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one school to have proper lessons, so had taken to teaching herself from a book, on her own, in her room. She wasn’t very good but it was noisy and she liked to play when she felt lonely because it filled the room with sound. But if she was going to persuade the music teacher, Miss Gilfeather, to let her join the band so late, she would have to play her very best.
    Trumpet case in hand, she entered the small room labelled MUSIC ROOMS. It was Saturday morning when pupils had one-to-one music lessons, so Holly had decided to wait until Miss Gilfeather had a sparemoment then ask if she could join the band. She could hear a flute and a piano playing a piece of classical music behind another door. Or rather, the piano was playing. The flute was desperately trying and failing to keep up.
    She looked for somewhere to sit and saw that she wasn’t alone. By the side of an upright piano was a skinny boy, sitting so still that she hadn’t noticed him at first. Greasy black hair was flattened against his forehead. He didn’t look at her but she saw his grip tighten round the handle of his curved instrument case, as though afraid she might steal it.
    â€˜Hi, I’m Holly,’ she said, sitting down next to the boy. ‘Is that a French horn?’
    His dark eyes flickered nervously to look at her.
    She tried again, offering her hand and saying, ‘I play the trumpet. I want to join the band. Are you in the band?’
    The strange boy made a noise somewhere between a giggle and a squeak and brought a hand up to his face, compulsively smoothing down his already very smooth hair.
    Holly decided to give it one more try. ‘I’ve never played in front of anyone before. I taught myself. What about you?’
    When the boy answered he spoke quickly without pausing for breath. ‘I have lessons, but the teachers get scared, everyone gets scared. They don’t like being in a room with Callum, they think Callum is weird, but I still play because music blocks out the other noises. I never wanted to join the stupid band because other people aren’t as good and spoil it and I hate it when people play wrong notes, like that flute in there, but Father thinks the concert will show people that Callum isn’t a nutcase and so I have to be in the stupid band.’
    The boy took a sharp intake of breath and smoothed down his hair.
    Before Holly could respond, the door was flung open by a severe-looking woman, immaculately dressed in a trouser suit, holding a flute at arm’s length, as though it was the most repulsive object she had ever touched.
    She walked to the bin and dropped in the instrument.
    Petal Moses darted out of the room and dived to the flute’s rescue. ‘How dare you?’ she demanded. ‘My mother bought that for me. It’s an antique. It’s worth more than you earn in a year.’
    â€˜That’s probably true, Miss Moses,’ the teacher admitted. ‘And yet in your hands it may as well be a penny whistle. I told you last week that if you didn’t practisethat this would be your last lesson.’
    â€˜If you’re so good at music, why aren’t you a proper musician like my mum, rather than just a music teacher?’ Petal snarled.
    Miss Gilfeather emitted a very precise laugh in a 2/4 rhythm. ‘My dear, your mother is a pop star, not a musician.’
    â€˜My mother has won awards,’ Petal screamed, ‘and I’m gong to call Mum and get a record contract and then you’ll see.’
    â€˜I’m sure you will,’ said Miss Gilfeather, maintaining her composure. ‘The pop charts are full of talentless chimpanzees. Now, kindly leave. You have wasted enough of my time.’
    Petal swung round and saw Holly. ‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded.
    â€˜I think you’d better give your psychiatrist a call too,’ replied Holly.
    â€˜Hermann is a therapist,’ replied Petal. ‘It’s Callum