Read Online A Season of Eden by Jennifer Laurens - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Laurens
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in his eyes just hours earlier…for me. Not once in our five months had he ever talked about Brielle in any way shape or form of a boy interested in a girl.
“Seriously?” she asked. “You don’t mind?”
“Nope. Take him. He’s yours.” She jumped up and down, giddy. “Easy, easy girl.” I turned away for a moment, her reaction so ridiculous.
We ordered and sat by the window, our favorite place to sit because you could be seen. Guys driving by could stop, come in, and you could hook up for the night because of the window.
Somehow, I doubted Mr. Christian went to such obvious lengths to hook up. I had no idea what a man like him would do to meet women. As I sat sipping my drink, I glanced at my reflection in the window, wondering if he had a girlfriend.
Chapter Eight
I hadn’t meant to be late to class, but Mrs. Carlson, my counselor, nabbed me in the hall and handed me some papers for graduation my parents needed to fill out. Mrs. Carlson always liked to ask how I was doing. I enjoyed telling her. By the time we’d stopped chatting, I was late. I stuffed the papers into my purse and headed to Concert Choir.
I could hear the warm-up scales already in progress and stopped myself from going in. Since I was tardy, should I bail on class and see where it got me? Would Mr. Christian care? For a flash, I had the fantasy of him taking me aside in the small office. A hot tingle raced through my blood thinking about him being mad at me for not being on time.
I didn’t look at him when I entered the room, stuffy and stale smelling with a load of morning breath. I walked up the risers to the back row. The girls obligatorily parted, the center space opening for me.
I set my books down, straightened my clothes, and flipped my hair over my shoulder before at last looking over the heads in front of me at Mr. Christian. Though he was facing the class in general, his gaze locked on mine.
Our eyes held for a moment before he looked out over the rest of the students.
When warm-ups were over, he adjusted the music stand. “Please get out Alberto Monticelli’s piece.”
The sheet music had been passed out by someone else since I’d been late. It sat on the seat of my metal chair. I picked up it up.
“We’ll start at the beginning and work our way through. Altos, be mindful of being on key. We may have to do more body shuffling.”
He sat at the piano and played the beginning notes, then stood with his arms up, his baton ready to engage us.
We sung the song without stopping. I watched him, trying to gauge his assessment of our run through. From where I stood, things sounded pretty good. He kept his expression neutral until the last note was sung. Gripping the music stand, he lowered his head momentarily. The room fell into whispers.
When he looked up, silence jolted the room as if a lightening bolt had just struck.
“How many of you want to be here?” Mr. Christian asked.
It took a few moments, but finally, most everyone raised their hands. His scan of the class stopped on me.
“That’s surprising because you sound like you could care less.”
“It’s morning,” somebody complained.
“Yeah, our voices aren’t warmed up.”
Mr. Christian’s smile was forced. “Yeah, right.” He adjusted the music stand again, keeping a tight grip on it.
“I’d take that into consideration if your morning voices left you after a half hour. Or even an hour. But this is what you sound like.”
He turned and plucked at mini recorder from on top of the piano. Since I’d not seen it, I figured he’d set it out when class began.
Flicking a switch, he played back what sounded like a bunch of kids singing underwater. Mumbles and laughs followed.
“You see what I’m dealing with here?” he said, clicking off the recorder. “We’ll go through the piece again. Remember to breathe from
“Seriously?” she asked. “You don’t mind?”
“Nope. Take him. He’s yours.” She jumped up and down, giddy. “Easy, easy girl.” I turned away for a moment, her reaction so ridiculous.
We ordered and sat by the window, our favorite place to sit because you could be seen. Guys driving by could stop, come in, and you could hook up for the night because of the window.
Somehow, I doubted Mr. Christian went to such obvious lengths to hook up. I had no idea what a man like him would do to meet women. As I sat sipping my drink, I glanced at my reflection in the window, wondering if he had a girlfriend.
Chapter Eight
I hadn’t meant to be late to class, but Mrs. Carlson, my counselor, nabbed me in the hall and handed me some papers for graduation my parents needed to fill out. Mrs. Carlson always liked to ask how I was doing. I enjoyed telling her. By the time we’d stopped chatting, I was late. I stuffed the papers into my purse and headed to Concert Choir.
I could hear the warm-up scales already in progress and stopped myself from going in. Since I was tardy, should I bail on class and see where it got me? Would Mr. Christian care? For a flash, I had the fantasy of him taking me aside in the small office. A hot tingle raced through my blood thinking about him being mad at me for not being on time.
I didn’t look at him when I entered the room, stuffy and stale smelling with a load of morning breath. I walked up the risers to the back row. The girls obligatorily parted, the center space opening for me.
I set my books down, straightened my clothes, and flipped my hair over my shoulder before at last looking over the heads in front of me at Mr. Christian. Though he was facing the class in general, his gaze locked on mine.
Our eyes held for a moment before he looked out over the rest of the students.
When warm-ups were over, he adjusted the music stand. “Please get out Alberto Monticelli’s piece.”
The sheet music had been passed out by someone else since I’d been late. It sat on the seat of my metal chair. I picked up it up.
“We’ll start at the beginning and work our way through. Altos, be mindful of being on key. We may have to do more body shuffling.”
He sat at the piano and played the beginning notes, then stood with his arms up, his baton ready to engage us.
We sung the song without stopping. I watched him, trying to gauge his assessment of our run through. From where I stood, things sounded pretty good. He kept his expression neutral until the last note was sung. Gripping the music stand, he lowered his head momentarily. The room fell into whispers.
When he looked up, silence jolted the room as if a lightening bolt had just struck.
“How many of you want to be here?” Mr. Christian asked.
It took a few moments, but finally, most everyone raised their hands. His scan of the class stopped on me.
“That’s surprising because you sound like you could care less.”
“It’s morning,” somebody complained.
“Yeah, our voices aren’t warmed up.”
Mr. Christian’s smile was forced. “Yeah, right.” He adjusted the music stand again, keeping a tight grip on it.
“I’d take that into consideration if your morning voices left you after a half hour. Or even an hour. But this is what you sound like.”
He turned and plucked at mini recorder from on top of the piano. Since I’d not seen it, I figured he’d set it out when class began.
Flicking a switch, he played back what sounded like a bunch of kids singing underwater. Mumbles and laughs followed.
“You see what I’m dealing with here?” he said, clicking off the recorder. “We’ll go through the piece again. Remember to breathe from
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