Melody stood on her tippy-toes and straightened it. ‘Perfect, Mr P.’
He ruffled her hair with affection, then straightened her headband and bow. ‘Remember, you are the elusive Melody Trumpet. Let’s keep it that way. You are a muse for these girls. A genius. But most of all, a mystery.’
‘That’s me,’ she said, shooting him a wry smile. ‘Alright, let’s do this.’
Melody opened the door. The girl at the front of the line — a beaming blonde holding a jet-black wig — squealed.
‘It’s her!’ she shrieked, thrusting a glittery red marker and a poster of a young Viola Trumpet into Melody’s hands. ‘Can I get your autograph?’
Mr Pizzicato shook his head. ‘There will be no autographs! This is an audition, and it starts now, so have a little decorum, please, everyone.’
‘Sorry,’ Melody whispered to the girl. She wasn’t used to this sort of attention.
‘She spoke to me,’ the girl squealed, covering her mouth. She spun around to the other girls and shouted, ‘Melody Trumpet spoke to me!’
Everyone buzzed with excitement.
‘Quiet!’ bellowed Mr Pizzicato. ‘Anyone else who so much as whispers to Miss Trumpet will be escorted out by security. Now, please follow me. We haven’t got all day.’
The girls filed up the steps and into the manor, clinging to each other with nerves and excitement. Their eyes widened as they took in the grand foyer and the two sweeping staircases leading up to the separate wings.
One girl murmured, ‘This is just how I dreamed it would be. I’ve got to tell my parents. I’ve got to tell everyone everything . . . Everything.’
Mr Pizzicato shot Royce a look. Royce scooped the girl up in his arms, threw her over his shoulder and carried her out the door.
She began to cry and promised that she wouldn’t tell anyone anything. ‘Not a soul,’ she sobbed. ‘Not even my mum.’
Another girl couldn’t resist inspecting a bowl of lemons displayed on a coffee table. ‘Melody’s probably touched these,’ she whispered to her friend as she slipped a lemon into her backpack. ‘It’ll be worth a fortune.’
Mr Pizzicato gave the nod to Royce, who retrieved the lemon and carried the girl outside.
Mr Pizzicato climbed onto a chair to address the group of Melodys now crammed into the grand foyer. ‘Is anyone else here other than to audition for the role of Melody Trumpet?’
The room fell quiet, except for a loud crunching sound. Everyone looked around for the culprit. It was Miss Sprinkles, gnawing on a carrot as she stared in awe at the Melody lookalikes. Her face flushed a deep crimson and she returned to wiping down one of the archways that led off the grand foyer.
‘Come along then,’ announced Mr Pizzicato, rubbing his lower back as he got down from the chair. ‘To the theatre we go!’
The girls, many of them biting their lips to mask their excitement and stifle their ‘Ooohs’ and ‘Ahhhs’, followed Mr Pizzicato and Melody along the winding hallways of Trumpet Manor, past marble pillars and doorways and room after room, towards the theatre. Previously, it had only been used for Mr or Mrs Trumpet’s birthday celebrations, and private concerts for VIP guests.
Melody plonked herself down in the third row of the plush red velvet seats, while Mr Pizzicato fussed about on stage with the other Melodys, handing out numbered tags and getting them into order. Then he ushered them backstage, and rushed out through the stage lights and down the steps to join Melody.
‘There’s more than one hundred people here to audition,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this, Melody. It might just work.’
Melody leaned forward, her elbows on the seat in front of her, her chin resting in her palms. It was time to see if any of these girls could be everything she wasn’t herself.
7.
The auditions
‘Melody One, you’re up!’ Mr Pizzicato bellowed into the darkness.
A spotlight sparked up on stage. A tiny girl, much shorter than Melody, toddled out from the wings and positioned herself in the yellow circle. Her hair was a fiery red, close to the colour of the seats, and her face was sprinkled with freckles. She pulled on a jet-black wig and squinted into the bright stage lights.
‘You may begin,’ Mr Pizzicato said.
After a small nod, she launched into a wobbly version of ‘Humpty Dumpty’. Melody cringed. Did she sound this awful? Melody One’s performance had only just begun, but the real Melody already wanted a pair of earplugs.
‘Not great,’ she whispered to Mr Pizzicato. ‘Although I guess that means she’s nailing the impersonation of me.’
He swallowed a laugh, then pursed his lips. ‘This is serious, Melody. Need I remind you again?’
Melody rolled her eyes, not that Mr Pizzicato could see her in the dark. ‘Either way, she’s not right. I’m sure she’s positively lovely, but with those freckles, her height and voice, people will know immediately she’s not me.’
‘Thank you, that will be all,’ Mr Pizzicato called out to Melody One, who was still stumbling over the lyrics. ‘We appreciate you coming in. The exit is down the steps and to your left. Royce will escort you out of the manor.’
‘Is that a no?’ Melody One asked. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘I’m sorry, the voice isn’t quite there. Keep practising and, ah, I’m sure there’ll be other roles you’ll be perfect for,’ Mr Pizzicato fibbed, trying to soften the bad news.
Melody stared at her palms. She couldn’t handle critiquing more girls like this.
But Melody One wasn’t budging. ‘Perhaps if Melody — hi, Melody! I love you! — could sing a line or two, I could do my best to imitate her?’
‘We’re very short on time,’ Mr Pizzicato said. ‘I asked for an extraordinary voice, and I’m sorry but you don’t fit the requirements.’
Melody One nodded and hurried off the stage, wiping away tears.
‘Was that necessary, Mr P?’ Melody whispered. ‘That was pretty mean.’
‘The media will be more than mean to us if we don’t nail the Debut Gala performance,’ he said, his mouth cemented into a rigid line. ‘It will be a bloodbath.’
One by one, each Melody filed out to perform, followed by a short, fiery whispering session between Mr Pizzicato and the real Melody.
‘Melody Five is too pale.’
‘Agreed. And too quiet.’
‘Much too quiet.’
‘I like Melody Twenty-Nine. She’s got spunk. She’s bubbly.’
‘You’re not bubbly.’
‘I am too!’
‘Melody Twenty-Nine is far too tall. If this was a normal production, I would cast her in a second. She’s perfect in every other way. But she has to be you at the Debut Gala. We can’t just slap a wig on her and hope that people don’t notice the difference in height. There will be hundreds of people in the audience, and the media will be circling for any scrap of gossip. If they notice anything awry, we’re doomed. Let’s move on.’
‘Fine. But I still like her. And I am bubbly.’
‘Are not,’ Mr Pizzicato muttered, before calling in the next Melody.
‘Forty-Six is good.’
‘Too squeaky.’
‘What about Sixty-One?’
‘Her voice is too deep.’
‘Seventy-Two!’ Mr Pizzicato called, then peered closer. A boy with strawberry blond hair beamed at Melody from the stage. ‘What are you doing up there, young man?’
‘Ah, hi, Melody,’ the boy mumbled. ‘Sorry to crash the auditions but I didn’t know how else to reach you. Want to go to the movies with me?’
‘Get out!’ Mr Pizzicato shouted, as Melody slunk down in her seat in embarrassment. ‘Seventy-Three!’
‘Too beautiful — she looks like a movie star,’ Melody said. ‘My mother would love her though. Hey, maybe she could play me for the rest of my life, and I can go and relax on a tropical island? That way, everyone wins.’
Even Mr Pizzicato smiled at that.
By sunset,
he and Melody had listened to one hundred and two girls audition, eaten three ice-cream sundaes with chocolate topping and cherries, and fallen asleep a total of thirteen times. Mr Pizzicato had to shake Melody awake when she began snoring through Melody Eighty-Eight’s performance.
Just one girl to go.
Melody One Hundred and Three.
‘This is it,’ Melody said to Mr Pizzicato.
He sighed. ‘If there was ever a time for a miracle . . .’
The girl walked onto the stage. Melody sat up straight in her chair. The long jet-black hair was perfect. Her height was spot-on. Her mannerisms were similar, very similar — it wouldn’t take long to perfect them.
‘Hi,’ Melody One Hundred and Three said with a smile.
Mr Pizzicato gasped. ‘She’s you! I don’t believe it!’
‘Are we sure I don’t have a twin?’
Mr Pizzicato laughed, then paused as though he was contemplating the possibility. He shook his head. ‘If only.’ He waved to the girl. ‘You may begin.’
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her bottom lip trembled, and her eyes darted around the theatre before she burst into tears. Then Melody One Hundred and Three sprinted into the wings.
‘Stage fright,’ Mr Pizzicato muttered. ‘That won’t do at all.’
Melody One Hundred and Three’s voice echoed through the theatre as she shrieked into her phone: ‘No, Mum! I can’t! I won’t! You can’t make me!’ A jet-black wig flew out from behind the curtains, slid across the stage and plopped into the front row of seats. ‘I don’t want to be an actor! I hate singing! You know that, Mum!’
Melody One Hundred and Three suddenly reappeared on the stage, tears streaking her cheeks. She ran down the steps, pushed the doors wide open and fled the theatre.
Mr Pizzicato sighed. ‘Guess that’s that then.’ He flopped forward in his seat with his head buried in his hands.
Melody hurried down to the front row to retrieve the wig. It looked like a limp animal in her arms. She twirled it around her hand. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Nothing,’ Mr Pizzicato said, snatching the wig from her. ‘There’s nothing more we can do. I’ll see you at music practice tomorrow.’
Muttering to himself, he stormed past Melody, tossed the wig into a bin in the corner of the theatre, and left.
Melody sucked in a deep breath. She’d seen Mr Pizzicato defeated in the past, but never like this. Sighing, she walked up the steps onto the stage, staring down at the empty seats. The yellow glow of the spotlight warmed Melody’s face as she imagined the theatre full of people munching popcorn and sipping drinks, applauding in all the right places, wiping away tears during the emotional moments.
She closed her eyes, feeling sick with nerves at the very thought.
8.
A sudden goodbye
Mr Pizzicato lay in silence on the couch in the secret soundproofed music studio inside the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children, his body frozen, his mouth slightly agape. It had been seven and a half minutes since he’d uttered a word to Melody.
‘Mr P,’ she said, putting down the glockenspiel mallet and waving her hand in front of his face. ‘Are you alright? Shall I keep playing?’
Nothing.
Melody took a step towards him. ‘Mr Pizzicato?’
Still nothing.
She returned to playing the glockenspiel, but froze when she heard a loud groan from Mr Pizzicato. Red with embarrassment, she put down the mallet and picked up a triangle and its metal beater. She hit the triangle and a rich, shimmering sound rang through the studio.
Mr Pizzicato sat up. ‘Do that again.’
Melody readjusted her position, her palms and the backs of her knees suddenly sweaty. Diiiiiiiing.
She looked at him.
‘Again,’ he repeated.
Diiiiiiiing. Diiiiiiiing. Diiiiiinnnnnnnnng.
‘Stop,’ he whispered. ‘Stop, stop, stop. I can’t believe it. It’s . . . it’s utterly terrible. I care for you like a daughter, Melody, but my ears can’t take another second. I’m done. Defeated.’
Melody plopped down on the carpet. ‘There’s no cure for what I have, is there? This . . . ordinariness?’ Her parents had used that word to describe her for years.
‘No, Melody. It appears not.’
‘And you can’t teach me to be more like my parents, can you?’
‘No, Melody. It appears not.’
Mr Pizzicato lay down again and pulled a blanket over his head.
‘Mr P?’ Melody said, rushing to his side. ‘Should I call a doctor?’
A loud, drawn-out sigh came from beneath the blanket. His bushy grey eyebrows peeked out the top. ‘No need. Just taking a second to plan how I’m going to fake my own death to escape this horrid mess. We may need a plan for you too.’
Melody couldn’t tell if he was joking.
‘I used to be good at teaching music. The best in the world, in fact. But for the first time, my techniques haven’t worked. I remember the day your parents first brought you into this studio like it was yesterday. Your fuzzy little mop of black hair. Your pink rosebud lips. But that screeching. Oh, that screeching.’
Melody dared to peel back the blanket a little. ‘Not everything can go to plan all the time, Mr P. I bet even the most brilliant people in the world thought they were failures after years of trying to split the atom, or land on the moon. And then one day they succeeded — because they never gave up. That’s how quickly things can change. Mr Pizzicato . . . are you listening to me?’
No response.
‘I know this isn’t what you wanted for your life,’ she continued, her voice a little softer. ‘But maybe it’s not what I wanted for mine either. And yes, we’ve been knocked down — many times — but we can try something different.’
We have to try something different, she thought, staring at the instruments all around the room.
‘Different!’ Mr Pizzicato threw back the blanket and sprang off the couch. ‘You’re right,’ he said, punching the air. ‘You’re right, Melody.’
‘I am?’ Melody’s eyes lit up. It may have been the first time he’d ever said those words to her. Maybe the first time anyone had ever said those words to her.
‘I need a new plan,’ he went on. ‘I need to try something different.’
‘Great! Want me to get some butcher’s paper and textas? We can brainstorm —’
‘No, Melody.’ He walked to his desk and swept all his belongings into his briefcase.
‘What are you doing, Mr P?’
‘Trying something different.’ He wriggled into his trenchcoat. ‘I’m taking my first holiday ever — maybe on a tropical island somewhere, like you said the other day. That sounds marvellous. I’m buying a one-way ticket and I don’t know when I’ll be back. You should do the same. Enjoy yourself.’
‘But . . . the Gala. It’s so soon!’ Melody pointed at the calendar pinned to the wall behind his desk. Giant red crosses marked down the days to the event. ‘What am I supposed to do? I have no one else to help me.’
‘I’m sorry, Melody, I have nothing more to teach you. I am useless to you and your family, and I can’t bear that feeling one second longer.’
‘But when are you coming back?’ Melody asked.
She waited for Mr Pizzicato to say it was all a mistake, that he wasn’t leaving after all. That they would come up with a plan together for the Debut Gala. But he didn’t.
He cleared his throat and ruffled her hair. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more, it seems. It would be wise for you to tell your parents to hire a new music teacher. Yes, that would be best. And you may still use the studio to practise, of course. I won’t be needing it anytime soon.’ He passed her a shiny gold key. ‘Here. Now, please close the door behind you when you leave, Melody.’
His voice cracked, and he quickly looked away to stuff some sheet music into his briefcase. But Melody was convinced she saw his eyes glistening.
�
�Goodbye, Mr P,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, Melody,’ he said, looking at her again. ‘I’m the one who’s failed. I’ve failed myself, but worst of all for a teacher . . . I’ve failed you.’
9.
Hello, Freddie Bloom
Fingers wrapped around her backpack straps, Melody stepped out of the secret passage that wound high above the classrooms and entered the school’s main hallway. It was a last-minute decision, a small act of defiance. After all, Mr Pizzicato wasn’t following the usual plan any more, so why should she?
Her heart raced with the fear of getting caught. Not that she should have worried: no one paid any attention to the tiny girl with the red headband and green bow in her hair. Her feet barely touched the ground as she was swept up in the stampeding mass of children racing outside for lunch. She struggled to breathe as she was squashed against lockers and stinky armpits.
Then, suddenly, everyone was gone, spilling out of the swinging doors at the end of the hallway. And Melody realised she had no idea where she was supposed to go next, or what she was supposed to do. All the little lies had grown into a big, throbbing, festering lie that now seemed so huge it might explode.
She nibbled on her fingernail. Mr Pizzicato may have grumbled a lot, but he was the closest person to a friend she’d ever had. Now even he couldn’t bear to be around her. She was all alone. Which meant she was going to have to work this problem out by herself.
Well, all alone except for a small boy with a baseball cap pulled down low over his scruffy brown curls who’d just charged out of the boys’ bathroom holding a skateboard. His shirt was untucked, his too-short pants flapped at his ankles, and his jacket was faded and hung off his bony frame.
Their eyes locked. It was the boy with the wild hair. The eldest of Mr Bloom’s kids.
It was clear from the way his eyes widened that he recognised Melody too.
‘Hi,’ he said, taking off his cap and revealing his messy mane.
‘Hello.’
‘I know you, don’t I? You’re Melody Trumpet.’
Melody blushed. It was rare to hear someone other than her parents, Royce, Miss Sprinkles or Mr Pizzicato say her name.
Melody Trumpet Page 4
