“You know, Mozart,” he said, polishing off the last of the crust. “Your mother might be right. Maybe you’re working too hard. How ’bout a break?”
“I thought you said that hard work never hurt anyone,” Franny said, turning a page.
“Well, if we’re going to make a real musician out of you, we’re going to have to teach you about Work-Hard-Play-Hard,” her father answered. “Do you know what that is?”
Franny shook her head. “Some sort of game?” she guessed.
Wes smiled. “It’s a way of life,” he said. “It means that if you work hard, you should also get to play hard— especially a big-shot musician like you. Let’s go down to Hauser’s after lunch and catch a matinee.”
A few hours later, they walked down Main Street to the cinema and bought a bag of popcorn from Stella Brunsvold. They sat down just as the theater lights dimmed and waited for that afternoon’s feature, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms.
First came a Tom and Jerry cartoon, and Wes laughed so loud and hard that a few tears rolled down his cheeks. Embarrassed, Franny ducked down in her seat and peered around to see if any of her classmates were seated nearby. Fortunately, the only other moviegoer was Rodney the jail janitor, who spent more time at Hauser’s than he did cleaning the town’s perpetually empty prison cell.
Next came the newsreel. Franny sighed impatiently as the announcer droned on and on about Senator McCarthy, as usual.
“That man’s a real stinker,” said Wes, devouring a handful of dry popcorn. “He’ll get his, mark my words.”
“What do you mean?” asked Franny, slinking down even lower in her seat. Wes always talked too loud at the movies.
“Look at him,” Wes said, pointing to the screen. “First, he said that all of Hollywood was filled with Commies, and now he’s going to try to convince us that the whole U.S. Army is too. He gets people to tattle on their friends and neighbors and call them Commie spies—and nine times out of ten, it’s all lies.”
“How does he get them to do that?” Franny asked.
“He scares ’em,” Wes said. “He tells folks that if they don’t go along with his accusations and give him names of supposed Communist traitors, he’ll tell everyone that they’re Commies too. Make up things about suspicious behavior and that sort of thing. It’s blackmail. Makes my skin crawl.”
Franny thought about the odd things that had happened at Olga’s house, and she wished that she could talk to her father about them. “But what if someone is suspicious?” she asked tentatively. “Should you say something to someone?”
“Only if you’re absolutely sure that you’ve got your facts straight,” Wes said, rattling the paper bag to get to the salty bits at the bottom. “Otherwise, you might just make a big mess of someone’s life—and for what? Just to spread rumors.”
He took another noisy bite of popcorn. “Senator McCarthy is turning this whole country into a small town, where everyone trades secrets about everyone else and no one has any privacy. I’m telling you—it makes me long for the days of the Wild West, when you could just get on a horse and ride into the sunset, without feeling like a thousand pairs of eyes were watching you. Oh, good—here comes the movie.”
And with that, Wes and Franny forgot about Senator McCarthy, suspicious behavior, and blackmail for two whole hours. Instead, they watched a film in which a nuclear bomb woke up a frozen dinosaur, which promptly stomped from the Arctic all the way to New York City and smashed up Wall Street.
Even though the movie wasn’t supposed to be funny, Wes laughed all the way through it.
“Hurry up—you are late,” said Olga, brusquely opening the front door and ushering Franny into the music room the following Monday. “We have a good deal to discuss today.” She pointed to the velvet couch. “Please.”
As Franny sat down, she searched her teacher’s face for any hints of anxiety after the visit from the men in the dark car. There were none—but then again, Olga was almost always as inscrutable as the Mona Lisa. Franny glanced around, looking for the envelope with the summons, but of course, Olga had stashed it away somewhere—maybe in the bedroom or basement, or even inside one of the instruments. Franny resolved to scour the house for it when she did the chores later.
“Dyevushka—are you listening to me?” Olga thundered. “I have been talking for five minutes, and you are someplace else, up on a little cloud maybe. Pay attention!”
“Sorry,” said Franny guiltily. “What I was saying was this: I would like for you to enter a big contest, and—”
“Really?” Franny exclaimed, sitting straight up. “Where? At the school again?”
Olga looked most displeased. “Do not interrupt—it is very rude,” she said. “As I keep trying to tell you: for this contest, you will go to Minneapolis and give a recital in a hall in front of several judges. About ten other pianists will compete against you. You are becoming a good musician with my help, and I think that you have a very good chance at winning.”
“Minneapolis!” squawked Franny.
Minneapolis, or the Big City, as it was known to the inhabitants of Rusty Nail, was so far away that it took more than five whole hours to drive there. Franny had never been there, and her heart pounded with excitement and fear. “But I’ve never been in a really big contest before! Are you sure that I’m good enough? Will there be a lot of people there? Will you be there?”
“Yes, yes, and yes,” Olga said. “All you must do is prepare a good deal, play your best, and wait for the judges’ decision. But I must tell you this: it is a very important contest, and you’ll play against the other best young pianists in the state. Some of them may be eighteen years old.”
“Why would they even let me into the contest?” Franny asked nervously. “I’m only ten.”
“Just the fact that you are my student is reason enough,” said Olga. “And in any case, it is not until April, so you have more than enough time to prepare.”
Franny nodded, her heart still beating at the rate of a hummingbird’s—and she suddenly faltered. Playing against Nancy in front of Eunice Grimes was one thing, but a competition of this caliber was quite another.
“Do I have to?” she asked.
“Of course you do,” said Olga indignantly. “All of the great pianists have played in contests—they didn’t just sit around giving solo concerts. Mozart competed against Clementi in front of Emperor Joseph II. Beethoven shamed many pianists in competitions. Doing so gives you a chance to show how much better you are than all of your contemporaries. Music is an art, but anyone who tells you that it’s not in part a sport would be lying to you.”
“But all of those kids will be so much bigger than me,” Franny said.
Olga waved her hand dismissively. “That does not mean they will be better,” she said. “Talent shows itself very early, or not at all. And it is good for you to be nervous. You are training to be a performer, not a hermit who sits with her piano in a closet.
“And now I have something else to tell you,” Olga continued. “I only need you to come on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday to help me. I am taking on another student, and she will come on Mondays and Tuesdays.”
Franny’s nervous excitement ground to a halt. “What other student?” she asked, a black feeling spreading through her insides.
Just then the doorbell rang. Olga walked into the foyer and opened the front door. And then Franny heard the following: “Hello, Mrs. Malenkov. How are you this afternoon?”
It was Nancy Orilee.
For a moment, Franny thought that she must be asleep and having a nightmare. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she could just barely hear Olga say in reply: “Yes, hello. Wait in the living room, please, until I am finished with my other guest.” Then she marched back into the music room and closed the door. She looked at Franny.
“Now, what was your question?”
Franny sat on her hands so that Olga wouldn’t see them shaking. “I asked,” she managed to say, “who your other student is, but
I think I know.”
“Ah, Nancy is a classmate of yours?” Olga asked, seemingly oblivious to Franny’s agony. “Her mother came by last week and begged me to instruct her daughter, whose usual teacher got into a bad tractor accident. He is in a full body cast and cannot drive here to see her. So, I listened to her play, and she is passable. Not brilliant—but I think that it would be good for you to have a little competition.”
“She is not passable,” Franny shouted. “She’s horrible!”
“What is the matter with you?” Olga asked.
“Madame Malenkov,” Franny pleaded. “It’s not fair— I had to beg you for lessons, and she just sails in and gets them too!”
“Nonsense!” Olga said. “She too would work. I said that already.”
“It’s still not fair!” yelled Franny. “Please don’t teach her! She’s the meanest girl in the whole town. She’s always putting me and Sandy down, and she thinks she’s so much better than everyone else because her dad is rich. And every time something good happens to me, she finds a way to ruin it. And now she’s going to ruin my lessons with you. Please don’t teach her!” And with that, she started to cry.
“That is enough,” Olga commanded. “You are acting like a child. You had better get used to having rivals, because every pianist has them. This is precisely one of the reasons I am taking Nancy on as a student—to make you realize that you are not the only one out there who has hopes and ambitions. If you are too much of a child to face that, then you are too much of a child to be under my instruction. And just so you know, I am going to enroll Nancy in the contest as well.”
Franny felt like an arrow had been shot through her heart.
“Then I quit!” she shouted.
“You what?” said Olga.
“Quit!” Franny yelled. “It’s not fair. I always stick up for you in town when everyone calls you a Commie, and I keep all of your secrets—like not being able to answer the phone and—” She stopped herself before she mentioned the men on the porch, but couldn’t help blurting out: “And then you go and stab me in the back!”
Olga’s face reddened with anger and she pointed to the door. “You go home right now,” she said. “Do not come back until you are ready to apologize to me. I have never heard such rudeness—never! Out with you!”
Franny snatched up her bag and music books and yanked the music-room door open. On her way out, she saw Nancy Orilee waiting primly in the living room.
“I hate you!” Franny yelled viciously, and ran out of the house.
She didn’t stop running until she got home.
What are you doing home?” asked Lorraine in surprise when Franny trudged into the apartment the next day after school. “Why aren’t you at Madame Malenkov’s house?”
“She said that she didn’t need any help today,” Franny lied. At supper the night before, Wes had looked so cheerful under his eyeshade that Franny simply hadn’t had the heart to tell her family that she’d quit her lessons.
“Oh,” said Lorraine. “In that case, why don’t you help me in the kitchen. I’m making rommegrot.”
Ugh, Franny thought. Rommegrot was a Norwegian pudding made from cream and flour, and Lorraine’s version always resembled a vat of lumpy, colorless paste. Also, it required thankless hours of stirring.
“I was going to take my bike out to see Sandy,” she said quickly. “I haven’t seen her in a real long time, because of all the lessons and practicing.” She tried very hard to look pitiful and deprived of social contact. In fact, Franny hadn’t told her parents that Sandy had been snubbing her. It was just too embarrassing to involve them in her social life on top of everything else.
“Go ahead,” Lorraine said, walking back into the kitchen to do battle with the pudding. “Just be back in time for supper.”
Franny left and retrieved her bike from the shed in the alley behind her building. She hadn’t been out to Sandy’s farmhouse in a long time. The trip on the road through the cornfields seemed to take forever, and Franny’s lungs burned from breathing in the cold, late-November air. The prospect of confronting Sandy made Franny terribly nervous, but with no one to discuss the Olga ordeal with, Franny missed her friend more than ever. She was determined to mend the rift.
At last, the Hellickson farm came into sight on the horizon. Franny parked her bike in the driveway and knocked on the back door. Sandy’s older brother, Lowell, opened it.
“Well, look-y who we’ve got here,” he said, smiling wryly. “The Commie-in-training.”
“Be quiet,” snapped Franny. “Is Sandy here?”
“She’s still grounded,” Lowell said benevolently. “But if you give me a nickel, I’ll tell you where you can find her.”
“All I’ve got is a penny,” Franny said, digging it out of her pocket.
“That’ll do,” Lowell said, taking it. He pointed at the garage. “She’s in there, buildin’ somethin’. See you later, Comrade.” He closed the door.
Franny scowled and marched across the backyard, the frozen grass crunching under her shoes. She reached the garage and tentatively knocked on the door, her heart pounding.
“Who is it?” called Sandy.
“It’s me,” said Franny. She pushed the door open and walked inside.
Sandy had been standing over some sort of awkward, boxlike contraption and hammering a crooked old nail into its side. She froze when she saw Franny.
“What’re you doin’ here?”
“I came to tell you that I quit taking piano lessons,” Franny said.
“Oh,” said Sandy, turning her attention back to the box. “Why? I thought that playin’ the piano with the Commie was the most important thing in the world to you. More important than your friends and everything else.”
“I just didn’t want to do it anymore,” Franny said, kicking at the ground.
Sandy looked at her friend suspiciously. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Somethin’ must’ve happened. I bet Olga gave you the boot, and then you thought that you’d come by and say hi to ole Sandy, now that you had nothin’ better to do.”
“She didn’t give me the boot,” said Franny. “I’m tired of us being in a fight, so I came out here to talk to you. What’re you making?”
“It’s gonna be a car,” Sandy said. “Lowell said he’d help me put a motor in it and everythin’. And don’t go tryin’ to change the subject, by the way. I’ve known you your whole life, and I know that you didn’t just quit out of the blue.”
“Fine,” Franny caved in. “I quit because Olga started teaching Nancy Orilee too.”
Sandy gasped. “What! Why? Didn’t you tell her what a worm Prancy is?”
“I tried,” Franny said, and she told Sandy all about the contest and her fight with Olga the day before. “And after all I’ve done for her! Sticking up for her and stuff, and risking making everyone in town hate me as much as they hate her.” She stopped to take a breath. “Anyway, aren’t you glad that I quit? Now we’ll have all of our afternoons together again, just like the old days.”
Sandy shook her head. “You got it wrong this time, Franny,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this: you’re the one who’s gonna be sorry you quit, not Olga. How’re you gonna get famous if she doesn’t help you? Use your head, for Pete’s sake.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Franny exclaimed. “She’s teaching Nancy Orilee. The worst girl in the world. How could I stick around after she did that to me?”
“This is why you should stick around,” said Sandy. “You’ve gotta get back in there and fight—and beat Nancy Orilee once and for all. It changes everythin’ now that Prancy’s in the mix. Don’t you see? You’ve got a real chance to lick her once and for all. If you win that contest, you’ll show everyone that you’re the best pianist in the state. The queen of Rusty Nail’s gonna lose her throne— to you!”
“But I don’t even think Olga would take me back now, after some of the
things I said to her,” Franny said, her resolve faltering. “About being a backstabber and all.”
“You said that to her?” Sandy cringed. “Oh well— never mind. You gotta think like a boxer. Those guys don’t lie down after one punch. We’ve got the most important round ahead of us now. Or else you’re gonna get left behind, just like your dad did.”
“What do you mean, we have the most important round ahead of us?” Franny asked. “First you don’t talk to me for weeks ’cause I took lessons with Olga, and now you want me to go back and work even harder than before? I don’t get it.”
Sandy sat down on her box and blew her hair out of her eyes. “Sure, I was mad,” she said. “I’m still mad. You hurt my feelin’s real bad, leavin’ me out like that. How’d you like to get left out and left behind?”
“I’m really sorry,” Franny said solemnly. “I didn’t mean to leave you out.”
“Better apologize like you mean it,” Sandy said.
“I’m sorry!” yelled Franny, tears burning the corners of her eyes. “I’ll never do it again. You’re my best friend, and I need your help figuring out what to do.”
“Aw, quit bawlin’,” Sandy said, looking satisfied now. “I guess I can forgive you and help you out.” She looked at Franny slyly. “If you gimme back Old Blue.”
Franny blinked. “You mean that dumb marble?” she asked, wiping her eyes. “Fine—it’s yours.” Suddenly things seemed like they were going to be okay.
“Lo-o-o-ord—you’re actin’ like such a girl!” Sandy exclaimed. “If you want me to help you, you’d better pull yourself together. And you have to buy candy for me at the five-and-dime, since I’m still officially grounded.”
“Deal,” said Franny, wiping her cheeks.
“Now let’s go inside. I’m freezing,” Sandy said, wiping her filthy hands on her trousers. “Wanna stay for supper?”
Franny nodded, grateful to escape the rommegrot waiting for her back home. The girls walked back through the chilly air to the house, still a little shy and awkward around each other after their long falling-out.
But if Franny had any doubts about Sandy’s feelings and loyalty, they vanished the next day after school. Sandy walked to Olga’s house with her and waited patiently in the peony bush while Franny went inside and apologized to Olga.
The Rising Star of Rusty Nail Page 13
