Chapter 17
Mr. Weber’s baton came down, and the music stopped. His obsession with The Four Seasons hadn’t let up over the Christmas break in the slightest, and Darren itched to break off a string and garrotte the melodramatic German weasel with it.
“You’d think he’d be more into Wagner,” one of the cellists muttered after Weber had flounced his way out, and Darren was inclined to agree. And Wagner wasn’t so bloody boring. He’d be playing in his sleep by the summer.
He didn’t notice Jayden coming in until he was at his shoulder and helping collapse the music stand. He stuck out in the melee of St. John’s blacks, his polo shirt, hideous maroon jumper and lack of a tie looking sloppy compared to the collected, united front of the orchestra. Mr. Weber didn’t accept scruffy appearance as leg
