"Tempo, class!" Mr. Calloway shouted. "Music is not just notes. It is the space between the notes. It is the silence. It is the rush. Adagio. Allegro. Presto."
Alex tapped his pen on his desk.
Tempo.
That was football.
Atletico Madrid played Largo—slow, heavy, painful.
Mark played Presto—fast, frantic, breathless.
"Mr. Finch?"
Alex looked up. "Yes, sir?"
"You are tapping in 4/4 time," Mr. Calloway said. "But the piece is in 3/4. You are disrupting the waltz."
"Sorry, sir," Alex said. "I was thinking about Manchester City. They play in a perfect 4/4 beat. It is... hypnotic."
"Well, try to keep the football on the pitch," the teacher sighed. "And bring your flute tomorrow. You have a recital."
Alex groaned. A recital. He could play in front of eighty thousand people, but playing a flute in front of twenty teenagers was terrifying.
School finished. Alex walked out.
The street was blocked.
Not by traffic. By a single vehicle.
It was a Monster Truck.
