The next morning felt strangely normal. No bullies cornering us in the halls, no claws itching to come out. Just the two of us finding our rhythm in the grind of classes and cafeteria noise. Gabriel and I were cutting through the hallway toward study hall when something bright on the bulletin board caught my eye.
“Hey,” I said, stopping Gabriel with a hand on his shoulder. “Check this out.”
A fresh poster had been pinned up — bold black letters across bright white paper:
Cape Cod High School Jazz Band Concert — Tonight, 7 PM. Free Admission.
And underneath, a list of featured players. Right there at the top: Trumpet Solo — Mark Harcourt.
Gabriel smirked. “Well, well. Guess we found our evening plans.”
I grinned back. “No way we’re missing that. Gotta see what the new guy’s really made of.”
That night, the auditorium was packed tighter than I’d expected for a school band concert. Parents and siblings filled the rows, murmuring and adjusting programs. The stage was already set, gleaming brass and polished woodwinds lined up in neat arcs under the harsh white lights.
Gabriel leaned toward me as we sat down in the middle rows. “Man, you smell that? Whole place reeks of perfume and nerves.”
I smirked, but my eyes locked on Mark when he walked out with the band. Crisp black slacks, white shirt, bow tie slightly crooked — he looked nervous, chewing his lip as he adjusted the trumpet in his hands. But when the director tapped his baton, the jitters melted off him. The music started, smooth and swinging, and Mark transformed.
By the time his solo came, the room went silent except for his horn. He didn’t just play; he commanded it. Notes soared sharp and clear, bending with emotion, cutting through the auditorium like a voice all its own. Every ounce of that soft-spoken kid we’d seen in class was gone. On stage, he was fire.
Gabriel’s jaw actually dropped. I caught myself smiling, impressed in spite of myself.
When the final piece ended, applause thundered through the hall. Parents stood. Kids whistled. Mark flushed red but gave a tiny bow before disappearing offstage with the rest of the band.
We caught him by the exit before he reached his parents. He jumped a little when he saw us waiting, still buzzing from his performance.
“Holy hell, Mark,” Gabriel said, clapping him on the shoulder. “That wasn’t just good. That was professional.”
I nodded, grinning. “You lit that horn up like you owned it. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Mark stammered, still blushing. “I—uh—thanks. I’ve been playing a long time. My dad says music’s kind of a family thing. But—uh—it means a lot, hearing it from you guys.”
We both stepped aside so his family could get to him, his mom and dad beaming with pride, siblings crowding around. But before he slipped away, I leaned in and told him: “Don’t think that performance went unnoticed. You’re full of surprises, Harcourt.”
He gave me the smallest, shyest smile, and for just a second, I thought I caught that faint glimmer — that wolf spark hiding under his skin — before his parents whisked him off into the night.