Chapter 3
Fiddler in the Tavern
I guess I must have drifted off to sleep because when I open my eyes again, it’s twilight. I love the sky just after sunset, when the stars appear, one by one. First the planets, then slowly, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia ... it’s the deepest blue I can think of. They call it cerulean. So beautiful and calm. It seems to carry me from far across the universe, back to here and now, but there’s something else – the sound of a violin.
What is it? Fiddling? Like something I’ve heard on one of those CBC specials – Live from Cape Breton. Not at all like the country and western band whose music leaks out of Uncle Jack’s tavern, the Stompin’ Boot Pub.
I lie there letting the music pass through me, tugging and pulling, like waves on the ocean, filling me with peace. Then it changes, bouncing and jigging in wild rhythms that force me to sit up with a start. It leaps, it dives.
Rolling off my bed, I grab the hoodie that lies on my wicker chair and creep down the carpeted stairs to the front door, opening it ever so quietly to slip into the twilight. The cool September night air feels good on my hot face, burned from crying.
I follow the notes of the music, the trail leading me to Uncle Jack’s pub. Peeking into the low-lit tavern through the diamond-shaped dividers of the front glass, I see the crowd, speechless, mesmerised. They’re focussed on the performer who sits on a carved chair, center stage.
It’s her! It’s that red-headed woman from the funeral!
Her foot stomps rhythmically to the beat of her music, driving the tune into a frenzy. She lifts her chin from time to time, readjusting her fiddle, and flings her hair back as she does. The tune becomes more and more frantic and soon, the crowd follows the wild rhythm, beating their feet on the hollow, wooden floor. Her fingers fly, her pinky whipping out like a serpent’s tongue to capture fast trills. The crowd thumps along, chins nodding. The music races ahead, untamed. Then, like a wild horse that’s been lassoed and pulled hard, it ends on a single octave.
The red-haired woman glances at the audience as though nothing out of the ordinary happened. The crowd cheers and whistles. She gives a humble smile, and then raises her worn fiddle, tucking it under her chin to begin the next tune.
Uncle Jack sits close by her, grinning from ear to ear. He bends over, placing his head close enough to her ear to touch her hair, and says something. She throws back her head and lets out a loud, ringing laugh. I flinch. Does he like her? Uncle Jack’s promise to take care of us threatens to vaporize.
He’s my uncle. We need him right now.
As though she hears my thoughts, the woman’s eyes meet mine through the glass. The intensity of her gaze pierces me, raising the hairs on my arms. She holds me captive for what seems minutes, and then begins the very tune I vowed never to play again – Danny Boy. If Dad thought I played it well, he would surely rise from the dead hearing this woman perform it. Her fiddle might be old and beat-up, but there’s something about it – something hypnotic. I listen to a few phrases, the notes drawing me in, holding me suspended in time. My soul rides each crescendo, each fermata, every note of vibrato penetrating my being, all the while held by those cold blue eyes. Then I shake my head like a thousand spiders have landed on me and break the shackles of her gaze.
“No!”
I shove my fingers in my ears and flee. My heart races and my feet beat the street as I run the three blocks home, fighting the music that threatens to own me. By the time I arrive, the song has ended, and I’m calming down. Catching my breath, I sneak in quietly so Mom doesn’t hear me.
Dylan meets me at the door in his pajamas, one of his Dead-Eye Dart Guns aimed at me. “Kira’s home, Mom,” he calls, his voice sassy. “You’re in such big trouble!”
“You went in my closet, you little brat,” I growl, trying to grab the gun.
Mom’s hurried steps echo in the hallway. “Where have you been?” Her eyebrows are drawn up with worry.
“I just went for a walk,” I say, still trying to control my breathing. “I needed some air.”
Mom’s forehead creases. “You know the rule. If you’re going someplace, you have to tell me.” She looks into my eyes, her brows furrowed to see if she can read anything in them like moms do, then sighs and puts her arms around me. “You know, we’re all hurting,” she says. “It’s hard on all of us, and we have to pull together until we get everything sorted out. I know you wanted that violin, and I promise you’ll get it, but I just don’t know when.” Mom strokes my hair like she did when I was little.
I begin to thaw.
“Okay,” I mumble, my shoulders squashed against her. “Sorry, Mom. I won’t do it again.”
After she lets me go, I turn and climb the stairs to my room. A few minutes later, Mom and Dylan start practising the violin. Dylan’s playing the same Suzuki pieces I played long ago on his beautiful, new half-size violin. My heart longs for the promised instrument I can’t have. It hurts so bad that I reach out with my foot and slam the door.
Chapter 4
School
A week later, I drag my feet across the pavement as I make my way to school. Oh, how I dread the gossip and the looks. Kids make fun of me enough as it is because I’m a child prodigy – AKA a nerd – but it’ll be worse now. I’m sure everyone knows Dad’s died, and it’ll only give them more to talk about. Halfway there, Charlotte joins me, babbling a mile a minute about her new Shar-Pei pup, Buddy.
“He’s so cute. Yesterday, when I got home, he kept running back and forth and jumping up and down all over me.”
I barely listen, but smile as though I am.
We slip through the double doors of the school. Everyone turns and stares when we walk past on our way to homeroom. There are whispers and wide eyes.
Ignoring them, I paste on a fake smile and pretend to have a carefree conversation with Charlotte. “Yeah, Buddy’s a pretty cute pup, alright.”
When we get to homeroom, we find an empty table at the back of the class far away from everyone.
Our homeroom teacher is Charlotte’s dad. Herb Morin looks like some sort of genius, his wire-rimmed glasses sitting low on his nose and his grey hair racing about his head. He reminds me a little of Einstein. He glances at us and smiles a little too familiar like we’re his pets.
Charlotte sits with her back to him as though she doesn’t know him. I guess it’s embarrassing when your dad’s a teacher in high school, especially when her Mom teaches English here too. Talk about sticking out like a sore thumb. It was different when we were in elementary school. I was proud that Mom taught music, but now we’re older and it’s just not cool anymore.
We make out our schedule, and I let out a sigh of relief when I see Charlotte and I are in all the same classes. At least I won’t have to go through this all alone.
The In-girls, or IGs, as Charlotte calls them, steal glances at us. They’ve claimed the prized table in the middle of the room where they’re without a doubt the center of attention. One of them, Sydney, pulls out her cellphone and taps with her fingers.
Turning to Charlotte, I whisper, “Do you think she’s texting about me?”
Charlotte shrugs, pretending she hasn’t noticed.
If only we could text too. We might find out what people are saying, but our parents insist texting will ruin our educations. Heck, we don’t even have cellphones, making it all the harder to fit in. And forget about Netflix. We’re not allowed to be normal.
Their leader, Taylor, wears her chestnut hair in a loose pony-tail. She’s probably the prettiest girl in the school, especially since her mom used to be a beauty queen. When we were little, they lived next door to us. We’d play for hours, trading Barbie outfits and brushing their hair. Later, it was all about our dogs, building little jumps for them and putting on our own dog shows along with Charlotte and her pooch. It was fun until two years ago when Sydney moved to town and claimed Taylor, and now, it’s like we barely know each other.
Sydney shoots me another glance d
own her curved nose and taps faster. Her eyes are cruel, and she looks like she’s sharing some juicy gossip. Who with? A lock of thin, straw-coloured hair falls into her face, and she tucks it behind her right ear.
Samantha, who’s nearly six feet tall, leans over, reading her text, her dirty blond hair dangling forward while her mouth forms an oh.
But it’s the two boys who sit next to them that worry me the most. Travis has always been as mean as a junkyard dog. He’s the type of guy who walks past us and says to Charlotte, “Got any fortune cookies?” or turns to me and says, “What’s wrong? Couldn’t find any white friends?”
Travis loves running us down for being smart, and he never misses a chance to take a jab at the fact that Charlotte’s parents adopted her from China when she was a baby. She’s the only Asian in the whole town, except for the old couple who run the one Chinese restaurant, the Golden Sun.
Yet somehow Travis has made it into the IGs. It’s certainly not for his looks – I’ve never seen girls giggling over him. He’s kind of plain with pale skin, a unibrow, and hair that always seems to need cutting. Maybe they like him because he’s cool. Who knows? Then there’s his buddy Kyle, a short, skinny kid who sticks up for anything Travis does wrong.
School lasts for only an hour. When the bell rings, everyone races out to enjoy the last bit of summer. We duck through the crowded halls trying to make a quick exit, but Charlotte has to go to the bathroom; I swear she has the smallest bladder in town.
While she slips into the girl’s room, I notice a crowd of kids hanging around the bulletin board bubbling with excitement. I sidle up to the edge of the crowd to see what all the fuss is about. The board’s plastered with new notices announcing everything from karate to soccer, to football, and lacrosse. Sports. Everything is sports in Hope – definitely not classical violin. As proof, tucked away in the top, right-hand corner, is Mr. Bachinsky’s ad as though it’s an afterthought.
But it’s the colour poster in the middle of the board that has everyone talking. It’s big and bright, with a photo of a woman on it. I flinch when I recognize the red-haired fiddler with the pale blues eyes, but my curiosity wins, and I read what’s written underneath it.
Fiddling and Celtic dance lessons
Learn in groups or privately.
Call Kate McDonough
Small strips of paper, with phone numbers neatly printed on them, dangle from the bottom. Kids snatch at them, grabbing all but two. I shake my head. What’s going on? All this fuss over Celtic music? I thought everyone in Hope was into rock or rap – certainly not fiddling.
Charlotte comes up behind me, practically gushing as she points at the poster. “Oh, that’s the new woman who’s been playing at the pub for the last few nights. Have you heard her?” Her face is lit up like an incandescent lamp.
“Yeeaahh.” I drag out the word almost like it’s a question.
“What? You don’t like her?” She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Well, I have to admit she’s pretty good … well, actually really good, but ...” Uncle Jack’s admiring looks flash in my mind again, worrying me, but I can’t tell Charlotte because she won’t understand that Uncle Jack’s my lifeline now, so I lie. “It’s just that … I’m not exactly crazy about that kind of music.”
“Seriously?” Charlotte frowns like it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever heard. “I love it!” She reaches over and tears off one of the last strips. “I’m going to ask my mom if I can take lessons from her.” She tucks the number in her pocket with care as though it’s a lucky lottery ticket.
I follow close on her heels. “But what about Mr. Bachinsky?” I ask, loyalty burning deep inside me. “I mean, he’s a really nice guy and a good teacher, and plus you’ve been taking lessons from him for eons.”
“Yeah, I know, but he’s so old. And there’s more to life than classical music and exams and stuff.” She flips her hand in the air, waving the idea away like it’s really annoying.
“Charlotte!” I say, pulling on her arm.
She stops and faces me, a momentary frown creasing her forehead. “Okay. Maybe I can take lessons from both.”
“Well, I’m not. Mr. Bachinsky’s good enough for me.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, walking away.
We amble through the crisp fall air and arrive at the beige, stuccoed elementary school where Dylan’s waiting for me. Mom always has some prepping to do before the next day, so I have to pick him up after school. He races to meet us, bursting with news.
“I found a dead bird!”
“I hope you didn’t touch it,” I say, worried he’ll catch West Nile’s Virus.
He shakes his head. “Only with a stick. Come on.” He leads us to a spot under a tree where a sparrow lies motionless on a bed of green moss. “It’s been cut open!”
I bend over to inspect it. “Ew, how gross. Must have been a racoon or something.”
“I don’t think so.” Charlotte says, moving in closer. “That’s a really straight cut. Look, almost like it was done with a knife.”
I lean in. “Weird. Who’d do that?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“Can we bury it? Please?” asks Dylan. “We can have a funeral for it just like we did for Dad.”
My heart lurches, and I want to say no, but Dylan’s eyes are pleading.
“I have a plastic bag for Buddy’s doodoos,” says Charlotte. “Here.” She bends over and carefully picks up the remains of the sparrow using the bag as a glove. Then she turns it inside out so the bird and all its germs are safe inside.
“Let’s bury it in the garden,” says Dylan as we hurry the rest of the way home. “Over there.” He points to a bare spot in the front of our house, then picks up a hand shovel Mom left lying around and digs a shallow hole.
When it’s deep enough, Charlotte places the small bird inside while Dylan pushes dirt over it with his foot.
“There,” she says. “Now it’s had a proper burial.” She picks up her backpack and turns to leave, waving her hand as she heads home. “See you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” we call back.
Dylan runs into the house and up the stairs. By the time I get in and take my shoes off, despite my kindness to him, the darts are flying again.
Chapter 5
Travis
More than a week goes by. I try to keep a low profile, but sometimes it’s next to impossible.
In band class, Mr. Waring hands out sheet music.
“Today, I’m giving you a march!” he says, his voice droning on the same note. “By John Phillip Souza.”
“Oh, no,” I whisper to Charlotte.
“And as you know, John Phillip Souza is the greatest composer of marches that ever lived.” He gives out the last sheet. “And that’s why we play so many of them.”
I groan. Please, anything’s better than another march. Give us a Mozart Symphony, or even a movie tune. Heck, I’d even settle for heavy metal.
When everyone’s done rustling pages, the music in place on black stands, Mr. Waring raises his baton. “Okay, let’s give it a go.”
The class jumps in. Wrong notes squawk and squeak, and the tune crashes and burns by the end of the first line, but Charlotte and I keep going, brave, solitary soldiers in a mine field until Mr. Waring stops waving the baton and grins at us.
“Excellent, Kira and Charlotte.”
Faces turn and stare.
“Could you please play that again to show the whole class how it’s done?”
My face warms, but I raise my flute anyway and play the line again with Charlotte.
When we’re finished, Mr. Waring smiles and nods as though we’re perfection itself. “Now you see? That’s how it should be played.”
I feel myself shrinking when, out of the corner of my vision, kids elbow each other and roll their eyes. Sometimes I swear if we played any old notes and burped to the beat, Mr. Waring would still think we were the greatest. The truth of the matter is, we’re only goo
d at it because we already play the violin.
We survive the rest of band, avoiding winks and nudges until the bell rings, and then move on to our next class.
In science, Mr. Fritz stands next to the periodic table.
“Now who knows what this symbol stands for?” He points at the square that reads Ag.
Charlotte and I glance around, waiting for someone else to answer. The IGs are busy texting again. A group of shaggy-haired guys in the back of the class stare at the chart, too cool to answer. Others are talking as though Mr. Fritz isn’t even there at all.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Mr. Fritz says. “Girls especially like to wear it.”
Guffaws break out in the back of the room where the shaggy-haired guys sit, obviously thinking rude thoughts. The IGs stop texting, and the others grow silent, their faces questioning.
Mr. Fritz’s ears turn a bright pink in contrast to his white lab coat.
Thinking of how Mom would feel if a class behaved for her like this, my hand shoots up, and I hear my voice say, “Silver?”
Mr. Fritz’s eyes light up.
“Yes! Well done!” he says a little too loudly. “Now let’s see how many you can name, Kira.” He points to the beginning of the periodic table.
I obediently recite them knowing full well it’s teen suicide, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Charlotte jumps in too. Are we the only ones who get this? Or doesn’t anyone care? But we keep going right to the end of the poster. Then we hear it … sucking sounds. We know what it means – suck-ups.
Mr. Fritz gives us the assignment. One of the shaggy-haired guys asks us for the answers. He glances back at his friends with a smirk. We ignore him.
After science, we head to French.
As usual, we’re on center stage when the teacher chooses us to do a role play in front of the class. Charlotte and I speak French fluently because Mom’s from Quebec, and Charlotte’s dad is from France. We’ve been speaking the language since we were little.
A Town Bewitched Page 2
