After We Jumped (Student/Teacher Relationship)

The Music

Copyright © 2015 ThatMeddlingKid

All rights reserved.

COPYRIGHT: This story "After We Jumped" including all chapters, prologues/epilogues and associated content is copyrighted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights are reserved by the owner and creator of this work (ThatMeddlingKid) and any unauthorised copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution or selling of this work constitutes as an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of this copyright is punishable by law.

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By the time I made it back to school I was exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally too. I was too tired even to take a shower, and curled up in my bed with my wet hair still coiled inside the trapper hat, its furry flaps warming my ears as I slept.

 The next day, when I woke, the weight of worry and disappointment at how badly the night had ended was like an anvil crushing my chest when I went to get out of bed. When it became apparent that I wasn't moving, Meg came and sat on the side of my bed, her hand stroking my cool cheek.

 "Jess, why are you wearing that hat?" she asked, taking it off my head.

I shifted my gaze from the wall to her face, feeling utterly empty.

She sighed, empathy written all over her face, despite how little she understood of the situation. She lifted her legs on to the bed and lay down next to me, a comforting arm around my shoulder.

"You smell like salt." She murmured.

 A small smile flitted across my face. We lay like that while Rhona got dressed in the bathroom and put the kettle on to make us tea. I had never been as close to Rhona as I was to Meg, but I appreciated her small attempts to help in situations like this.   

 After what seemed like an age Meg blew on my face and my eyes flickered open.

"Right, come on." She groaned, sitting up and grabbing my hands. 

"If you miss another day of class you'll have to see the nurse again. And you know, you'll probably fail all your exams and shit."

She stood up, pulling me up with her. I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for her. If I weren't such an emotionally stunted person, I would have been able to hug her and tell her this, but as always I just had to smile and hope she would understand.

Bizarrely, I was hyper-productive that day in class. Maybe it was good for me to distract myself with actual learning for once. My concentration lasted precisely until I walked into sixth period music to find not one of our usual string of supply teachers, but a face that I'd hoped to avoid.

 He stood up from the desk to switch on the projector and I could feel a wave of silent appreciation from the whole class, even some of the guys. He stood 5'11 in a dark grey suit, his hair perfectly waved to the side and with just the right amount of stubble on his chin. His eyes also looked especially clear and blue, but I think that was more to do with the lighting, like in the Apprentice boardroom.

He did not react to my presence.

 "Hello." He said, flashing a smile at the class.

"My name is Mr Grainger. I know you guys have had supply teachers taking this class for the last few weeks, but I've now taken over Mr Randall's position in the department so I'll be teaching you for the rest of the year."

I felt my cheeks burn slightly. A year was a long time, too long to avoid contact with him completely.

 "Now, I understand that you've been working on your performance skills in this lesson, so today I'd like you to find yourself a practice space like normal and I'll be checking in on you all to get an idea of what level you're at. Any questions? Good."

 People started to shuffle, searching their bags for sheet music and going to fetch their instruments. I walked past him without a word on my way to the store cupboard where I kept my cello.

Lucy and Robyn were standing in the cupboard with huge grins on their faces.

"I thought schools deliberately wouldn't hire teachers who are that good looking," said Lucy, "in case it distracts us from our studies."

Robyn cringed.

"I genuinely don't think I'll be able to play when he walks in."

Even though Robyn was the best saxophonist I knew, this was probably true.

"Maybe he's just a pretty face." I grinned. "Not that I'd mind."

As always, playing the cello cleared my head. I wasn't playing as well as normal — tiredness and lack of practice will do that — but there was still that old feeling of release, as if I was singing through the instrument. At times, its deep tone moved me more than any human voice. As the minutes of the lesson ticket by, I grew more and more certain that he would "forget" to look in on me. I hoped he would. I was still burning with the shameful memory of the night before, how immature I must have looked, the look of disgust on his face after we'd kissed.

I didn't think I could stand to have another person wear that expression of discomfort around me... the one that means they wish they could leave me behind and forget I existed, but just can't. It was worse than outright dislike.  

I was practising my B list, a beautiful piece by Fauré when I heard the door open. I stopped playing immediately, too nervous to turn around and look at him. I heard him walk around the edge of the room behind me before sitting down directly in front of where I was sitting. I was struck once more by the colour of his eyes. Maybe it wasn't just the lighting.

 "Hi."  I said, not smiling.

"Hi."

He paused for a moment, studying my face.

"I'm assuming I don't need to tell you that it's best for both of us if what happened last stays between us." He said, his voice quiet and serious.

I raised my eyebrows, looking away.

"And yet, you're still talking..."

"I'm just making sure we're clear."

 "Well, I'd say we're crystal." I said briskly. "Congratulations. You can go on your merry way and only see me when you're teaching this class."

"And you... are you going to stop sneaking out of school?"

I laughed coldly.

"I told you, I've been doing it since long before I met you. So, no."

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"And what are you playing this year?" he asked, his voice tight with displeasure.

"Fauré's Romance in A. I'll be playing it for my Grade 8 exam."

"Would you like an accompaniment?"

I looked at him in surprise.

"Uh, yeah, okay. Thanks."

He took the copy of the sheet music that I handed him and moved to the piano, where he said, poised, waiting for me to start playing.

For the first few bars I was distracted, trying to listen to his playing and to how good his sight-reading was. Then as the familiar tune took hold of my fingers I was transported, feeling each note like the vibrato was an extension of my heartbeat. We swept through the piece, his playing perfect at every turn. A real accompanist is one that you trust implicitly; you know that you can rely on them to follow you and never make a mistake.  

When I finished the last, drawn-out note I turned to see him staring at me, a slight crease in his brow. 

"That was beautiful." He said. "Well done."