Sheila Plays Dirty

 

Sheila took a zippered bank bag from the desk. Sunlight streamed through tall windows at the end of the rehearsal room as she slid the battered drawer closed.

She jiggled the bag, weighing it, while doing a quick calculation in her head. “Must be at least six hundred,” she whispered into the stillness. Enough for a first-chair coronet player’s lifetime supply of bonbons.

The door swung open.

Sheila stuffed the bank bag down the front of her uniform jacket. Mr. Humphries, the band director, stalked toward her. “What is that?” he asked. “In the front of your uniform?”

“Mr. Humphries! Are you pointing at my…chest?” Sheila smiled, eyes like pools of black ice. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sheila. You stuffed something down your jacket.” He moved behind the desk and opened the middle drawer. “The money for the band trip is missing.” He held out his right hand, palm up. “Hand it over, missy.”

Sheila’s hand went to the top of her gold-trimmed band uniform. “I can rip this and scream, Mr. Humphries.” Her fist closed on the soft black lapel. “Or you can let me go. People will probably think you stole the money.” Her other hand rose and grasped the opposite lapel.

The band director paled. “You wouldn’t—”

“Oh yes. I would.” Sheila giggled. “It all depends on whether you’d rather take the rap for interfering with me or for petty theft, Mr. Humphries.” She dropped her hands to her sides and strode out the door.

Mr. Humphries left town the next morning.

Sheila stayed. Her career had begun.