Maddie in the Middle

by Julia Lawrinson

  ‘Hair,’ he read out.

  We all laughed and laughed, but Mrs L looked sternly at the class and said, ‘We’ll choose a new topic each week. Your topic for this week is hair. You have twenty minutes to write whatever you can about hair, or something associated with hair, or anything you can create using the topic.’

  Mrs L glared at a couple of boys at the back until they stopped giggling.

  ‘It can be a short story, a poem, a dialogue,’ she went on. ‘You will start now and finish it for homework, then you will hand in the completed, edited –’ there was a collective groan – ‘piece next week. At which time we will draw out the next topic. Am I clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs L,’ the class intoned.

  ‘Now, write!’ she said.

  Everyone started writing, some on their tablets, some in their notebooks. Everyone except me. I sat there, twirling my pen between my fingers, until Mrs L said, ‘Are you clear on what you have to do, Maddie?’ and I wrote the first thing that came into my head.

  It started:

  You don’t notice me anymore. You used to need me every day. Once, you couldn’t do without me, took me everywhere with you. We went to the pool, for sleepovers – we even went on holiday together. I mattered to you. You didn’t miss a single day with me, and I was happy. My life had purpose. Now, you’ve left me in the cupboard. I’m all dusty, crowded with all the old packets of soap and all the other random stuff down here.

  I’m your hairdryer, and you’ve cut your hair. Life will never be the same again.

  That was as far as I’d got at school. I thought it was amusing, but what to write next? Eventually I come up with why the hairdryer’s owner had their haircut, and end with how hopeful the hairdryer is that long hair would be the fashion and she will come out of the cupboard.

  I call it ‘Ode to a Hairdryer’.

  When I finish, I want to switch the wi-fi on, but no. Now clarinet practice beckons.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to Wolfie. ‘But it has to be done.’

  Wolfie flattens his ears and glares at me as I start putting my clarinet together, before getting up and leaving the room in the cat version of a huff.

  The only reason I chose clarinet instead of flute was because Katy chose the flute first. (I ruled out the trumpet because it sounds like something being strangled.) I only realised after I started how much easier it would have been to play the flute. This is because clarinets are fiddly to put together, and a lot of things can go wrong even before you start playing.

  First, there are five separate pieces to put together. Then, you have to make sure there is enough grease on the cork joins. Then you have to lift something called the bridge key when you put together the middle parts. Finally, you have to make sure you secure the reed – if it isn’t split, or chipped, or mouldy, that is – to the mouthpiece in exactly the right way, or the clarinet makes a hideous sound. Like a cat with its tail trapped in a door. (I accidentally trapped Wolfie’s tail in my bedroom door once, so I know what it sounds like.)

  Once it is together, though, the clarinet sounds much better than the flute, in my opinion. The high notes can be a bit squeaky, or at least they are when I play them, but the low notes are rich and full, like syrup. The flute is breathy and sweet, but I prefer the tones from a clarinet. As long as you didn’t ruin it putting it together.

  I practise a few scales to warm up, and then get out the piece Mrs C has given us. Katy is right, her part is harder. It sounds weird, playing the lines without the flute playing the melody, and the piano rounding the whole thing out.

  ‘Ah, the dulcet tones of the liquorice stick!’ Dad calls as he comes in the door.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I call.

  Dad sticks his head into my room. ‘I miss the days of ‘Twinkle Twinkle’, don’t you?’

  This was a joke between me and Dad. My first clarinet teacher wouldn’t let me play anything other than ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ until I got my technique right. One day, after I’d played it about a hundred times, Dad burst into my room clutching his head, and said, ‘No more ‘Twinkle Twinkle’! Please, Wolfie and I are begging you, anything but ‘Twinkle Twinkle’!’

  I deliver an evil grin and immediately start on the first few notes of ‘Twinkle Twinkle’, dragging them out long and horrible.

  ‘Forget it, I’m going, I’m going!’ he says, closing the door behind him.

  I finish practising the piece, then clean the clarinet and put it away.

  Finally, I switch on the wi-fi. I take a deep breath, then begin searching.

  This time, I find her.

  There she is: Samara.

  Of course, Elsa, Jordi and Grace are already her friends, which means it won’t be long before she is friends with half the school. I wonder whether to add her, or whether it would seem desperate. Samara doesn’t have friends from anywhere else. Maybe her parents are strict with her.

  Samara has only posted a few photos. There is one of her in oversized sunglasses, with her hair up, looking serious. You can’t tell where the picture is taken, just inside, somewhere, with cream walls behind her and nothing else. The picture makes her look as if she could be 18. She looks different to the Samara I’ve met at school, and I click through the few others, hoping for something else. But the rest are random shots: one of a delicious-looking doughnut, one of a cat sitting on a crumbling wall, one a shot of a piano keyboard that looks like it had come from some art website or something. No other people. No pictures of her with friends. Nothing saying what school she’d come from. No clues that might give me a way to become her friend.

  I try to tell myself that I’m not disappointed, but when Dad sees me as I wander into the living area, he says, ‘Hey sweet pea. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘I’ve finished a story and done my clarinet practice. Now I’m starving.’

  ‘Just as well Chef Michael is on the job then, isn’t it?’ Dad peers into a mixing bowl, and says, ‘Free-range chicken meatballs with your favourite pasta coming up. Wolfie has already had a sample and declared his approval.’

  ‘Lucky Katy’s not here,’ I say. Katy has been vegetarian since last year, because of how much she loves animals.

  ‘Speaking of whom,’ Dad says. ‘I notice we haven’t had the pleasure of her company lately.’

  This is true. Katy is usually a regular visitor. She normally invites herself, but she’s been busy with her extra music practice. Now, she’s also going to have councillor meetings after school, as well as some lunchtimes.

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ I say.

  I pull out a strand of dry pasta and start nibbling at it. Everyone thinks dried pasta is a strange thing to eat, but I like the crunch of it. I chew and ponder while Dad rolls the chicken mixture into balls and sets them on a plate. As I watch him, I wonder how I am going to start talking to Samara if she is around Elsa and those girls all the time.

  ‘No licking the bowl today,’ Dad says, running the mixing bowl under the tap. ‘Wolfie’s already beaten you to it.’

  ‘Yuck, Dad, as if I’d lick the bowl for meatballs.’ Then I stop chewing on the pasta and say, ‘I know!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dad,’ I say, ‘could you make some of your world-famous chocolate chip muffins later?’

  ‘Sure,’ Dad says. ‘Why?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ I smile.

  ‘This is to die for,’ Katy moans.

  At least, that’s what it sounds like she says, through a mouthful of muffin.

  I watch her, lost in the indescribable bliss of Dad’s choc chip masterpiece. I am also proud of the mock-cream frosting I made by myself, topped with coloured sprinkles. The creaminess perfectly complements the melting pockets of chocolate you find with each bite; the crunch of the sprinkles slows you down when the only thing you really want is to cram the whole thing in your mouth at once and turn it into creamy-chocolatey goop.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’ Katy asks.

  ‘I had one for breakfast,
’ I say. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  This is a lie. My mouth waters as I inhale the rich aroma from the remaining muffins, and watching Katy chew away makes my stomach growl. I’d begged Dad to make more, but he didn’t have enough ingredients and he didn’t want to go down to the shop. I’d had to test one last night, just to make sure. But I have enough for my purposes. It just means that I miss out now.

  It is a sacrifice, as well as a form of torture. But I know what I have to do.

  I keep glancing at where Elsa, Grace, Jordi and Samara’s entourage will be entering the undercover area. They are late. If it gets too much later, I’ll have to wait until lunchtime, because they won’t have time to fully appreciate the amazingness of the muffins. But then they’ll probably save them until after their lunch, and they won’t have the same impact. The muffins will always be great, of course. But they have the most tastebud-tantalising impact if you are hungry to start off with. Like everyone is at recess.

  I spot them coming in, all talking to each other in a way that makes me wonder what they are talking about. That’s what girls like Grace and Elsa do. People like me see them talking to each other, and it seems like they must be talking about something really special, something you’d want to know, something that matters. That’s why people notice them. Samara fits right in. She is chatting to Grace, and Jordi and Elsa are behind them.

  ‘Um,’ I say to Katy. ‘Be right back.’

  I am worried that Katy will think it is weird, giving muffins to those girls. But she is so absorbed in consuming her own muffin that she barely notices me getting up.

  I dash over to where the other girls are, approaching the canteen line, dodging in between people while making sure I keep the container upright. As I get closer, I slow down and make an effort to look like I haven’t just done a zigzag race holding a container of muffins.

  ‘Hey,’ I say to Jordi’s back.

  Jordi turns, sees it is me, then turns back to whatever it was she was saying to Elsa. But somehow I must have caught Samara’s eye. She pauses and looks at me. Her face is friendly. She looks down at the container, which I hold out to her.

  ‘So I’ve got some of these spare and I thought you might like them, they’re really really good and I’d hate them to go to waste, so do you want one?’

  I am gabbling. Hearing myself makes me cringe. My face gets hotter and hotter. Grace, Elsa and Jordi are eyeing the muffins suspiciously. They don’t say no, but it doesn’t look like they are going to take one either.

  Until Samara reaches out, takes a muffin, and peels back the crinkly silver casing. She takes a delicate bite. Then her eyes widen.

  ‘Oh wow,’ she says. She nods at the container. ‘Take one,’ she says to Grace, Elsa and Jordi.

  Grace, Elsa and Jordi obediently take a muffin.

  Samara is on her second bite.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘This is absolutely delicious.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Grace says.

  ‘Yes,’ Elsa echoes.

  ‘Mmm,’ Jordi nods, her mouth full.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I say to Samara. ‘Anytime.’

  I turn and skip back to Katy. It worked. It worked!

  I am so happy I go up and squeeze Katy before planting a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘You are the best,’ I say, perching on the edge of the bench. The other girls haven’t moved. They are standing in a circle, eating the muffins, not talking. When Samara finishes hers, she folds the foil into a tiny square.

  ‘Hey,’ Katy says, snatching the container off me. ‘Where’re the rest?’

  ‘Given to a worthy cause,’ I say.

  ‘What? How could a cause be worthier than me, your oldest, bestest friend?’ Katy clutches her heart. ‘How am I going to live without another one? My appetite has been whetted, but not satisfied!’

  ‘In the fullness of time,’ I say, quoting Dad. That’s what he always says when I want something I can’t have, yet.

  Katy hangs her head. ‘I will have to subsist on the memory.’

  ‘I promise, I’ll get Dad to make some more,’ I say. ‘In fact, Dad’s been asking where you are. Why don’t you come over after school and you can lick the bowl with me? We can go buy the ingredients from the shop on the way home.’

  Katy pulls a face. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got piano today.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. Then I add, ‘You’ve always got stuff on these days.’

  ‘I know,’ she sighs. ‘I just have to make sure I’m as prepared as possible.’

  ‘But Katy,’ I say, ‘if you go there, we won’t be at school together anymore, when we go to high school.’

  Katy frowns. ‘That’s true. Maybe you could sit the exams too?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d want to do that much music.’

  ‘Really?’ Katy says. ‘I do.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘What about other scholarships?’

  ‘Like what?’

  Katy thinks for a moment and says brightly, ‘You’re really good at writing.’

  I shrug. ‘Do they have scholarships for writing?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Katy says. ‘I’m not sure. It’s a college for the arts. Maybe there’s a writing scholarship?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ I say. ‘I’m sure Mrs L would have told us.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Katy says. ‘I’ll come over another time, okay? And tell your dad I love those muffins. The Rule of Two?’

  ‘Me and you,’ I say glumly.

  When I get home, I switch on my tablet and add Samara.

  And straight away, she accepts.

  ‘Again!’ says Mrs C, conducting Katy and me with a flourish of her baton.

  I’d tried practising the piece, really I had, but clarinet had slipped down my list of priorities, despite the Do My Best program. I tried to convince myself that I didn’t want to disturb Wolfie, but that wasn’t why. My lack of practice shows. True, I sound less like an injured calf than when I first played the duet, but it is far short of what it is supposed to be. Katy winces the first time we do a run-through.

  ‘I definitely won’t get that music scholarship,’ I joke, but Katy only frowns.

  ‘One more time,’ Mrs C says, sitting down at the piano. ‘And this time, with accompaniment.’

  With the piano, the clarinet seems to blend better, and Katy plays her part louder. Her playing always sounds sweet and breathy, with vibrato on the long notes. I will never be able to play clarinet as well as Katy plays flute, no matter how much I practise. But I know I could sound much better than I do today.

  ‘There you are,’ Mrs C says, after we’ve finished the piece a third time. She gets up from the piano and says, ‘Girls, have you met one of our new students, Samara?’

  We all turn around. There, near the door, is Samara, a folder of music under her arm.

  ‘Katy and Maddie,’ Samara smiles. ‘We’ve met.’

  I can’t believe she is standing there: it is like I’ve conjured her up, seeing as I’ve been thinking so much about her. My face heats up, and from the feel of it, I guess it has turned fire-engine red.

  Katy says, politely, ‘Hi Samara. You play piano?’

  ‘I do,’ Samara says.

  ‘Her mother is an excellent teacher, and we’re lucky she’s moved here,’ Mrs C smiles and ushers Samara to take a seat at the keyboard.

  ‘Oh,’ Katy says, as if she is about to add something.

  Samara glances at Katy. Katy nods in return.

  ‘Do you know her?’ I whisper.

  ‘No,’ Katy says. ‘We met the other day, remember?’

  ‘I remember,’ I say. ‘But –’

  ‘Girls,’ Mrs C says, meaning that I should be quiet. ‘I believe Samara would be an excellent addition to your ensemble.’

  ‘I’m nowhere near as good as Mum,’ Samara says soberly.

  ‘Samara, you are very modest,’ Mrs C says. ‘Now, girls, are you ready?’

  She counts us in, and we beg
in playing. Samara plays as smoothly as Mrs C, her fingers moving neatly over the keyboard.

  I hope that if Samara glances up she will think the effort of playing the clarinet is why my face is the colour it is. But, on top of the weirdness of her turning up, I am embarrassed at how lumbering my part sounds, compared to the lightness of Katy’s flute line and the piano. It is supposed to be a lilting, joyful piece, but you wouldn’t have known it from listening to me. I sound like I am accompanying a funeral.

  ‘Lovely,’ Mrs C beams. ‘This is most fortuitous, Samara, that we have you with us now.’

  ‘But Mrs C,’ Katy says. ‘Why can’t Samara play solo? She’s good enough.’

  It’s not like Katy to disagree with a suggestion from a teacher, especially not Mrs C. Katy always wants whatever she’s involved in to be the best, and having Samara be part of our ensemble would be better than having only a flute and a clarinet, especially when the clarinet player is me. I wonder if she doesn’t like Samara for some reason, but I can’t imagine anyone not liking Samara. Samara’s face always appears calm, and she is self-contained in a way that seems almost adult. Katy can be composed when she needs to be, like she is at assembly, but you can always see the enthusiasm bubbling beneath it.

  ‘She will probably do some solo pieces too,’ says Mrs C. ‘But you will be an excellent trio.’

  Katy nods and looks down at her flute, pressing the keys open and shut. They make a muffled tapping noise. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Katy was embarrassed.

  ‘All right, girls,’ Mrs C says. ‘Let’s run through it one more time before the siren goes.’

  We run through it again. After we’ve finished, Mrs C takes Samara to one side. I can’t see Samara’s face, but Mrs C is talking and smiling. I wonder what she is saying.

  I take my clarinet carefully apart, swab the moisture out of it, then put it piece by piece back in the case. Katy packs her flute away in record time, and stands impatiently until I am finished.