Broadbush was the patriarch of one of the oldest families in Raleigh. He lived in a mansion in the historic Oakwood district, and he was known for his lavish fundraisers that benefited the arts. The arts. Including the Raleigh Philharmonic.
Judith’s eyes sparked daggers beneath the weight of her mascara. “Mr. Broadbush called to say that he is willing to underwrite Musicall. For one month. In one school.”
Sam’s legs seemed to have forgotten how to support her body. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
One month. One school. She had such big dreams. She wanted to share music with every child in Wake County, from the littlest kindergartener to the oldest high-school senior.
But big dreams started small. And working with a single school on the project of her dreams was a far cry from being thrown out of the Summer Fair altogether.
Judith was scowling, as if she would have preferred pursuing disciplinary action instead of bringing Samantha the news she’d longed to hear for nearly a year. “Mr. Broadbush was very specific. He named the exact school he wants you to work with. James K. Polk Elementary.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “I’d love to work with Polk.” She’d pored over lists of schools for so long, she immediately knew everything about the institution. It was situated in the city of Raleigh proper, not in wider Wake County. It had a diverse student body. It had been used to try out multiple new programs in the last five years—testing initiatives, new curricula. If Sam had drawn up a list of her dream schools, Polk Elementary would have been at the top.
Judith shook her head. “I asked Mr. Broadbush to reach out to his fellow board members, to soothe ruffled feathers. He agreed, because he somehow thinks your program has a chance of succeeding. But you’ve only got a very narrow space to work in. One more misstep, and the Fair will have no choice but to invoke your morals clause. You’ll be asked to resign, without a single hesitation.”
Sam knew she should be worried. She should be disappointed that she was being given such a short leash, that she was being forced to work on such a stripped down vision of her dream. She should be terrified that she had no remaining room for error—one more false step, and she was doomed forever.
But she couldn’t keep from grinning as widely as if she’d just donned her Summer Queen tiara for the first time in her life.
* * *
Three days later, Sam was standing in front of a classroom, making her pitch for Musicall. She’d practiced her words for hours, rehearsing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She’d even recorded her voice on her phone, playing it back to listen for ums and ers, for any little distractions that might let attention stray.
And all of that preparation had served her well. She’d started off her morning meeting with Reginald Holcomb, the principal of James K. Polk elementary. The man had actually given her half an hour out of his busy day, looking at the charts she presented, studying her statistics about how music classes helped children with their academics, increasing self-esteem and problem-solving ability.
Apparently, that presentation had constituted jumping through a hoop she hadn’t known existed. Holcomb’s eventual smile spread across his face like sunshine on a field of spring-green shoots. The principal invited her to repeat her presentation three times during the day, to teachers taking their lunch breaks in the faculty lounge.
Speaking to the educators, Sam was doubly, triply, quadruply glad she had rehearsed her words so thoroughly. If she had been any less prepared, she would have been distracted by cans clanking free from the soft-drink machine, by whispers from teachers’ side conversations, by the scents of dozens of lunches, mingling in often unsavory ways. It didn’t help that someone burned a bag of popcorn in the microwave.
But serving as the Summer Queen had taught Sam a
Judith’s eyes sparked daggers beneath the weight of her mascara. “Mr. Broadbush called to say that he is willing to underwrite Musicall. For one month. In one school.”
Sam’s legs seemed to have forgotten how to support her body. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
One month. One school. She had such big dreams. She wanted to share music with every child in Wake County, from the littlest kindergartener to the oldest high-school senior.
But big dreams started small. And working with a single school on the project of her dreams was a far cry from being thrown out of the Summer Fair altogether.
Judith was scowling, as if she would have preferred pursuing disciplinary action instead of bringing Samantha the news she’d longed to hear for nearly a year. “Mr. Broadbush was very specific. He named the exact school he wants you to work with. James K. Polk Elementary.”
“Of course,” Sam said. “I’d love to work with Polk.” She’d pored over lists of schools for so long, she immediately knew everything about the institution. It was situated in the city of Raleigh proper, not in wider Wake County. It had a diverse student body. It had been used to try out multiple new programs in the last five years—testing initiatives, new curricula. If Sam had drawn up a list of her dream schools, Polk Elementary would have been at the top.
Judith shook her head. “I asked Mr. Broadbush to reach out to his fellow board members, to soothe ruffled feathers. He agreed, because he somehow thinks your program has a chance of succeeding. But you’ve only got a very narrow space to work in. One more misstep, and the Fair will have no choice but to invoke your morals clause. You’ll be asked to resign, without a single hesitation.”
Sam knew she should be worried. She should be disappointed that she was being given such a short leash, that she was being forced to work on such a stripped down vision of her dream. She should be terrified that she had no remaining room for error—one more false step, and she was doomed forever.
But she couldn’t keep from grinning as widely as if she’d just donned her Summer Queen tiara for the first time in her life.
* * *
Three days later, Sam was standing in front of a classroom, making her pitch for Musicall. She’d practiced her words for hours, rehearsing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom. She’d even recorded her voice on her phone, playing it back to listen for ums and ers, for any little distractions that might let attention stray.
And all of that preparation had served her well. She’d started off her morning meeting with Reginald Holcomb, the principal of James K. Polk elementary. The man had actually given her half an hour out of his busy day, looking at the charts she presented, studying her statistics about how music classes helped children with their academics, increasing self-esteem and problem-solving ability.
Apparently, that presentation had constituted jumping through a hoop she hadn’t known existed. Holcomb’s eventual smile spread across his face like sunshine on a field of spring-green shoots. The principal invited her to repeat her presentation three times during the day, to teachers taking their lunch breaks in the faculty lounge.
Speaking to the educators, Sam was doubly, triply, quadruply glad she had rehearsed her words so thoroughly. If she had been any less prepared, she would have been distracted by cans clanking free from the soft-drink machine, by whispers from teachers’ side conversations, by the scents of dozens of lunches, mingling in often unsavory ways. It didn’t help that someone burned a bag of popcorn in the microwave.
But serving as the Summer Queen had taught Sam a
Similar Books
