by Davina Bell
Choreography? Will Sophia have time? Seems busy? She’s good at doing lots of things at once.
Costumes? Me? Matilda?
Backstage – is it big enough? Sigh. Not really.
Speakers?? Think there are some there already. Will check.
Soph – birthday??
Hmm. I really need to talk to Maisie about this, but she’s at the orthodontist today getting a new retainer.
I don’t want to sound catty, because Belle says we should support the sisterhood at all times, but truthfully? Pepper Peters cannot sing. It’s like … like a donkey. Who’s just swallowed a cactus. And is voicing its regrets. But, boy, she is confident.
‘Maybe this time with a little less … force,’ says my mum after Pepper has sung some scales that sound like train-brakes screeching round a bend. ‘Maybe let’s start with humming.’
‘But I want to audition for Harry and the Pottery Factory,’ Pepper complains. ‘Auditions are tomorrow. I need to learn a song right now.’
‘And what are you hoping to, ah, sing?’ Mum asks. Her voice has a little sprinkle of desperation.
‘That RexRoy song, “Who Stole My Mango?”, but a slowed-down version so I can also play my ukulele.’
‘You play the ukulele?’ Mum asks, sounding surprised.
‘No, but I’m going to teach myself off YouTube tonight,’ says Pepper. ‘I’m naturally musical.’
I can’t help it – I snort with laughter, and Pepper says, ‘Who’s that? Is that Rishi? Do you think he can come and teach me personally? My dad will pay extra.’
Pepper’s dad is an online poker champion, so they’ve got quite a lot of money. Like, skiing-without-needing-to-borrow-people’s-brothers’-ski-clothes money. I wonder if our dad could learn online poker. Maybe I should suggest it. I’m not entirely convinced by the whole Raptor thing.
‘Honey, let’s just focus on the basics,’ says Mum soothingly, in her trying-to-distract-a-slightly-annoying-child voice. It’s the one she uses on Gwynnie allll the time. ‘Let’s do some clapping. To help us with the beat, you know? That’s, uh, important for the ukulele. We’ll try the song at the end of our lesson.’
When Pepper’s dad comes to pick her up, I watch from behind the living-room doorway because I want to see what she’s wearing. It’s usually something expensive and annoyingly cool, and today she doesn’t disappoint. She has on these incredible forest-green leather high-top sneakers that I saw on the Insta of a New York fashion influencer called Styx L. Queen. I have been dreaming about them for at least three months. Seeing Pepper wearing them on a regular day, not even to a special event, just about kills me.
‘How was it?’ asks Pepper’s dad. ‘Is she a natural or what?’
‘Oh! Ah, well, she’s a real –’ Mum begins.
‘Mrs Powell is the best teacher,’ Pepper says happily. ‘That was sooo fun.’
Mum shuts the door and I pop out from my spot. I think she’s going to blast me for laughing at Pepper’s singing. Instead, she starts laughing – like, hold-onto-your-ribs laughing – and that makes me laugh too. We’re wiping away laugh-tears when the doorbell rings.
‘My next pupil!’ Mum says, looking panicked. ‘Oh, gosh, can I handle it?’
‘Who’s this one?’ I whisper.
‘Some guy called Mark,’ Mum whispers back, smoothing her dress. ‘Wish me luck.’
And, yes, it is some guy called Mark … I hardly recognise him without the purple sparkly cape he used to wear everywhere, but it’s Mark Magnus, the (former) town mayor. The most hated man in Sunnystream. The mayor who tried to bulldoze our clubhouse. And also – wait for it – he’s Belle’s dad.
We only found that out last holidays, and it was like discovering her dad is Darth Vader, who’s the evil guy in Star Wars. Every time I think about it, I still get this little shock, like a sting of electricity. (Maisie is obsessed with Star Wars, so our group has watched all the movies, like, heaps of times. One year we wore Princess Leia buns to the swimming pool all summer. The photos are epic.)
‘Oh! Hello, Mayor. Oh – but. Should I say … Hi!’ Mum is totally flustered, and I bet that’s partly because the mayor’s actually not the mayor at the moment, so she’s not sure what she’s supposed to call him. He’s been suspended while they investigate all the dodgy things he’s been doing in Sunnystream, like building the Shark Tank without following safety regulations. ‘Suspended’ means you’re not allowed to show up for a while, and I literally stop in my tracks as a dark thought crosses my mind. OMG – is that what’s going to happen to me at Clives? Am I going to be suspended for what I did at the end of term? My parents would be so disappointed. And what would Tally say?! And Rishi. I can feel myself starting to sweat (between you and me, I’m a weirdly sweaty person).
Mayor Magnus takes off his cap and does a little bow. Mayor Magnus – in our house! Awkward. I’ll have to tell Tally when we Skype her later. ‘Madam Powell,’ he says. ‘Call me Mark. And thank you for taking me on. I know I’m not every dog’s favourite bone at the moment.’
Sorry – what? Aside from that being a strange thing to say, Mayor Magnus is usually rude and abrupt and what Belle refers to as ‘fundamentally lacking in manners’. But he seems kind of … humble or something? Polite, even!
I narrow my eyes and look him up and down, trying to figure out if he’s punking my mum. But he seems genuine. I take in his slumped shoulders and the frown line in the middle of his forehead and the slight squint of his eyes. I’ve been looking in the mirror at this exact expression all year. And then it hits me: Mayor Magnus is sad.
‘Well, come on in,’ says my mum politely, if a little uncertainly. ‘Any student of music is a friend of mine.’
‘I’ve got all this time now that I’m not the mayor, you see?’ Mayor Magnus says as he follows Mum down the stairs. ‘Thought I should do something with it. The old folks’ home doesn’t want me volunteering there. Dog shelter doesn’t either. Then I saw your flyer up at Handkerchief Place, and I thought, gee, why not give something new a go?’
‘So you’ve never sung before?’ Mum asks.
‘Never,’ says the mayor-who’s-not-the-mayor. ‘Always thought I’d have a knack for it, though, and then one day – KABOOM! I’d just get up onstage and a star is born.’
Holy guacamole – is this going to be another Pepper Peters situation?! Poor Mum. I microwave some Milo, bung in two marshmallows, and sit on the stairs again to listen. They start with scales, and MM can keep in tune, at least, so that’s something. Then Mum asks if he has a favourite song, and do you know what it is? Nope – not ‘Who Stole My Mango?’. It’s ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’ – you know the one? The kid sings it in that movie Love Actually, which is Pop’s favourite.
‘Well, would you like to try?’ Mum asks, a little hesitantly, as I suck on a marshmallow, contemplating whether I should spit it out in case I choke when I’m trying not to laugh.
But here’s the thing.
Wait for it …
Mayor Magnus.
Is.
AMAZING.
From the opening notes, it’s like an angel has swooped into our basement and is singing out the glory of heaven. He clicks to give himself a beat to play around with, and he makes his voice all trilly – I think that’s called vibrato? When he sings ‘Make my wish come truuuue’, I get chills up my back. Goosebumps! This is next-level incredible. If he were on a TV talent show, all the judges would be out of their chairs, doing an awkward kind of clap-dance and miming that their brains were exploding. Then he’d get perfect scores from every single one of them. Get the picture?
Halfway through, Rishi comes through the front door.
‘Hey, Horse Face. What are you –’
‘Shut up!’ I hiss, gesturing wildly to the basement.
He listens for a second, and then his eyes go super wide. ‘Who is that?’ he whispers.
‘Guess!’ I whisper back. ‘You never will.’
And then, because I’m terr
ible at waiting for anything, I mouth, ‘Mayor Magnus!’ and Rishi mouths back, ‘No frigging way!’
Mayor Magnus belts out the last chorus and I get goosebumps again. Rishi’s mouth is literally hanging open. When MM finishes, Mum claps so wildly that Rish and I can’t help but join in. That was NEXT. LEVEL. We just have to run downstairs.
‘Mayor Magnus, that was incredible,’ Rishi says at the same time as I say, ‘OMG, you could be on YouTube!’ and Mum says, ‘Children! I’m trying to teach a lesson here. Though, Mark – I don’t know if there’s anything you could learn from me. That was … phenomenal. You’re sure you haven’t had lessons before?’
‘Ha! I come from a poor family. No money for things like that in my house. That’s why I became a hypnotist. Left school and travelled around so I could send money back for my little sister. She was a real bright girly, that one.’
I frown at him. If he ever wants Belle to be a part of his life, he needs to stop saying ‘girly’. But he’s standing up straighter than when he walked in here, and his face looks brighter. I feel as if everything I’ve known about this guy has been turned upside down. I always thought he became a hypnotist because he was an idiot, and that he was obsessed with making money because he was greedy. Do you know who’s the idiot? Me. Kaboom! Next thing I know, I’ll find out that his evil sidekick, Bart Strabonsky, is volunteering in a school in Kenya. (He’s actually working at Just Say Cheeseburger. We saw him before the Cloud Town meeting, taking photos as part of their Just Say Cheese promotion.)
‘Would you like to sing a duet?’ Mum asks.
‘I could play the keyboard,’ Rishi offers, running over to the corner, where it lives next to his drum kit. Rishi’s annoying like that – he can pick out the tune of any song and make up the rest. Tally is the same.
‘Well, gee! I could try,’ Mayor Magnus beams.
I can’t wait to tell Belle about this. Wait – should I tell her? She still says she wants nothing to do with him ever, full stop.
Mum and Mayor Magnus sing ‘Edelweiss’, which is from The Sound of Music. They harmonise perfectly – as if their voices are coming from the same machine – and they look at each other with sparkling eyes and glowy cheeks. OMG – is this some kind of love thing?! Ew! I glance at Rishi, who’s playing the keyboard. He has the same eyes, the same cheeks, and I realise it’s a music thing. And sure, I can sing well enough, but not in that magic-stardust-floating-around-you way. I feel as if I’m trying to see over a wall into a secret garden, but I’m just not tall enough.
I cross my arms and try not to get the Sour Feeling, try to concentrate on how beautiful the music is. They sing it twice, and when they finish, I clap so hard my palms sting.
‘Mark, you’ve got great potential,’ says Mum, and I can hear the wonder in her voice. ‘You could be in a professional production.’
He scratches his head. ‘Well, gee, I don’t know. Not sure I’m good enough for that. But I guess I’ve got nothing but time.’ And then it’s like he’s remembered what his life is now – no job, no weird sidekick, no hypnotism show. His shoulders slump, his face droops, and – I can’t believe this – I feel sorry for the guy.
A thought pops into my head, and I blurt it straight out. ‘Mayor Magnus, you should try out for the Sunnystream musical. We’re doing Catilda. Auditions are tomorrow night.’
‘Lollyshop? Is that you?’ Dad calls from the kitchen as I wander down the stairs, still half asleep, the next morning. That’s his special nickname for me, and I hate it but I love it. You know that feeling?
‘Yep,’ I croak. ‘S’me.’ I can barely open my eyes to look at the hallway clock, which says 10.03. Belle sent twenty-three messages during the night with screenshots of Pete’s Instagram account of inspirational graffiti. She wanted to know whether we thought he was sending her coded messages through the pics, asking if she wanted to get back together with him. I tried to send supportive answers. I was the only one still awake, I guess, and, well, I kind of wanted to show her that I’m still here – that I’m still best-friend material.
But by the time she sent a photo of a spray-painted dove at 4.12am I’d had enough. I think he just saw that in a car park and IT MEANS NOTHING, I messaged her before turning off my phone, which is a first for me. Then I turned it back on and looked at Tally’s Instagram, and there was a photo of the Lincoln Center fountain. For you, Tiny. Wish you were here was the caption. I wished I were there too. Anyway, Belle was in such a spiral that I didn’t tell her I’d accidentally invited her dad to audition for the musical tonight. I wasn’t sure she’d cope. Hoo boy.
‘Get in here!’ Dad calls. He sounds serious, and I wonder if it’s because I was meant to help Pop with Pony Soprano but I slept through the alarm. And then I remember the whole school thing and I am wide awake with panic. Have they emailed him about it? Is this it? Am I going to be suspended?!
‘Come give your old man some love,’ he says as I stumble into the kitchen. He holds out his arms, his hands covered in washing-up suds. ‘I miss seeing you in the mornings when you’re away at school.’
Phew.
I lean into his chest as he wraps me in a giant hug and then rubs suds into my hair, like I knew he would.
‘When are we getting a dishwasher?’ I ask, breathing in his smell – aftershave and laundry and the butterscotch lollies he sucks when he’s stressed.
‘When Pop is a very wealthy doctor and can pay for it,’ he says as he lets me go and kisses the top of my head. ‘Mmm. Soapy. How’s the musical going? Your mum says you’re helping out this year.’
‘We’re actually kind of running it,’ I tell him proudly. ‘Auditions are tonight.’
‘Well, then I s’pose you don’t have time to do a quick Raptor session with me now? My exam’s next week and I need to film myself giving a practice class.’
‘Sure,’ I tell him. ‘I’d love to. Just let me have a shower.’
‘Shower after!’ says Dad, practically clapping his hands with glee. ‘You’ll sweat like a hog!’
‘Great.’
Raptor is … kind of ridiculous. It’s also surprisingly good cardio – like dancing – and apparently very good for relaxing your jaw, which most people clench when they feel tense. Who knew?! The music is fun and the moves are satisfying when you get them right.
‘Now the T-rex!’ Dad calls, which means you bend your elbows and wrists like you’re a kangaroo and open your mouth really wide and circle your body like you’re hula-hooping, then do these big sideways stomps. ‘This is great for core strength!’ he pants. ‘Triceratops – three horns!’
That’s when you tap your head three times in this complicated way where your hands cross over, which Dad says is great for getting your left and right brain to work together.
‘Diplodocus neck!’
That’s sort of like Egyptian dancing, where you toggle your head around.
‘Brontosaurus jaw!’
That one makes you look like you have a massive underbite.
‘Pterodactyl wings!’
Good for building shoulder strength.
‘Clap, clap, T-rex! Triceratops! TA-DA!’ We finish up kneeling on the floor, our arms outstretched, fingers twinkling. We’re both sweating. We’re both smiling. Maybe Dad’s right – maybe this is going to be the latest big craze after all.
‘That was actually really fun,’ I tell him. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Don’t you want to come to my study and analyse my teaching style?’ Dad asks. ‘How were my cues? Did you feel supported in your pursuit of prehistoric greatness?’
‘You gave a great explanation of every move’s positive impact on strength and mobility,’ I tell him. (Belle would be proud of me.) ‘But now I’m going to visit Nana Marjorie. Wanna come?’
‘Ah … no,’ Dad says. ‘Not even a little bit. Have fun.’
He is completely terrified of Nana Marjorie. We all are, except for Tally – and Gwynnie, who Nana loves for no apparent reason. Even my mum – her own daughte
r – avoids visiting. Nana Marjorie is one of those people who make you hate yourself and wish you were someone else. But I promised Tally I’d visit, and Belle’s busy writing the musical, and Maisie’s at training, and Sophia’s at a choux pastry class. It’s just me, again, on my lonesome, and I should be starting the sets for the musical, but … I have zero ideas. Like, none.
I have a shower and choose an outfit Nana Marjorie won’t like because I know it gives her pleasure to criticise my fashion choices, and Mum says she doesn’t have many pleasures left in life, aside from complaining. Nana Marjorie particularly hates clashing patterns (my personal fave) and high-top sneakers, so I put on both, along with a quilted kimono, and then I go downstairs, filled with gloom.
Truly? I despise visiting Sunny Heights, even though it’s probably the nicest nursing home in the world. In primary school, our choir visited some other ones and they smelled like pee and strawberry-scented cleaning product and soup. The people just sat and watched the same DVD on a loop, which was a concert of a blind Italian opera singer. It was horrifying.
But Sunny Heights is small and pretty. It’s an old red-brick building with big arched windows that let in heaps of light, and it has a wide green lawn that slopes down to a beautiful old stone wall. You can see the lights of the city in the distance, and there’s a rose garden. Only twelve people live there, and they’re called the Goldies – short for golden oldies. They have a book club (which Nana Marjorie hates) and a Scrabble club (which Nana Marjorie hates) and there’s a grand piano that professional musicians come and play.
‘I’m going to Sunny Heights now,’ I call to no-one in particular. ‘Want me to take anything?’
‘The bag of magazines by the door,’ calls Dad from his study.
‘Cut a magnolia from the tree,’ calls Mum from the lounge.
‘Take me!’ calls Pop from her bedroom, which breaks my heart, because Pop is also on the list of things that Nana Marjorie hates. How could anyone hate Pop?! It’s like hating a baby llama.
As I skateboard over to Sunny Heights in the cold winter sunshine, I try to prepare myself. Nana Marjorie will tell me how great Tally is, implying that I am not. She’ll complain that I never visit. She knows how much I love Pop, so she’ll manage to slip in something about her being spoiled (not true) or fat (what four-year-old doesn’t have a little belly?!). She’ll give me some kind of treat to give to Gwynnie. She’ll hate everything I’ve brought, even this stunning magnolia from the tree outside the kitchen window, which is our first for the year. It’s the flower I’m named after, FYI, like Tally’s named after the Tallahassee rose and Pop’s named after poppies. Nana M will start a sentence with ‘When I was a girl’ and the end of the story will make me mad.