Lead Me Home by Stacy Hawkins Adams

morning she’d be in her sunroom practicing the flute, or completing some of her household chores. That was familiar. That felt comfortable. Being in the classroom with the students had been exhilarating, but teacher politics might be the end of her.

sixteen
    Lack of sleep left Shiloh less perky this morning than she had been on Day One.
    She had tossed and turned most of the night, fretting over her inadequacies. What if her informal teaching style meant she wasn’t giving students what they needed? What if the other teachers protested her presence? Not only would she be embarrassed, so would Randy.
    She wanted to talk with him about her concerns, but feared he’d tell her she should have thought about all of that before taking the position. Yesterday, he and the boys had celebrated her first day of teaching by preparing dinner and surprising her with a cake. Their thoughtfulness made her feel special, but the butterflies remained, even after a brief chat with Dr. Carter, who assured her that she had received a full endorsement from officials at the state Board of Education.
    “Dr. Singleton, Sherman Park’s principal, is well aware that you are two years away from completing your bachelor’s degree,” Dr. Carter told her. “She also knows you are a talented musician with one-on-one teaching experience, and that you have a way of connecting with students. You aren’t the first non-degreed person we’ve had in the classroom. We don’t do it often, but on occasion, there’s good reason for exceptions, and with the school year so close to starting, we needed your help.”
    He reminded her that he’d already received a glowing letter of reference from the current dean of the music education department atBirmingham-Southern, who had reviewed her undergraduate records and reported that she left the college in good standing, with high honors. A letter was also en route from the university in Paris, where Shiloh spent the summer after her sophomore year, studying with master flutists.
    “How many people can say they’ve done something spectacular like that?” Dr. Carter asked. “Don’t worry about anything; you’re good to go.”
    Shiloh clung to those words this morning, half an hour before the first period, as she wrote scales on the chalkboard that she wanted her students to practice as a warm-up. Mrs. Helmsley had provided a range of ideas, and this was one of them.
    There was a light tap at the door, and Monica poked her head inside. “Good morning. You’re here early.”
    “Good morning, Mrs. Griffin,” Monica said. “May I come in?”
    “Sure. Grab a seat and give me a minute.”
    Shiloh scribbled the rest of the musical notes on the board before sitting next to the girl, in the front row of the C-shaped setup.
    “I just wanted to follow up on what I mentioned yesterday, about becoming a professional flutist, and ask how to go about doing that. I know I should go to a school with a good music program, and I’ve looked at a few online, but I have no clue which ones are really good, outside of the famous ones we all know about, like Juilliard and Berkeley. My private teacher keeps talking about those, and I’ll probably apply, but I wondered if you could give me some guidance on some other good programs, too.”
    “Have you talked to your guidance counselor?” At Lem’s high school, part of the guidance counselor’s job was to help juniors and seniors plan for college; Shiloh was certain the counselors at a magnet school like Sherman Park would offer that kind of assistance, and more.
    Monica nodded. “Yes, but he doesn’t take my flute idea seriously. He keeps telling me to stop treating a hobby as a career path, plus I’m just in tenth grade, so he says I’m rushing things. But when I search online, I see there are flutists playing in orchestras, collaborating with recording artists, and performing in other arenas. I really want to do something like that, and I’m afraid if I wait until my