“Well, that’ll be Tara, obviously,” said Pop. “It was her idea, after all. When are you going to get started?” she added, looking at Tara.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “You’ll have to let us know how many songs you want, who’s going to do them, and things like that.”
“And you’ll have to ask Mr. Timms’s permission to use the recording studio,” added Ed.
“I know!” Tara told him angrily.
She was beginning to wish she hadn’t come up with the idea, if everyone was going to nag her about it. And there was never much time to spare at Rockley Park School. By the time classes and homework were done, and preparation for the regular school concerts fit in, it would be hard to find time to organize a charity CD as well.
“So when are you going to go and see him?” Ed insisted.
Tara was just about to snap. She almost told Ed to do it himself if he was so eager. Then she glanced at the picture of Nangila again and her determination came flooding back.
“Tomorrow,” she told Ed firmly. “I’ll go and see Mr.
5. A Difficult Task
Timms right after breakfast.”
When Tara went to the studio the next morning, Mr. Timms was in the tiny kitchen next door.
“I need to make a CD,” Tara announced without any preamble. Mr. Timms glanced at her and motioned for her to get out of the way.
“Not enough . . . room,” he muttered testily. Tara retreated to the doorway and waited while he made his coffee and searched for some fresh milk in the fridge. “Now,” he said at last, shooing her in front of him. “Go . . . on . . .”
He followed her through to the control room.
Tara hadn’t had much occasion to be in here, and she looked around with interest at the large mixing desk with its rows of knobs and faders, and the computer screens off to one side. The room was packed full of equipment, and there was only space for a couple of chairs at the desk. Through the glass partitions were the two soundproofed booths where the singers and musicians performed and were recorded. Although Tara preferred playing rather than studying the finer points of engineering good music, studios were a vital part of the music industry, and this one was an exciting place to be. Mr. Timms was admired by everyone as an excellent recording engineer, even though he looked like someone who’d rather be at home in his slippers than pushing back the frontiers of modern music technology.
He sat in a chair with a gray cardigan hanging over it and put his mug down carefully.
“What do you need to record?” he asked.
“Songs for a charity CD,” she told him importantly. “It’s for children in Africa and we’re all going to do something and record lots of songs and get Judge Jim and Mr. Player involved as well and sell it to tons of people and it’s really important.” She paused for a breath, and waited for him to tell her when they could record, but instead he took a long sip of coffee and stared into space.
“I think I’ll play with Danny, Ed, and Ben,” Tara added. “We haven’t decided what to record yet, but I thought I should come and tell you first so that you can—”
“So it’s not really a school project?” Mr. Timms interrupted.
“Well, no,” she admitted. “But it’ll be—”
“Can’t do it,” he muttered.
Tara stared at him. “But—”
“Can’t do it,” he repeated, swiveling in his chair and flicking a few switches on the mixing desk. “Any nonschool projects have to be approved by the, er...principal. You’ll have to see Mrs. Sharkey before . . .”
The teacher’s mutterings were getting on Tara’s nerves. And what was worse, he was ignoring her now, expecting her to go. But Tara wasn’t prepared to leave it at that. She stood up and folded her arms.
“So you’ll help when Mrs. Sharkey has agreed, right?” she demanded.
Mr. Timms swiveled his chair back toward Tara. “Every now and then someone has an idea like yours,” he told her. “They get all excited about it for five minutes and then, when they realize how much hard work it will be, they lose interest.” He looked at her pointedly. “Are you . . . in charge?” he asked.
Tara nodded firmly.
“You’ll need plenty of . . . push,” he told her.
“So you will help?”
“Don’t waste studio time,” he told her. Tara was going to protest, but Mr. Timms hadn’t finished. “Get them here on time . . . don’t let them mess around . . . keep control. It’s the only way . . .”
But Tara wasn’t listening anymore. “Thanks!” she said, already heading for the door. “I’ll be back!”
Tara had to wait until classes finished at lunchtime before she could go and see Mrs. Sharkey.
“I’m sorry, dear,” the principal’s secretary told her. “Mrs. Sharkey is away today. I’ll make an appointment for you to see her tomorrow.”
Tara had to swallow her disappointment, but she didn’t intend to let her idea drop. That evening, after homework had been done, Chloe found her at the dorm computer.
“What are you doing?” Chloe asked.
“I looked up Tikki Deacon’s charity on the Internet,” Tara told her. “And it’s all here. The school where they did the fashion shoot can only take care of fifty children, and according to this there are thousands who need the same help, but there just isn’t the money to do it. And that school does need more money urgently or it might have to close.”
“That’s terrible,” said Chloe. “It won’t close now, though, with Tikki Deacon helping, will it?”
“I don’t know,” Tara told her. “In my experience, adults often let you down. Who knows? She might support them for a few weeks and then go on to something else. But the school needs help all the time.” She thought for a moment and then turned to face Chloe. “When I see Mrs. Sharkey tomorrow, I’m going to ask if we can adopt the charity, and make it our job to help keep the school going.”
“What an awesome idea!” said Chloe.
By the time her meeting with Mrs. Sharkey arrived, Tara had gotten one of the office staff to make a large photocopy of the picture that had so touched her heart, and had printed out a lot of information about the charity that was running the African school. Since seeing Mr. Timms, she had organized her thoughts much better, but even so, she was quite nervous as the secretary showed her into the principal’s office.
Mrs. Sharkey was sitting behind an enormous, polished wooden desk, wearing one of her alarming tweed suits.
Tara took the blown-up photograph and information from under her arm, and placed it on the desk, facing the principal.
“We want to produce a charity CD for this little boy and others like him,” Tara explained, trying to keep her voice firm. “His school might close if they don’t get more help, and none of the children has parents. They live there. That school is their home.”
“Very laudable,” Mrs. Sharkey acknowledged. “How do you know about the school?”
Tara explained about Pop and Lolly’s fashion shoot, and then she showed Mrs. Sharkey everything she’d printed out from the charity’s Web site. “They’re struggling to stay open,” said Tara, fired with indignation. “What will happen to Nangila if the school has to close?”
“I can see how passionate you are about this,” Mrs. Sharkey said. “Is it all up to you, or are others prepared to be involved?”
“Lots of people want to help,” said Tara. “But I’m in charge.”
“I see.” Mrs. Sharkey looked at Tara. “Do you realize how much work it would be, producing a CD?” she asked. But before Tara could answer, Mrs. Sharkey spoke again. “It’s not just all the time it would take to actually record the songs,” she said. “A good deal of administration is involved in a project like this. Even just taking orders from students and their families and collecting the money is very time-consuming.”
Tara rushed to reply. “I don’t mind. It’s important.”
Mrs. Sharkey nodded. “Yes, you’re right,” she agreed. “Every child is importa
nt, whoever they are, and wherever they live. I’m pleased to see you care so passionately for the welfare of others. But my job is to worry about your welfare, and I wonder if producing a CD might be a bit too ambitious. Remember, we have a school concert scheduled for midterm. Students will want to concentrate on that because everyone will be evaluated at it. Then there’s the televised Rising Stars concert at the end of the semester for the lucky few who are the best performers. You’ve chosen the busiest term of the whole year.”
“I know,” said Tara. “But Judge Jim has told me not to try out for the Rising Stars concert this time. He wants me to concentrate on my technique for a while longer.” She looked earnestly at the principal. “That means I can easily do most of the work for the CD!”
Mrs. Sharkey shook her head. “It would still be a lot for one person to take on,” she told her. “And there are all the other students to consider, too. Why not have a collection at school instead? If the charity is a good one, I would even give you permission to ask the parents to contribute when they come to the midterm concert. That way it wouldn’t take too much time away from your studies, and yet would still be helping what looks like a very worthy cause.”
Tara stared at the principal. “But that won’t raise enough!” she objected. “A CD could raise thousands!”
Mrs. Sharkey smiled regretfully at her. “I’m afraid you have a rather inflated idea of how much money a CD might raise,” she said. “You may all be very talented students, but you’re not mainstream artists yet. The most you could hope for would be sales to friends and relatives. The money raised might not be very much at all after you’d paid for the CDs to be copied. In fact, it might not even be as much as you’d raise by taking a collection.”
“I’d still like to try,” said Tara stubbornly.
“I know,” Mrs. Sharkey replied, seeing the expression on Tara’s face, “you think I’m being deliberately obstructive, but I’ve had students coming to me with similar ideas before, and every one of them failed.”
Tara set her mouth stubbornly. “But I won’t fail,” she told the principal.
Mrs. Sharkey smiled. “That’s the attitude you need to succeed,” she said. “But I can’t just let you go ahead and hope for the best. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she went on as Tara started to object again. “Leave me the information about the charity and I’ll have a good look at it. In fact, I had been thinking we should partner this school with another, in a disadvantaged area—”
“I was going to ask about adopting the school!” Tara butted in.
Mrs. Sharkey held up her hand for silence. “In addition,” she said, “if you can come back to me with a properly planned list of, let’s say, a minimum of twelve potential tracks, and the names of students who have agreed to perform them for the CD, I’ll think seriously about giving you permission to do it. But I’m telling you now that it will be a lot of work, and when you think it through you may consider that you simply can’t devote enough time to it. I admire you for thinking of it, though,” she added, and handed Tara back the photograph.
Tara took the picture and left in a determined mood.
Mrs. Sharkey can’t be right, she thought on her way
6. A Difficult Time
back downstairs. I must be able to raise more money with a CD than a simple collection. And I can easily find twelve songs and people to sing them. In fact, I’ll start right now!
Tara strode into the dining room. She’d been with Mrs. Sharkey for quite a while, so by the time she’d chosen her lunch and sat down at the usual table, only Danny and Marmalade were still there.
“Where is everyone?” she asked, disappointed not to see the table full so she could talk to everyone at once.
“I think the girls have gone back to your dorm,” Danny told her. “Ed and Ben are outside, talking guitars as usual.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll talk to them later,” said Tara, picking at her salad. “You can both give me your commitment first.”
“What commitment?” asked Marmalade suspiciously. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
“It’s all right,” Tara reassured him. “I’m just looking for some tracks and artists for my charity CD, and I need you to agree to do one.”
“I’m a dancer, Tara,” Marmalade reminded her.
“I know that,” she replied. “But you sing as well. Get some friends to help if you don’t want to sing on your own. Sign here.” She opened a notebook and offered him her pen.
“I’ll sign, Tara,” Danny offered. “You know me. I’m always up to perform something. Just let me know what, and I’ll drum for you.”
“Thanks!” Tara watched as he signed his name. “Once I’ve got enough people, we can discuss exactly what we’re going to do.”
“Oh, all right,” said Marmalade, taking the pen from Danny. “I’ll help. It is a good cause.”
“Great.” Tara was pleased. She’d only been trying for five minutes and she’d signed the first two people she’d asked. This was going to be easy. She’d soon have the tracks chosen, and then Mrs. Sharkey would have to give her the go-ahead.
But as the afternoon went on, it became obvious that it wasn’t going to be quite that simple. Although Ben and Ed were happy to help out, too, there was bad news when Tara got back to her room at the end of the day.
“We’ve just had a singing lesson and Mr. Player has told us we’re not allowed to do anything that might distract us from winning Rising Stars points,” said Pop. “If we’re going to have a chance at performing in the Rising Stars concert, we need all the points we can get, and the midterm concert is vital for that.”
“This is terrible,” said Lolly, looking very distressed. “I really wanted to contribute. There must be something we can do.”
“Only if Mr. Player doesn’t hear about it,” warned Pop. “He said we should be practicing twenty-four hours a day!”
“Even Mr. Player can’t expect that!” said Tara.
“Maybe I should wait until I have my lesson with Mr. Player, too, before I volunteer to sing for you,” said Chloe, looking worried.
Tara slumped down on her bed and frowned. She could see that Rising Stars points, and the concerts, were going to be a real problem.
Throughout the year, students were awarded Rising Stars points for their progress in music classes and concert performances, and the upcoming midterm concert was the last chance for students to earn more points. Afterward, a final decision would be made about who would appear in the all-important Rising Stars concert. This was always recorded at the local TV station in front of an invited audience of important people from the music business, and it only happened once a year. Not only was it really exciting to have the concert shown on local television, some students had been signed to record companies after Rising Stars concerts. Only the top students would be chosen to perform, but everyone was desperate to take part.
“Can’t we do a charity CD next semester?” suggested Pop. “I really want to be involved. After all, if we hadn’t told you about it, you’d never have known about Nangila’s school.”
“But it needs help now,” objected Tara. “It says on the Web site that the school might close if they don’t get more funding. The children can’t hang around until after you get your precious points.”
“That’s true,” agreed Lolly sadly. “But Mr. Player will be furious if he finds out that we’ve ignored what he said.”
Tara stomped out of the room and went downstairs, too angry and upset to stay with the others. She wanted to blame her friends for not agreeing right away to help with the CD, but deep inside she could understand. Even if it was making her efforts to raise money for Nangila’s school harder.
On an impulse she pulled her phone out of her pocket and began to write a text. Her mom knew all about raising money for charity, as she often reported on glittering charity fund-raisers for her magazine. Maybe she would have some idea how Tara could get the CD plan to work. How do you get lots of people to
support a charity idea? she texted. Help! I need to know urgently for something I want to do. Then she pressed send and hoped for a useful reply.
Tara had started to calm down, so she went back to her room. She took the blown-up picture of Nangila and Lolly, and stuck it up over her bed, as a reminder that she shouldn’t give up.
It was much too late to go over to the Rock Department, but Tara was fidgety. She wanted to do something for her cause now. She picked up a notebook and pencil and threw herself onto the end of her bed. She would try writing a song for Nangila. She liked writing songs. All her anger and desire to help the orphaned children could be poured out onto the page. Maybe, if it was good enough, it would be one for the CD.
Tara turned over and lay on her back, staring up at the picture on the wall. It was Nangila’s eyes that got her every time.
Eyes . . . skies . . . She doodled with her pencil, resting the notebook on her raised knees. Lies . . . flies. What else? Pain ...gain ...chain. She rolled over onto her front again and concentrated hard.
Pain in his eyes, she wrote. No, that wasn’t quite right. Pain in your eyes. Better. She scribbled furiously, crossing out as she went. In a few minutes, she had the beginnings of some lyrics she liked. She wrote them out again and then read them over to herself.
Don’t tell me no lies.
7. Tara’s Song
I see the pain in your eyes.
Yes. That was right. And in her head she could hear a deep, chugging, funky intro to the song on her bass. The fingers of her left hand twitched and she could almost feel them on the glossy neck of her beautiful new guitar.
I see the pain in your eyes, she whispered to Nangila reassuringly. And however difficult it is, I’m going to help keep you safe at your school. I promise.
At Rockley Park, the students had classes on Saturday mornings and gym in the afternoon. But Sundays were all about relaxing.
“What are you doing, Tara?” asked Chloe as they all lounged around in their room after Sunday lunch. “It’s not homework, is it?”
Tara's Triumph Page 3