Melody Trumpet

by Gabrielle Tozer

  ‘A life without me,’ Melody interrupted, voice cracking.

  ‘You’ll get used to it eventually,’ Mrs Trumpet said. She turned on the television with a swirl of the remote. ‘Look, you’re all packed so you can distract yourself for a while. Relax.’

  A commercial featuring Clive the soprano chicken blared on the screen. Melody watched the chicken strutting, pecking and bobbing to the beat. She turned off the television. She didn’t need any more reminders that she was the one person on Earth that Mr Pizzicato couldn’t teach.

  Mrs Trumpet checked her watch. ‘Better run and touch up my make-up before dinner.’ She noticed Melody’s questioning expression. ‘We’re hosting some of the country’s most senior journalists before the press conference about your, well . . . disappearance. I can’t have them seeing me like this. Appearances are everything.’

  ‘You invited the media into our house?’ Melody nearly choked at her parents’ nerve.

  ‘Problem?’ asked Mrs Trumpet with wide eyes.

  ‘You don’t feel guilty about sending everyone on the most pointless search in history?’

  ‘It takes immense sacrifice to get to the top,’ her mother said. ‘And sometimes you need to do all sorts of unsavoury things to stay there.’ She paused, then burst into tears. ‘Oh, our dear girl . . . our dear Melody. What will we do without her? All these years spent watching her grow and thrive . . . then poof! Gone. Snatched away in the night.’

  Melody watched in shock as her mother dabbed away tears. Mascara smudged her cheeks and her eyelashes were thick and gooey. And her outlandish performance wasn’t finished yet.

  Mrs Trumpet honked into her dainty handkerchief. ‘We were supposed to be celebrating her first ever public performance at the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children’s Debut Gala tomorrow night, with the Prince and Princess of Zanjia. In the very hall where Barry T Trumpet and I met all those years ago. But instead, here we are, begging for any information at all about our daughter’s whereabouts. If you know anything, please contact the police immediately.

  ‘And instead of the Debut Gala, which we’re sure you understand would be just too devastating in the tragic circumstances, we will be holding a charity event in Melody’s honour at Crescendo Hall. Please do join us for that special occasion. And we apologise to all the other students who will miss out on making their debuts this year.’

  Pause.

  Mrs Trumpet broke into a wide grin and gave an exaggerated bow. ‘And . . . cut! What do you think? Did you believe me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Melody said. ‘I even almost believed you’ll miss me.’

  Mrs Trumpet cocked her head to one side. ‘Perfect. Although I’d better work on it before we go live to air. And change into a show-stopping outfit, of course. People can be so cruel if you don’t get everything just right.’

  ‘They really can be,’ Melody said, but subtlety wasn’t Mrs Trumpet’s strong point.

  ‘We all have dreams,’ her mother continued, ‘but they don’t always come true, no matter how much we might want them to.’ She sighed, and reached out a hand to stroke Melody’s cheek, not noticing when Melody pulled away. ‘Rest up, and I’ll see you in the morning. And wish me luck! This feels like the most important show of my life.’

  With a flick of her feather boa, Mrs Trumpet hurried out the door.

  * * *

  Nibbling on her fingernails, Melody watched Mrs Trumpet on the television as she performed at the press conference. And perform she did. After all, she was on a stage in a magnificent gown, her yellow feather boa around her neck, and a camera in her face. She swooned, she gasped, she sobbed and she dabbed away tears with a delicate white handkerchief, just as she had practised, all while making sure her best side was facing the camera. Everyone loved Mrs Trumpet and she loved them right back — more than she loved just about anything else, maybe even Mr Trumpet. The journalists fussed and fought over who got to speak to her next, thrusting their microphones into her face. Mr Trumpet stood at her side, nodding along as Mrs Trumpet made a teary plea for Melody’s immediate return.

  Melody switched off the screen, her mother’s words from earlier pulsating in her mind. Maybe she would be better off living far away from her family. Perhaps the new school could be the perfect place for her. She could be herself, write in her notebook anytime she pleased, and she wouldn’t be scolded for not knowing how to sing opera in four languages by age three.

  Then she plunged her hand into her pocket and her fingers wrapped around the gold coin Clementine had given her. Or maybe she’d already found her perfect place, and it was with her new friends. She could be herself at The Workshop too, and there was an entire blank wall there to remind her of life’s amazing possibilities. Clementine, Freddie and the troupe at The Workshop could be her family — the kind of family that you weren’t born into, but which you never let go of if you were lucky enough to find them.

  She smiled as she imagined Moe’s insulted bark at being left out. Clementine, Freddie and Moe could be her family, she corrected herself.

  All of a sudden, her bedroom window rattled. Melody sat up and saw two bodies edge into view. It was Freddie and Clementine and they were standing on her windowsill!

  22.

  Breaking in

  Melody’s heart pounded as she took in the sight of their palms, noses and bodies pressed up against the glass. Clementine’s eyebrows were raised into a panicked, clown-like ‘I’ve made a huge mistake’ expression, while Freddie’s gaze darted between Melody, the dizzying drop and the mighty tree behind them. He looked tempted to leap back into its branches and never return. Melody didn’t blame him. Her friends had endured a death-defying climb up the tree — and their position on the windowsill was just as precarious.

  ‘It’s stuck!’ Melody shouted, exaggerating the words so Clementine and Freddie could lip-read through the thick glass. ‘I can’t open it!’

  Freddie and Clementine swapped worried looks. Clementine snuck a glance down and Melody saw her swallow hard, then her focus returned to the window to see if there was an alternative way inside. Eyes clamped shut in terror, Freddie edged closer to Clementine, then his left foot slipped from the ledge.

  Melody screamed and pressed her hands up against the glass. ‘Freddie!’

  Freddie flailed about for a few moments before finding his footing.

  ‘Hold on!’ Melody cried out.

  ‘Grease!’ Clementine yelled. ‘Find something to grease the window!’

  Freddie watched on, his skin turning a few shades paler from fear, as Melody sprinted around looking for something — anything — else that might help loosen the window’s tracks.

  ‘Hurry!’ Freddie snuck another look at the huge drop below. ‘Hurry, Melody!’

  Brow furrowed, Melody opened her wardrobe and glared at the empty racks. She slammed the doors then ran to her vanity to rifle through the drawers, tossing empty boxes and trays left, right and centre. Her most precious possessions were already packed for Dullard Private — everything left behind had served its purpose. All that remained were her too-small clothes and shoes; her tutor’s textbooks and academic notes; and the used wax candles that lined the mantel of the old fireplace in the corner.

  Melody paused.

  The candles.

  She snatched one from the mantel, raced to the window and rubbed the wax candle into the grooves of the glass window’s track. Grimacing, she tried to drag the window open, but it was still stuck.

  ‘Keep going!’ Clementine yelled. ‘You can do this, Melody!’

  Freddie didn’t say a word. His legs trembled as he clung to Clementine.

  Melody continued to press the wax into the track, rubbing it back and forth until her arms burned. She gave it one last rub then pulled on the sliding window again. This time, it groaned open. Without wasting another second, Freddie and Clementine clambered through the window and collapsed into her bedroom.

  ‘You’re alive!’ Clementine said. She gave an exh
austed cheer.

  ‘And so are we,’ puffed Freddie. He threw himself onto Melody’s bed, sneakers and all. ‘Barely.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ Melody said.

  Clementine, who was flushed bright pink after the climb, grinned. ‘And I can’t believe you saved us!’

  Melody smiled. ‘So you found my SOS in your backpack?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ Freddie said, still regaining his colour. ‘That’s what friends are for.’

  ‘My arms are weaker than I realised,’ groaned Clementine. ‘I should have sent Allira, Slack and Gaff up here instead of having them boost us up the tree then leaving them on guard below. They would have done five somersaults and got into the building easily.’

  ‘Listen — things are bad,’ Melody said, glancing at her closed bedroom door. ‘You’re in danger just being here. My parents have cancelled the Debut Gala and they’re sending me —’

  ‘Wait, there’s really no Gala?’ Freddie asked.

  Melody rolled her eyes. ‘Pay attention! It gets worse.’

  ‘Helloooooooooooooo!’ A high-pitched voice rang through the air and the door burst open. It was Mrs Trumpet, glowing with happiness after the media conference, with Mr Trumpet on her arm.

  The Trumpets’ jaws dropped at the sight of Melody on the floor, Freddie on the bed and Clementine sitting on the windowsill.

  ‘What in the . . .?’ stammered Mr Trumpet.

  But Mrs Trumpet’s brain had already gone into overdrive. ‘Intruders!’ she screamed, pointing at Freddie. ‘Barry, there’s an army of journalists drinking coffee downstairs! Grab the puny maggot before they spot him!’

  A baffled Mr Trumpet lunged towards Freddie, who leaped off the bed and ran for the door. Mrs Trumpet stuck her high heel out, tripping Freddie. He crashed to the carpet. By the time he’d scrambled to his feet, Mr Trumpet had him by the arm.

  ‘Now the girl!’ shrieked Mrs Trumpet. ‘The girl! Quick, before someone sees her!’

  Melody jumped in front of Clementine. ‘Mother, leave them alone. They’re my friends.’

  ‘Friends? Do they know your secret?’

  Melody gritted her teeth, chin thrust upwards in defiance. She didn’t reply.

  Mrs Trumpet shrieked and stamped her foot. ‘Barry, she must leave tonight! We can’t have her on the premises a second longer — the secret is spreading. They know too much. They know it all. Call for the jet right now.’

  ‘They know nothing!’ Melody fibbed. ‘Let them go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Melody,’ Clementine whispered behind her. ‘We tried.’

  ‘Royce!’ Mrs Trumpet shrieked into the hallway. ‘Royce! Come at once!’

  Royce rushed into the bedroom and tripped over Freddie and Mr Trumpet, who were now wrestling on the floor.

  ‘Do something, Royce!’ Mrs Trumpet screamed.

  But he was all tangled up with Freddie and Mr Trumpet.

  ‘Fools!’ Mrs Trumpet smoothed down her dress and hair, and narrowed her eyebrows. ‘I’ll take care of this myself.’

  She stormed towards Clementine, but Melody grabbed the feather boa wrapped around her mother’s neck and yanked it with all her might. Feathers went flying everywhere.

  ‘My boa!’ Mrs Trumpet cried, kneeling down to gather up the loose feathers. ‘The girl, Barry — seize the girl!’

  ‘Yes, my darling,’ he huffed, and trundled towards the window, leaving Freddie hooked under Royce’s arm. But as he surged towards Clementine, he slipped on some feathers and fell flat on his back.

  Clementine laughed at Mr Trumpet’s impromptu backflip and didn’t notice Mrs Trumpet moving towards her. Mrs Trumpet seized Clementine’s arm and they struggled together on the windowsill.

  ‘Be careful!’ Melody cried out.

  Clementine tried to free herself from Mrs Trumpet’s grip, yanking her arm once, twice — but on her third try she pulled too hard and tumbled backwards, right out the window.

  ‘Clementine!’ Melody and Freddie shouted in unison.

  The rosy colour drained from Mrs Trumpet’s cheeks, leaving her ghostly pale. Her lips thinned into a hard line. ‘Royce, take the boy downstairs,’ she said. ‘Melody, I’ll deal with you soon.’

  ‘But Clementine . . .’ Melody said, still in shock. ‘Is she alright?’

  Mrs Trumpet looped her now-featherless boa around her neck and repeated, ‘I’ll be back to deal with you soon.’

  Melody’s gaze locked with Freddie’s. They didn’t speak a word but their glistening eyes said everything.

  Royce dragged Freddie out of the bedroom, and the Trumpets followed, locking the door behind them.

  Melody hurried to the window and looked down, expecting to see her friend lying injured on the ground.

  But there was no Clementine, just the manicured gardens of Trumpet Manor.

  23.

  Over the fence

  ‘I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive,’ puffed Clementine as she, Allira, Slack and Gaff sprinted through the gardens, their hearts pounding, their feet thumping on the grass. ‘But everything is spinning . . . am I alive?’

  ‘You are,’ confirmed Gaff. A large net hung over his shoulder — the same net the troupe had used to catch Clementine when she tumbled from the window. ‘Now move it! We didn’t get that much of a head start.’

  The foursome raced through the grounds, past the enormous music-note-shaped pool, the larger-than-lifesized gold statues of Mr and Mrs Trumpet, the garden maze, and a menagerie filled with exotic animals from all around the world.

  ‘Are those llamas?’ asked Allira, her eyes widening as she paused to let Clementine catch up. ‘Come on, Clementine — hurry!’

  ‘I’m . . . trying . . . to . . .’ Clementine clutched her sides in pain. ‘What about Freddie? And Melody? We should go back for them.’

  ‘And risk getting captured too?’ Gaff replied. ‘We’ll have to work out a new plan and come back. But we’ll find them.’

  Clementine rubbed at her stomach. ‘I can’t keep up. This stitch is killing me. Tell Moe I love him and go on without me.’

  ‘Tempting, but no,’ Allira said, grabbing Clementine’s hand and dragging her along. ‘You know Mumma Rose’s spiel about sticking together!’

  ‘How could we forget?’ laughed Slack, jogging along with ease.

  ‘Focus, you lot,’ Gaff shouted back at them. ‘There’s a fence around this next corner so save your energy.’

  Clementine puffed her way after the group. As she turned the corner, she gaped at the sight before them. The Trumpets’ high-security fence towered into the sky. It was at least ten metres tall, and made of steel bars with sharp spikes and barbed wire on top.

  ‘Okay, this is bad,’ she said. ‘This is really bad.’

  The rest of the group rushed towards the fence. Allira got there first and threw herself at the bars, pulling herself up the metal.

  ‘There’s no time to lose,’ she called down to the others. ‘Climb!’

  Clementine groaned. ‘But I’m just a musician!’

  ‘Slack, follow your sister up there,’ Gaff ordered. ‘And Clementine, hop on my back. I’ll carry you over the fence.’

  Slack clambered up with ease behind Allira, who was nearly at the top.

  Biting her lip, Clementine wrapped her arms around Gaff’s neck. ‘Thanks,’ she told him.

  ‘Hang onto me! We’re going up.’

  He reached for the bars and, with an almighty groan, pulled himself and Clementine up the first metre.

  ‘Don’t look down,’ Clementine murmured to herself, eyes clamped shut. ‘Everything is going to be alright. Everything is going to be — argh!’ Something had grabbed at her legs.

  She looked down to see Royce swearing and straining as he clasped her by the ankles, struggling to pull her down. ‘You trespassing little fool,’ he groaned. ‘You’re not getting away with this.’

  ‘Keep climbing, Gaff,’ shouted Clementine, clinging onto his neck.

  Gaff’s fingers tur
ned red as they strained to grip onto the fence. ‘You’re slipping!’ he shouted. ‘Hold on!’

  ‘I can’t,’ Clementine said as Royce pulled at her body with all his might. ‘I’m . . . losing . . . you!’

  ‘Kick him!’ screamed Allira. ‘Kick as hard as you can!’

  But with one final tug, Royce wrenched Clementine from Gaff’s back. She fell onto the grass, winded and out of breath. Before she could get to her feet, Royce swept her up in his arms and threw her over his shoulder.

  ‘Gotcha!’ he said, punching the air in victory.

  24.

  An unwanted disguise

  Melody’s bedroom door burst open and her parents strode in again. They immediately locked the door behind them.

  ‘What have you done?’ Melody asked, leaping to her feet. ‘Is Clementine alive?’

  ‘Of course she’s alive,’ Mr Trumpet said, wiping crumbs from his lips. ‘What do you take us for? We’re not bad people.’

  Mrs Trumpet, who had draped a fresh peacock-feather boa around her neck, pursed her lips. ‘Relax. Royce has detained her and the gardener’s brat in the dining room. They won’t be blabbing to anyone.’

  ‘But . . . but Clementine fell out the window!’ Melody said. ‘How did she survive?’

  ‘She’s perfectly fine . . . somehow,’ Mr Trumpet said. ‘Like I said, we’re not bad people.’

  Melody looked around her bedroom. The walls seemed to be edging closer to her. Her parents were keeping her and her friends prisoners. How could they not see that was bad?

  ‘How do you know those two?’ Mrs Trumpet demanded. ‘Where did you come across people like . . . like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘People like her. The girl’s hair is so knotted I wouldn’t be surprised if an army of nits live in it!’

  Melody glared at her mother, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t talk about Clementine like that. She’s my friend.’