The Ghost Sonata by JENNIFER ALLISON Page B

should probably go practice.” Gary hesitated, as if hoping that Wendy would beg him to stay.
    â€œDon’t go practice, mate!” said Julian. “You should celebrate. There’s a whole town out there full of meat pasties and college girls!”
    Gary smiled uneasily. “I should really practice my sight-reading before tomorrow. I’ll see you guys later.”
    â€œPerformer number eight will play the Bach C Minor Prelude and Fugue from the ‘Well-Tempered Clavier’ followed by Chopin’s ‘Ocean’ Étude,” Professor Heslop announced.
    With iron-straight posture, Ming Fong walked onstage toward the piano. A moment later, a barrage of staccato sixteenth notes burst from the stage like machine-gun fire.
    Ming Fong played with such effortless speed, efficiency, and perfection, the music almost didn’t seem human. Something about her playing made Gilda think of steel parts moving quickly down an assembly line to be hammered and drilled by little robots. Her performance was at once mechanical and beautiful: it was as if Ming Fong had transformed from a little girl wearing a frilly dress into a tiny factory of sound that exploded with streams of brilliant sparks and silvery smoke.
    â€œBloody ’ell,” Julian breathed. “She has fingers.”
    Gilda was alarmed when she looked at Wendy: her face had the pale, clammy appearance of someone who might get sick at any moment.
    â€œHere, you need to breathe!” On impulse, Gilda reached into her handbag, uncapped Wendy’s bottle of strawberry shampoo, and thrust it under Wendy’s nose.
    Wendy took a deep breath.
    â€œNow—just relax.”
    â€œOmigod, I’ve never been this nervous in my life. I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
    Gilda wondered if she should have brought a barf bag for Wendy, just in case. “Whatever you do, don’t park a custard onstage, Wendy.”
    â€œThanks. Big help.”
    â€œJust picture the judges in their knickers,” Julian suggested. “That Waldgrave is a loony sod anyway.”
    A burst of applause followed Ming Fong’s performance.
    â€œThank you, performer number eight,” said Professor Waldgrave after the applause died down. “Now, I have to be very frank with you . . .”
    People in the audience held their breath. Was Professor Waldgrave ruthless enough to destroy the spirit of the tiny girl who sat at the piano wearing a pretty red-and-white dress—a girl who played faster than a speeding bullet?
    â€œI loved it,” said Professor Waldgrave.
    The audience released a sigh of relief tinged with disappointment. After all, it had been more interesting to watch Gary receive harsh criticism.
    â€œIt was crisp, accurate, perfectly pure playing. I believe Mr. Bach would have liked your interpretation of the music.”
    â€œShe’s better than me,” Wendy whispered. “I don’t know how it happened just in the last month, but she somehow got better than me.”
    Gilda grabbed Wendy by the shoulders and gazed directly into her eyes—a gesture she had seen Wendy use when trying to get her little brother’s attention when he misbehaved. “Listen to me, Wendy. Don’t worry about Ming Fong right now. You’re only competing against yourself, okay? Just focus on your own game out there.” Gilda felt as if she had turned into some kind of athletic coach. “Now—just close your eyes, take a whiff of your strawberry shampoo, and try to think about your own music.”
    Wendy closed her eyes. Music came to her, but there was a problem. It wasn’t the music she was supposed to perform. It was as if some music virus had entered her mind—an alien composition that was attaching itself to the crucial brain cells containing her competition music. Bach and Mozart were being replaced by a simple, melancholy theme in A minor—music she had heard somewhere, but where