It was time for the contest to begin.
Franny usually loved Rusty Nail’s winters more than any other season. Year after year, the town became a splendid warren of shoveled paths in snow sometimes three or four feet deep. The men took their trucks over to the frozen Mississippi River, cut holes in the ice, and fished like Eskimos. A comforting assortment of sleds, damp mittens, and rubber boots littered the stairwell leading up to the Hansens’ apartment.
This year, however, the season flashed by so quickly that Franny barely even noticed the wintry activities going on around her. She practiced all the time, getting ready for the contest. Naturally, this nearly drove Owen and Jessie crazy. Things nearly got out of hand one January afternoon. The boys came home before supper as Franny was practicing a particularly tricky part of a Chopin piece.
Owen kicked off his snow-covered boots, which clattered noisily down the front stairs. “Mo-om!” he shouted. “When’s supper?”
There was a typical crash from the kitchen. “Ohhh,” cried Lorraine. “Not just yet.”
Jessie switched on the radio and turned up the volume. “Good—we’re just in time for the show,” he said as The Colgate Sports Newsreel blared out of the speakers.
“Turn that off!” Franny yelled. “I can’t concentrate! It’s loud as a tractor!”
“Aw, turn yourself off,” said Owen. “You think we want to hear the same song over and over again, like a broken record?”
“Yeah,” added Jessie. “You think you’re the only one who lives here? You’re not a star yet, so you can stop actin’ like one.” And he turned up the radio even louder.
“Mom!” shrieked Franny. “Make them turn down the radio! They’re trying to ruin my practicing for the contest! If I don’t win, it will be all their fault!”
Finally, the shouting grew so loud that Wes clambered up the stairs from his office to see what was going on. He solved the problem at last by dragging the twanging piano into Franny’s bedroom.
That night, Franny lay in her bed and stared at the piano as it glistened in the moonlight. She watched the reflection of the Main Street traffic light flicker on the right side of the instrument. Green, yellow, red. Green, yellow, red. In Franny’s mind, the changing colors translated into an endless three-note song.
In fact, that whole winter, she started experiencing the entire world around her in terms of music more than ever.
When she heard Mrs. Charity Engebraten’s mangy little terrier barking up the street, staccato came to Franny’s mind, a word that meant crisp, short, and detached sounds. Each night, she listened to her father’s deep, even snores down the hallway and thought: legato, or notes played in a smooth, connected, and flowing manner. Lorraine was dolce, which meant sweet and soft. Sandy always reminded her of brio, or lively and spirited. And Olga, of course, evoked maestoso—music played with majesty and grandeur.
And when she was actually at a piano, whether at Olga’s grand Steinway or the upright in her own bedroom, nothing else mattered to Franny besides the music. Her life itself was in a state of crescendo—a passage played with a steady increase in intensity or force. She didn’t know yet just what it was all building up to—but Franny was quite aware that her place and purpose in the world was changing forever.
Sandy assumed the unofficial role of Franny’s coach.
“Now, I don’t want you to pay a lick of attention to your competitor,” she advised. “Just keep your eye on the prize, Franny. But don’t you worry: I’ll bother Prancy for both of us.”
Then she came up with three ways to distract Nancy from preparing for the contest:
Release termites into Nancy’s piano at home.
Steal Nancy’s mittens as often as possible so that her fingers would freeze and fall off, hence reducing her ability to play the piano.
Create disturbances outside Olga’s music-room window during Nancy’s lesson.
Since termites were hard to come by and stealing was against the law, Franny and Sandy decided that #3 was their only real option.
So, one afternoon, Sandy camped out in the snow-covered peony bush during Nancy’s lesson time and did noisy imitations of the American coot’s mating call. Olga responded by simply opening the window and dumping a glass of water on Sandy, who fled the scene.
“I told you, Franny,” Sandy said afterward. She’d run straight to Franny’s house after the incident, her face red with frost and little icicles dangling from her scarf and hat. “The pranks just don’t work anymore. Go over to that piano and practice some more. We’ve gotta beat her at her own game.”
On a Friday afternoon in late March, not long before the competition, Franny walked over to Olga’s house for her lesson. Charlie was away on yet another long work trip, and Franny had been helping Olga more than usual with her errands and cleaning.
It was unusually mild that day, and the front door had been left open to let in the fresh early-spring breezes.
Franny knocked on the screen door and waited. No one answered. To her surprise, she heard voices coming from the kitchen. It sounded like Olga had another lady in there with her!
That’s weird, Franny thought. Olga never had guests over. She knocked again, but the ladies didn’t hear her. Overcome by curiosity, Franny gathered her courage, let herself in, and sidled up the hallway toward the kitchen.
As she got closer, she realized that Olga was speaking in Russian to her guest, which clearly meant that this was no run-of-the-mill Rusty Nail coffee visit. The women were arguing noisily, and Franny’s heart raced as she eavesdropped. Of course, she couldn’t understand a single word of what they were saying, until the guest said in heavily accented English: “Nyet! That is enough, Olga! Hiding is for cowards! You must decide what you are going to do!”
And they lapsed back into Russian again. Franny leaned in toward the doorway as far as she dared, trying to get a peek at the visitor. To her horror, the floorboard under her feet creaked as she shifted her weight. The conversation in the kitchen halted.
“Dyevushka? Is that you?” called Olga.
Franny meekly tiptoed into the room. “I just got here,” she said, red faced. “The front door was open.”
She stared at the visitor, whose appearance astonished her. Heavy and coarse as a big potato, the woman had meaty, liver-spot-covered hands and frizzy gray hair that stuck out in every direction. Who on earth was she? She certainly couldn’t be a friend of Olga’s, Franny reasoned, for she wasn’t nearly elegant enough. She decided that Olga must have imported a maid or something from back home.
“It is good that you can play the piano,” Olga said. “Because you could never earn a living as a spy. Dyevushka, this is Svetlana. Svetlana, this is the girl I told you about.”
“Hello,” Franny said, still staring at the guest in fascination. The woman just nodded at Franny and slurped from her coffee cup.
Olga stood up. “All right—it is time for your lesson,” she said, briskly ushering Franny out of the room.
“Madame Malenkov,” Franny whispered to Olga when they were safely in the music room. “Who is that lady?”
“Svetlana is visiting with me for a while,” Olga responded vaguely. “As you might have guessed, she is a Russian like me. Oh, excuse me—I meant to say ’Commie,’ ” she added, smirking. “Please begin with the Chopin.”
Franny sat at the piano. Oh boy, she thought. If the Colosseum women find out that another Russian’s in town, they’re going to go crazy! She spread her music out on the piano and began to play, although she could barely concentrate on the notes in front of her.
Olga stood over Franny impatiently.
“The timing is not quite right,” she said. “Try it one more time…. That’s better. The tone should be richer. Try it yet again.”
Just then, Svetlana lumbered in and heaved herself down on the settee. She gave out a pulpy, rasping cough. Franny looked up at Olga, expecting her to shoo the maid out of the room. To her surprise, Olga only looked down at her and said: �
��Well? What are you waiting for, Dyevushka—a special invitation? Start over, please.”
Franny resumed her playing. Just as she got to the second page of the piece, Svetlana blew her nose with the might of a foghorn. Franny leaped up off the bench.
“Now what?” Olga asked irritably. “Keep going.” It took another ten minutes before Olga was satisfied with the phrase. They moved on to Mozart.
Just as she reached a particularly sweet and intricate part of her piece, Franny heard another annoying noise come from the settee area. Svetlana was scratching her thigh with great zest, as though her pants leg contained itchy straw. Franny lost her concentration and made a mistake.
“What happened?” Olga said. “You played that perfectly last week. Play it again.”
Svetlana hacked again, and gave one more noisy scratch for good measure—but after that, she quieted down long enough for Franny to get through the piece without mistakes.
“Very good,” Olga said. “Make sure that you do not rush the middle part. You are always in a hurry to get to the end. And now play the Liszt.”
Franny put the music up in front of her and played. Suddenly she heard a new noise coming from behind her. At first, she thought it was an odd, droning alarm somewhere off in the distance—was it an air-raid siren? Her stomach flip-flopped, and then she realized that it was only Svetlana, humming along to the music. Franny looked up at her teacher and raised her eyebrows indignantly.
“Now what?” said Olga, clearly annoyed. “She’s humming,” Franny said under her breath, jerking her head in the direction of the settee. “I can’t concentrate.”
“If you are going to perform in big concert halls, you had better get used to distractions,” Olga said matter-offactly. Then she said something to Svetlana in Russian, and both ladies laughed.
Franny’s face burned red as she pounded through the rest of the lesson. First of all, she couldn’t believe that Olga would allow this oafish stranger to sit in on one of her lessons. But to do so right before the most important contest of her life? Franny didn’t know what to think. And the fact that Olga and Svetlana had shared an inside joke, probably at her expense, only infuriated her even more.
“My, you are playing with such passion this evening,” Olga said mischievously. “The judges will be very impressed.”
Svetlana blew her nose again noisily. Franny glared at her over her shoulder.
“I have a bad cold,” the woman explained. “This town is like Siberia.” And then, to Olga: “Next time you hide out, do it in Hawaii, da?”
If you hate it so much, why don’t you go back to Russia again, stinky old Svetlana, Franny thought, glowering. Anyway, why was Olga letting the maid talk to her like that? If Franny had ever been sassy, Olga would have sent her from the house.
“Okay, Dyevushka, the lesson is over now,” Olga said hurriedly. “I would like you to pay special attention to the tone of the Mozart. It is not quite there—but almost. Just remember that Mozart is always light and clean, like springtime. He always insisted on naturalness, and so do I. See you again next week.”
Franny snatched her music books off the piano and gave Svetlana one last stare before she stomped out into the snow.
The following Monday, when Franny arrived at school, a large group of kids stood huddled near the front door. As she approached them, Franny heard Sandy’s voice calling out from the middle of the mob: “Three to one—Franny Hansen versus Prancy Orilee. Those are the odds, folks. Take it or leave it. It’ll be the contest of a lifetime.”
Franny pushed her way into the center of the circle, where Sandy was the main attraction. She held a jar of coins and a pad and pencil. Just then, Runty dropped a dime in the jar and said: “Ten cents on Franny.”
Sandy scribbled down:
10¢, Runty, on FH
“Sandy—what on earth are you doing?” Franny asked. “Whaddya think? Startin’ a betting pool on the piano contest,” Sandy said. “Just to get your morale up. Guess what—everyone’s pullin’ for you, and we have almost three whole dollars of bets. And that’s before recess even.”
Franny’s face reddened as she pulled Sandy aside.
“But what if I lose and Nancy wins?” she asked. “Have you thought about that? Everyone will hate me.”
“Aw, you won’t lose,” said Sandy breezily. “Everyone heard you play at the Eunice Grimes concert, and we all know you’re better than ole Prancy-pants. Soon the whole world will know it.”
Franny’s throat squeezed in anxiety. Without saying another word, she walked into Miss Hamm’s classroom, sat down, and took deep breaths. All morning, she stared at the back of Nancy’s golden head and hoped that Nancy had jitters as well. Probably not, Franny concluded grimly. Prancy’s got nerves of steel, and a heart to match. To distract herself, she ran through her contest pieces in her mind over and over again.
At one point, Sandy turned around to her and whispered: “Hey, Franny, cut it out. That’s real annoyin’.”
“Cut what out?” asked Franny, surprised. “You keep drumming your fingers on the desk, like you’re playing the piano. Everyone keeps looking at you.”
Franny blinked. “I didn’t realize that I was doing that,” she said, looking around in embarrassment. She sat on her hands for the rest of the week to keep herself from doing it again.
Finally, Friday arrived, the last day before the contest. After the morning bell rang, Sandy hovered outside the classroom as everyone else filed in.
“Now what are you doing?” Franny asked Sandy from the cloakroom. “You’re going to be late.”
“You’ll see,” Sandy whispered excitedly. “Go sit down.”
“Just don’t get us in trouble,” Franny said nervously, and she went into the classroom and took her seat. Nancy Orilee flounced into the room and sat down, preciously arranging the ruffles in her skirt around her.
Just as Miss Hamm started taking attendance, Sandy strolled in and took off her cardigan. She wore a T-shirt proclaiming in handwritten red marker:
Franny Hansen State Piano Champion, 1954
She paraded across the front of the room so that everyone could see her. Then she turned around so that everyone could see the back of the shirt, which declared:
Last Place for Prancy
Everyone snickered, and Runty Knutson said, “Amen!” very loudly. Franny’s heart pounded with affection for her friend.
Nancy Orilee stood up and yelled: “Miss Hamm! You’re not going to let Sandy Anne wear that shirt today, are you?”
Miss Hamm wrung her hands. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she said. “Sandy, I think you should put on your sweater.”
“But it’s hot in here,” Sandy shouted. “It must be a thousand degrees. And besides, there’s no dress code at the Polk School. That’s disqualification.”
“You mean discrimination,” Franny corrected her in a whisper.
“Yeah—that,” said Sandy. She smiled smugly at Nancy.
Miss Hamm was about to emit another round of Oh dears when Mr. Moody began to speak over the intercom.
“Good morning,” he said wrathfully. “Someone has scribbled some profanity in chalk on the school dumpster. Once I identify the perpetrator, not only will he have to wash the whole dumpster, he’ll have detention for the rest of his life.”
Runty Knutson looked at the floor innocently.
“Secondly, I have an important announcement to make,” Mr. Moody continued. Franny could practically see the cigarette smoke wafting out of the intercom box on the wall.
“This weekend, fifth graders Nancy Orilee and Franny Hansen are once again representing Rusty Nail with their musical talents,” he said. “They’ll both be playing in a contest in Minneapolis against the finest young pianists in the state. Please wish them luck if you see them in the hallways.”
“Good luck, Nancy!” Runty suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs, and then let out a terribly noisy fart. The rest of the children shrieked with laughter.
“Ohhh,” wai
led Miss Hamm. “Runty, please go to the principal’s office.”
“Do I have to?” Runty said.
“Yes, please,” said Miss Hamm apologetically.
“Aw, man,” said Runty as he slid off his chair and stumped out of the room. When he left, Miss Hamm let out a sigh of relief and faced the class.
“Now, I think it would be very nice if we gave a little round of applause to encourage Nancy and Franny before they leave for Minneapolis,” she pleaded.
All of the students clapped, and Sandy stood up and whooped a few times in Franny’s direction.
Franny’s fingers tingled with nervous excitement. She looked over at Nancy, who gave her a big sugary smile. Then, as the applause died down, Nancy leaned back and whispered to Franny: “You’re going to come in last, not me. I don’t know why you’re even bothering to go at all.”
To Franny’s surprise, instead of being stung by Nancy’s comment, she felt a sense of calmness wash over her. All of a sudden, she had a premonition that she was going to win. Just like that. People like Nancy Orilee always got what they deserved, and it was simply time for her rival’s comeuppance. Nancy must have sensed this by the change in Franny’s expression. Her smirk wilted, and she began to look unsure of herself.
At that moment, Franny knew that she had already begun to conquer Nancy Orilee.
The sun hadn’t even risen yet when Lorraine woke Franny up the morning of the contest. Franny groggily brushed her teeth and stared at herself in the mirror. She’d spent much of the night before lying awake, thinking through every note in her music and drumming out the Mozart and Chopin pieces on her blanket over and over again.
“Here you go, honey,” Lorraine said, coming into the bathroom and shaking out the “Dorothy” dress that Franny had worn to the Eunice Grimes concert. “I washed it for you last night.”
The Rising Star of Rusty Nail Page 14
