Fan Fequel Snippet

At last, the line of cars crept into the pickup lane. As it slowed to a stop, Christine parked and leaned forward in her seat to locate her son. Her eyes passed over his “spot”—he wasn’t there. Erik, she thought as a bitter taste filled her mouth. No. He wouldn’t dare… Knuckles white against the steering wheel, Christine pulled around and went through carline once more. Still, Gustave was missing. She pulled into the parking lot in front of the school and rushed inside.
A tall, tight-lipped woman raced her fingers across the keys of the front desk’s computer, and it reminded Christine of a certain someone’s prowess on the piano.
“Can I help you?” the secretary asked absently, her fingers unflinching.
Christine pulled a smile over clenched teeth,
“Hi, I’m here to pick up my son. He’s not in carline.”
The woman ceased to type and pulled up a new window on the monitor.
“Name?”
“Christine de Chagney.”
“No, your son’s name.”
“Oh. Gustave Fantome.”
For the first time, the woman glanced up at Christine, her eybrow raised in prudish skepticism. Still, she punched in the boy’s name, and his school picture popped up, along with a spreadsheet of his grades and attendance. The woman’s expression never changed.
“My record says he was absent today.”
Christine’s stomach twisted. The woman looked up at her,
“Do you know where he might be?”
“Oh, I know exactly where he is.”
Angered past formalities, Christine turned and stormed out of the school.
Music reverberated through the elevator shaft as Christine rode up to the penthouse loft. Her foot tapped impatiently, defying the infectious melody.
Blasts of electric guitar racked her ears as the doors opened to his loft. Erik was standing on his couch, manning a black Gibson les Paul plugged into an amplifier that must have been breaking several building codes. And sure enough, Gustave sat at the grand piano; a powerful melody erupted beneath his fingers. He was still in his PJs, his face alight with glee as he harmonized with his father.
For a moment, Christine stood mesmerized by the two-person symphony. Erik leaped from the sofa without missing a note and faced his son at the piano as the tension in the music rose. Gustave trembled with delight and gazed up at his father as if venerating a god.
Christine forced herself through the deafening music and ripped the guitar cable from its amp. For good measure, she hurled It onto the hard wood floor. Two sets of wide eyes stared at her from the piano, instruments still poised in the couple’s hands.
“You are really a piece of work, Erik,” Christine’s lips curled mirthlessly, teeth still clenched beneath them.
“What do you want?” Erik asked coldly, unflinching.
Christine stepped up to him,
“I want my son to come home where he belongs. Gustave, get dressed. We’re leaving.”
Gustave’s fingers slammed onto the keys, “Mooommm!!”
Erik let out a sigh,
“Gustave, go to your room.”
“But—”
“Go to your room!!” both parents shouted in unison. Their heads snapped back to glare at each other.
Gustave leaped to his feet and rushed down to his bedroom. Christine waited until his footsteps faded and a door slammed shut on the floor below. She refused to break her gaze with Erik, whose wild, icy eyes tried to beat her down.
“I’m calling the police,” she said at last.