LITMIR.BIZ

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from the garage. I’d become friends with Yollie a few months before but had never heard her son play the oboe. She’d talked about how much he loved it and that he hoped to study music in college. It couldn’t hurt to move a little closer and listen, I told myself. I’d be back in my car in a few minutes.

      Dried leaves crinkled as I approached the garage and the music slowed into a melancholy wail. Steven was so talented! I leaned against the wall, noticing the changing colors of the tall maple trees that a transplant from the East Coast must have planted ages ago.

      I closed my eyes to listen, relaxing, when I heard a loud slam followed by a man screaming, “No. No. No!”

      I gasped and straightened.

      He continued yelling, “Are you an idiot? I’ve told you a million times that it’s abafando. Abafando!”

      I heard another slam. Had he hit Steven?

      Rage boiled up and I wrenched open the door. “Stay away from him!” I yelled before seeing that Steven was totally safe, holding his oboe to his mouth. A slim man stood behind a podium with his arm out as if he’d stopped in the middle of waving it around, well out of hitting range. A large book of sheet music was on the floor in front of him. It must be the source of the loud thump.

      “Get. Out.” The man hunched over his wooden podium, eyes nearly popping out of his head. “You’re ruining my lesson!”

      Steven pointed to the door, frantically mouthing the words, “Get out.”

      “I will not get out,” I said to the teacher, who must be Benson Tadworth. “You’re abusing this boy and I won’t stand for it.”

      Benson pushed aside the strands of his long shaggy hair that had fallen across his face. He stepped from behind the podium wearing a black button-down shirt and black jeans, with black biker boots that didn’t fit my image of an oboe instructor. “Who the hell are you?”

      “I’m here to pick up Steven,” I said.

      Steven stood up. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You’re early. Please wait outside.”

      “Steven,” I said. “You don’t have to take this—”

      “You misunderstood. I’m fine,” he said. “Wait outside.”

      The teacher crossed his arms, looking smug.

      I stood still.

      “Colbie, please.” Steven’s voice was thick with emotion.

      The teacher turned his back, as if knowing I’d leave, and bent over to gather the music.

      I couldn’t resist Steven’s pleading eyes, and went out the door, passing an artist’s desk full of bamboo, razor blades, and tiny metal measuring tools.

      I walked down the driveway and got back into the car, fighting with myself while I slammed the door shut. What the hell was going on in there? Why did Steven allow the teacher to yell at him like that? Did Yollie know? She couldn’t. No mother would allow that treatment of her own kid.

      The maple trees had lost their charm and I could almost sense the desperation in the music coming from the garage. Had my outburst caused it?

      A minivan arrived, the sliding door opening automatically to let out a young teen girl. She smiled and waved to her mother, carrying her music case and a notebook as she made her way to the garage. I had to hold myself back from telling her mother what I’d overheard.

      At exactly five minutes to eight, Steven came out. Benson stuck his head through the door, talking on his cell phone, and lifted a finger for his next student to wait.

      Steven walked stiffly to my car, anger and embarrassment emanating from him in every step. He got in without looking at me and slammed the door as hard as I had. “Where’s Mom?” He could barely get the words out past his clenched jaw.

      “Her car broke down and she asked me to pick you up,” I explained, as I pulled out and then made a U-turn to head to his house.

      He didn’t respond.

      I sent a few glances toward him. It had been a couple of months since I’d seen him and he seemed older—taller with more definition in his face. Maybe that’s what happened to teen boys at that age. “Can I ask you a question?”

      He nodded, his bangs falling across his eyes. He kept his head down, maybe to avoid looking at me.

      “Why do you put up with that?”

      “You don’t understand!” The words burst out of him. “He’s a genius. I’ve learned so much from him in such a short time—”

      I cut him off. “That’s no excuse,” I argued. “I’m sure there’s another oboe teaching genius who wouldn’t yell at you.”

      “That’s not how it works.” He raised one hand as if to pull on his hair. Then he took a deep breath and relaxed his hand. “He’s the only one anywhere close to here that we can afford.”

      “But—”

      “Stop it. Just stop.” His voice was shaking but firm. “My mom has worked her butt off. I’ve worked my butt off to pay for his lessons. I will put up with anything to become a musician.”

      I stayed silent the rest of the way to his house.

      He finally met my eyes when I stopped in front of his house. They teemed with determination. I recognized that look from Elliott when he was auditioning for a new role.

      “Does your mom know?” I asked, resigned.

      “Yes,” he said.

      “Okay,” I said.

      He nodded. “Thank you for the ride.” He took off his seat belt and gathered his things. “Shoot.”

      “What?”

      “I forgot my Zoom recorder,” he said.

      “Sorry,” I said. “Do you want to go back?” I offered, even though I was worried about getting to the farmers’ market in time.

      He shook his head. “My mom will take me later.”

      Obviously he didn’t trust me.

      I watched him go into the cute cottage that Yollie rented, wondering what I was going to say to her. I still wasn’t sure by the time I got home. A bunch of drama kids had invaded early, probably at Elliott’s invitation. They were playing with the costumes but Lani would get them settled down into their tasks once she arrived.

      I tried to act normal, putting out the snacks and drinks automatically. My dad must’ve noticed my distress. “You okay?” he asked.

      I looked over my shoulder to make sure the students were occupied and told him what happened.

      My dad shook his head. “Stay out of it. Steven’s not a little kid. He can take care of himself.”

      “Stay out of what?” Elliott asked from behind me. I turned to see him holding a large empty bowl that he used to make papier-mâché.

      I looked at my dad who answered for me. “Your mom heard Steven’s music teacher yelling at him.”

      Elliott frowned. “Do you think he yells at Franny too?”

      “Quincy’s Franny?” I asked.

      He nodded. “He told me she’s taking lessons from some oboe teacher who normally only takes high school students.”

      Oh man. I’d forgotten all about that. Franny was Quincy Powell’s granddaughter.

      I knew he would not like the idea of someone yelling at his granddaughter.

      “Well, she probably goes to another teacher,” I reassured him but as soon as he filled up the bowl and went back to the dining room, I texted Quincy. Does Franny take lessons from Benson Tadworth?

      Yes,

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