The Rising Star of Rusty Nail

by Lesley M. M. Blume

  “Miss Hamm?” Franny offered. “No,” Sandy thundered. “The target is Nancy Orilee, of course. And Runty says he’s got a really good idea this year, involving cow poop or something.”

  Just then, the bell rang. “Dang,” said Sandy. “We’ll have to talk to Runty after school, then. We can’t do it at lunch or recess ’cause someone will overhear the plot, and it has to stay top-secret. Let’s meet at the dumpster at three o’clock.” She started walking toward the school.

  “Sandy,” Franny called, suddenly anxious. “I can’t come after school. I have to be … somewhere.”

  Sandy stopped in her tracks. “What? Where?”

  Franny nervously drummed her fingers on her thighs. “So, well, I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but something happened, and I have to go to Charlie’s house. The spy hurt her back real bad, and if I unpack her boxes for her, she’s going to give me a piano lesson. And I couldn’t say no, because there’s no one left in town to teach me and my parents can’t afford Prancy’s teacher.”

  “What?” shrieked Sandy. “Franny, you’re a genius! Now we can really spy on her! Now that we’ll actually be inside, I’ll come along too and help. Two people always get stuff done faster than one. How’d you swing all of this?”

  Franny squirmed. “When I finished painting the porch the other day, she asked me to help her,” she said. “And I just forgot to tell you. But there’s a small problem— I can’t bring you. She said so.”

  “What?” said Sandy, her back stiffening. “Why?”

  Franny thought quickly. “Maybe she’s afraid that I’ll get distracted during the lesson or something,” she said.

  “Fine, then I won’t stay for the lesson—just the work part.”

  “But she said that only I should come,” Franny pleaded. “But maybe if she likes me, I can talk her into letting you come too. And of course, I’ll tell you everything I see,” she added, trying to smooth things over. “And maybe she’ll have some Russian candy or something that I can bring you.”

  A tense silence followed.

  “Fine,” Sandy said finally with resentment. “We’ll just have to make our Halloween plans tomorrow, then, since you’ll be there all afternoon today.”

  “Well,” said Franny, cringing, “I can’t do it tomorrow either. I have to help her out from Monday to Thursday, and then on Friday I get my lesson.”

  “You’re goin’ every day?” Sandy shouted. “Then when are we gonna plan Halloween?”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Franny said anxiously. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

  Sandy turned on her heel and marched up to the entrance. Franny scrambled after her.

  “I can’t believe that you sold me down the river like that,” said Sandy acidly as the girls walked into the school. “Have fun with the Commie spy, since she’s your new best friend.”

  She wouldn’t even look in Franny’s direction for the rest of the day.

  That afternoon, Olga opened the door right away when Franny arrived.

  “You will start in the music room” was her greeting. She didn’t even mention Wes and Franny’s visit.

  Franny put down her schoolbooks in the foyer and poked her head into the music parlor. Olga and Charlie had unpacked all of her instruments and lined them up against the far wall of the room. About ten sealed boxes sat in the middle, waiting to be torn open.

  “These are all filled with music scores and books,” Olga informed Franny, gesturing to the box mountain stiffly. “Please take them all out and organize the books in piles alphabetically by composer. Some of the names will be written in Russian. Bring those to me, and I will tell you who the composers are.”

  As soon as Olga left the room, Franny sidled over to the instruments. She picked up the violin and gave it a little shake. To her disappointment, it sounded hollow. She inspected it all over to see if there were any little trap-doors in the wooden body and found none. Sandy must have been wrong about Olga smuggling nuclear parts inside.

  Then she got to work. She pulled book after book out of the boxes and made neat piles along the walls. She’d never even known that so many composers had existed, and many of them had such curious, unpronounceable names like Liszt and Prokofiev and Mussorgsky.

  In the bottom of the fourth box, she uncovered a music book written in Russian—at least, Franny assumed it was Russian. The title on the cover looked more like some sort of crazy code, consisting of upper- and lower-case letters, some of them even written backward:

  She carried it into the kitchen, where Olga sat at the table in her brace, sipping tea and reading a book written in the same kind of letters. The Russian glanced down at the score that Franny was holding and said: “That says ’Sergei Rachmaninoff.’ Your favorite.”

  And she went right back to drinking her tea. Franny stood there for a minute, waiting for Olga to look up again.

  “Why are you still looming there?” the Russian said into her mug, not taking her eyes off the page in front of her.

  “I was wondering why you have so many different instruments,” Franny said. “Can you play all of them?”

  “No,” Olga said.

  “Then why do you bring them with you everywhere?” Franny pressed.

  “And why are you so nosy?” Olga countered, putting down her mug. “Do you take nosiness classes at that cow-shed of a school?”

  “I was just curious,” Franny said. “No one else in Rusty Nail has so many. We have a piano and trumpet in my house, but no violins or anything.”

  Olga sighed. “My father had one of the finest rare-instrument collections in Russia. Then, when the big revolution happened there, he sent some of them to a museum in New York for safekeeping. Now I have them.”

  “The piano too?” asked Franny.

  “No, the piano was a gift to me from the famous pianist Arthur Rubenstein.”

  A bit overwhelmed, Franny turned to go back to the music room. And then she stopped and asked boldly: “Madame Malenkov, if your father had so many instruments around all the time, why did you decide to play the piano instead of the viola or something?”

  Olga put her cup down again in annoyance. “Because I wanted to,” she said impatiently. “Why did you pick the piano when there is a trumpet in your house too?”

  Franny thought for a minute. “ ’Cause I liked the way it sounded, I guess,” she said. “I just started playing it naturally.”

  “That is how all musicians begin their careers,” the Russian said. “They are drawn to the instrument, like a calling. Now go away.”

  Satisfied with what she had learned, Franny went back to her unpacking and organizing.

  It took Franny the whole week to empty all of the boxes in the music room and organize the scores. She’d had to make many trips into the kitchen, since most of the books were written in Russian. By Thursday evening, her arms ached and dozens of tall piles divided the room into a complicated maze.

  Olga limped into the parlor to survey the results.

  “I forgot how many music books I have,” she said, leaning stiffly over a pile of Haydn scores. “Okay, Dyevushka, I give up. Tomorrow when you come, I will give you a short lesson. Bring your old lesson books, unless they are those dreadful John Thompson ones for beginners. Leave those at home.”

  The next day, Franny arrived at Olga’s clutching the music books that Mrs. Staudt had given her, mostly Bach.

  Olga took them out of Franny’s hands and examined each one.

  “You will not need these again, Dyevushka,” she said, hobbling into the kitchen. She rudely tossed them into the garbage can under the sink before Franny could even protest. “Follow me,” she added as she walked back to the parlor.

  Franny sat down at the piano. “No,” said Olga. “That is not how we will start. Come here.” The Russian stood next to the body of the piano. The piano’s big lid had been propped up, and it hovered over the instrument like an enormous black wing. Franny got up and stood next to her teacher.

&nb
sp; “Do you even know how a piano works?” Olga asked.

  “I guess,” said Franny. “You press a key and the sound comes out of the middle.”

  Olga looked most disapproving of Franny’s explanation.

  “In the simplest of terms, yes,” she said. “Now look at this.” She pointed inside the piano’s belly and Franny peered in. Hundreds of parallel strings cut across the hollow space. A line of soft, fawn-colored hammers lay on top of the strings, and red felt lined the base underneath them.

  “There are more than five thousand parts in the belly of this amazing creature, and it weighs over eight hundred pounds,” Olga said. “Inside, there are more than two hundred strings, and each of them is stretched very tightly. More than 160 pounds of tension each. That means that there are eighteen tons of tension in this very piano. In other words, as much as six whole cars weigh. Imagine that.”

  Franny reached inside to pluck one of the strings. Olga smacked her hand away.

  “The great composer Beethoven used to break pianos all the time,” she went on. “One time, at a concert, he broke about half a dozen of those strings during the very first chords of his solo. Can you imagine how hard he must have been playing? What passion!”

  If only Nancy Orilee had broken some strings during the Eunice Grimes visit, Franny thought. That would’ve been great. But she’s far too prissy to play that hard.

  “Pay attention,” the Russian commanded. “Now, every time you strike a key, it is connected to a soft hammer that hits a metal string inside the piano. The sound you hear is the string vibrating. It is really much more complicated than that, but you look like you need simple explanations. This instrument is as complex and emotional as a human mind, and should always be treated with the utmost awe and respect. Now, let me see your hands again.”

  Franny held out her hands, and Olga lifted them up in front of Franny’s face.

  “Your hands are also very intricate instruments,” said Olga. “Did you know that, Dyevushka? Each one has nineteen bones in it, plus many joints, and dozens of ligaments and muscles that move the fingers and thumb. If you were hanging from a cliff, your fingers could support your whole body weight.”

  Franny moved her fingers and watched the bones of her hand move. It always made her feel creepy to imagine her skeleton under her skin.

  “It is very important that you learn these things,” Olga said. “Loving music is not enough to play it, and just wanting to be the best will not make you the best. You must understand your body and the instrument very well. Otherwise, both your knowledge and your music will be superficial. Now, there is your first lesson.”

  “That’s all?” cried Franny.

  Olga nodded. But she limped over to one of the book piles and picked up a Beethoven score.

  “Take this home with you and start learning the two pieces,” she said. “If you do a good job with your chores next week, you may play for me and I will instruct you.”

  Franny didn’t dare protest, but she scowled. All of that work and heavy lifting and organizing for a lousy ten-minute lesson! If this was the best that Olga had to offer, maybe she should ask Mrs. Staudt to take her back.

  Olga watched her. “I know what you are thinking,” she said with a little smile. “From that sour look on your face. I do not teach pieces from scratch. You must go home and learn the music first, and then we will have something to work with next week.”

  “Does this mean that you’ll give me a real lesson next Friday?” Franny asked sullenly.

  “That depends,” said Olga. “You know the terms of our deal. Now, I have a list of groceries that I need before you go home for the night.”

  Franny trudged over to Hans Zimmerman’s store, squinting in the late-afternoon sunlight and clutching a few dollar bills in her hand. Maybe Sandy had been right—everyone in this town seemed to think that she was a free hired hand. If Sandy had known what was going on inside Olga’s house, she’d have laughed for hours and said: “Boy, did you get duped, Franny.”

  Franny woke up that Saturday morning with the uncomfortable feeling that she’d forgotten something. She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember what it was. Suddenly she sat up with a jolt.

  It was Halloween!

  Tonight at six o’clock, the school would host its big annual costume parade in the gym, and after that, everyone would run off to go trick-or-treating. Franny kicked off the sheets and covers and ran into the kitchen, where Lorraine was drinking coffee with Mrs. Charity Engebraten.

  “Mom!” Franny exclaimed. “We completely forgot about Halloween! Do we still have my ghost costume from last year?”

  A sheepish look crossed Lorraine’s face. “Oops—I think I shredded that old sheet to use as cleaning rags,” she said. “But I’ll see if there’s something else you can use.” She left the room and padded down the hall to the linen closet. Mrs. Engebraten slurped her coffee and looked Franny up and down.

  “So,” the woman said. “I hear you’re startin’ piano lessons with Charlie Koenig’s uppity Commie wife.”

  Franny just nodded and walked over to the refrigerator. She couldn’t stand Mrs. Engebraten.

  “I wonder if that woman is ever goin’ to come out of that house,” Mrs. Engebraten continued, talking more to herself than to Franny. “Guess she thinks she’s too good to mix with the common folks of Rusty Nail. Either that, or she’s hidin’ out over there, puttin’ together an atomic bomb to put under our church.”

  Franny reached for the milk. “For your information, she hurt her back and that’s why she’s staying inside,” she said. “And anyway, you should mind your own business.”

  Mrs. Engebraten gasped. “Well, I never,” she said. “If I was your mother, I’d wash your mouth out with a big bar of soap.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re not my mother, then,” retorted Franny.

  Mrs. Engebraten narrowed her eyes. “I’d watch out if I was you, Little Miss Big Mouth,” she said. “ ’Cause people ’round town are gonna start gettin’ the wrong idea about you if you keep hangin’ around that woman.”

  Just then, Lorraine walked back into the kitchen. “This is all I could find, honey,” she said apologetically. She shook out an old sheet covered with pictures of robots and spaceships.

  “Mo-o-om!” Franny wailed in chagrin. “I can’t wear that! Why couldn’t you have cut up this sheet instead of my ghost costume?”

  “Of course you can wear it,” Lorraine said, fishing the scissors out of the kitchen junk drawer. “It even has a nice futuristic theme for Halloween.” She snipped out two jagged eyeholes in the middle and handed it to Franny. “There you go, sweetheart.”

  Franny snatched it out of her mother’s hands and stomped down the hallway to her room. As she went, she heard Mrs. Engebraten say to Lorraine: “That one’s gettin’ a little big for her britches, isn’t she?”

  Franny slammed her bedroom door and glowered at the ghost costume. Nancy Orilee was going to laugh her head off. Already thinking of revenge, Franny couldn’t wait to see Sandy before the parade and hear what plans she and Runty had cooked up for their annual Halloween prank.

  Sandy had given Franny the cold shoulder all week. But since Halloween only came once a year, she agreed to meet Franny before the school parade.

  Both Sandy and Runty wore vampire costumes with black capes and big, sharp fake teeth, another purchase from the Finkelstein Prank & Curiosity Company. They stood together outside the entrance to the gym when Franny arrived.

  “Hey, guys,” Franny called out uneasily as she approached them. She carried the hated robot sheet under her arm, waiting until the last possible moment to put it on. Then she sniffed the air. “Why do you both smell like hot dogs?” she asked.

  “Iths th’ kethip,” said Sandy around her fake fangs. “Wer uthing it ath fak brud.”

  “What?” said Franny.

  Sandy spit out her fangs and said: “It’s the ketchup. We’re using it as fake blood.” She produced
a red plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup from under her cape.

  “Gimmeshum,” said Runty from behind his fangs, and gingerly applied some to his chin.

  “So what’s the Nancy plan?” Franny asked in a hushed voice.

  “Wel-l-l,” said Sandy, eyeing Franny as sternly as a judge. “I don’t even know that we should tell you, since you didn’t bother to help us plan it.”

  “Yeah,” said Runty.

  “Oh, come on, guys,” Franny pleaded. “You know I wanted to help. Tell me what you’re gonna do.”

  Sandy could never resist the urge to flaunt her own genius. “We wanted to do something with cow dung— you know, make some sort of booby trap where she’d slip and fall down into it,” she said confidentially. “But it got real complicated. So, in the end, we had to come up with somethin’ else.”

  “Yeah,” said Runty. Grinning, he pointed at the ketchup bottle. Franny’s heart pounded.

  “Are you going to squirt that on Nancy Orilee’s costume? Right now, in front of all these people?” she asked.

  “Yep,” said Sandy. “Accidentally, of course.”

  As if on cue, Nancy Orilee and her mother pranced past them toward the gym entrance. In a deliciously cruel twist of fate, Nancy wore a snow white leotard with a tutu and a set of fairy wings made of pale feathers. She looked at Sandy and Runty with disgust.

  “I see that your parents can’t afford to take you to the dentist, Sandy Anne,” she said, taking delicate little steps into the gym. “Can’t wait to see your costume this year, Frances.” She didn’t even bother to address Runty, who stood there doltishly drooling around his fake teeth.

  “Oh Lordy, lemme at her,” said Sandy, clutching at the ketchup bottle.

  “Are you really going to pour that on her?” Franny asked nervously. “It’ll completely ruin her costume.” Franny certainly despised Nancy Orilee as much as anyone—more so, probably—but the idea of sousing her with ketchup in front of a gaggle of teachers and parents seemed outright foolhardy.

  “Yes, we are, and yes, it will,” said Sandy testily. “You’re like an old lady tonight, Franny, makin’ me repeat everything I say. Here, I brought three bottles. Take one and hide it under your costume. Hey—where is your costume?”