“I … just can’t ...” I turn to hide my face as I hiccough.
“Oh, Kira,” Mr. Bachinsky says, grabbing a box of Kleenex.
Monica’s steps echo on the stairs. She stops as though listening, rushes into the room, and puts her arm around me while he hands me a tissue.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Is it because of your dad?”
“Yes,” my voice squeaks. “I just can’t play. It reminds me too much of him.” I burst into the most embarrassing, full-blown case of sobbing.
They exchange looks like they don’t know what to do. My sobs reverberate in the room. Then Monica takes control.
“It’s okay, Kira,” she says. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
Mr. Bachinsky hesitates, and then nods. “She’s right. We can wait until you’re feeling more up to it.”
I take a deep breath and grab another tissue and blow my nose.
“Pack your violin, and we’ll start another day,” Mr. Bachinsky says, sweeping his silver hair behind his ears. “No charge for today.”
I wipe my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” His nod is kind.
“Okay.” I cross the room and shove the violin in the coffin-like box, my sniffles slowing. “I’m really sorry.”
“Oh, no, no.” Monica pats my back. “You go home and get some rest.”
“Okay, I will.” I start down the stairs, and then look back. “Bye.”
Leaving the Victorian house, I trudge home, my eyes and face still hot. The park lies between me and home. I take the path that weaves through the tall evergreens. Leaves crunch under my feet, and I kick them about. The smell of pine fills the air. A slight breeze cools my face and I shake my hair back.
I’m starting to feel like my old self again when something rustles to my left – a dog? I glance over my shoulder. The sun is setting and long shadows stretch across the foliage. Squinting, I try to make out what it is – something dark crouching behind a tree. I strain my eyes a little harder – is it a human? I feel a cold stare fixed on me. It follows my every move like the eyes of the Mona Lisa.
My instincts cry danger, and I break into a run. Footsteps burst from the shadows and race after me. Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I try to see who it is, but the sun blinds me. I dash, my heart pumping. The steps grow closer, gaining on me. My breath turns ragged as I pump my legs harder. A hand snatches at my clothes. My scream shatters the air. I stumble, and then pull myself free, running until I reach the entrance of the park. But I don’t stop until I’ve raced the two blocks to our house and make it up the stairs. Turning to see if I’ve been followed, I see no signs of anyone.
Who could that have been? Travis? One of the IGs?
I catch my breath, shake my head, then open the door.
Sliding into the house, I contemplate telling Mom about my pursuer, but decide to wash my face first since I know my red, puffy eyes tell a story. I tiptoe into the living room and lay my violin on the piano. The aroma of hamburger frying fills the room, and I can hear Dylan shouting.
“I hate Mr. Grindlemeer!” He stamps his foot as he says his teacher’s name.
“Why? What happened?” Mom asks, a smile in her voice as I hear her breaking leaves off a lettuce.
There’s one thing I’ve got to say about Dylan. Despite the Dead-Eye Dart Guns, he can be really entertaining sometimes. So instead of disappearing into the bathroom like I had intended, I push my hair forward to hide my face and stroll into the kitchen like there’s nothing wrong.
“There’s this new girl in my class named Alice, and she’s really annoying. She keeps taking all my pencils and says I took hers. And then Mr. Grindlemeer gets mad at me.”
I grab the plates and start setting the table, keeping my back to Mom. Dylan’s the perfect distraction until my face cools down.
“But I wrote your name on all your stuff. It shouldn’t be too hard to sort them out,” says Mom, turning the handle of the salad spinner.
“Except my pencils.” Dylan crosses his arms.
I feel like calling out, “Dylan’s got a girlfriend,” but I don’t dare in case Mom hears my nasal voice; so instead, I grab the napkins and put them in place, making as little noise as possible.
“You know she’s doing that because she likes you,” says Mom hiding a grin with her hand.
“Well, I sure don’t like her.”
The phone rings. Worried it might be Mr. Bachinsky, I grab the cutlery and start laying down the utensils in fast motion, my hair so far forward I must look like some kind of hippy.
I hear a woman’s voice buzzing on the other end. Mom unh-hunhs and nods several times.
“Really? Really?” she says. “Okay, I’ll talk to her. Thanks for calling, Monica.”
Busted! I think of making that quick escape to the bathroom, but Mom’s too fast.
“Monica says you couldn’t play today. What happened?” She rests her hands on my shoulders and stares in my face as though I’m a complete stranger. “You’ve been crying.”
“I know.” I prepare myself to get in trouble, but she looks more worried than anything else.
“So tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know.” I throw up my arms. “He wanted me to play Danny Boy and it just brought back too many memories.”
I wait to be scolded, but instead, Mom lets go of me and starts putting the hamburgers together. The silence between us is deafening. Then, after a while, she turns and faces me, her eyes blinking. “Kira, I don’t want to rush you, but it’s always been your dream to do your ARCT. I know it’s tough with Dad gone, but he so wanted you to do it. Remember?”
“I know,” I say, “but …”
Feeling cheated, I want to tell her it’s all her fault since she won’t get me the Gold Violin, that she’s unfair, that she favours Dylan, but her eyes are blinking so fast I’m worried she might start crying. But she doesn’t. Instead, she lays the hamburgers on the table, and we sit, quietly eating.
A while later, she gets up and says, “Okay, sweetie, I’ll give you more time, but don’t let your dream go, okay?” She bends over and hugs me, and then gathers the dishes, carrying them to the sink.
Relieved, I climb the stairs to my room, pull out my books and start my homework. Around 10 o’clock, I’m done. I pull up the warm covers to my neck and drift off to sleep. At 2:15, I awake with a start. Footsteps echo in the street.
Climbing out of bed, I peer down below to where a shadowy figure treads.
It’s a woman carrying a case.
Kate McDonough? I frown. But what’s she doing walking around in the middle of the night?
She stands alone in the street, searching, listening. I can see her, but she can’t see me. She stares up at my window. I step back into the recesses of my room. Then she walks away, the heels of her boots clicking on the pavement.
Chapter 8
The Fad
A couple of weeks fly by, and I still can’t look at my violin. Mom and Dylan, on the other hand, wander about the house each night, sawing away on their fiddles, their feet stamping the beat for what seems like hours. They alternate practises; one night it’s classical, the next, fiddling. Dylan has gone from the reluctant student to the impassioned musician. I don’t get it. Dylan’s never cared much for the violin before. And what’s even stranger, is now Mom has decided to order penny whistles instead of recorders for her grade seven class.
“It’s easy,” she explains, holding the thin, tin whistle in her hand, the light reflecting off of its shiny surface stinging my eyes. “It’s just like a recorder except that it plays in the key of D and the fingering’s a little different.”
I shade my eyes with my hand. “Yeah, but you’ve always done The Sockhoppers or Elvis Presley with the grade sevens,” I say, remembering girls swooning over posters of Elvis. After all, a hottie’s a hottie even if he’s dead. I’ve never been too sure why she likes the Sockhoppers so much. They were just some local band that was
popular when she was a kid, yet she’s always played them in the car, bopping away as she drives – until now.
“But ever since Kate’s come to town, everyone’s into Celtic music, and I have to go with the flow. You know what grade sevens are like.”
She lifts the high-pitched whistle that would make her instant friends with dogs and jigs away at it for a while, trilling left and right like she’s some old bagpipe player with long sideburns and a kilt.
It’s not just Mom and Dylan, though – it’s everyone. The whole town’s talking Celtic. I hear conversations in the supermarket lineup, at the public library, and the DVD store. Even Monica’s ninety-year-old aunt goes to the Stompin’ Boot and says it makes her feel like a girl again.
At school, the news of Dad’s death seems to have been forgotten, and everything goes smooth as silk until the day Travis creeps up behind Charlotte and places his mean mouth close to her ear, saying, “Oh, poor, little, itty, bitty baby. Left on the street to die. Guess she was too ugly, and her mommy didn’t wanna keep her.”
Charlotte reels for a second, then tries to ignore him, but he keeps it up, in a low, nasty voice.
“Your momma didn’t want you. You’re a reject, you’re a ...”
Her face burns redder and redder until she whips around, her eyes glaring. “Just shut your stupid trap, Travis. You don’t know the first thing about it!”
“Aw, you gonna cry like you did when your momma dumped you?” His look is one of mock pity.
I stand frozen, trying to think up something clever to say that will put Travis in his place, but before I can, Charlotte explodes, her emotions pouring out like hot, smoking lava.
“I hate you!” she screams.
Still trying to think up anything at all to say, I remain planted in the ground, my mouth hanging open.
And then she does it. After spitting out more of the nastiest insults she can think of, she takes a running leap at Travis and shoves him against the wall … right as the vice-principal walks by. Mr. Watkins draws in a sharp breath as though Charlotte had shoved him.
The hallway goes silent and heads turn, eyes focused on Charlotte and Travis.
“In the office, you two,” Mr. Watkins roars, his arm raised, and his bony finger pointing down the hall like the grim reaper.
That’s when my tongue finally unglues itself, and I blurt out, “But it wasn’t her fault!”
“Then you’ll come too!” Mr. Watkins’ voice rumbles with authority.
I break into a sweat. Me? In the office? I can just see the horror in Mom’s eyes and the trouble I’ll surely be in.
Howls of laughter erupt as we’re whisked through the emptying halls, hurrying past the secretaries and into the vice-principal’s office.
Mr. Watkins perches in his black, leather chair, his legs crossed and his hands clasped together. From time to time, he swivels from left to right and back again. He listens to all sides of the story, scratches his bald, grey head, and clears his throat several times. Then he speaks.
“So it seems then that you were taunting Charlotte.” Mr. Watkins looks over his glasses and down his long nose at Travis.
Travis’ shoulders slump. His arms are folded, and his face is sullen.
“Travis?” Mr. Watkins says. “Do you agree?” Mr. Watkins drums his fingers on the desk.
Travis waits a full half-minute before answering. “Yes.” His voice is defiant and he stares straight ahead as though Mr. Watkins isn’t even there. Then his face changes, his eyes flashing with mischief. “But only because Kira and Charlotte called me a loser.”
“I did not!” I shoot back.
“Did too,” Travis says. “And they do it all the time.” His eyes glint with secret delight.
“I never …” I stop, remembering that Charlotte did call him a loser on the second day of school.
“Charlotte?” Mr. Watkins stares over his glasses.
“Well, once … but not today.”
“Charlotte,” Mr. Watkins says, “I understand that you have reason to be angry, but you were also violent, and violence is inexcusable even from a girl. Right?”
Her face bright red, Charlotte looks as though she might cry. “Yes.”
Mr. Watkins pauses, frowning. “Now, I don’t know who’s telling the truth, so I’m going to have all three of you report to the detention room after school to write a report on what you could have done differently to solve the problem.” He slams his fist on the desk like a judge and rises. The sentence is final.
“But I have a lesson after …” I stop, remembering Mr. Bachinsky’s giving me a break from violin.
I let out a big puff of air in disbelief. This is a disaster. There’s no getting out of it. I’m going to have to sit in some empty classroom with all the future criminals of the school for a half-hour. It’s not like kids don’t get detentions all the time, but being teacher’s kids, we’re expected to be perfect.
I drift through the rest of my day dreading the DT after school, but it arrives before we know it.
Walking into that room is like being paraded on death row. Several surprised faces turn to amusement when they see us. I feel like they might start cheering. I avoid making eye contact, but can’t help hearing all the snickers.
Mr. Watkins comes in and hands out a form to everyone. I lay my paper on the desk, hiding my face with my hair, and read it. Still mad I’ve been thrown into this mess, I decide to stand up for myself. For a few angry minutes, I scribble furiously, and then reread the page.
Why are you here?
Because Travis is a big, fat liar.
What school rules did you break?
None. It was all Travis’ fault. I’m completely innocent.
What should you have done?
I should have wrestled Charlotte to the ground and tied her up.
What will you do next time?
Let Travis murder us both.
My lips twist into a wicked smile, but then I envision Dad looking down at me from Heaven and shaking his head. Changing my mind, I erase everything I wrote and tap my pencil while I try to think up something else to say.
The hands of the clock crawl, and I wonder if Dylan got home okay or if he’s still waiting for me. Maybe I can use him as an excuse to get out. Nah. He’s probably figured out I’m not coming and has tattled to Mom. She’ll find out anyway when I get home really late. I imagine the disappointment on her face when she sees me. On the other hand, what if she takes my side? What if she comes to the school and tells Mr. Watkins off? Hope fills me for a minute.
The secretary tip-toes in and hands Mr. Watkins a note.
He reads the memo and crumples it up. “Kira, you can go,” he says, looking straight at me, the coldness gone from his eyes.
I raise my eyebrows. “I can?”
“Yes. Apparently, another student confirmed that you weren’t part of the incident.”
“Who was the other person?” I scramble to gather my things.
Mr. Watkins hesitates, then replies, “Peter. Says he saw the whole thing happen.”
“Oh!” I say, that annoying smile creeping on my face again every time someone talks about Peter.
Feeling guilty about leaving Charlotte alone with those hoods, I offer her an apologetic smile, and then wave good-bye as I hurry through the corridors to our locker. I grab my things, shove them in my bag, and am about to zip it up, when something makes me stop … music … coming from the gym … really great music … magical music. My backpack slides down, landing on the floor with a kerplunk, and my feet take over, shuffling one step at a time toward the gym. My heart thumps loud and hard, almost to the beat of the tune. Student photos hung on the walls drift past. The door looms ahead. Reaching out, my right hand pulls the handle.
What meets my eyes is like something out of River Dance. Girls and guys step in perfect unison as though they’ve practiced for years. They leap, they tap, and they turn, never missing a move, never missing a beat. It’s absolutely perfect – like nothi
ng I’ve ever seen at school before.
I scan the room to see who’s in charge. Kate McDonough? My lip curls up for a moment until the reality of what I’m seeing overtakes me. How has she taken all these kids and taught them to dance like that in so little time? She doesn’t even use a CD player like any other teacher would. No one’s helping her. It’s just her, playing her fiddle, stamping her foot, and talking the whole time.
I scour the room again, and I swear my eyes must be growing three times their size and my chin dropping to the floor because near the back of the gym, I see Sydney, Samantha, and Taylor dancing perfectly – too perfect, and smiling like they’re actually enjoying it. How did this woman lure these die-hards who don’t care about anything?
For a brief moment, I have a new respect for Kate McDonough.
Then a weird feeling overtakes me. The music begins to pound in my head. I feel dizzy, like I might faint. I swoon, but can’t take my eyes away from the dancers. It’s as though everything has slowed down, as though my body is syncing with their movements.
That looks really easy. Bet I can do that.
My foot begins to tap like something else is controlling me. The rhythm of the tune lures me. It seizes me. I fight the urge and give my head a vigorous shake, but it’s no use.
Kate McDonough’s animal-like eyes land on me. I shiver and try to dislodge myself from their grip, but I can’t.
“Come and join us, Kira,” she says, holding me with that icy stare. “You’re perfectly welcome.”
“How do you know my name?” I say, still struggling.
“I just do.” Her smile is deceptively sweet.
“But I don’t know you. Who are you?”
“Come and dance and you’ll find out,” she replies.
My whole body shakes with fear as I take two very slow, tentative steps forward. She waves her hand, inviting. Two more steps ...
Chapter 9
Mom’s Revelation
A Town Bewitched Page 4
