I cup my hands around my lips and mouth H-E-R-O to Fitz as she saunters down the bleacher steps and follows Mulaney out the double doors, middle finger flipped behind her back.

“That went well,” Henry mutters.

His voice drips with sarcasm, totally oblivious to the mini-movement happening before us. Because the non-band students straight up applaud Fitz as she exits the gym on Mulaney’s heels. In my head, it’s an aria, crescendoing from pianissimo to forte. In reality, it’s a few dozen teenagers. But I see it. A clear division between band and the other arts clubs forming. Now that they know there’s injustice in these budget cuts, they’re not so willing to let them go.

It’s an opportunity. I feel it in my bones.

This isn’t over.

Independent Study now fills the empty block between AP Psychology and AP Chemistry.

It’s not a plot twist, but even two weeks in it still hurts. Study period replaces Improv 101 in my otherwise aggressively AP junior year schedule. My low-stress palate cleanser between science classes has been rendered an empty space. A glorified comma, as Mom would say.

“Is this level?” Dad asks.

My study overlaps with Dad’s prep period, so I’m spending it in the music room with him, seated first chair flute. Note, this is not a choice—Dad used his teacher power to have Ms. Rodkey, the school secretary, summon me to his classroom via the loudspeaker. Peak embarrassing. That’s when I knew for sure he was not happy about the assembly.

I don’t care. I’m pissed too.

I stuff my purple folder into my bag and look up. Dad’s standing on a black metal band chair, arms outstretched to hang a poster above his desk. It features an animated treble clef—with shoes—that reads I KNEW YOU WERE TREBLE WHEN YOU WALKED IN.

I can’t believe his students think he’s cool.

“Tilt it a little to the left,” I say.

Dad makes the adjustment and presses his palms against the poster, sticking it to the wall.

I press my lips in a firm line. I expected traitor to spill out the moment I walked into his classroom as easily as it did at the assembly. I’m not sure why. If the choice is stew in awkward silence or engage in an honest conversation, Dad and I will stew all day. So stew in the band room I do. With enough space for a full student orchestra, multilevel floor included—it’s pretty much a dream classroom. Chairs are spaced evenly apart on the three tiers; music stands hang in racks on the back wall, which is decorated with a wide range of music theory posters.

Dad steps down, takes a seat in his rolling desk chair, and wiggles the mouse to wake up his desktop. The screen is angled toward me, opened to the roster for Composition, Beginner.