12 Reasons

12 Reasons

“Please finish up your sandwiches and take a seat. Yes Dwayne, that includes you. I can wait…” Miss. Duckworth taps her foot to show she is serious. The ruckus dies down to a murmur. Satisfied that her authority has been established, she continues. “Thank you for stepping up at the last minute to fill in for poor Marcus, who was unexpectedly taken ill. As some of you may know, the Christmas Ball is a very prestigious event. A lot of important people will be in attendance. It is vital that we impress them. We cannot afford any more hiccups.”

She stares around the room to make sure everyone knows the gravity of the situation, before she continues. “The drums are a key aspect of our school band and there are a lot of very difficult drum solos. Marcus has been practicing for several weeks, but the individual that takes his place will only have twenty four hours to learn the songs. I have tried to explain to Principal Thistle that there simply isn’t enough time to train a replacement, but he is adamant that we try, so here we are. Consider this your warning that what I am asking you to do may well be a near impossible task, with the very real possibility of humiliating yourself in front of a room full of people. Are there any questions before we begin?”

One of the keener boys at the front thrusts his hand into the air. Miss. Duckworth does her best to maintain a neutral expression. “You have a question?”

“Is Jason’s Dad attending again this year?”

Miss. Duckworth made a show of checking her clipboard. “Yes, I do believe Mr. Jenkins will be in attendance.”

“He’s the one that gave Jill Jones that huge singing contract after last years concert!”

There was another murmur through the group and Miss. Duckworth hushed them again. “That should have no influence on your decision to partake in this years concert. You should be doing it for the love of music, not for some slim chance of becoming a celebrity. If you’re only here to try and become famous then now is the right time to leave.”

Nobody moved, but they all looked around the room to see who else was thinking the same thing. Miss. Duckworth sighed deeply. Kids these days only cared about becoming rich and famous. Not that any of the kids here would ever have to worry about money. The monthly tuition alone is enough to bankrupt a normal person, and that’s before all the school trips to exotic foreign locations. Oh to live like these kids, even for a year.

Somebody coughed and Miss. Duckworth snapped out of her daze. She said, “I’m sure you all have your reasons for trying out for the ball, but I will be basing my decision purely on your performance. This isn’t one of those talent shows on TV, please keep your life story to yourself. I won’t be providing individual feedback, there simply isn’t time. I will let the successful candidate know at the end of the day. Now if you could each come up one at a time. Let’s start right there.” She points to a pretty blond girl in the front row.

Charlotte

Everyone stares at me as I stand up, especially the boys. I’m used to it. I get it, I’m cute, with my long blond pigtails and my freckly face. People have certain assumptions when they see me. They think I’m going to be dumb, shallow, obsessed with shoes and boy bands. They couldn’t be more wrong.

I have seven brothers. Mum passed away three years ago. It’s made Dad a bit overprotective. I’m his little girl, his angel, his princess. I’m the last little piece of Mum that he clutches on to, afraid to lose me too. Unfortunately the harder he squeezes, the more I slip away.

I had to tell him I was auditioning for the flute. I haven’t been to my flute lessons in over two years, but it gives me an excuse to stay late at school twice a week. Dad keeps paying the instructor, so she’s not going to say anything. I don’t remember the first time I sat down at the drum set in the music room, but I do know that it gave me somewhere to channel my anger. One day I was busy releasing my frustration and a tune came out.

I reach up and tug at my pigtails until they are free, my hair flowing down to my shoulders. I swish my head back and forth a few times to mess it up. I’m not a princess. I am a rockstar. I don’t want to play with dolls, or pretend to do makeup, or bake cookies. I want to play loud instruments, create music, party hard. I want my Dad and brothers to see me for who I really am. I want them to come to this concert and see their little princess rock the stage.

I pick up the drumsticks and twirl them effortlessly around my fingers. I go straight into an epic drum solo, using every surface, every trick that I know. The other kids stares at me slack jawed. I’m not the pretty little girl they saw a few moments ago, I am the real me.

Miss. Duckworth nods and says, “That was certainly an interesting start. Let’s move on.”

Jake

How am I going to follow that? Charlotte struts off the stage like she owns it, as if the decision is already a foregone conclusion. I want to turn and run, to escape to the safety of my bedroom where nobody bothers me, but I made a promise to myself. No more hiding.

I can hear them whisper as I walk towards the stage. Who is that guy? Does he go to this school? Is he new here? I want to shout at the top of my lungs. I’ve been going here for five years. I have helped you all with your homework. I have carried your books. I have cleaned up after you. I have skulked in the shadows, afraid to speak up, afraid to be seen, but not today. No more lurking.

I reach the drum kit and turn to face the crowd. I can feel them staring at me, their eyes burrowing deep inside, poking at my anxiety, making it lash out like a frightened house cat. It tugs at my legs and squeezes my stomach, demanding that we get away as fast as we can. I plant my feet and grit my teeth. No more running.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words stay in my throat until it is completely backed up. Then they all tumble out at once. “I’mJakeILoveToDrum.” The sniggers from the crowd confirm my anxiety’s worst fears. This is going badly, but still I persist.

I pick up the drumsticks and try to spin them around my fingers, just as Charlotte did. I want to show these people that I can do this. The right drumstick gets away from me and clatters to the ground. In my mind it makes the sound of a tree falling down, an echoing crash that can be heard across the room. More sniggers.

I slowly bend down and pick it up. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This is it. This is my moment. I lift up my arms and feel the music flow through me.

I don’t have the showmanship of Charlotte, but I play flawlessly. The sniggering stops. Charlotte is the first one standing, applauding loudly. The rest of the crowd slowly joins her.

For the first time ever, they see me. I want to stand here forever, soaking in this moment. I already know I won’t get the part, but it doesn’t matter. I found a piece of my soul today.

Miss. Duckworth ushers me off the stage and points to the next in line.

Jian

I walk up to the stage slowly, checking the corners of the room for my parents. I am not supposed to be here. It is my petty act of rebellion. My parents do not believe in music, or any other frivolous activity. Life is not meant to be enjoyed, it is meant to be optimized with ruthless efficiency. They already have my entire future planned out. They are courting other families as we speak, trying to find a suitable wife to marry their darling son that is destined to become a world famous surgeon. They choose my lessons, my teachers, my lunches, the route that I take home. I’m surprised I am allowed to go to the toilet when I please.

The guilt washes over me as I walk towards the stage. They only want what is best for me. Who am I to question them? Their tough love seemingly works. My brother is a corporate lawyer and my sister is a rocket scientist. They are both happily married to partners that were selected long ago. I see that look on their faces though, the flickers of doubt in those moments when they think no-one is watching. They are living my parents dreams, not theirs. I once found an entire sketchbook under my sister’s bed, filled with beautiful hand drawn dresses and outfits, each intricately designed. The pages were dotted with wet splotches, tears of shame as she wasted her time doing something that she loved.

I’m on the stage. I don’t know what I am doing. I have never played the drums in my life. I’ve always wanted to though. I mentioned it once to my father and the look he gave me still haunts me to this day. I pick up the drumsticks, expecting them to burst into flames, but instead they magnify the shaking of my hands. I lift one high above my head and bring it down with a loud whoop. There is an immediate sense of relief. With each successive strike I can feel a little part of myself breaking free from the shackles of my perfect future. There’s no tune, not even any rhythm, but it’s the most beautiful music I have ever heard.

The faces in the crowd suggest this isn’t true for them. They are wide eyed, mouths agape. I drop the drumsticks and shout, “Thank you!” before bolting out of the room.

Mrs. Duckworth says, “Well that was…different. Let’s keep going please.”

Janet

I have to make this count. This needs to pay off. My parents are bankrupting themselves to send me to this school. I’ve heard them shouting at each other in the early hours of the morning, when I’m supposed to be sleeping. It’s always the same topic. Money. We get red envelopes in the post every week. They hide them before I see them, but I once opened the kitchen drawer they get stuffed into. If we get any more they are going to need a bigger drawer.

Dad can’t work any more overtime, he’s barely functional as it is. Mum hides it better behind a smile and a meagre breakfast, but I can see the hopelessness creeping in. I’ve tried talking to them, to convince them I would be happier at a normal school, but they are adamant. They never had opportunities like this when they were kids, and it has haunted them ever since. Every job they were turned down for, every promotion that passed them by, every layoff, all harsh reminders that they were expendable, easily replaced. They will be homeless and penniless before they let that happen to me.

This gig is my chance. If I can impress Jason’s Dad then I can get a music contract and drag my parents out of debt. It’s not the dream they had for me, but it’s what I need to do. How else is a teenager going to make buckets of cash? I will stride into the bank, slam down a fistful of red envelopes and tell the bank manager where to shove them.

I’m nervous as I sit down at the drum set. We had to sell my drums a long time ago, but I still remember how to play them, if I can just get my hands to stop shaking. It takes a moment for me to find my groove, for the old muscle memory to kick in. I miss the first cue, but I soon find the rhythm. Everyone’s feet are tapping along.

I just have to pray it’s enough.

Miss. Duckworth looks relieved that I did better than Jian. She gestures to the next in line, but he’s not paying attention, he is staring at one of the other kids. After a few seconds she shouts, “You’re up Paul.”

Paul

Did someone say my name? Oh god, everyone is staring at me. What am I supposed to do? I haven’t thought this through. My brilliant plan to impress Jason is suddenly feeling utterly ridiculous. I just wanted to strike up a conversation, pretend to have something in common. I didn’t know this was an audition. I have played the drums a grand total of once, on a video game, three years ago. Rockstar I am not.

I’m kind of committed now. If I bolt from the room Jason will remember me for all the wrong reasons. I’ll forever be a coward, a failure, a chicken. I’ll never get over that. It’s certain failure, or the minuscule chance of a miraculous success. I know which option I am going for.

As I stroll towards the stage I glance in his direction. He’s staring at me. Do I sense something else, something more? Does he feel the same way I do? Could this be the start of something?

Of course not. I am projecting. He is one of the most popular boys in school. Only a select few kids can afford to board here. He is one of them. I dread to think what it costs, not that he would be concerned about such things. The girls swoon around him constantly. He can have his pick. Why would he pick me? I am nobody.

Scarlett is my main competition. She follows Jason around like a lost puppy. I should know, I am right behind her most days. She strikes me as a real bunny boiler, the kind that wouldn’t take kindly to me stealing her potential husband. My only hope is that she ignores me just as thoroughly as Jason does.

I don’t remember picking up the drumsticks, but suddenly they are in my hands. I squint into the lights and wait for the music to flow through me. Come on Cupid, or whoever the gay equivalent is, it’s time for the magic to happen. Wait, is there a gay Cupid? Now I’m just being ridiculous. The kid is shirtless, has angel wings and a bow and arrow for crying out loud. He doesn’t exactly scream homophobic.

I’m still waiting for the magic to happen. Everyone is. I’m not sure how long I can sit here before someone escorts me from the stage. There is a polite cough in the front row. It’s now or never.

Never it is. I shout, “I refuse to sellout to big music! Rock on. Peace out.” Then I toss the drumsticks into the crowd and leg it out the back door before security arrives. I make eye contact with Jason as the door swings shut behind me. Was that a smile on his face? At least now he will remember me.

Miss. Duckworth shakes her head. “Oh dear, we’re getting all sorts tonight. Scarlett, please restore my faith in good manners.”

Scarlett

What the heck was that? That last guy was clearly insane. Why would somebody show up for something like this if they weren’t intending to play? Perhaps it was some sad attempt to impress me. Now that I think of it, he does always seem to be lurking nearby.

I get out of my seat and run my hand across Jason’s shoulders. He’s been so distant lately. I don’t know what has gotten into him. At first I thought he was cheating on me, but I’ve been checking his phone and occasionally following him and there’s no sign of infidelity. He hasn’t so much as looked at another girl since we started fooling around a few months ago. I had to fight off an army of skanks to get him, but I’m starting to wonder why I bothered. Half the time it doesn’t feel like dating at all. There’s no sex, barely any kissing and the occasional half hearted grope. He doesn’t even like us being seen together too often, he has some lame excuse about the paparazzi. Sure he’s good looking, and his six pack has a six pack, but most importantly he’s thirty-seventh in line to the English throne. That sounds like a long way down the list, but accidents happen, and besides the competition for those above him is even more fierce. There aren’t many eligible bachelors left in the royal line, and there are a lot of women trying to snag them.

Jason is the reason my parents sent me to this school. The moment they learned that he played the drums they found me a tutor so I could impress him. Now is my chance. I need to get his interest back. If I can put in a good performance tonight maybe he will let me give him a private show later on, and I can finally get the ball rolling. Princess Scarlett has such a nice ring to it. Preferably a diamond encrusted one.

I am technically a very proficient drummer, but it’s hard to muster much enthusiasm for a musical instrument that involves smacking it with sticks. I’d always dreamed of learning the piano or the violin, something a little more elegant. You would think the classical instruments would hold more sway with the supposedly sophisticated upper class, but apparently they no longer concern themselves about keeping up appearances. Now it’s all tweeting and selfies on private jets.

I’m doing the best that I can, but a quick glance up confirms that Jason’s not paying any attention. He’s staring at something on his phone. I wish I knew what it was. I best not find out it’s that tramp Sarah. She’s always sniffing around. I’ve come too far to let him slip through my fingers now.

A few people clap as I stand up. At least they appreciate the effort.

Miss. Duckworth makes a few notes and says, “Thank you. Next please.”

Jason

Oh god, Scarlett’s making that face again. The one where she is trying to impress me. It’s not a natural look, she looks almost constipated with concentration. I wish I knew how to make her stop. She is relentless. No amount of polite diversion seems to deter her. If anything it only makes her try harder. She is throwing herself at me with an ever growing enthusiasm, and yet deep down I know that I am stringing her along.

I’m never going to settle down, get married, add to the dwindling royal lineage. My interests lay…elsewhere. I glance across at the door that Paul stormed out of. I’m only here because of him. I want him to see how good I am at something, that I am not just an empty crown. Even just admitting that makes me feel foolish. He is a commoner, a nobody, so why can’t I stop thinking about him? He haunts my every waking moment. Every class without him feels like an eternity. I have memorized his schedule to improve my chances of ‘bumping’ into him. Each chance encounter gets me a little bit closer to him noticing me.

There was always an assumption in my family that I would follow the old ways, that they would have a say in who I love, who I marry. That my soulmate would have a certain pedigree. As if that is how it works. They have prepared themselves that I might love a commoner. The narrative is already in place for the rags to riches story that the public love, but I am not sure they are ready for my twist on the tale. I don’t care.

Everyone is staring and I realize it is my turn. I am distracted. I don’t even want to be here, I only came because Paul did. Why am I still pretending? It’s time I was honest with myself, and with him. I can’t stand the thought of him leaving for 2 weeks on Christmas break while I stay here stewing. I don’t know if he feels the same way, but I need to find out. I get up and stroll right past the drum set and out of the door that he left from.

Scarlett is right behind me. She shouts, “Where are you going?”

“I have something to do.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I’m sorry, I need to do this alone.”

“Is it Sarah?” Her tone is accusatory. Where do I even begin? How can I make her understand that no matter how hard she tries, her charms will never work on me? Knowing her, she would consider a sex change if it got her one step closer. I place my hand gently on her shoulder. “Please, I just need a moment. I’ll come find you later and explain.”

She hesitates, stuck between grasping on to me and giving me my space. Eventually she nods and says, “Take as long as you need. I’ll be waiting in your room.” This is accompanied by a devilish grin and she saunters off. Such a shame.

I round the corner, hoping to find some clue as to which way Paul went, and I nearly trip right over him. He’s huddled in a ball on the ground, his face streaked with tears. I would know that look anywhere. He’s heartbroken. As we make eye contact he smiles and then chokes back the tears. He wobbles to his feet, clears his throat with a manly cough and says, “Damn allergies.”

There’s a lot I want to say, but before a single word escapes I lean in and kiss him. It catches us both by surprise. I wait for him to push back and thump me, but he leans into it. His mouth is softer than I was expecting. Suddenly everything feels right with the world.

Mary

There’s some kind of commotion going on upfront. The next lad up has bolted from the room without playing. Their teacher seems flustered and she’s doing a lousy job of hiding it.

I slouch in my seat, trying not to be noticed. I don’t belong here. I don’t mean that in an insecure way, I mean it in the literal sense. I don’t go to this school. I couldn’t even afford a day trip here. My school is on the other side of town, in an area that these people wouldn’t even dare to drive through. I’m supposed to be there right now, but I’m busy Christmas shopping.

My little brother is not excited for Christmas, why would he be. Every year Dad does his best to get us something, but there’s no money in the budget for toys or gadgets. You can’t eat a smart phone. He is doing everything he can since Mum left, but he’s already working every hour he can just to pay the bills. I couldn’t sit back and let another Christmas go by without Santa paying a visit, so I’ve taken matters into my own hands.

Getting a uniform wasn’t hard. The dry cleaners by my house is the cheapest in town, so of course all the rich people’s servants use it. The owner takes his smoke breaks very seriously, so it was really just a question of timing. He is going to cop it when some snooty kid realizes her blazer is missing, but it’s not like they can’t afford to replace it.

Security at the school is top notch, but they don’t dare look at the kids. One wrong glance can end a career. That may have encouraged me to let my guard down, and it almost cost me. It’s not hard to stock up on gifts here, every single room is packed to the rafters with the latest tech, some of it barely used.

I had almost finished filling my backpack when one of the kids walked in on me. He’d barely shouted the word security and there they were, three of them, ready to pounce. I’m quick on my feet, but I don’t know my way around here. I managed to shake them by hiding in a crowd, and that’s how I found myself in these auditions.

The teacher is staring at me now. She’s trying to remember my name. This strikes me as the kind of place where forgetting a kid’s name is a big deal, so I try to use that to my advantage. I jump out of my seat, still clutching my backpack. “Is it my turn?”

The teacher nods.

I can’t possibly do worse than some of the crazies that have already gone before me, but I don’t want to be memorable. The trick is to be average. Nobody remembers the middle of the pack. I’ve never touched a set of drums before, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not exactly hard to figure out how they work. I slowly tap out a rhythm with my left stick, setting a beat, and then I try out all the other drums with my right stick. It’s not going to win any awards, but it does the trick. Nobody looks impressed, which means it worked.

I shrug and casually stroll out the back exit, as if I already know I won’t be chosen. Nobody stops me. I walk around the corner to see two boys kissing passionately, completely oblivious to everything else around. I step around them and slip out the back door. I wave at a security guard as I nonchalantly stroll through the gate and back to the real world.

Rasha

The nice teacher lady is pointing at me. She stares, waiting for me to do something. The truth is, I have no idea why I am here. I saw a line of kids outside the room and thought it might be for food stamps. Every time I see a line I am compelled to join it. It’s a hard habit to break. In Syria, standing in lines was the only way to survive. Sometimes I would stand in a line that turned out to be for another line.

The good news is I wasn’t wrong, there were a lot of delicious sandwiches. The teacher made sure everyone got one, so it was fair. When she turned around I snuck a couple of extras into my bag for later. Like I said, old habits.

Everyone else has gone to the front and banged on the drums. Perhaps this is some kind of British ceremony. I slowly make my way to the front, not wanting them to think I’m ignoring their culture. Things are strange here. These children have everything they could ever need or want, but they do not smile. I don’t understand the words they are saying, but I know enough to know they are complaining. About what, I have no idea.

I remember standing in the adoption agency a few months ago, tears running down my face as I am told I have a new Mum and Dad. It’s a hard thing to process. The lady was very nice and explained that my new parents were going to take me far away from the fighting and the death. It wasn’t easy to leave home behind, but everywhere I looked I saw darkness creeping in. All of my friends had fled or been killed. There was almost nobody left. I made my choice. I would start a new life in England and never look back.

Except my new parents immediately shipped me off here. This is supposedly for my benefit. My new Father used his computer to tell me this in a robotic voice that spoke broken Arabic. This school will set me up for the future. What it doesn’t do is stop the nightmares now. I can barely close my eyes without hearing the gunfire and the screams. So much screaming. It took all my self control not to run when the other children banged the drum. My legs twitched instinctively, like they always did when I heard gunfire in the distance.

I reach the stage and pickup the drumsticks. Such simple objects that wouldn’t exist in Syria. They would have long ago been used as firewood to stave off the cold in the winter months. I’m still staring at them when someone from the front yells something I don’t understand. Some of the other kids laugh, I am assuming at my expense. I tap the drumsticks on the nearest drum several times until I am satisfied that I have met my cultural obligation. Then I retreat back to the snack table and stash some extra cookies in my pockets.

Miss. Duckworth fires a warm smile in my direction and says a lot of words I don’t understand, ending in Sarah.

Sarah

God, look at all these losers. As if any of them stand a chance. When did this school start letting in such uncultured riffraff? That last kid is from some war torn country and didn’t seem to have the faintest clue what was going on. Clearly she hasn’t assimilated to British culture yet, so why is she here? There really should be some kind of etiquette test as part of the entry requirements. That would solve so many of our problems. They will never go for it though, apparently we have to be politically correct now. Perhaps there is another way. I’ll have a chat with Daddy about raising the tuition fees again. That should at least thin the herd. I’m sure he can convince the board, they really don’t like to upset him.

It’s insulting that I even have to try out for this stupid spot. Granddad’s donations paid for every instrument in the band. Our family name is on the concert hall. Not on one of those stupid plaques that slightly rich people buy, I mean it’s called the Springer concert hall. Granddad cut the opening ribbon back in 1962. I’ve seen the pictures of him with his bowler hat and power suit. Everyone else in the picture looks terrified, as well they should. He has a terrible temper. I would know, I’m the current target of his scorn.

The only thing he ever loved was his music. How was I supposed to know he would assume we all shared in his passion?When he asked what instrument I was playing in the Christmas concert I thought he was joking. He didn’t take kindly to my muffled laughter. Next thing I know, my credit card was cancelled. I won’t be able to show my face in Tiffanys again for weeks.

I really don’t want to be any part of this, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I pick up the drumsticks and bang out a quick tune. It’s not as flashy as everyone else, but it doesn’t need to be.

I stroll up to Miss. Duckworth and pull the envelope out of my bag. I hand it to her and say, “Here is my assignment on economic stimulus, sorry it’s late Miss. I’ll look forward to you posting the results.”

She glances inside the envelope and smiles before tucking it in her pocket.

It’s the last of my pocket money, but if it gets me back on the gravy train it is worth it. Like they say, you’ve got to spend money to make money.

Dwayne

I stare around the room at the worried expressions, each kid distraught in their own unique way. What is the matter with them? Has nobody told them how lucky they are? We attend one of the most prestigious schools in the country. The waiting list is pages long. The connections required just to get in here will be more than sufficient to set every one of us up for life. Nobody here has anything even remotely worth worrying about, and yet I can see the stress written all over their faces. Whether it’s fame, fortune, winning at all costs or battling demons, they all have a reason to fight for this. I don’t. I just want to play the drums. There’s no hidden motivation, no deep dark desire, no life or death stakes. I just like playing the drums. It’s what I do for fun, which is what we are supposed to be doing. We are still kids, despite our trust funds and padded C.V.’s. When did we let someone decide we are just small adults, with all the burdens that brings?

I get told every day to grow up. I take it as a compliment. I’m in no rush. There’s plenty of time for responsibility, for pension planning and life insurance. That time isn’t now. Now is a time for making mistakes, figuring out who we are, and being in a rock band. I want a room full of people to scream my name, not because I’m the best drummer in the history of the world, but because I’m enjoying myself.

I smile as I pick up the drumsticks. I’m the only kid to do so. I know, I watched. This isn’t a job to me, or a stepping stone in some intricate 5 year life plan. Being up here is my reward. I play my heart out, because it’s the only way I know how.

I don’t get the same ovation as some of the others. I’m not gifted, well connected or even all that popular. Miss. Duckworth does look impressed though. Her eyes are wide open, a small grin on the corner of her mouth. She sees how much I enjoyed myself. I think it’s enough.

I’m about to sit back down when a couple of the other kids bolt from the room, clutching their stomachs. There is the distinctive sound of retching in the hallway, followed by an acidic smell. It’s enough to set a couple of the other kids off. Sarah manages to hold down the vomit, but it has to come out somewhere and she unleashes all hell from the other end. I start to laugh, but then I feel it too, that deep gurgle in my gut. I swallow hard, but it is only a temporary reprieve. I need to find a toilet, and now. I run past Rasha, who is the only one seemingly not affected. She simply shrugs and eats another sandwich. She is made of tougher stuff than the rest of us.

Miss Duckworth

I stand before the Principal, my hands trembling.

Principal Thistle looks at me as if I forgot the olive in his Martini. “Food poisoning? All of them?”

“Yes sir. I have already alerted the kitchen and they have thrown away all their sandwich meat and have done a complete scrub down of all surfaces. The good news is, the children aren’t contagious.”

He shakes his head. “It won’t be good news when I start getting the phone calls. Do you have any idea how high maintenance these parents are at the best of times? They’ll demand someone’s head for this.” I can see him mentally rattling off the list of people to fire, a week before Christmas. I just hope I’m not on it.

After a moment he says, “Who is going to play the drums in tomorrow’s concert?”

“I don’t know sir. Every child in the school that had any interest was at that audition. There simply isn’t anyone else.”

He reaches for his phone. “I suppose we’ll just have to hire a professional.”

“I already tried sir. This close to Christmas there was very limited availability of the calibre of musician that the school would require. I recommend we just postpone the concert until after the holidays, when everyone is better.”

“Miss. Deckforth, we will do no such thing. This school has had a Christmas concert every year for the last 73 years and I will be damned if I am the one to break that tradition. I remember from your interview that you were a competent drummer. You will just have to play.”

“But sir…”

“My mind is made up. Do not make me repeat myself.” He returns his gaze to the newspaper that is sprawled out on his desk. My time here is done. I slink out of the room with my tail between my legs.

Every day I park next to cars worth more than my house. I got a flat tire last week and can’t afford to replace it. Fourteen years I’ve been working here, and the Principal still doesn’t know my name. That little shit Sarah gave me ten grand like it was chump change, but the sad part is it won’t even pay off my credit cards.

I make sure I wait until I am back in my room before I let the smile creep onto my face. That is all going to change. I will finally get my shot in front of Mr. Jenkins. After all the rejected audition tapes, all the failed talent shows, all the lousy bar gigs that paid us less than we spent to get there. I’ve stacked the playlist with the most epic drum solos. This is my chance to shine. It’s my ticket out of this joint.

I thought I’d only have to poison poor Marcus, but the Principal gave me no choice. In for a penny, in for a pound, or better yet a couple of million.

It’s going to be a very merry Christmas.