Another Song For Me. Jean Castaing

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      Another Song For Me

      Jean Castaing

      Copyright © 2012 Jean Castaing

      No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

      The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.

      2012-12-10

      Dedication

      Thanks to my incredible writing groups. Your constant help and encouragement have been the most rewarding part of this journey.

      And thanks to my husband,Chuck, who never suggested I give up.

      Acknowledgments

      I wish to express my gratitude to the 2012 Jazz Choir members at Santa Susanna Performing Arts High School in Simi Valley, CA. The hours I spent interviewing the students and their director, Bevin Abbe, and watching them perform, enabled me to understand their passion for music and dedication to their craft. They were an amazing, inspirational group.

      Thank you Mrs. Abbe, Cassidy Cooper, Diane Benedict, Grace Lewis, Hannah Nawroth, Isabella Moore, Kaitie Krough, Kevin Karp, Kevin Pugh, Lynnzee Fraye, Mady Racy, Ryan Nagelman, Sara Mulford, Trevor Newton, Wes Cole, and Zach Bloom.

      First Chapter

      When messenger boy whisked into Glee Club, handed Miss Anderson the note and leered at me, I knew it was bad news. Messenger boys don’t deliver good news. It’s like in the old black and white movies when people got telegrams. Their hearts would stop.

      As I stepped forward in the windowless rehearsal room, I could feel every eye in there focus on my backside. Not how I’d hoped to get recognition. “Busted,” I mumbled, and then hurried to the counselor’s office.

      A tight-lipped receptionist ushered me into cubicle C. “Have a seat, Madison,” she said, her voice cold as the chair I sat in. She dropped a manila folder on the desk and left. Where was a shredder when I needed one? The story of my less than six impressive months at Graystone Academy lay before me. Gravestone Academy would have been a more fitting name. I squirmed for several minutes, and then pulled the brochure I’d been studying since yesterday out of my pocket.

       Dixie Days High School Jazz Festival!

       New Orleans, LA August 23-26, 2005

      I figured a Glee Club gig in New Orleans might be cool. Of course any place would be better than Harriman, Tennessee. But I was overcome with a sickening feeling that the chance of my being a part of that adventure was slipping away. I folded the brochure until it was the size of a cracker and crammed it deep into my pocket. The clock ticked as I waited for J. Peters, basketball coach, math teacher, part-time counselor, and full-time jerk. Eight long minutes passed before he squeezed his big body into the stuffy space that now smelled like locker room sweat. He sat down and sucked a stream of air between his teeth. I cringed.

      “Well Miss Michael, we meet again.”

      Unable to detect a hint of human emotion in the man’s voice, I nodded “It’s Michaels, not Michael.”

      He glanced at his nerdy, multi-function watch and flipped open my file. “It’s March 1^st.. You’ve been on academic probation for three months and obviously have made little effort to improve. Looking at your records, it appears that your IQ is adequate.”

      Oh how I wanted to stick my face right in front of his and let him know that my brain worked just fine in California, where teachers liked me, knew my name, where kids knew who I was by the way I walked, by the sound of my voice. It had taken six months for anyone at Graystone to acknowledge I even existed. I was Miss Cellophane. Totally invisible. I had begun to feel comfortable in Glee Club, but it was clear that being accepted and belonging were very different things.

      “Does anything motivate you?” Peters asked.

      I fingered the brochure in my pocket and shrugged. With the exception of Miss Anderson, not a soul in this school had even tried to motivate me.

      Peters shook his oversized head. “Does any person inspire you?”

      I started to say yes. But it was a long time ago and it still hurt too much to talk about it. Certainly not something I wanted to share with the imposter sitting in front of me. He handed me an envelope.

      “Here’s what you need to do if you have any hope of returning in the fall. It’s a contract. Make sure your parents sign it. They haven’t responded to any phone calls.”

      My face warmed up. Excuse time again. “They’re hardly ever around. My dad’s a doctor and my mom’s a music professor at the University of Tennessee. She’s in Nashville most of the time.”

      I hoped Jerk Peters would feel sorry for me, give me a break. He just sneered. “I’m aware of your father’s position, and while I didn’t know your mother, I do know she had a record of achievements at this school that not many could match. Frankly, we expected much more of you. They must be so proud.”

      I glared at this so called counselor and wondered if he understood how much it hurts to live your life as a disappointment. He stood up, hovered over me and fixed his gaze on my moist eyes.

      “Forget the pity party,” he said. “I’ve heard it all before. And don’t think your father’s money will buy you out of this,” he said, and then lumbered out of the room.

      Stunned at his outrageous comments, it took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to shout, “It’s no wonder our basketball team’s in last place.”

      The minute he was out of sight, I grabbed my backpack, and ran outside to wait for Grandpa. A cutting wind snaked up my hoodie as I wiggled onto the low stone wall surrounding the prestigious school. Only 900 students, hand selected for one reason or another. I’d bet Jefferson Davis roamed the hallowed halls of Graystone during the Civil War. Maybe his ghost still lurks around at night.

      I knew only too well that my mom had been class valedictorian, cheerleader, and homecoming queen. I knew she’d hoped I’d come around and measure up. But, eight months ago, the morning we boarded the plane at Los Angeles International Airport, it was clear the reason we were moving back to Tennessee had nothing to do with Madison Michaels becoming the new pride of Graystone Academy.

      I glanced at my watch. Grandpa said he’d pick me up at three on the nose. He’d be on time. According to my mother, punctuality was her father’s one good quality. Ten minutes to go, so I opened my social studies notebook and tried to make sense of the most unusual assignment any normal teacher could have dreamed up. Of course, no one ever accused Mr. Silver of being normal. Unfortunately, my only hope of bringing up my grades and getting to New Orleans was to pull an A on my term paper.

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