The Right Side of the Wrong Bed || Bruno Mars

Chapter 9

Bruno

"Mr. Hernandez"

I shook my head and blinked as though for the first time in years. "Uh, yes?"

The blonde girl standing beside the projector with a piece of paper in hand frowned a little at me. "I'm done with my report, Mr. Hernandez. Aren't you gonna ask me some questions?" Her eyebrow went up.

I opened my mouth to speak, my eyes narrowing to slits. Nothing came out. Not until I leaned forward biting the end of my pen where its lid was clasped, and inquired, "What was your report about again?"

"It's about the music of the classical period. From the year 1750 to 1820," she answered, a look of incomprehension crossing her face.

"Forget that," I said taking her aback. "Forget it. Reporting sucks and you know it." There, I said it and everyone on their seats seemed to have dropped their jaws. "Thanks very much, Miss Burton. I appreciate your effort. You did a great job," I said motioning her to go back to her seat. I was not really paying attention to her report though for I was too drenched in my own thoughts. I stood up from my chair and at first, thought of jumping onto the table but realized that was not a very clever thing of a teacher to do. "You know what..."I positioned myself in front of my desk instead, grabbing their attention. "Screw this stupid lesson plan," I said holding my lesson plan-a blue notebook of only about fifty leaves of paper-and trashing it on the desk. "If you guys want to be real musicians, you don't need to learn these stuffs. They're just a waste of your time," I shot. "Who here wants to be musicians?"

It took a short moment of hesitation before someone could raise their hand followed by another, and then another, until all were raising their hands. "Great," I muttered. "Tell you what, guys... what you need is just an instrument, courage and a little inspiration. So for your homework to be presented tomorrow, I want you to think of the person who inspires you a lot in pursuing your dream of becoming a musician. It could be anyone. It could be an artist, a composer, your Mom, or even your dog. Tomorrow, each one of you will tell the class about your inspiration."

A shrill strident sound suddenly cut through. It was the school bell shrieking. "Just in time," I mumbled smiling slyly. "You're all dismissed." And for the first time ever, I felt like a real teacher, a productive one.

.

Driving down to Phoebe's school from Mayfields only took ten minutes. The little ballerina was already at the gates with some other kids her size waiting to be picked up. I stopped the car at the gates and watched from my rearview mirror as Phoebe opened the door to the backseat and hopped in.

"Hey there, ballet princess," I welcomed.

She closed the door and scooted towards me, inching for my cheek. She gave me a quick peck and then drew away, sitting back.

"How was school?" I asked. "Did you get a star or something?"

I saw her eyes lit up. "How did you know?"

"Your Daddy's a psychic," I smirked.

"What's a psychic?"

I chuckled and put the car in progress, leaving her question unanswered. "So what do you want to do? Do you want to grab some pizza or doughnuts, whatever you want?" I offered feeling or maybe just trying to be like one of those cool Dads who are always up for anything.

"I want pizza," she replied. "And can we please stop by Mommy's office?"

"You want to deliver pizza to her office? Sure. That's a great idea."

.

After ordering pizza at a nearby chain, we headed straight to Vogue. We entered a building the height of a skyscraper, and wound up in the lobby made entirely of glass walls, giant pillars and marble floors. High above were the ceilings, surprisingly and undeniably jaw-dropping. My one hand held a box of pizza; the other enclosing Phoebe's small hand. She stood still, her eyes studying the whole of the place.