Everyone knew better than to tease her about the Jasper Townes’s no-show at the raffle—they didn’t want their feet swept, after all. And they were all very impressed with the baseball donation. She’d accepted their congratulations regally and with the Cheshire-cat grin her mom had taught her.
Mr. Caldera’s voice, soothing yet authoritative, nothing-can-possibly-go-wrong-on-my-watch voice emerged from the crackles.
“All classes report to the auditorium for a brief special assembly to begin at eleven o’clock. Please be in your seats in the auditorium at exactly five minutes to eleven o’clock. Thank you.”
Principal Gabe signed off.
Teachers squelched the excited speculation, but even they yearned to text each other with speculations of their own, and mourned just a little that they were already adults and had to be reasonable and wait patiently.
At eleven o’clock sharp all butts from grades kindergarten through eight were in the auditorium chairs, wriggling and giggling.
Until Mr. Caldera strolled out onto the stage.
“Quiet please,” he said into the mic.
Silence didn’t so much descend as swoop. You could have heard an eyelash bat.
That’s all he said.
A second later, the huge heavy old curtain, which they hoped to replace in the next fund-raiser, shimmied upward.
To reveal a thin man sitting on a stool, looking down at his lap. He was wearing jeans and boots and a bowler hat perched on a wild head of hair. A microphone was set up in front of him. He was cradling a guitar.
(The guitar was Veronica.)
The wondering murmurs started up again. And then the man took one finger and tipped the brim of his hat upward. “Better late than never, right?” he said into the mic.
With a rakish grin.
And then comprehension set in.
A gleeful pandemonium erupted. WOOOOOOOOOs and stomps and squeals. Annelise was practically doing jumping jacks.
Thiswas exactly the kind of entrance Jasper loved.
He cleared his throat and like magic, everyone settled down and went silent.
“This song is a work in progress, but I’m calling it ‘Annelise in A minor.’”
He strummed a wistful progression, lilting and arpeggiate.
And then he crooned over the chords.
“Annelise... oh Annelise...
The wind in the trees sings of sweet Annelise.
The bees hum to me have you seen Annelise...
And when I make a grilled cheese I woooooonder...
what Annelise...
is... doing... now.”
He whispered that last sentence. Just like she’d suggested.
Annelise was hopping up and down in her chair in an absolute conniption of vindication and joy, that’s what she was doing now.