The Rising Star of Rusty Nail

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  Dink, dink, dink went the piano as Nancy methodically played her piece. When she finally finished, she stood up and curtsied daintily as a ballerina. Franny rolled her eyes, but everyone else in the room applauded quite enthusiastically. Even Mrs. Grimes clapped her paws together a few times.

  “Franny!” hissed Mr. Moody. “It’s your turn—on the double!”

  Franny scrambled up out of her seat and ran onto the stage. As she sat down at the piano, she glanced at Mrs. Grimes. The woman wasn’t even paying any attention to her, concentrating instead on some sort of buzzing fly. Franny’s heart sank. She simply had to outdo Nancy Orilee and capture the imagination of Mrs. Eunice Grimes, and that’s all there was to it.

  She opened her music book with a great flourish—and got a nasty shock. The first page of her piece was missing.

  In horror, she looked down at the floor and saw the paper she’d crumpled up and thrown in Nancy’s face— and of course it was her music sheet. That was just her luck, as usual. Panic set in.

  “Any day now, Frances,” said Mr. Moody, his eyebrows raised menacingly. Someone in the audience began tapping his foot. Even the ceiling fans whirred impatiently.

  Franny took a deep breath to calm herself down. She had no choice but to play the piece from memory. Like a real pianist, she told herself. All of the famous ones know their music by heart. She felt stronger then, and stood up to face the audience.

  “I’m playing a short piece by Mozart,” she squeaked. A burst of applause erupted in Miss Hamm’s section, and Franny saw her teacher hushing Sandy and Runty.

  Franny sat back down abruptly and closed her eyes for a moment. Suddenly she could see the missing page in her mind. She put her hands on the keys and began to play.

  The school piano was quite out of tune, but Franny imagined that she was playing on a fine, huge grand piano, and slowly the bent, tinny notes corrected themselves in her imagination. How wonderfully natural it felt to be up on the stage! She leaned into the keyboard, as she imagined a passionate, world-famous pianist would. Instead of making her nervous, the gaze of hundreds excited her. She had never felt so right before—like a fish that finds its way into the ocean after spending its whole life in a little stream. She played more beautifully than ever. When she finished the finale at last, she stood up triumphantly and took a deep, dramatic bow.

  To her horror, no one clapped. Every person in Rusty Nail stared up at her in silence. For a second, Franny wondered if she was having a nightmare.

  And then, at this darkest of all dark moments, the audience burst into wild applause. Several people even stood up. And then everyone else followed suit, still clapping hard.

  Franny had gotten the first standing ovation of her career! Then she caught a glimpse of her father and mother in the back of the room. Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a white hanky, and her father was standing and clapping with all of his might. Not knowing what else to do, Franny bowed again and again.

  All of a sudden, Nancy Orilee stood up and stomped back up onto the stage. The room buzzed with confusion and surprise.

  “What are you doing, young lady?” exclaimed Mr. Moody. “Get back here, or you’ll have detention until you graduate from high school.” Mrs. Grimes’ assistant was tapping his watch so hard that Franny thought he would break the glass face.

  “I’m going to play an encore,” Nancy announced, and before anyone could protest, she sat down at the piano and began to play. Everyone in the audience looked at each other in astonishment as she pounded away at the keys. The result was another flawlessly played Schumann piece. All the while, Franny stood there on the stage awkwardly, not knowing what to do or where to go. Nancy excitedly finished at last, shot up off the bench, and curtsied.

  This time, everyone stood up and clapped for her as well, except for a few loud boos from the back of the room. Miss Hamm had clearly not managed to subdue Runty and Sandy.

  Franny’s face felt as though it was on fire. Not this time, Prancy, she thought wildly. I’m going to win and you’re not going to stop me.

  “I have an encore too!” she shouted over the applause, and she marched over to the piano. “Move it,” she said to Nancy, and sat down on the bench, hands on the keyboard.

  Suddenly, she drew a blank. What was her encore? She had only practiced this one Mozart piece for the concert. Then she saw Mrs. Staudt in the back of the room and had a brilliant idea. Why, she would play that old Bach piece that they’d studied week after week! She’d played it so many times that it would be as easy as breathing. Ho, ho, she thought. Now you’re going to get it, Nancy Orilee.

  Franny began to play with the zeal of a soldier in battle. The old Bach piece had never sounded so defiant before. Mrs. Staudt grew very excited in the back row. When Franny finished, she stood up again, and everyone applauded yet again.

  Mr. Moody rushed up onto the stage and slammed down the lid over the keyboard.

  “My goodness!” he said, glaring viciously at Franny and Nancy. He looked like he badly needed a cigarette. “Who ever would have known that Rusty Nail had such talented pianists?”

  Everyone clapped and whooped again. Mayor Reverend Jerry joined Mr. Moody on the stage.

  “Well, Your Excellency,” he said to Mrs. Grimes. “Bet you’ve never heard such fine playin’. I’m sure you now know what a special community this is. Would you like to say a few more words to the folks of Rusty Nail?”

  Franny’s mind raced as she waited for the visitor’s response. She knew that she’d played perfectly. She was almost sure that Mrs. Grimes would ask her to come back to Washington, D.C., with her on this very day. She felt a rush of shame at the idea of leaving her parents behind, but she was sure they’d understand, especially Wes. Looking at Nancy across the stage, Franny bet that her rival was having similar thoughts.

  Mrs. Grimes lurched off the desk for the last time that day and wheezed as she climbed the stairs to the stage. Franny held her breath as Mrs. Grimes came and stood next to her.

  “This girl’s a good piano player,” the woman said to the audience, clapping Franny on the shoulder rather roughly. “And the other one’s not so bad either. But Rusty Nail’s real talent is the bake sale outside. D’ya mind if we take some cakes to go?” She signaled to her assistant, who scurried out the auditorium doors toward the food-laden tables in the hallway. “Not that god-awful burned pie,” Mrs. Grimes shouted after him.

  The room went silent again as the townspeople gaped at her.

  “Well, thanks a lot, mister,” Mrs. Eunice Grimes said, and clapped Mr. Moody on the back too. “Your school appears to be literate to me. I’ll make sure to put that in my report. It’s been swell.”

  And with that, she nodded at Mayor Reverend Jerry and stomped down the stairs and up the aisle to the exit.

  “But you ain’t heard even one of the kids read!” sputtered the surprised mayor. But Mrs. Eunice Grimes had already left the room. Mayor Reverend Jerry faced the audience. “Um, well, all righty, then. I guess this concert’s over, folks. Let’s all go get somethin’ to eat. Amen.” He scuttled off the stage after the guest of honor.

  Franny stood dumbfounded on the stage in front of the piano and watched Mrs. Grimes leave the room. Her Duke Ellington moment had come and gone forever, just like her father’s before her. Why had she ever allowed her expectations to get so high in the first place? She should have known better. Nothing amazing or miraculous ever happened to the people who lived in Rusty Nail.

  She looked up at the ceiling, refusing to cry in front of the whole town like that baby Gretchen Beasley. With as much dignity as she could muster, she collected her music book from the piano and stiffly walked down the stairs of the stage. Her parents rushed up to her.

  “I swear, Franny,” said her father excitedly. “That was the best thing I’ve ever heard! You should have seen their faces.” He gripped her in a hard, proud hug.

  A tear slid down Franny’s nose, and Wes saw it before she could wipe it away. “What’s the
matter, Mozart? You were great!” he exclaimed.

  Franny lowered her chin into her chest. “She didn’t like it,” she whispered to her dad.

  “Who didn’t?” asked Wes.

  “Mrs. Grimes,” Franny answered. “She didn’t ask me to come away with her to play in Washington or all over the country, like Duke Ellington asked you.”

  Wes and Lorraine looked at each other in surprise. After a moment, Wes took a deep breath.

  “That was different, baby,” he said, putting his hand on Franny’s head. “Mrs. Grimes isn’t in a jazz band— she’s just a silly woman whose husband is a politician. She probably doesn’t know the difference between a hen and a rooster, much less the difference between a decent pianist and a wonderful one.”

  None of these condolences cheered Franny, whose chin wobbled and cheeks stung under her salty tears. She felt as though someone had given her a beautifully wrapped present that had secretly been filled with grimy rocks and worms. Her plans and aspirations didn’t simply wilt; they crashed down on top of her like an avalanche.

  Wes put his arms around his daughter’s shoulders.

  “Chin up, Mozart,” he said. “You were wonderful— really.” He leaned in and said quietly into Franny’s ear: “And everyone was whispering about how much better you were than Nancy. We all know where the real talent is. Now let’s go get us some cake and greet your fans.”

  Lorraine wiped Franny’s cheeks with her hanky, and they walked out of the crowded auditorium and into the hallway. Mrs. Eunice Grimes was already gone, having taken several pies, a Jell-O mold, and a banana bread to eat on the road. Everyone congratulated Franny on her fine performance.

  As she walked through the stifling horde of people, clutching a paper cup of Hawaiian Punch, Franny didn’t really hear or see anything around her. She had become suddenly, acutely, unhappily aware that to the eyes of an outsider, she completely blended in with the rest of the townspeople of Rusty Nail. Just as a single instrument blends into a huge orchestra.

  And at that moment, it seemed that she was destined to stay that way forever.

  About a week after the Eunice Grimes affair, Franny and Sandy trudged out to Mr. Klompenhower’s farm to repair his broken pig barn. This was how they were going to pay him back for ruining his chicken cart during the water-balloon debacle.

  When they got there, they discovered that the barn needed to have a whole new wall nailed up to its bare frame.

  “Ha—this is no big deal,” Sandy announced as she squinted up at the wall. “A baby could do it. But I’m gonna take my time in puttin’ this ole barn back together.”

  “Why?” said Franny, swatting at a pesty swarm of flies. “I just want to get it over with.”

  “So you can go home and mope even more about Eunice Grimes?” Sandy said. “Forget about her, willya? She was just a fat old donkey who didn’t know her elbow from her knee. It was a false alarm—she was a fake Duke Ellington. Maybe someday soon a real Duke Ellington– type person is gonna come to Rusty Nail and see how good you are—and then things’ll get rollin’.”

  “Fat chance,” said Franny glumly. “People in this dumb town don’t get second chances, you know. In case you forgot: you said so yourself.”

  “Go ahead—pout if you wanna,” Sandy said, fishing around in her backpack for something. “But wait till you see what I’ve got here.”

  She pulled out a sheath of comic books and a big plastic bag filled with candy: four Big Choice bubble gum cigars, candy cigarettes and necklaces, Chick-O-Sticks, Fun Dip packets, cinnamon Hot Tamales, a box of Junior Mints, some Mallo Cups, sixteen Pixy Stix, two sets of Wax Lips, a handful of Atomic Fireballs, three Charleston Chews, some Dubble Bubble, some Root Beer Barrels, a Saf-T-Pop, a Slo Poke, and, of course, Red Hots.

  “Where did you get all of that?” Franny asked. “I thought your parents took all of your candy away when you got grounded.”

  “They did,” said Sandy smugly. “But they never found the ole Halloween stash that I kept in the back of my closet. It always pays to have an emergency supply.” She popped an Atomic Fireball into her mouth and promptly spat it out. “Dang, that’s hot. See, the longer it takes us to fix the barn, the longer I have to eat this stash in private. Want a Charleston Chew?”

  Franny admired Sandy’s craftiness, but the thought of eating year-old candy made her stomach clench up. Plus, the smell of the pigpen inside was absolutely revolting; it practically colored the air yellow and brown.

  “No thanks—you should have it,” she said.

  “Suit yourself.” Sandy shrugged.

  “I’ll just slap a few boards up onto the wall so it looks like we’ve been doing something out here,” Franny said. Mr. Klompenhower had left a stack of new boards, a tin of nails, and two old hammers next to the wall. Franny hauled up a plank and some nails. A dirty pig waddled out of the barn and stared dimly at her.

  “You know,” said Sandy, tossing the Atomic Fireball to the pig, who immediately gobbled it up, “this could actually be a lucky break for you. Think about it. You always hated your piano lessons, and then Mrs. Staudt tells you she can’t teach you anymore. Then Mrs. Grimes turns out to be a phony Duke Ellington and leaves town without takin’ you along. Maybe it’s a sign.”

  Franny stopped pounding a nail and looked at Sandy. “What kind of sign?” she asked.

  “Maybe that you’re meant to be just a regular girl— like me, I guess,” said Sandy. “I mean, you’re real good at the piano and all, but maybe it’s not meant to be or some-thin’. And after all, now that you don’t have lessons anymore, you have tons of free time after school just to fool around.”

  Franny sat down in the dirt. The pig grunted, snot dripping from its snout onto the ground.

  “Part of me wants to just mess around with you and Runty all the time,” she said. “And sure, I hated my lessons. But that’s just because Mrs. Staudt was such a bad teacher. I like playing. I’d feel real strange if I just stopped.”

  “Why?” asked Sandy in exasperation. “It’s just a big pain in the neck for you.”

  Franny bristled. How could she explain to Sandy what playing the piano really felt like? “I don’t know. I just get it—the music, I mean,” she said. “And I liked being up on stage, and I even liked practicing before the concert, because this time there was a point to it. There never was a point before, and after what happened at the concert, I feel like there’s no point now either.”

  “Well, you can always play at the church,” Sandy offered. “You know, on Sundays and at weddings and funerals and stuff like that.”

  Franny scowled. It seemed terribly unfair that she was facing such a dead end. If a boy wanted to be a farmer in Rusty Nail, there were dozens of people to show him how to milk a cow or till a field. If a girl wanted to be a housewife, flocks of women clamored to be her mentor. But if a girl wanted to be a famous pianist—or anything exceptional for that matter—her chances were bleak as winter sleet. She stood up abruptly.

  “I don’t want to play in church,” she said spitefully, picking up the hammer. And with that, she gave a nail in the board an extra-hard whack and then another and another. The last whack missed the nail and came down on her thumb instead. She threw down the hammer and shrieked.

  Sandy jumped up to examine her friend’s injured finger.

  “Can you move it?” she asked.

  Franny nodded miserably. “Just barely,” she whimpered, feeling very sorry for herself.

  “I bet it’s just going to get all big and purple,” Sandy predicted. “We’d better get you some ice. Jeez, Franny, this just isn’t your week.”

  A few days later, on Sunday morning, Lorraine woke Franny, Jessie, and Owen up early to go to church, a weekly pilgrimage that bored Franny senseless. In addition to sitting through an endless sermon by Mayor Reverend Jerry, Franny had to stick around afterward while Lorraine gossiped with the matrons of Rusty Nail in what Franny’s dad called “the Colosseum,” or the back room of the church. O
nce, Franny had asked him why he called it that.

  “Well, as you should have learned in school by now, the Colosseum is an ancient stadium in Rome where, two thousand years ago, defenseless people were forced to fight snarling, hungry lions,” Wes had explained. “And everyone in Rome lined up for miles to get inside and watch. It was like their version of Hauser’s Movie Palace. Now, the way I see it, the back room of the church is a remarkably similar venue, except that people there fall victim to bloodthirsty gossip instead of vicious lions.

  “And, frankly, I’d rather get eaten by a lion than have one bite of coffee cake in that snake pit,” he’d added before Lorraine had shooed him away.

  Today, the second she walked with her mother into the Colosseum after the sermon, Franny knew that some new and especially juicy item of gossip crowned the menu. Miss Norma Smitty held court in the middle of the room, surrounded by a gaggle of women. Lorraine helped herself to some coffee and gave Franny a slice of dry brown-sugar crumble.

  “Come on, honey,” Lorraine said, dragging Franny toward the crowd. She wedged herself next to Mrs. Charity Engebraten on the outer rung of onlookers, a position akin to nosebleed seats in the real Colosseum.

  “What’s Norma quacking about now, Charity?” asked Lorraine, sipping her lukewarm Sanka.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Engebraten. “According to Norma, Rusty Nail’s gettin’ a newcomer.”

  “My goodness,” said Lorraine. “Twice in a week? Another visitor like Eunice Grimes?”

  “No, nothing like that,” said Mrs. Engebraten. “This one’s comin’ to stay. They say that Charlie Koenig went off and got himself a wife. Can you believe it?”

  “Really!” said Lorraine, her eyebrows raised. “Well, I never.”