"You all right there, young man?"
The voice belonged to Mr. Delacroix, the elderly music teacher who rarely interacted with students outside his classes. His accent carried traces of his New Orleans upbringing—warm and melodic, even in simple conversation.
Elijah straightened up quickly. "Yes, sir. Just heading to class."
Mr. Delacroix studied him with keen blue eyes that seemed to see more than Elijah was comfortable sharing. "You're Elijah Walker, aren't you?"
Surprised to be recognized, Elijah nodded.
"I heard Cartwright's announcement," the old teacher said, his expression unreadable. "Not very professional, was it?"
Elijah shrugged, unsure how to respond to a teacher criticizing the principal.
Mr. Delacroix gestured toward the open door behind him. "I was just about to have my lunch. Care to join me? My classroom's quieter than the cafeteria."
Elijah hesitated, then nodded. He followed the teacher into the music room, a spacious classroom with chairs arranged in a semicircle and various instruments stored along the walls. At the front of the room stood a grand piano, its polished black surface gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Have a seat anywhere," Mr. Delacroix said, moving to a small desk in the corner where a paper bag lunch awaited him. "I don't bite."
Elijah chose a chair near the door, still clutching his books like a shield. His eyes, however, kept drifting to the piano.
Mr. Delacroix noticed. "Do you play?" he asked casually, unwrapping a sandwich.
"No," Elijah replied automatically, the denial coming as easily as breathing.
The old teacher raised an eyebrow but didn't push. They sat in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes, Mr. Delacroix eating his lunch while Elijah gradually relaxed his grip on his books.
When the bell rang signaling the end of the period, Elijah stood to leave. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly.
Mr. Delacroix nodded. "My door's always open, Mr. Walker. Sometimes a quiet room is all we need to hear ourselves think."