When Luna Hart transfers to Oakham conservatoire, something isn't right. Her flatmates, deemed 'The Five', by many, are made up of Oakham's most elite. They're known for being rich, ruthless and cold-hearted. But why is Luna so particularly despised...
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I REMEMBERED that day clearly.
The long, daunting halls closing in around us, endless rows of lockers everywhere I looked. Children in their classes with each door we passed, posters, paintings, signs of all things new.
I hadn't chosen to start again at another school, but the move was what my mother had wanted, away from London, away from the bright, bold lights and bustling pavements.
She was holding my hand, talking with the headteacher (yes, yes, and how challenging is mathematics here? Right, well. Okay. We are looking for Luna to achieve high standards. Top grades. Top sets. Oxford. Cambridge. Our goals) her fingers squeezing my own, a firm grip to ensure I didn't wander away.
Mum was always like that. From anyone else's perspective, they probably would have smiled at the image of a mother and daughter holding hands.
But for us it was different.
The headteacher had taken us through the music department to get to the assembly hall – a path that he ensured was a shortcut. And as we walked, I listened.
Soft sounds of the keys wandered into my ears.
I had heard the piano before, of course, like anyone. But this time it was being played by someone in the process of learning. The loose, oddly-strung together melody was slowly forming between every mistake. Each stumble was ignored, each note held on for too long was repeated again, but at the right length. And although it didn't particularly sound like the tune it was supposed to be, I stopped when we reached the door where the lesson was taking place, just to press my hands against the cold glass of the door and watch, where the teacher looked up next to the child playing and smiled.
"Luna," My mother had said, trying to drag me further as I stood firm on the ground. "Luna, let's not distract the child. Take your hands off the glass."
"I want to play."
"Play what?"
"That, Mum." The song began again, this time, with less mistakes. Let It Be – The Beatles. "I want to play the piano."
♦ ♦ ♦
The practise rooms were full up.
Other students had already claimed their spots, the clashing of different instruments shouting back at me as I stood with my piano books in hand. It was certainly a change from my old school, back when I was the only one who used the piano. Day in, day out, it would be there, waiting whenever I felt the urge to play: a slightly decaying off-tune piano on its last legs, the one instrument that none of the teachers could be bothered to look after.
At Oakham...well, it was a race to get to the ones they had. Whoever lost would have to wait it out, or you had to face having to come back again in the morning. And as a self-proclaimed morning-person protester, that was not something I wanted to do.
