The Ghost Sonata by JENNIFER ALLISON

fortunes, are we?” he asked. “Any luck for me?”
    Wendy reached over and pinched Gilda. It was her sign that she thought a boy was cute. Gilda took another look at the boy and saw that his ears stuck out a little, his nose was a bit crooked, and his skin was very pale—almost translucent. His blue-gray eyes were a striking contrast to the floppy, eye-grazing layers of his black hair. He had dimples when he smiled. She pinched Wendy back much harder.
    â€œOw!”
    Professor Heslop approached the group. “Excuse me. This is a serious international competition,” she whispered. “I don’t know how you do things in America and China, but here in England, we show respect for the performers onstage by keeping quiet during a competition.”
    â€œI’m English, actually,” said the boy. “And I know for a fact that we show as little respect for performers as possible in this countr y.”
    Professor Heslop wasn’t amused. “Quiet please, the lot of you; or I will have to ask you to wait outside in the rain. I have to go check on the front entrance now, and I expect you all to behave yourselves.”
    The group fell silent until Professor Heslop was out of earshot.
    â€œIn America, we just throw greasy McDonald’s hamburgers at the stage throughout the whole performance,” Gilda whispered. “It’s our way of showing appreciation. How do you do things in China, Wendy?”
    â€œWe throw chopsticks and raw fish.”
    â€œShh!” whispered Ming Fong loudly. “Be quiet! I don’t want to wait outside in the rain.” Ming Fong put her headphones back on.
    â€œBit of a Bossy Britches, isn’t she?” said the boy.
    â€œTell me about it. Ming Fong drives us crazy.”
    â€œNo.” The boy pointed a thumb at the door through which Professor Heslop had just exited. “I meant Heslop.”
    â€œOh, yeah. A real gorey granny.”
    â€œYou mean ‘granny gore.’ All crotchety and grumpy.”
    â€œI prefer ‘gorey granny.’”
    He looked bemused. “You don’t often hear an American trying to talk like a Scouser.”
    â€œI’m not trying to ‘talk like a Scouser.’ This is how I always talk.” Grateful that she had studied her Handbook of English Slang so carefully, Gilda remembered that Scouser referred to the slang used in the city of Liverpool where all the great “oldies” songs by the Beatles originated.
    â€œI’m from those parts. Well, I’m actually from a little toilet of a village up north called Crawling.”
    â€œSounds charming.”
    â€œOh, it is. Nobody’s heard of it. So—what are you playing?”
    Gilda wished that she was actually competing in the competition so she could talk to this boy about her music. “I’m playing the Rach Three,” she whispered.
    His eyes grew wide. He actually looked scared. “Seriously?”
    â€œJust kidding, unfortunately. I’m actually Wendy’s page-turner and manager. And my name is Gilda.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Gilda. I’m Julian.”
    Gilda shook his hand, reflecting that most of the boys she knew at school never offered to shake hands with a girl. His hand felt warm and noticeably well-developed, as if his hands were older than the rest of his body.
    â€œSo, Wendy has her own manager?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œSounds like she’s got it sorted.”
    â€œShe’s extremely sorted.” Gilda noticed Julian eyeing Wendy with interest and felt a possessive urge to redirect his attention before Wendy jumped into the conversation. “Wendy’s had some problems adjusting to a foreign country, though,” Gilda added.
    â€œCan’t blame her,” said Julian. “It’s bloody gloomy this week.”
    â€œPlus, she overslept this morning, so she’s in a really gormless mood.”
    â€œShe