five years before, standing before a chamber orchestra of young, talented students, many of whom now played in symphony orchestras across the country. He raised it with a snap and gave it a proper downbeat, almost hearing the opening notes of a Mozart suite. He looked up to find Dot examining him with a glint of hope in her raised eyebrows.

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  Dot strode to a folding table on the far wall and patted one of several stacks of tattered books. "Mr. Harmon," she began, with a sting of resentment weighting the name, "Has already ordered the Cinderella books. They are well-worn but adequate to the task."

  As Cal continued to turn the baton over in his fingers, a sense of rightness settled over him. Could he really do this? Could he slip into this role as naturally as those educators who filled the classrooms down the hall? Perhaps he was more equipped than he was giving himself credit for.

  As she headed for the door, her back to him, she called, "Have that paperwork for me before tomorrow."

  He checked his phone clock. This room would be filled with unpredictability, perhaps even chaos, in thirty minutes. He walked to the table with the Cinderella books and sifted through the stacks until he found the director's copy, which he thumbed through. Except for including spoken word in scenes, it wasn't different from the books for his operas. He had taken plenty of acting classes. Certainly, he could pull off directing a few scenes of mid-century dialogue. As the hour approached, his confidence began to rise. The bell signaling first-period dismissal sounded through the P.A. system, and the hall exploded with adolescent energy. Heart pounding, he opened his classroom door to greet his new students.

  The silence in his room hung heavy as he waited for the unknown to walk through. For a moment, he wondered if no one would, leaving him free to resume his regularly scheduled life. But soon, they began to shuffle in one by one—chatting, jostling, the air punctuated with laughter and the occasional complaint. A mélange of scents wafted in–from the pungent punch of cologne to the less pleasant notes of teenage exertion. They settled in haphazard groups, the neat rows of chairs quickly losing their order.

  Another bell signaled the start of class, yet the chatter persisted unabated. Cal stood there, momentarily adrift in the sea of noise. Coaxing attention from adults in a theater was one thing; this was quite another.

  He walked to the director's stand and called out, "Good morning! Let's get started," hoping that would be all it would take, but almost no one paid him any notice. He tapped the stand with the baton. "Can I please have your attention so we can get started?" He politely attempted this several more times to no avail.

  He scanned the room, his gaze finally resting on one attentive student—his nephew, James. He looked to him for support, but James could only offer a helpless shrug. A flush of anger and embarrassment crept up Cal's neck as he filled his lungs and bellowed, "Everyone, sit down and be quiet!" The room fell silent, every pair of eyes fixed on him."Good morning. Much better," Cal started, "I'm Mr. Stevens, and—"

  The largest kid in the class interrupted, "Dude! We know who you are. You're the guy who busted our eardrums on career day. DUH."

  The class erupted in laughter and jeering, and Cal was in middle school all over again.

  HHe tried to be cool and bring the class back to order.“Not a fan of Verdi, I take it?” But the chatter had already resumed, and in a rush, his anger ignited. He did something he never thought he’d do—something he remembered a music teacher doing in his own school days. With a fitful grunt, he kicked the music stand, sending it clattering to the floor, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. In the hall, he braced himself against the cool cinder block wall and bowed his head, panting and cursing under his breath.

  “That was absolutely disgraceful. I have never seen a more pathetic attempt to lead a class in my life.”

  Cal looked up to find Dot standing with her hand on her hip, smirking.

  Inside, the noise swelled to a roar of chatter and laughter. Cal's resolve hardened in embarrassment over his defeat as he met her wounding glare. "Well, you won't have to see it again because I quit!"

  Before she could finish sputtering a response, he rushed out of the school, feeling angry and humiliated. How could he ever have thought this would work? He and the kids did not mix and never would. The taunting face of the boy who had called him out had merged with the faces of the boys who had made his eighth-grade life miserable.

  #

  That night at opera rehearsal, his true purpose in Seattle, Cal and his co-star Amber stood center stage, the stage lights casting long shadows behind them.

  "Cal, Amber," began Maestro Alexandre LeClair, his heavily French-accented voice booming across the stage, "I just don't feel that Pinkerton is hungry enough! This scene is about his craving! His yearning for Butterfly. "And she," he continued, striding over to Amber and lifting her chin with a delicate yet commanding touch, "without a shadow of a doubt, believes she's found her soulmate, her savior from dishonor and despair." He spun around to face Cal with a piercing gaze. "They're both utterly consumed by this moment. The kiss—it must be fiery! The audience should be swept away in their rapture. There will be time later to despise Pinkerton and pity Butterfly, but now is not that time."

  He then turned to Cal, his expression softening into a mix of camaraderie and earnestness. "Look, Cal," he said, reassuringly touching the veteran tenor's shoulder, "I've seen you perform this duet many times. Where is that incredible electricity that made you such a favorite? You're nearly forty-five? Yet you have the physique of a robust young man, the stature of a young naval officer! Yes!" He stepped back, appraising Cal with a thoughtful frown. "You can still play this role, my friend. I've seen Pinkertons who look old enough to be her grandfather. I need you to channel that hungry twenty-five-year-old Cal Stevens. Can you do that for me?"

  Feeling nowhere near twenty-five, Cal was the oldest member of the cast by five years. He glanced over his shoulder at Amber. She was, at best, twenty-five (and stunning). He might have been old enough to be her father, but this was the job.

  Cal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he was twenty-five, singing his first Pinkerton, he could still be the best and develop more significant power. There was time. But now, at forty-five, wasn’t he everything he would ever be? At twenty-five, he walked with the strut and confidence of greatness in the making. He still had something to prove, a battle to make it as a singer. He was hungry. That’s what the maestro wanted: hungry. The first time he performed this love duet, he didn’t even know what love was, but he’d known what passion was. He had been a chiseled model of throbbing passion on stage then. In that moment, he could feel it again.

  He took a steady breath and, with a slow exhale, opened his eyes, and they were no longer those of a man who had seen too many seasons change. They were alight with the spark of youth, the yearning of untested strength.

  Cal turned to Amber. In her eyes, he saw a dare to take it all the way with her, and a spark of transformation ignited. He was Pinkerton, embodying the boldness and reckless passion of young love.

  "Everyone! "the maestro shouted. "Let's take it from 'Vieni, vieni!' –Monsieur Steven's entrance! Quickly, quickly!" he clapped.

  The musicians picked up their instruments; some made a few sounds to tune and check the key. LeClair mounted the podium, and Cal and Amber found their marks again. The maestro soon pulled his orchestra into full swing, and Cal took Amber in a firm embrace, his tenor ringing out, 'Vieni! Vieni!' with a resonance that filled the hall with utter power, a power greater than he'd ever mustered. Amber, caught in the intensity of his hold, raised her voice to meet his. He was no longer going through the motions with the music but putting every ounce of youth and strength into guiding the scene to climax. He was practically crushing her in his arms, but she did not resist. She only moved closer against him, her body heating up as they breathed and poured out their voices, entirely lost in their roles of possessor and possessed. The old excitement surged within him, and after they released their final notes together, he pulled her hard into a kiss that stepped right up to the line of what a stage kiss should and shouldn't be. As the last orchestral phrases diminished into a simple Japanese folk song afterglow, he lifted her effortlessly and carried her into the Japanese shoji set piece, where Pinkerton and Butterfly would consummate their nuptials.

  When they walked back out onto the stage hand in hand, they were met with ecstatic applause and whistles. They both took gracious bows and laughed.

  “Yes! Oh. My. GOD!” the maestro exclaimed, throwing his arms up in triumph. “You two are pure electricity! The audience is going to be fanning themselves! They will all need cold showers if you do just as you did.” He fanned himself and shouted, “Let's take ten!"

  As they walked into the wings to take their break, Amber pulled Cal into a secluded alcove behind the curtain and wrapped her arms around him, her body still warm from the schene. "Oh my God, Cal, that was amazing. How about we get a drink after rehearsal. Maybe we could do a little more practice in a more…private venue?" she said flirtatiously--suggestively.

  Cal’s early history with leading ladies came to mind, entanglements that often complicated more than they charmed, sometimes dimming the very spark they sought to kindle onstage. “Tempting, Amber,” he replied, gently extricating himself from her grasp, “but let’s save it for the audience.”

  “And that kiss was just professional?" she teased, poking him in the gut.

  She was not off base. Cal had definitely pushed the limits, but wasn't he just taking good stage direction? He tilted his head, grinned, and gave the slightest shake of 'no.'

  “Okay,” she conceded, “but just so you know, the invitation remains open.” With that, she turned, her departure marked by an extra sway in her step. It was a silent testament to the undeniable force they had conjured together in the spotlight. Cal watched, the offer echoing in his mind. He pocketed the thought and rejoined the others, setting up for the next act.

  When he arrived back in Turan's Hollow, the town was sleepy save the strings of lights lining the street in early preparation of Turan's Day. Liu’s place was just as sleepy. She had left the kitchen light on for him along with a note on the counter which said, "Cal, I left a plate of lasagna for you in the fridge. Hope rehearsal went well!”

  With a sigh, he reached for the bourbon in the cabinet above the coffee maker, aside from the spice rack. The clink of ice against glass punctuated the silence as he fixed a drink. He settled at the kitchen table, and memories surfaced--mashups of late nights with Lou-Lou and Liu drinking bourbon and laughing over card games. It was as if everything went black and white and slowed down. He started coming down off the rehearsal high, and grief was once more settling into his world. She had been gone for over two years. However, he could still feel her near him, not just in finding her silver and raven hair, but in phantom whiffs of her in the breeze and her voice, perhaps just a nighttime sigh as he fell asleep at night. There could never be more than a one-time dalliance with a co-star or a chance meeting at a bar on a trip. His heart was already given to someone who no longer walked the earth. People kept telling him to move on, but he did not want to move on from the love of his life. His love was not gone just because she was. It all still lingered like a haze around him as he sipped the last drop of booze, slurping up a cube of ice to chew.

  The crunch of ice between his teeth shifted him back to the present, to the sting of Dot’s words that morning. The unfamiliar taste of defeat in music, his lifelong passion, was bitter. Regret crept in. It was cowardly to storm out. He knew even as he did it that he had to return. Then doubt crept in. Could he truly master this new challenge, or would he succumb to the ease of surrender, disappointing James?

  He poured out a shot of straight bourbon and swallowed it whole. “Dammit,” he said to an empty kitchen, and he resolved to try again.

  #

  Cal steered onto the road, the gray light of a fall morning filtering through the clouds. Beside him, James sat in silent camaraderie, a quiet witness to the resolve etched on Cal’s face. As he stopped at the intersection to the main road, Dot’s silver SUV flashed by—a momentary reminder of yesterday’s challenges—but Cal’s eyes were fixed on the journey ahead, his grip on the steering wheel steady and sure as he turned and accelerated. The world outside moved in a blur, but within, everything was crystal clear: he was ready to face whatever lay ahead, unwavering and resolute.

  “James, I…”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Uncle Cal. Kids suck sometimes. You’ll figure it out.”

  Cal turned and smiled at his ever-maturing nephew. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “Peanut butter and James,” he corrected.

  As they rolled to a stop in the parking lot, a rising spirit began to buzz in him at the sight of Dot exiting her vehicle. The air between them was still charged with an unspoken tension.

  “Ms. Frasier!” he called, his voice a deliberate challenge across the lot. She turned, her stance poised and commanding in her sharp gray business suit, the very picture of professional austerity. A flicker of respect flashed in her eyes. “Mr. Stevens,” she began, her tone measured, “your return is… unexpected. You, of course, may try again, though I must admit, after witnessing your previous attempt… well…I shall reserve my judgment. Good luck,” she said with a slight softening.

  He walked down the hall to the music room with determination and growing confidence, thinking back to his first professional lead role - how nerve-wracking that was, but how triumphant it turned out to be for his career.

  When he entered the classroom, he grabbed the baton from the director’s stand and held it more firmly than before. The bell rang, and the students began trickling in. However, the two boys who had been so ugly to him were nowhere to be seen. He felt relieved. Perhaps it would been easier without them, but just as the final bell rang, they blew into the classroom, talking loudly, and they took their time getting to their seats.

  “Good morning, boys and girls. Let’s give this another try, shall we?” he began.

  But one of the boys jumped up and began bellowing in his worst operatic imitation and the class broke into laughter.

  “Ok, ok…haha. Please, let’s settle down,” said Cal, but the class covered up his voice. He tried again, a little louder, “Please, let’s get to our seats and let’s do a little warming up!”

  In a final attempt, anger and panic surging once again, he yelled “Quiet! Please! For Christ’s sake shut your mouths!” But it was useless.

  He turned to the door, thinking he might escape once more, but he saw Dot watching through the door with silent rebuke in her eyes. He opened the door and met her in the hall. She didn't say a word; she only shook her head, disappointment permeating her movements.

  In that moment, all pride drained from him. He saw no other path. Quietly, and with sincere humility, he spoke a single word: “Help.”

  The heat of the moment dissipated. Their eyes met, and something new transferred between them. The fury and disdain dropped from her face, and she nodded quietly to him, opened the door, and strode confidently, authoritatively into the room. At first, the kids did not notice. She did not say a word. She stood in front of them. Surveying them until each kid sat up straight in their seat and became quiet.

  "I am shocked." She paused to look each child in the eyes. "Shocked," she repeated, letting the weight of the word sink in as she paced deliberately across the classroom. "Shocked that you would treat a guest teacher with such disrespect." Many of the students hung their heads. Others looked away. "Mr. Stevens is a renowned performer. He has volunteered to help us put our musical together. You will listen to him," she said as she continued to pace, choosing key students to stop in front of. "You will do what he asks." Then she picked up the baton and handed it to Cal. "Mr. Stevens? They are in your capable hands."

  He took it from her and nodded a sincere thanks. Satisfied, she exited the room, leaving Cal in charge. As soon as she left, the boys began poking each other and laughing. Cal moved slowly and quietly in their direction, just as he had seen Dot do. This was the moment. Could he take charge? He stared at each of them. The rest of the class saw what was happening. A couple of the kids shushed them. All eyes were on the boys, but they were oblivious to the scene between Cal and them.

  One girl's voice cut through, clear and authoritative, "Dude! Shut up!" The boys straightened, and the class's collective focus shifted to Cal. She stood up and made a courteous bow to him." It's all yours, Mr. S.."

  And the matter was settled; something kicked in. Models of all the great directors he had worked with began to flow through him. "Auditions," he said. "Every single one of you who wants it will play some role in this play. Before I cast, I need to hear you sing. This is where all the work begins; no matter how big a star you may think you are, I must hear you. When I coached Cory Jameson, he--"

  "You know Cory Jameson?" blurted the same girl who had spoken up for him.

  Cal looked around the room as every kid looked back at him in utter amazement. Seeing an opportunity, he switched gears. "Cory asked me for a few coaching sessions. He was going through a rough patch with his singing and someone passed my name to him."

  They all started talking at once, but Cal raised his hands and said, “Please, one at a time. Raise your hands."

  For the next twenty minutes, Cal recounted tales from his career and answered questions. They were his now, which meant all he needed was a plan. Maybe he didn’t have what the teachers down the hall had, but he had the first thing he needed: their attention. He reiterated, “Auditions. You will need sixty seconds of any song you choose, one that won’t get you into trouble with your parents or Principal Frasier.” A few kids teased each other quietly. “It can be as straightforward as ‘Happy Birthday’ or as intricate as ‘Les oiseaux dans la charmille.’ They returned to complete attention by this flawless French pronunciation. “But remember, only one minute; otherwise, we’ll be here all day. You’ll find a signup sheet on the bulletin board outside my door. See you tomorrow!”

  The dismissal tone trumpeted as if on queue with his final words. Cal’s heart swelled with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in years. He watched them file out, their voices a murmur of anticipation for the auditions. With a contented smile, he turned off the lights and closed the door behind him.