The class stumbles through the tough rhythms, slapping them on their knees, laughing like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever done. I cast a sidelong glance at Charlotte and shrug, but she’s right into it too.
Then Mr. Waring reaches down for his tuba. It’s worn and has a big dent in it, but he claims it’s an antique. He likes to demonstrate everything on it, saying it’s the best kind made in its day. Hoisting it up, he plays the tune. No offense to Mr. Waring, but the tuba and Celt just don’t go together.
“Now, come on up and get your music, and we’ll read through it,” he says.
Dragging myself, I grab the sheets that by this time are scattered everywhere because everyone’s so excited. I find the last page on the floor behind the piano and lug myself back to my seat, fumbling to put the mess in order. The stand droops under the weight of the pages in my folder, and I keep pushing it back up to read it.
Mr. Waring begins directing again. I can barely play since I’m fighting to keep the stand straight, plus I’m loathing the thought of playing Danny Boy again. Then a brilliant idea hits me – suppose I fake playing the music. Mr. Waring would probably never know. After all, he always gives me an A. Why not? The corners of my mouth turn up in a devilish grin.
Mr. Waring continues to explain, his voice rising and falling like it’s the most exciting thing in the world, and how it’s easy to tell a reel from a jig just by reciting R-E-E-L over and over again. He makes us all say it at least a hundred times while he oompah-pahs the tune on his tuba.
“R-E-E-L, R-E-E-L, R-E-E-L,” we recite like a class of obedient grade threes.
He makes us pick up our instruments to play. My music stand slides down. I push it up with my knee. It slips down again. I push it back up. It slips, I push, it slips, I push, then bang! It all comes down with a crash!
The whole band stops abruptly and stares at us like we’re terrorists wearing underwear bombs. Our music’s blown everywhere, some even sliding under Mr. Waring’s band teacher chair. He wrinkles his brow and glares at us.
“Kira, why are you using that stand? It’s obvious it’s broken.”
“Um, there weren’t any other ones left,” I explain, shooting evil glances at Kyle out of the corner of my eye.
Mr. Waring does a quick scan of the classroom. “Travis, why have you got two?”
“Oh, do I?” Travis says with mock innocence.
“Yes. Would you mind passing one down?”
The stand is sent over via several hands to Charlotte and me, and Mr. Waring’s face transforms back to his old self like nothing happened.
The class repeats the entire reel. By this time, I’m so mad there’s no way I’m going to play, but I move my fingers very convincingly, sure Mr. Waring has no idea. Much to my relief, he doesn’t, and the bell rings before we get to Danny Boy.
I leave my flute and folder back on the shelf instead of taking them home since I never practice anyway, but when I turn to follow Charlotte, she’s waiting at the door with her instrument in hand.
“You’re actually taking your flute home?” I ask as we head out.
“Yeah, I think it’s really cool music.” She smiles as wide as the Cheshire Cat.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” She shifts her flute case to her other hand. “Aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve had enough of all this Celtic yuck.”
Charlotte’s brow creases. “Why?”
“Because I simply don’t know what the big deal is.” My voice is starting to get loud. “I don’t understand why everyone thinks Kate McDonough is so great. Yeah, she’s a good player and all, but so what? So are the Bachinskys, but you don’t see everyone running around taking classical violin and piano lessons. And you don’t see them playing at the Stompin’ Boot Pub.”
Charlotte lets out a hysterical laugh, like she thinks I’ve gone mad, and then shakes her head. “Whatever.”
As we get closer to Mom’s school, I see Dylan in the distance stomping up the sidewalk, looking like the whole world’s come down on him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when he finally reaches us.
Dylan bursts into tears like his favourite Dead-Eye Dart Gun just broke. He’s blubbering and hiccoughing so hard he can’t talk.
“Dylan!”
He takes a huge breath and fa-fa-fa’s a bit, and then spits out, “I hate Alice.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because now she keeps poking me and shouting in my ear.”
I smile. “She likes you.”
“Well I sure don’t like her. And whenever I get mad at her, Mr. Grindlemeer blames it on me – just because I’m a boy.” He kicks a rock.
“So tell her you know she’s doing that because she has a crush on you.”
Dylan stops dead in his tracks. “No way!”
“She’ll quit,” I say, sounding a little like Mom.
Dylan thinks for a minute and then bursts into tears again. “What do you know? You’re just a girl. If Dad were here, he’d know exactly how to put her in her place,” he says between blubbers. “He was a guy.”
His words take me by surprise, and I swear my heart stops beating for a second. Looking for words to console him, I say, “We all miss Dad, Dylan.”
“Yeah, but do you realize that this weekend will be our first Thanksgiving without him? I wish he was here.”
I pause as his words sink in. Next thing I know, I’m wiping my eyes too, and so is Charlotte.
By this time, we’re near home, and we race up the walk and inside the house so no one will see us blubbering away. I grab a box of Kleenex and hand a couple to Dylan and Charlotte, and then cut a piece of cherry pie for each of us, hoping I won’t dribble tears onto the crust. We sit down and eat, the sour-sweet flavour of the cherries calming us.
When Mom gets home, she comments on our rosy cheeks. I tell her we’ve been out in the sun, and she actually believes me. A good cover-up for the time being, but I don’t know how I’ll hide my feelings this weekend when we spend our first Thanksgiving without Dad.
Chapter 12
The Graveyard
The dreaded day arrives. Mom buys a twenty-pound turkey and three pumpkin pies on Saturday afternoon. Charlotte’s parents, Herb and Sandra volunteer to bring vegetables, and the Bachinskys promise cheese cauliflower. My mouth waters at the thought. It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten turkey, but I sure dread seeing Mr. Bachinsky again since I haven’t so much as raised my violin since the lesson.
To add to my worries, Mom invites Uncle Jack to bring a date, and I have a pretty good idea who his first choice will be – Kate McDonough!
Then to make matters even worse, Mom announces that Dad’s headstone is up and that we should all visit his grave. I vow to be strong and not to break down and embarrass myself, but I’m not sure I can handle it.
We had taken time selecting Dad’s headstone before he died. It was difficult with everyone crying behind closed doors where he couldn’t hear. After many tears, we decided on a black, polished stone with a chain of snowy peaks chiselled near the top since it was the mountains that had drawn Dad to Hope in the first place. Then Mom had ordered Dad’s grad picture from medical school to be placed underneath the mountains with the words Dr. Paul Montgomery, M.D. engraved below it.
Charlotte’s family arrives at the same time as the Bachinskys. The stuffed turkey has been cooking for an hour, and a slight aroma wafts in the air. Dylan’s doing target practice in the backyard with all eight of his Dead-Eye Dart Guns. He made the mistake of pointing one of them at Mom earlier, and she ordered him outside after picking up dozens of orange darts everywhere.
“I’ll just prepare these vegetables before we go,” Monica says as she slips off her black dress shoes, leaving her tweed coat on to transport the two rustling paper bags to the kitchen.
“I’ll help you,” Mom says. “Kira will take everyone’s coats. Right, honey?”
&
nbsp; Nodding, I reach out, one by one, to each guest, mumbling polite welcomes and hanging their jackets neatly in the closet.
The sound of casserole dishes clinking echoes from the kitchen, and soon the smell of frying onions drifts to my nose.
After everyone moves to the living room, Charlotte whispers in my ear, “Did you get my e-mail?”
“No.”
“Seriously?” She looks like she’s going to explode with some kind of news, so I motion her upstairs, and we slip into my room.
Charlotte throws herself on my bed while I leap onto my wicker chair.
“So what is it?” I ask, propping a fist under my chin.
“I saw Peter yesterday in Chilliwack … at the mall,” she whispers, “and he asked about you.”
“Really?” I lean forward to catch her urgent words. “What did he say?”
“He wanted to know if you were playing violin again.”
“And that’s it?” I turn my palms up and shrug.
“Yeah, and I said that you weren’t ready to play yet since your dad died. I told him all about Danny Boy ...”
“What?” I draw in a sharp breath. “You didn’t!”
“Yeah, I did, and he’s worried about you. He says he hopes you’re feeling better.” Charlotte jiggles her fists and a squeak escapes her throat.
I bounce up and down, the wicker chair creaking. “So then what happened?”
“Nothing. He was with his parents and they were shopping, so he had to go.” She pauses and raises her brows at me. “So?”
“What?”
“Do you like him?”
“Well ... maybe.” I wag my hand.
We break into giggling, and then screaming, until we hear a sliding sound at my bedroom door like someone’s leaning against it.
Whispering, “Shhh,” I tiptoe to the door and fling it open. Dylan tumbles in, landing on the rug with a loud thud, his arms laden with Dead-Eye Dart Guns.
He leaps off the ground and scrambles to his room, dropping one of his guns as he runs. I take off after him.
“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you, you little brat!” I holler, grabbing at his striped t-shirt.
“No I wasn’t.” He dumps the rest of his guns on the ground and pounces on his bed, smiling like he knows a good secret.
“Were too. What did you hear?”
“Nothing,” he says, lying on his back and pedaling his legs in the air.
“Did too.” I start poking him while avoiding his feet. Dylan’s really ticklish. And not just on the stomach, but everywhere, especially the legs. I take aim at his most vulnerable spots. He rolls around in agony.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone,” I warn, “or I’ll tell Alice that you secretly love her.”
“No!” he screams, gasping for breath.
“Oh yes, I will.” I dig my fingers in harder.
“Okay, I won’t!”
“Pinky swear?”
“Pinky swear!” He barely squeaks out.
I stop tickling him, and we wrap our little fingers together.
Mom calls from downstairs, “Kids. It’s time to go.”
“Oh, quick.” We unhook our fingers.
Clambering down the stairs, we find the adults pulling on their coats and shoes. My stomach growls, and the smell of turkey lingers in my nose as we pile into Mom’s blue van, and drive off to the cemetery.
As our vehicle crawls up the road that leads to the graveyard, a lump threatens to form in my throat.
Mom parks the van under the yellowing leaves of a shady tree, and we stroll across the well-kept lawn. I see Dad’s monument from a distance. Thin sprouts of green grass are beginning to claim the upturned ground of his grave. The polished tombstone reflects the surrounding mountains.
The lump in my throat grows as we approach it despite my attempts to swallow it.
When we get to the grave, Mom steps around the front to admire the work of the artist, but there’s something wrong. Her eyes are wide with horror.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice shaking. Mom doesn’t answer. She just stands there, her face a frozen mask.
I hurry to her side to see. The mountains are there, the picture, Dad’s name and dates, but covering the entire front of the stone is the word ‘LIAR’ spray-painted in bright orange.
“Who could have done this?” Charlotte’s mom exclaims.
“I don’t know, Sandra.” Mom sputters. “I just can’t imagine. He was so respected.”
Mom breaks down in tears. It’s the first time I see her cry since Dad’s death. I know she secretly cried while he lay wasting away because sometimes I’d hear her late at night in the kitchen when she thought no one was awake, but I’ve never seen her break down like this.
“Mom?” The lump in my throat bursts and we melt into each other’s arms. Dylan joins us.
“I’m gonna kill him,” he vows between sobs. “I’m gonna find that guy and kill him!”
Mr. Bachinsky shakes his head over and over, and then kneels down. “Wait a minute. It’s still wet.” He pulls out his white handkerchief and wipes off some of the paint. It smears. “Here, all I have to do is rub some more, and it’ll be gone completely.” His handkerchief ruined, he steps back to see the effect.
Mom calms down as the paint disappears, but I can’t stop crying. All the emotion I’ve tried to hold in pours right out.
“Who would do such a thing?” Sandra asks again, scowling.
“I don’t know,” I say, hiccoughing.
Charlotte bends over and whispers in my ear, “Travis?”
I don’t answer, but it makes sense. He tried to pass us off as liars at school, and it didn’t work, but on Dad’s tombstone, he can write what he wants. I clench my fists.
The Bachinskys place two bouquets of red carnations into special vases planted into the ground.
“Hey, Paul,” says Charlotte’s dad, Herb, speaking to the tombstone, his voice wobbly. “How are you doing? You have no idea how much we’ve missed you.”
“It’s true.” Sandra dabs at her eyes. “You were such a good friend.”
The Morins stoop to add white roses to the vases and stand quietly for a few minutes, lost in their private thoughts.
After everyone wipes their tears, we say our good-byes to Dad and wander back through the wet grass to the van. I’m fussing with the flowers a bit more when something rustles in the woods. I turn sharply and glimpse a blurred face. Remembering the creep who chased me in the park, I break into a run and catch up with the others.
We climb into the van, and Mom turns on the ignition. As we drive away, I see a flash of orange from the corner of my eye. Turning myself completely around to stare out the back window, I catch sight of a figure trudging toward the road. Is that Kate McDonough?
I squint harder, but the van is hurrying away. If it is, why is she in the cemetery? Is there someone buried here that she knows? Or … is it Dad’s grave she’s here to see?
Chapter 13
Thanksgiving
We pull up at home just as Uncle Jack arrives and steps out of his red jeep holding two bottles of French wine. Dylan rushes forward and spills the news.
Uncle Jack listens, his brows drawn up at the corners, and then turns to Mom. “Maybe we should call the police.”
“Nah,” says Mom. “It’s Thanksgiving. Let’s just enjoy ourselves. If anything else happens, I’ll report it.”
“Okay, Pierrette. It’s your choice.”
Mom’s expression changes and she draws closer to Uncle Jack. “So, no date?” she asks, her voice low.
“She said she had other plans,” he says, fidgeting.
“Who? Kate McDonough?” I ask, my stomach tightening.
“That’s none of your business.” Uncle Jack gives me a sad smile and ruffles up my hair as though I’m a little girl. I pull away and comb through it with my fingers.
When we open the front door, the smell of turkey roasting in the oven makes my mouth water.
We set t
he table with our prettiest blue tablecloth and napkins, and our good silverware. Mom takes out the crystal glasses, and Uncle Jack carves the turkey while Sandra places some fancy red candles in the silver holders and lets Dylan light them.
Soon, we’re all seated, gobbling down the delicious meal and loading up our plates with seconds.
“So, are we going to play some music tonight?” Mr. Bachinsky looks straight at Uncle Jack.
“I don’t know. I’ve been pretty into this Celtic stuff,” says Uncle Jack.
“Then I guess you haven’t heard the news,” says Monica, a mysterious grin hovering on her lips.
“What?” nearly everyone asks at once.
“Oh, okay.” Mr. Bachinsky clears his throat and stands up like he’s about to make a very important announcement. “I’ve been learning to fiddle from Kate McDonough!”
Dead silence meets the news. It’s as though he just confessed to being the lead guitarist of some heavy metal band.
Uncle Jack lets out a chuckle. “No way!”
“It’s true,” says Monica. “And he’s doing really well. It sounds a little stiff, but he’s coming along nicely.”
Everyone laughs except me. I’m burning up inside. I can’t believe Mr. Bachinsky is actually studying fiddling! Like what’s going on here? Why does Kate McDonough have this effect on everyone?
After the pumpkin pie, we all usher into the living room where instruments are taken out for a jam session. Charlotte and Mr. Bachinsky play Pelican Reel with Monica on piano. It sounds kind of like they’re fiddling a Beethoven sonata, but it’s not bad. Even Dylan zings away with Uncle Jack, playing the Fairy Dance, and though I don’t want to admit it, my little brother’s starting to sound pretty darn good.
“So what about you, Kira?” asks Mr. Bachinsky looking straight at me. “Are you going to play?”
I shake my head. Seeing Dad’s grave vandalized has re-opened raw wounds. There’s no way I can play the violin, and especially since it’s the same instrument I used to play at Dad’s funeral. I might just start crying again. So instead, I sit and listen until the music dies down and our guests go home, thanking Mom for a lovely evening.
A Town Bewitched Page 6
