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'D SUCCESSFULLY managed to escape another run-in with the five as I got up the next morning, showered, dressed, slid on my shoes and slipped out of the door. They had gone somewhere late in the evening the night before, returning not until the early hours of dawn; whispering, moving like foxes about the flat, before finally the sound of 5 doors shut and I was once again plunged into my own silence.
"As you all know, the winter showcase is coming up soon, so I suspect lots of you have questions about your focus for this years brief."
I watched as my performance teacher, Dr Plough, stood in the middle of the stage, addressing the class as we waited with fingers hovering over keyboards, screens lighting our faces. There had been talk of a Winter Showcase since I'd arrived at Oakham – the musicians in my lectures chatting eagerly amongst themselves about pieces they'd been saving especially for it – compositions they'd written, time they'd spent planning. For me, however, it was a daunting prospect that, truthfully, I'd been trying to forget about.
Although most people had been nice enough, I felt particularly isolated from the rest of the performance musicians, mainly because they'd all merged into ensemble groups already, and the only other pianist was constantly away doing concerts in Italy, as I'd been told. Ryan was also a performer, but an unreliable one at that – in fact, I hadn't seen him in any of my lectures yet. Therefore, if the showcase involved having to work with other musicians, it was safe to say that I was screwed.
Big time, as Ryan himself would say.
Dr Plough continued. "So, I think I've kept you all waiting long enough. For this year, the first time in Oakham's history, we are going to be partnering up with another sector in this conservatoire: the dancers." He smiled as a wave of conversation arose rapidly, some students turning to each other with shocked faces, others groaning; few with grins and shouts. "Quiet, guys, listen up so you can head out early." The dynamic of the room eventually returned to a tense silence. "So, next class, which is our practical for the week: myself, the head of dance – Dr Bashir, and your arts therapy teacher Dr Foreman will all be basing our ideas for groupings from individual performances, so prepare a short piece, an excerpt maybe 2-3 minutes to play, as the dancers will also be doing the same."
His words echoed through my mind, even as I sat on the grass outside the library later that day, plugged in with some Schumann as I thought of different pieces to perform. I was aware that finding a piece was the easiest part – in fact, I already knew what I was going to play. It was having to partner up with the dancers that scared me. Most of the other students would probably recognise each other from parties and mutual friends – I, however, would not.
Someone was tapping my shoulder, their voice muted by the sweeping Cello and extended piano chords in my ears. Turning around, I unplugged myself and smiled, seeing Ryan with a large grin and a suspicious looking package in one hand.
"Don't tell Gabby." He said guiltily, plonking himself down beside me and unravelling a large slice of red velvet. "I didn't have breakfast, okay?"
