‘Um … hi. You know me?’

‘Yeah. I’m Nelson. You met my grandma. She told me to watch out for you. Everyone treating you wel ?’

OK—so he wasn’t like Mrs Hoffman after al , way too cool. ‘Yes, everyone’s been very friendly.’

He grinned at my accent and dropped down beside me, putting his feet up on the chair in front.

‘Awesome. I think you’l have no problem fitting right in.’

I needed to hear that because just then I was having doubts. I decided I liked Nelson.

The door banged open. Enter Mr Keneal y, a hefty man with the ginger hair of a Celt. Doodling on my pad, I immediately had him tabbed: Music Master, Harbinger of Doom to al disharmony. Definitely not a candidate for spandex.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began without breaking step. ‘Christmas is coming with its usual alarming swiftness, and we’ve a big programme of concerts scheduled. So you can al expect to let those little lights shine.’ I could hear his signature tune now: lots of drum and building tension, a kind of revved-up version of the ‘1812’ overture. ‘Orchestra starts on Wednesday. Jazz band Friday. Al you budding rock stars, if you want to book the music rooms for your own band practice, see me first. But why do I bother—you know the dril .’ He dumped the papers down. ‘Except perhaps you.’ Music Master had brought his X-ray vision to bear on me.

I hate being new.

‘I’m catching up fast, sir.’

‘Good for you. Name?’

Hating my parents’ whimsical choice more and more, I told him, receiving the usual giggles from those who’d not met me before.

Mr Keneal y frowned at them. ‘What do you play, Miss Bright?’

‘A bit of piano. Oh, and guitar and tenor sax.’

Mr Keneal y rocked on the bal s of his feet, reminding me of a diver about to take the plunge. ‘Is

“a bit” some English code for “real y good”?’

‘Um …’

‘Jazz, classical, or rock?’

‘Er … jazz, I suppose.’ I was happy with anything as long as it came on a stave.

‘Jazz, you suppose? You don’t sound very certain, Miss Bright. Music is not take it or leave it; music is life or death!’

His little speech was interrupted by the arrival of a latecomer. The Hispanic biker sauntered into the room, hands thrust in pockets, his mile-long legs eating up the floor as he strode to the windowsil to perch next to the clarinettist. It took me a moment to get over the surprise that the biker actual y participated in any school activities; I’d imagined him above al that. Or maybe he’d come just to make fun of us? He leaned against the window as he had his saddle, ankles crossed negligently, an expression of amusement on his face as if he’d heard it al before and no longer cared.

Al I could think was that they don’t make them like that in Richmond. It wasn’t so much that he had the poster boy looks, it was more to do with the raw energy that rippled under the skin, pent-up rage like a tiger pacing a cage. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was by no means the only one affected. The atmosphere changed in the room. The girls sat up that little bit straighter, the boys were put on edge—

al because this godlike creature had deigned to come among us mere mortals. Or was it the wolf among the sheep?

‘Mr Benedict, so kind of you to join us,’ Mr Keneal y said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, his previous good humour chil ed. A little scene flashed through my head: Music Master facing up to the Wicked Wolfman, weapons a bul et spray of notes.

‘Al of us are thril ed you’ve torn yourself away from your no doubt far more important schedule to make music with us, even if your arrival is somewhat tardy.’

The

boy

quirked

an

eyebrow,

evidently

unrepentant. He picked up a pair of drumsticks and rol ed them in his fingers. ‘I’m late?’ His voice was deep as I had imagined it, a shrug of bass tones.

The clarinettist bravely elbowed him in the ribs, a reminder to behave.

Mr Keneal y’s buttons were definitely being pushed. ‘Yes, you are late. I believe it is a custom in this school to apologize to the teacher if you arrive after they do.’

Drumsticks stil ed, the boy stared at him for a moment, his expression arrogant like some young lord contemplating a peasant who dared correct him.

Final y, he said, ‘Sorry.’

I had the impression that the rest of the room gave a subtle sigh of relief that conflict had been averted.

‘You’re not—but that’l have to do. Watch your step, Mr Benedict: you may be talented but I’m not interested in prima donnas who don’t know how to treat their fel ow musicians. You, Miss Bright, are you a team player?’ Mr Keneal y turned back to me, dashing my hopes that I’d been forgotten. ‘Or are you afflicted with the same attitude as our Mr Zed Benedict?’

A very unfair question. This was a battle of superheroes and I was not even a sidekick. I’d not yet spoken to the Wolfman and I was being asked to criticize him. He had the kind of looks that made even the most confident girl a little in awe of him and, as my self-esteem was way down at rock bottom to start with, what I felt was closer to terror.

‘I … I don’t know. But I’ve been late too.’

The boy’s gaze flicked to me, then dismissed me as no more than a fleck of mud on his Wolfman superboots.

‘Let’s find out what you can do. Jazz band fal in.’

Mr Keneal y shot music out like Frisbees. ‘Mr Hoffman, you take the sax; Yves Benedict, clarinet part. Maybe you can prevail upon your brother to delight us al on the drums?’

‘Of course, Mr Keneal y,’ John Lennon specs replied, shooting the biker a dark look. ‘Zed, get over here.’

His brother? Wow, how did that happen? They might look a little like each other but in attitude they were on different planets.

‘Miss Bright can have my place at the piano.’ Mr Keneal y caressed the grand fondly.

I real y really didn’t want to perform in front of everyone.

‘Um … Mr Keneal y, I’d prefer—’

‘Sit.’

I sat, adjusting the height of the stool. At least the music was familiar.

‘Don’t mind the prof,’ Nelson muttered, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘He does this to everyone—

tests your nerves, he says.’

Feeling mine were wrecked already, I waited for the others to settle.

‘OK, take it away,’ said Mr Keneal y, sitting in the audience to watch.

With the first touch, I knew the grand was a honey

—ful toned, powerful, capable of a great range. It relaxed me as nothing else could, providing a barrier between me and the rest of the room. Getting lost in the score chased off my jitters and I began to enjoy myself. I lived for music in the same way my parents did for their art. It wasn’t about performance—I preferred to play to an empty room; for me, it was about being part of the composition, taking the notes and working the magic to weave the spel . When playing with others, I was aware of my fel ow performers not as people but as the sounds: Nelson, smooth and loose; Yves, the clarinet player, lyrical, intel igent, sometimes funny; Zed—wel , Zed was the heartbeat, powering the music along. I sensed he understood the music as I did, his anticipation of shifts in mood and tempo faultless.

‘Very good, nay, excel ent!’ Mr Keneal y pronounced when we had finished. ‘I fear I’ve just been bumped from the jazz band.’ He gave me a wink.

‘You aced,’ said Nelson in a low voice as he passed my back.

Mr Keneal y went on to other matters, organizing the choir and orchestra rehearsals, but no one else was asked forward to play. Unwil ing to give up my barrier, I stayed where I was, gazing at the reflection of my hands in the raised lid, fingers tapping the keys without pressing down. I felt a light touch on my shoulder. The students were leaving but Nelson and the clarinet player stood behind me, Zed further off stil looking as if he’d rather not be there.