Melody Trumpet Read online

Freddie’s eyes widened. ‘Really? Well, I liked it. A lot.’

  ‘Oh . . . thanks,’ Melody said, blushing. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Hey, it was something! No more lies between us from now on, only secrets,’ he continued. ‘Promise?’

  She nodded, ‘Promise,’ and shook his outstretched hand. ‘Now I’d better get back to school before my driver arrives. I’m running late.’

  His eyes widened. ‘You have a driver? Nice. The cap looks good by the way,’ he added. ‘You know what? You can keep it, Melody Trumpet.’

  ‘Thanks, Freddie Bloom.’

  12.

  An unfortunate misunderstanding

  Mrs Trumpet poked her head out of the walk-in pantry and waved at Mr Trumpet with her pointy red nails. ‘Yoo-hoo! In here! Quickly!’ she whispered. ‘We need to talk. Now.’

  Mr Trumpet looked at her in shock. ‘Are you mad, Viola? Why can’t we just go back to our wing and . . .’ His stomach growled before he could finish the sentence. ‘Ohhh, fine.’ He hurried into the pantry and closed the door. ‘It’s very cramped in here.’

  His stomach growled again. ‘Nope, this won’t do.’ He pulled down a loaf of sliced bread off a shelf, and sniffed around for some toppings. His oversized stomach, which strained against his suspenders, knocked a row of jars and cans onto the floor with a crash.

  Mrs Trumpet sucked in a breath. ‘It’s the child, Barry. Something’s up. She hasn’t mentioned her class today with Mr Pizzicato, and Royce said she was late to arrive at the limousine this afternoon for the first time ever. But the most curious thing of all . . . she’s smiling. She never smiles, the miserable little flea.’

  ‘What? Late? Smiling?’ Mr Trumpet spluttered, choking on his sandwich.

  Mrs Trumpet pursed her lips together. ‘She shouldn’t be smiling at all. I discarded that rotten old notebook the other day so she’d keep her focus on the Debut Gala. This is most curious. There must be something she’s not telling us . . . Come with me, my sticky cinnamon bun. Let’s investigate.’

  Mr and Mrs Trumpet eased out of the pantry, tiptoed across the grand foyer, up the staircase to Melody’s wing, and peeked through the door.

  Melody lay on her stomach on the carpet watching cartoons, her bare feet dancing in the air. She chomped on a sandwich, giggling as honey dripped down her chin.

  ‘See!’ Mrs Trumpet hissed, elbowing Mr Trumpet. ‘Laughter! Completely out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Very suspicious,’ Mr Trumpet agreed, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Unless . . .’ Mrs Trumpet grabbed Mr Trumpet’s hand and dragged him back down to the kitchen. She held the pantry door open and gestured to him to go back inside.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Darling Viola . . . just tell me here. Small spaces aren’t my speciality and I’ve eaten enough bread.’

  ‘What if the child’s . . . happy? Oh!’ Mrs Trumpet gasped. ‘You know what this means?’

  ‘She likes cartoons? Or honey sandwiches? Speaking of which, maybe I could squeeze in another sandwich or two . . .’

  ‘No, you silly sausage. It means things must finally be going well with Mr Pizzicato. Oh, my bean burrito, our dramas are over.’

  He beamed at her. ‘We knew this day would come, my squidgy little tortellini. Laughter, smiling, relaxed — all signs of a child who has found her talent.’

  * * *

  Melody was now curled up on the bed, flicking through the channels on the television.

  ‘No smile,’ Mrs Trumpet whispered in Mr Trumpet’s ear, although her idea of whispering was so loud it could help ships find their way home in the night. ‘Or is that a frown? It looks like a frown. Maybe I was wrong . . . maybe I imagined the whole thing.’

  Melody waved at her parents in the doorway. ‘Ah, I can hear you. What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Trumpet, taking a step forward. ‘Well, when I popped past earlier you seemed so blissful. And now . . .’

  Melody nibbled on her nail. ‘I’m just watching TV. Or is that banned too now?’

  ‘No. Unless Mr Pizzicato has banned it? If he has, you must turn it off immediately.’ Mrs Trumpet’s voice grew increasingly high-pitched. Mr Trumpet touched her gently on the arm and she paused, pursing her lips. ‘My apologies. Melody, our love, can we chat with you for a second?’

  Our love? Melody thought to herself. ‘Ah, sure.’

  ‘Lovely. So, ah, how are things . . . ah, proceeding in the lead-up to the Gala?’ Mrs Trumpet put on a sickly sweet voice as she plopped her rotund bottom down on the bed.

  Melody’s jaw tightened. She hadn’t spoken to her mother since she’d thrown her notebook into the rubbish bin. How did she think Melody was going after that?

  ‘I’m fine. Just hanging out,’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘And how are lessons with Mr Pizzicato? Are things moving in the right direction? I hear their Royal Highnesses are extremely excited about your debut.’

  ‘Things are . . . Well, I’m happy with how things are going,’ said Melody.

  It was only a half-lie. She was devastated by the loss of her notebook, and petrified about the upcoming Debut Gala, but she had something else to be happy about. Her first ever friend, Freddie Bloom. Melody’s mouth creased into a smile.

  ‘See, Barry,’ Mrs Trumpet said, clinging to Mr Trumpet’s solid upper arm. ‘It’s true. She’s happy!’

  ‘So classes with Mr Pizzicato are different?’ Mr Trumpet probed. ‘Maybe you’re both doing things in a new way — a way that you haven’t tried before?’

  Melody thought of Mr Pizzicato flopped on the couch, and his announcement that he was leaving on a spontaneous holiday to a tropical island.

  ‘Yes, things are definitely different,’ she said.

  Mrs Trumpet squealed and clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful, child. Well, keep it up. This new way seems to be working — the beam on your face says it all. I knew Mr Pizzicato would come through for us in the end. It only took years . . .’

  ‘Viola . . .’ Mr Trumpet warned.

  ‘I’ll be quiet,’ Mrs Trumpet said. She huddled closer to Melody on the bed. ‘Although . . . I can’t resist! Would you like to try on your Claudette Rought gown again to celebrate? It looks so scrumptious.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t think so,’ said Melody.

  ‘Why not?’ Mrs Trumpet huffed. ‘You’ll be the most spectacular person there — other than me and the Princess of course! I know, why don’t you give us a sneak-peek performance of what you’ve been working on with Mr Pizzicato?’

  ‘I, for one, cannot wait to hear it,’ added Mr Trumpet. ‘Is it conducting, like your old pop, Melody?’ He beamed, no doubt imagining her tiny figure in front of an orchestra.

  ‘Or opera?’ chimed in Mrs Trumpet. ‘Tell me it’s singing, child. Or the cello, like your great-grandmother? I’m so thrilled at the possibilities I could explode.’

  ‘It’s . . .’ Melody’s cheeks burned. ‘It’s . . . Mr Pizzicato said . . .’

  Her stomach churned. She had to tell her parents the truth. She’d hated all the lies she’d been forced into — and she couldn’t keep it up. Especially not a lie as big as Mr Pizzicato quitting his job right before the Debut Gala. ‘Um . . . the truth is —’

  ‘Hold that thought, Melody!’ Mrs Trumpet said, disappearing out the door.

  She returned with three sapphire-blue feather boas from the locked display cabinet in the grand foyer. The Untouchables, Melody called them, because they were worth an undisclosed amount and no one was ever allowed to touch them. The feathers were from a rare species of peacock found in the tropical forests of a tiny island on the other side of the world, so the boas were only allowed to be admired from a safe distance. Until now.

  Mrs Trumpet draped one boa around Melody’s neck, and looped another around Mr Trumpet’s. Then she popped on some music — from her own platinum-selling album, of course — and took Melody’s hand in hers. ‘This triumph deserves a celebration!’ she said, and waltzed Melody around the wing, too caught up
in her own excitement and the sound of her voice on the album to realise Melody hadn’t told them anything.

  But as her mother swept Melody along in her arms, lifting her, spinning her, laughter escaped both of their lips. Real laughter.

  Is this what it feels like to be part of something? Melody thought. Part of a real family?

  As Mrs Trumpet twirled her from one side of the room to the other, Melody pushed the truth down so deep that it wouldn’t slip out. She told herself there was still time to confess to her parents that Mr Pizzicato had abandoned her. But for now she just wanted to enjoy the bubbly, fizzy happiness in her stomach.

  A feeling like she belonged.

  13.

  Through the hidden passage

  Royce stopped the limousine outside the secret entrance to the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children. He turned off the engine and drew in a deep breath. They sat in silence for a few moments. She knew what he was thinking. Where was Mr Pizzicato?

  Day after day, year after year, Mr Pizzicato had waited for Melody at the entrance with a steaming hot chocolate in one hand and a gingernut biscuit in the other. But he wasn’t there today. It seemed yesterday hadn’t been just a strange dream as Melody had hoped.

  ‘No Mr Pizzicato this morning, Miss Trumpet?’ Royce said.

  ‘He must be inside, setting up the . . . ah . . . the instruments for the . . . ah . . . the . . . thing. The rehearsal! We’re extra busy today.’

  Fibbing to Royce didn’t feel right, but Melody hoped against hope that Mr Pizzicato might be playing the most excruciating game of hide and seek ever. Maybe if she wished hard enough, he would magically appear inside the studio.

  ‘So . . . bye then,’ she said to Royce, forcing a fake smile.

  ‘Wait!’ He got out of the limousine to open the door for her. ‘I should come in with you and check everything is okay.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t everything be okay?’ Melody asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound too high-pitched. ‘Mr Pizzicato is in inside, then I’ll be inside, then we’ll both be inside, then . . . then . . . everything will continue to be okay inside . . . Okay?’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, I suppose so.’

  ‘I’m sure you have a very busy morning ahead, Royce. I know the way. I’ve done this thousands of times. You know that.’

  ‘I’ll wait here, just in case.’

  ‘Royce.’

  ‘Miss Trumpet.’

  Melody folded her arms. ‘I’m not a little kid.’

  ‘But your parents —’

  ‘Will be fine with it. Ask them.’

  This was a gamble and Melody knew it.

  ‘Excellent idea. I’ll do just that.’

  Melody bit her lip as Royce whipped out his phone and called the manor.

  ‘It’s ringing out,’ he told her.

  Melody peeked at his watch. ‘Of course it is. It’s eight o’clock. Mother will be at yoga, then brunch with the opera alumni. Father will be asleep.’

  Royce sighed. ‘Fine. I will be back here at three twenty-nine sharp. Yesterday’s tardiness was a no-no. If you’re so much as a second late —’

  ‘I’ll be a second early,’ Melody told him. ‘See you this afternoon.’

  Backpack bouncing on her shoulders, Melody walked through the secret entrance into the secret passage. Now she had to remember which way to turn to get to Mr Pizzicato’s private music studio. She was used to following her teacher through the passage each morning in a sleepy daze.

  Melody wandered along, stopping to peek through the tiny glass windows that allowed a glimpse into the classrooms below. The secret passage was so high above everything that no one had any inkling they were being watched, or that the passage even existed.

  In one classroom a single boy and his teacher were playing a duet on the piano, their long spindly fingers flying between the pages of sheet music and the black and white keys. In another, three girls, each about Melody’s age, giggled as they played their violins. The tallest girl stood on top of her desk and waved her violin bow in the air like she was casting a spell. Melody pressed her nose to the glass, watching as the other two clambered onto their desks and copied their friend, then they all cracked up laughing. She walked on.

  Surely she had almost reached the studio by now? She didn’t remember it taking this long to get there, but she’d always had Mr Pizzicato for company in the past.

  Finally, she came to the studio door. She brushed her fingers over the scratches in the wood that she’d seen thousands of times. Mr Pizzicato often moaned about the scratches but Melody thought they added character. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for the key Mr Pizzicato had given her, and pushed it into the keyhole. Then, for the first time ever, she turned the brass doorknob and opened the door.

  The room was in darkness, except for a sliver of light coming from the hallway.

  ‘Mr P?’ Melody whispered. ‘Are you here?’ She fumbled around in the black, her fingertips finding the light switch. ‘Mr Pizzicato?’ she said again, voice cracking.

  Pale yellow light flooded the room. It was empty. The instruments were lined up or packed neatly away. The cushions on the couch had been plumped up. Everything was in its place. And there was no sign at all of Mr Pizzicato.

  Melody walked to the grand piano and sat down on the leather seat. Her right thumb pushed down on the piano’s middle C key, and it rang clear and bright, teasing her with the promise of a perfect musical scale. Encouraged, Melody brought both hands to the piano’s glossy white keys. Her fingers stumbled from key to key, creating a jerky, stuttering sound. Melody cringed. It wasn’t exactly the smooth run she had hoped for.

  She picked up a guitar and strummed its strings, but they shuddered at her touch. One string vibrated so hard it snapped with a loud twang! She quickly put it back in its case.

  Sighing, Melody stared at the calendar on Mr Pizzicato’s wall with its big red crosses. The days were disappearing and she had no idea how she was going to get herself out of this mess. And with the half-lie to her parents, she’d dug herself in even deeper.

  Soon Principal Sharp, the city of Battyville, the entire world — maybe even alien life on other planets — would know that Melody Trumpet was a sham. Her parents would lose their iconic status, their manor, everything that was so important to them, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  But Melody wasn’t one to call it quits. She always tried her best, even when her best seemed to be the worst. She racked her brains for ideas — but still nothing came to her. All she could think about was what she was going to perform at the Debut Gala now that Mr Pizzicato wasn’t here to teach her.

  She needed help. A music whiz.

  A friend.

  Melody knew just the person to ask.

  * * *

  Armed with some old sheet music and a pen, Melody went back to the secret passage and peeked down into classroom after classroom. Finally, she came to one that was a flurry of students and colours and movement. There was no teacher at the front of the room. Two girls threw a tennis ball over the other students’ heads, and a group of boys were huddled in a corner playing cards. A girl wearing a pirate hat was scribbling I love farts on the blackboard. Melody laughed. What was this class? It looked a lot more fun than her sessions with Mr Pizzicato.

  Then she saw him. Freddie. He was sitting cross-legged on his desk, flipping through a comic book. Every now and then he’d laugh out loud. He wriggled around on the hard desk, no doubt uncomfortable, then jumped down onto the carpet and lay on his back to read the comic.

  At first his face was blocked from view by the comic book, but eventually it dropped onto his chest. When it did, he caught sight of Melody peering through the tiny window near the ceiling. She beamed and gave a wave, then immediately wondered if she should have ducked out of view. But he gave her a thumbs-up in reply, his eyes wide in excitement.

  Melody dropped to her knees and scribbled a note for Freddie on the sheet music, giving him directi
ons on how to meet her at the secret entrance at recess. She folded the paper into an aeroplane and whispered, ‘Sorry, Mr Pizzicato, but it’s an emergency.’

  She pushed the paper aeroplane through a small grey vent at her feet. Once it was through the tight gap, she pressed her nose to the glass again, gesturing to Freddie to look up. He did, but nothing happened. He cocked his head to the side, confused. Still nothing. Melody bit her lip. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t how it was meant to go at all.

  Suddenly the aeroplane burst out of the vent and into Freddie’s classroom, floating and dancing on the ceiling like magic.

  Freddie sprinted to the front of the class and plucked the aeroplane from the air seconds before its sharp nose made contact with the carpet. Grinning, he scurried back to his desk and slid into his chair, shooing away nosy classmates, and slipped the aeroplane into his backpack.

  Success!

  At recess, Melody found Freddie waiting for her at the entrance to the secret passage with his skateboard.

  ‘That was wild!’ he blurted with excitement, waving the paper aeroplane in her face.

  Melody agreed it was pretty cool but there was no time for chit-chat. After a quick check left and right, she snuck Freddie inside the secret passage and led him up to the soundproofed music studio.

  ‘This is awesome,’ he said. ‘And this passageway has been here all this time, right above our heads? Wow!’ His voice trailed off as they reached the studio door. ‘Wait, where’s your teacher? Won’t they freak out if they see me with you?’

  ‘He’s gone. Quit. Bailed.’

  Freddie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Just before the Debut Gala?’

  ‘He gave up. I don’t blame him. It’s kind of why you’re here though . . .’

  ‘Really?’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘Another secret! And another whopper!’

  She nodded and turned the door handle.

  From the moment Freddie stepped into the studio, everything felt different to Melody, like someone had turned the lights on in the room for the first time. For so many years it had just been her and Mr Pizzicato in the studio, her tiny frame and his spindly body barely filling the space. Freddie was no bigger than she was, but his voice was loud and happy, and his smile was wide and gap-toothed.