I drifted through school for the next few days, gradually filling in the blanks on my map and learning the way things were done. Once I’d caught up with the work, I found I could cope with my classes, even if some of the style of teaching was unfamiliar. It was way more formal than in England—no first names for the students, all of us seated in individual rows rather than in pairs—but I thought I had adjusted OK. So, lulled into a false sense of security, I was unprepared for the rude shock of my first gym lesson.

Mrs Green, our evil sports teacher, sprang a surprise on the girls early Wednesday morning. There should be a law against teachers doing that so we at least had time to get a sick note.

‘Ladies, as you know, we’ve lost six of our best cheerleaders to college so I’m hunting for new recruits.’ I was not the only one to look crestfallen.

‘Come now, that’s no way to react! Our teams need your support. We can’t have Aspen High out-dancing, out-chanting us, can we?’

Yes we can, I chanted under my breath in Obama-Bob-the-Builder fashion.

She tapped a remote control and Taylor Swift’s ‘You belong with me’ started to blare over the loudspeakers.

‘Sheena, you know what to do. Show the other girls the steps for the first sequence.’

A lanky girl with honey-blonde hair loped with antelope grace to the front and began what looked to me a fiendishly difficult routine.

‘See, it’s simple,’ declared Mrs Green. ‘Fall into line, the rest of you.’ I shuffled to the back. ‘You there—new girl. I can’t see you.’ Precisely: that had been the idea. ‘Come forward. And from the top—one and two and three, kick.’

OK, I’m not completely hopeless. Even, I managed to do an approximation of Sheena’s moves. The minute hand on the clock crawled towards the end of the period.

‘Now we’re going to step it up,’ announced Mrs Green. At least someone was enjoying herself. ‘Get out the pompoms!’

No way. I was not going to shake those ridiculous things. Glancing over Mrs Green’s shoulder, I could see some of the boys from my class, already back from their run, were spying on us through the window in the sports hall canteen. Sniggering. Great.

Alerted by the attention of the front row to what was going on behind her, Mrs Green twigged that we had an audience. As smooth as a Ninja, she swooped on the boys before they knew what had hit them and dragged them in.

‘We believe in equal opportunities in Wrickenridge High.’ Gleefully, she thrust pompoms in their hands. ‘Line up, boys.’

Now it was our chance to laugh as the red-faced males were forced to join in. Mrs Green stood at the front assessing our skill—or lack of it. ‘Hmm, not enough, not enough. I think we need to practise a few tosses—Neil,’ she picked out a broad-shouldered boy with a shaved head, ‘you were in the squad last year, weren’t you? You know what to do.’

Tossing sounded OK. Chucking pompoms was better than shaking them.

Mrs Green tapped three more recruits on the shoulder. ‘Gentlemen, I’d like four of you up front. Make a cradle of your arms—yes, that’s it. Now, we need the smallest girl for this.’

No, absolutely not. I sidled behind Tina, who loyally tried to look twice her normal girth, pompoms on hips.

‘Where’s she gone—that little English girl? She was here a moment ago.’

Sheena spoilt my plan to hide. ‘She’s behind Tina, ma’am.’

‘Come here, dear. Now, it’s quite simple. Sit on their crossed hands and they’ll throw you into the air and catch you. Tina and Sheena, bring a crash mat over here, just in case.’ My eyes must have been like saucers, for Mrs Green patted my cheek. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything but point your hands and feet and try to look as if you are enjoying yourself.’

I eyed the boys with distrust; they were looking at me closely, possibly for the first time, estimating just how much weight I was carrying. Then Neil shrugged, making his mind up. ‘Yeah, we can do this.’

‘On the count of three!’ bellowed the teacher.

They grabbed me and up I went. My shriek probably could’ve been heard in England. It certainly brought the basketball coach and the rest of the boys running in the belief that someone was being brutally murdered.

I don’t think Mrs Green will be picking me for the squad.

Still in shock, I sat at lunch with Tina, barely eating a thing. My stomach had yet to return to earth.

‘They got a fair bit of height on that toss, didn’t they?’ Tina flicked my arm to interrupt my blank stare.

‘Oh. My. God.’

‘You make a lot of noise for such a small person.’

‘So would you if a sadistic teacher decided to torture you.’

Tina shook her mane. ‘Not going to be a problem for me—I’m too big.’ She thought it funny, the traitor. ‘So, Sky, what’re you going to do with the rest of your recess?’

Spurred out of my stupor, I dug out a leaflet from my welcome pack and put it between us. ‘I thought I’d go along to the music practice. Want to come too?’

She pushed it away with a wry laugh. ‘Sorry, you’re on your own. Me, they don’t let me near the music room. Glass shatters when it sees me coming with my mouth open. What do you play?’

‘A couple of instruments,’ I admitted.

‘Details, sister, details.’ She beckoned with her fingers, drawing the words out of me.

‘Piano, guitar, and saxophone.’

‘Mr Keneally is going to die of excitement when he hears. A one-girl band! Do you sing?’

I shook my head.

‘Phew! I thought I was going to have to hate you for being sickeningly talented.’ She dumped her tray. ‘Music’s this way. I’ll show you.’

I’d seen pictures on the school website but the music suite was much better equipped than even I had hoped. The main classroom had a glossy black grand that I was already itching to get my hands on. Students were milling around when I entered, some strumming on their guitars, a couple of girls practising scales on flutes. A tall, dark-haired boy with John Lennon glasses was changing the reed on his clarinet, his expression serious. I looked for somewhere inconspicuous to sit, preferably with a good view of the piano. There was a space next to a girl on the far side. I made towards it but her friend sat down before I could.

‘Sorry, but this seat’s taken,’ the girl said, seeing I was still hovering at her shoulder.

‘Right. OK.’

I perched alone on the edge of a desk and waited, avoiding meeting anyone’s eye.

‘Hey, you’re Sky, right?’ A boy with a shaved head and complexion of rich roast coffee took my hand, giving it a complicated shake. He moved with the easy grace of the long-limbed. Put into one of my comic book dreams, he’d be called something like Elasto-man.

Stop it, Sky, concentrate.

‘Um … hi. You know me?’

‘Yeah. I’m Nelson. You met my grandma. She told me to watch out for you. Everyone treating you well?’

OK—so he wasn’t like Mrs Hoffman after all, way too cool. ‘Yes, everyone’s been very friendly.’

He grinned at my accent and dropped down beside me, putting his feet up on the chair in front. ‘Awesome. I think you’ll have no problem fitting right in.’

I needed to hear that because just then I was having doubts. I decided I liked Nelson.

The door banged open. Enter Mr Keneally, a hefty man with the ginger hair of a Celt. Doodling on my pad, I immediately had him tabbed: Music Master, Harbinger of Doom to all disharmony. Definitely not a candidate for spandex.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began without breaking step. ‘Christmas is coming with its usual alarming swiftness, and we’ve a big programme of concerts scheduled. So you can all expect to let those little lights shine.’ I could hear his signature tune now: lots of drum and building tension, a kind of revved-up version of the ‘1812’ overture. ‘Orchestra starts on Wednesday. Jazz band Friday. All you budding rock stars, if you want to book the music rooms for your own band practice, see me first. But why do I bother—you know the drill.’ He dumped the papers down. ‘Except perhaps you.’ Music Master had brought his X-ray vision to bear on me.

I hate being new.

‘I’m catching up fast, sir.’

‘Good for you. Name?’

Hating my parents’ whimsical choice more and more, I told him, receiving the usual giggles from those who’d not met me before.

Mr Keneally frowned at them. ‘What do you play, Miss Bright?’

‘A bit of piano. Oh, and guitar and tenor sax.’

Mr Keneally rocked on the balls of his feet, reminding me of a diver about to take the plunge. ‘Is “a bit” some English code for “really good”?’

‘Um …’

‘Jazz, classical, or rock?’

‘Er … jazz, I suppose.’ I was happy with anything as long as it came on a stave.

‘Jazz, you suppose? You don’t sound very certain, Miss Bright. Music is not take it or leave it; music is life or death!’

His little speech was interrupted by the arrival of a latecomer. The Hispanic biker sauntered into the room, hands thrust in pockets, his mile-long legs eating up the floor as he strode to the windowsill to perch next to the clarinettist. It took me a moment to get over the surprise that the biker actually participated in any school activities; I’d imagined him above all that. Or maybe he’d come just to make fun of us? He leaned against the window as he had his saddle, ankles crossed negligently, an expression of amusement on his face as if he’d heard it all before and no longer cared.

All I could think was that they don’t make them like that in Richmond. It wasn’t so much that he had the poster boy looks, it was more to do with the raw energy that rippled under the skin, pent-up rage like a tiger pacing a cage. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I was by no means the only one affected. The atmosphere changed in the room. The girls sat up that little bit straighter, the boys were put on edge—all because this godlike creature had deigned to come among us mere mortals. Or was it the wolf among the sheep?

‘Mr Benedict, so kind of you to join us,’ Mr Keneally said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, his previous good humour chilled. A little scene flashed through my head: Music Master facing up to the Wicked Wolfman, weapons a bullet spray of notes. ‘All of us are thrilled you’ve torn yourself away from your no doubt far more important schedule to make music with us, even if your arrival is somewhat tardy.’

The boy quirked an eyebrow, evidently unrepentant. He picked up a pair of drumsticks and rolled them in his fingers. ‘I’m late?’ His voice was deep as I had imagined it, a shrug of bass tones. The clarinettist bravely elbowed him in the ribs, a reminder to behave.

Mr Keneally’s buttons were definitely being pushed. ‘Yes, you are late. I believe it is a custom in this school to apologize to the teacher if you arrive after they do.’

Drumsticks stilled, the boy stared at him for a moment, his expression arrogant like some young lord contemplating a peasant who dared correct him. Finally, he said, ‘Sorry.’

I had the impression that the rest of the room gave a subtle sigh of relief that conflict had been averted.

‘You’re not—but that’ll have to do. Watch your step, Mr Benedict: you may be talented but I’m not interested in prima donnas who don’t know how to treat their fellow musicians. You, Miss Bright, are you a team player?’ Mr Keneally turned back to me, dashing my hopes that I’d been forgotten. ‘Or are you afflicted with the same attitude as our Mr Zed Benedict?’

A very unfair question. This was a battle of superheroes and I was not even a sidekick. I’d not yet spoken to the Wolfman and I was being asked to criticize him. He had the kind of looks that made even the most confident girl a little in awe of him and, as my self-esteem was way down at rock bottom to start with, what I felt was closer to terror.

‘I … I don’t know. But I’ve been late too.’

The boy’s gaze flicked to me, then dismissed me as no more than a fleck of mud on his Wolfman superboots.

‘Let’s find out what you can do. Jazz band fall in.’ Mr Keneally shot music out like Frisbees. ‘Mr Hoffman, you take the sax; Yves Benedict, clarinet part. Maybe you can prevail upon your brother to delight us all on the drums?’

‘Of course, Mr Keneally,’ John Lennon specs replied, shooting the biker a dark look. ‘Zed, get over here.’

His brother? Wow, how did that happen? They might look a little like each other but in attitude they were on different planets.

‘Miss Bright can have my place at the piano.’ Mr Keneally caressed the grand fondly.

I really really didn’t want to perform in front of everyone.

‘Um … Mr Keneally, I’d prefer—’

‘Sit.’

I sat, adjusting the height of the stool. At least the music was familiar.

‘Don’t mind the prof,’ Nelson muttered, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘He does this to everyone—tests your nerves, he says.’

Feeling mine were wrecked already, I waited for the others to settle.

‘OK, take it away,’ said Mr Keneally, sitting in the audience to watch.

With the first touch, I knew the grand was a honey—full toned, powerful, capable of a great range. It relaxed me as nothing else could, providing a barrier between me and the rest of the room. Getting lost in the score chased off my jitters and I began to enjoy myself. I lived for music in the same way my parents did for their art. It wasn’t about performance—I preferred to play to an empty room; for me, it was about being part of the composition, taking the notes and working the magic to weave the spell. When playing with others, I was aware of my fellow performers not as people but as the sounds: Nelson, smooth and loose; Yves, the clarinet player, lyrical, intelligent, sometimes funny; Zed—well, Zed was the heartbeat, powering the music along. I sensed he understood the music as I did, his anticipation of shifts in mood and tempo faultless.

‘Very good, nay, excellent!’ Mr Keneally pronounced when we had finished. ‘I fear I’ve just been bumped from the jazz band.’ He gave me a wink.

‘You aced,’ said Nelson in a low voice as he passed my back.

Mr Keneally went on to other matters, organizing the choir and orchestra rehearsals, but no one else was asked forward to play. Unwilling to give up my barrier, I stayed where I was, gazing at the reflection of my hands in the raised lid, fingers tapping the keys without pressing down. I felt a light touch on my shoulder. The students were leaving but Nelson and the clarinet player stood behind me, Zed further off still looking as if he’d rather not be there.

Nelson gestured to the clarinettist. ‘Sky, meet Yves.’

‘Hi. You’re good.’ Yves smiled, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

‘Thanks.’

‘That idiot’s my brother, Zed.’ He waved a hand towards the scowling biker.

‘Come on, Yves,’ Zed growled.

Yves ignored him. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s like this with everyone.’

Nelson laughed and left us to it.

‘You twins?’ They had the same colouring and golden-brown skin, but Yves was round-faced with sleek black hair, a young Clark Kent. Zed had well-defined features, strong nose, large eyes with long lashes, and a head of thick curls, more likely to be one of the colourful bad guys than be found among the boring good. A fallen hero, one of those tragic types who turn to the dark side like Anakin Skywalker …

Keep with the programme, Sky.

Yves shook his head. ‘No way. I’ve a year on him. I’m a senior. He’s the baby of the family.’

Never had I seen anyone less like a baby. My respect for Yves soared as it was clear he wasn’t intimidated by his brother.

‘Gee, thanks, bro, I’m sure she wanted to know that.’ Zed folded his arms, foot tapping.

‘See you at band practice.’ Yves tugged Zed away.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I murmured, watching the brothers. ‘I bet you can’t wait.’ I hummed an ironic little exit tune, imagining them both leaping into the skies as they departed from the sight of us mere mortals.