Chapter 9: The Unexpected, When in Rome & One Last Card
The Unexpected (and Mr. Roger’s Hair)
Gracie Rae never set out to lead the choir or band.
She liked music. Loved it, actually. Singing came naturally, and she didn’t mind helping with sectionals or jumping on the piano when someone needed a note. But standing at the front of the room, conducting her peers like she actually knew what she was doing? That wasn’t in her senior-year plan.
Then life did what it does—it flipped everything upside down.
Three weeks before the spring concert, their choir and band director, Mr. Rogers, had to leave campus suddenly. His wife had gotten seriously ill and needed to be flown back to the States. He’d hoped to finish out the quarter until the spring concert, but the school stepped in and insisted he go. And so, he did.
Cue the chaos.
Rumors swirled. “Are we still having the concert?” “Who’s going to lead us?” “Please not Mr. Sumpter. He thinks clarinets are woodwinds and percussion.” Being a boarding school, it wasn’t like you could just call someone up to come teach at the drop of a hat.
Then, out of nowhere, Gracie got called into the office.
Apparently, Mr. Rogers had left a recommendation behind. Gracie Rae Miller.
She’d been his unofficial assistant all year—backing him up during rehearsals, helping lead sectionals, playing piano, and whispering reminders to the trumpet players when they got too excited. He believed she could finish what he started.
The office staff did too.
Gracie stared. “You want me to teach… and lead the concert? Both choir and band?” Never mind that she’d never even been in band until her senior year. She hadn’t even looked at a full score before then.
“Yes,” they said. “You’ve already been doing half of it anyway.”
So for the next two and a half weeks, Gracie juggled classes and rehearsals. The school kindly rearranged her schedule, gave her access to Mr. Rogers’ office, and cleared time for her to prepare. Band one hour, choir the next. She scribbled notes in the margins of her music binder, clapped out rhythms on the chalkboard, waved her arms around with enough conviction to fake authority, and prayed the tenors would stop harmonizing in whatever key pleased them most.
On the first day, her hands were sweating and her heart was pounding. Was she really about to teach her peers? Apparently, yes. So she did what she knew: she copied Mr. Rogers.
Everyone was talking, some ignoring her altogether, until she stepped onto the podium. But she remembered his rule: when the director stepped on the podium, everyone went silent.
So, she tapped the director’s wand. Heads turned.
She swallowed and said, “The same rules that applied to Mr. Rogers apply to me. So when I step on this podium, I expect quiet. Everyone look at my eyes.”
Without realizing it, she pointed to her own eyes.
That did the trick. They listened. But from that day forward, “Look at my eyes” became an inside joke among her peers. They’d say it with exaggerated hand gestures, pointing to their own faces like overly dramatic soap opera stars.
Gracie didn’t mind. It was funny. And it meant they were listening.
There were moments of total chaos and moments that actually felt amazing.
“Okay,” she called out during one rehearsal, arms raised. “I need actual notes this time. Not whatever dying seagull noise that was.”
“It’s called artistic freedom,” someone yelled from the trombones.
“It’s called an auditory nightmare,” Gracie shot back, grinning. “Take it from the top. Again.”
And then came the mystery of Mr. Rogers’ hair.
It had long been a quiet debate: how did his hair never move, never grow, and never change shape?
One afternoon while reviewing notes in his office, Gracie came across a photo album from his previous school in Oregon. Flipping through it casually, she froze at a family photo.
There he was.
Bald.
Not buzzed or thinning—completely bald on top.
She burst out laughing, loud enough that Carrie, walking by, stopped and poked her head in.
“I can’t unsee it,” Gracie said, holding up the album.
They laughed until they cried. Why it was so funny, only high school seniors could explain. But now they knew he either had implants or wore a toupee.
Of course, Gracie never told anyone else. But they knew that when he returned from the States, they’d never be able to see him the same again.
By the time concert night rolled around, Gracie was exhausted, exhilarated, and pretty sure her right eyelid was twitching involuntarily.
But they pulled it off.
The harmonies blended. The band played amazingly. Parents clapped like they were front row at Broadway. A few even wiped away tears.
Backstage, Lisa bear-hugged her. “You crushed it. You’re like Mr. Rogers now. Except shorter. And cuter.”
Gracie laughed; arms full of sheet music. “I haven’t slept in two weeks, Lisa.”
Still, something about it stuck. She had done it scared. And it had mattered.
When In Rome
Just days later, the senior trip to Rome began.
One full week in Italy with all her classmates, a million stairs, rivers of pasta, and more unsolicited male attention than any of them bargained for.
They stayed in a monastery, the kind with real nuns who made breakfast every morning and shushed them gently if their laughter echoed too loudly through the stone halls. Each morning smelled like warm hot baked rolls delivered from the local town bakery and espresso so strong it could wake the dead. Each night felt like something out of a European coming-of-age movie.
Some days they walked for hours—up ancient staircases, across sprawling plazas, through museum after museum. Lisa’s feet were covered in blisters by day three, and Lisa was convinced her legs would never work the same again. Gracie, by some miracle, had packed two decent pairs of walking shoes and was voted “least likely to complain, but most likely to fall asleep mid-gelato.”
Despite all the carbs they consumed, they somehow lost weight.
And then there was Riley Cooper.
By day two, he had been pooped on twice. By day four, it had happened four more times.
“Nobody stand next to Riley!” someone yelled.
Even the nuns laughed.
Italian men, it seemed, had a radar for blondes—and Lisa was glowing like a lighthouse in every piazza they entered. The catcalls, the whistles, the sudden bouquet offers... it was ridiculous.
“Gracie,” Lisa hissed near the Trevi Fountain. “Help me. They’re multiplying.”
Gracie stepped in with firm, flawless Spanish. “Lo siento, pero no está interesada. Ella tiene un novio muy celosos.”
Translation: Sorry, she’s not interested. She has a very jealous boyfriend.
It worked.
Lisa bought her gelato in gratitude.
One afternoon, in the catacombs, Gracie fell behind the group. Not because she was tired—but because she saw an opportunity. A shadowy nook. Echoing footsteps. Perfect acoustics.
She crouched inside one of the catacombs, waited for just the right moment, then jumped out and whispered loudly, “Join usssssss.”
Renee shrieked. Someone dropped their camera. Riley screamed louder than the girls.
“GRACIE RAE MILLER!”
“You should’ve seen your faces!” she laughed, doubling over.
“You’re going to give someone a heart attack!” Renee huffed.
“Totally worth it,” Gracie grinned.
Later that night, they recounted it over pizza in a tucked-away Roman alley, still laughing until they cried.
One afternoon, Gracie took a few minutes to be alone which was a rarity on this trip looking at the beauty all around sitting there on the Spanish Steps, Whitney Houston playing in her Walkman, a massive piece of ciabatta resting in her lap. She wasn’t crying—but her heart was wide open. The age, the beauty, the chaos of Rome stirred something in her.
She took a deep breath.
God was still with her. Even here.
And one day, she hoped to come back.
One Last Card
Back at school, the final two month’s hit hard.
Gracie had mono. And not just regular mono, but chronic mono according to her last Doctor’s appointment. It was full-blown, can’t-keep-your-eyes-open kind of mono. For almost eight weeks, she floated through classes like a ghost. She napped during lunch breaks, lived off crackers and sprite until the dorm completely ran out, and still somehow turned in every assignment on time.
And by the end of the year? She had the best grades of her life. The impact Dr. Stephens had that one day back in early February was just what she needed to start believing in herself again.
But even then, no one was more surprised than she was, except her dad. He knew how difficult this school was and never said a word at any grade she ever got on her report card.
She wasn’t just finishing school. She was finishing well. Even sick. Even stretched thin. Even heart-weary.
She found herself journaling late one night: "I didn’t just survive this year. I became someone I like. Thank you, Lord for giving me the strength to get through and grow."
In May, she sat on her bed with a stack of graduation announcements.
Ten, to be exact.
That’s all she could afford.
She sent one to her grandparents. One to a teacher who’d gone out of their way to encourage her. A few to family friends. And a couple to classmates she genuinely cared about.
That left one card.
And for some reason, Josh came to mind.
She hadn’t thought about him all year. Well—except once, around Christmas. She’d thought about writing him. Maybe. But she’d told herself not to. He’s probably forgotten all about me.
But now, with that final card in her hand, his name floated up again.
She remembered the conference a year ago. How she stood him up when he asked her to go go-carting one night. And then the two letters he wrote over the summer asking for her address there in boarding school, which she never gave. Should she really write him? There’s no way he could still like her?
Gracie flipped the card over and began to write:
"I hope you’re doing great in Bible school in Belgium.
It’s been a hard year, but the Lord has gotten me through and I’m about to graduate.
I’ll be here one more month before I head to the States.
I got accepted at Southeastern University in Florida.
Smiles, Gracie."
She sealed it. Placed it on top of the outgoing stack.
And just like that—she let it go.
What she didn’t know was that miles away in Belgium…
Josh hadn’t forgotten either.
Another cliffhanger!! Why am I not surprised??? 🤣