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Rocchelli moving about the classroom, assisting students. I open the folder and scan the exam. It’s long—fifty questions—but it doesn’t look too hard. I take out a pencil and start with the first one, transposing a mini-composition.
    After about half an hour I sit back and stretch. Through the glass I watch the woodwinds rehearsing. Mr. Rocchelli stands in front of them, leaning forward, arms in motion. He glances from the music to the students and back to the music. His whole body is moving. It’s like he’s trying to draw music out of the students with his hands and arms. He’s working hard. Eventually he drops his arms, and the students lower their instruments. He talks to them, though I can’t hear what he’s saying. The students laugh, and then the instruments are back in their mouths and Mr. Rocchelli’s arms are in the air again. I notice a tattoo trailing down the inside of his right arm. With a bend of his knees, he’s back at it—the music extractor. I smile and return to my exam. At least he’s one teacher who really gets into his job.
    The next time I look up, I’ve finished the exam and the students are packing up their instruments. I’m determined to ace this exam—I have something to prove—so I return to the top of the first page and begin checking my answers. There’s a knock on the door, and Mr. Rocchelli pokes his head into the room. I see through the window that the portable has emptied.
    â€œHow’s it going?” he asks.
    â€œI’m done. Just checking it over.”
    â€œGood girl. Bring it out when you’re finished.”
    I nod.
    A few minutes later I collect my things and leave the sound room. Mr. Rocchelli is back at his desk. I’m aware of how quiet the portable has become while I was in the sound room. Creepy quiet.
    Mr. Rocchelli leans back when he sees me approaching. I hand him the exam. He flips through the pages.
    â€œSo what will I be doing in this class?” I ask.
    He looks thoughtful for a moment. “I have something really special in mind,” he says. “But maybe I should mark this before I tell you about it.”
    â€œI passed.”
    He chuckles. “You’re one confident young woman.”
    I try to mask my surprise. I don’t think of myself as confident, not most of the time, but I do know my music theory.
    â€œWe don’t have theory class tomorrow,” he says, “so could you come back after school tomorrow to talk about your assignment?”
    I think about that. It means staying late at school two days in a row, but I’m intrigued now. Something really special…
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œGood. See you tomorrow.”
    I turn and walk toward the door.
    â€œHow are you liking the school?” he asks.
    I pause and turn back, thinking about it. “It’s too soon to say, really,” I tell him. “But I think it’ll be okay.”
    â€œI hope your experience will be better than okay.”
    I don’t know what to say to that, so I turn to leave again.
    â€œAllegra…”
    I swing around.
    â€œI’m sorry we got off to a rough start.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    â€œNo, seriously. I feel bad about being such a tyrant, but I really believe you’ll be challenged in this class. Creatively challenged.”
    I think he just wanted to be sure there’d be enough students for the class to run, but I don’t tell him that. “See you tomorrow.” I escape quickly, not wanting to prolong the conversation. There’s something about him that makes me anxious.

    I hear raised voices before I even enter the house. Letting myself in quietly, I stand in the hallway and listen.
    â€œYou can’t just drop in here any old time you please and tell me how to run my life!” My mother’s voice.
    â€œI’m not doing that.” Dad. He sounds a little more reasonable. “I’m just