I curl my upper lip into a sneer.
The audience grows quiet in anticipation as the children play the first notes of I’se the B’y, balancing their fiddles on their shoulders and bowing as straight as humanly possible. But when the tune switches to Aunt Mary, someone hoots and feet begin stomping to the rhythm. The crowd’s ecstatic. Then the kids break into St. Anne’s Reel.
“Who’s the little brunette beside Dylan?” I ask Charlotte. “She keeps looking at him.”
“Oh, that’s Alice,” Charlotte says. “I met her during rehearsals. She’s got it bad for Dylan.”
I watch the girl for a while. “You know, she’d actually be pretty cute without those big, brown glasses.”
“I totally agree,” says Charlotte.
The music comes to a grinding halt to exuberant cheers from the crowd. Mom’s group takes a bow in perfect unison and strides down the gym stairs while Alice tugs at Dylan’s sleeve.
“How about that, eh?” Mr. Watkins cries to thunderous applause. “And now,” he booms, “our wonderful, fabulous, amazing grade sevens will perform for the first time in the history of the school on penny whistles!”
The grade sevens leap up, nearly running to the stage to peals of laughter from the audience.
“Have you ever seen such enthusiasm?” shouts Mr. Watkins.
The audience claps and roars with glee.
“Funny,” I say. “If the grade sevens did that on an ordinary day, they’d all be in for detention.”
Charlotte smiles. “I know, isn’t it great?”
I twist my mouth in protest.
Mom comes on stage with Uncle Jack and bows. She turns and cues her group of wild kids. The grade sevens jump in, trilling left and right, in a mind-boggling way. I can’t believe they’re so good. None of Mom’s recorder groups have ever even come close to these guys. I even search the group for fakers, but can’t find any. The set ends to wild applause, and grade sevens skip down the stairs and even jump off the stage. I glance at Mr. Watkins expecting to see a dirty look or a wagging finger, but instead he’s beaming and pounding his hands together. I can’t believe it!
Next, the adult fiddle group marches up on stage, and if the potbellies and wrinkly faces didn’t give it away, I would swear they were teenagers, they’re so excited. Mom slips into the group from the side wings carrying my old violin. My jaw tightens.
Kate McDonough mounts the stage, again to thunderous applause that goes on for at least a minute. Jealousy tears at my insides, especially when Uncle Jack steps up, his smiling eyes focussed on her like she’s his girl.
The adult fiddlers dig into the Swallow Tail Jig. The audience claps to the beat. Wild hoots escape old men, especially when they switch to Mairi’s Wedding. That’s when I notice Uncle Jack’s eyes are sad.
I break into a mean little smile, knowing what that means. Kate McDonough still doesn’t know he’s alive. Yes! But it doesn’t make me feel as good as I thought, and guilt wraps itself around me. Suppose someone didn’t want me to like Peter. How would I feel?
The adults finish their set to deafening applause. They descend the stairs wearing the proud grins of children.
“And now, folks, the next group is going to knock your socks off, and they might even lose their socks too.” Mr. Watkins chuckles like it’s the best joke ever. “With great gusto, may I introduce … the Hope River Dancers.”
Teens scramble up the stairs onto the stage, leaping into their spots, all watching Kate McDonough like a goddess they worship. And I mean every one of them – Sydney, Taylor, and Samantha – all stare at her with adoring eyes. But not just the girls – Kyle and Travis are actually up there too. My chin drops.
Kate McDonough attacks a strathspey that growls and grumbles, and then breaks into a jig. Uncle Jack follows, and they play as though they’re one person. The teens perform their steps like they were born doing them. But how can this be? These are the kids who don’t do homework, who don’t care about anything. This is totally impossible! I fume.
The music ends, and the crowd shoots up to their feet, cheering and clapping like it’s the most amazing thing they ever saw.
“Whoa!” shouts Mr. Watkins. “Can you believe that? I mean, whoa!”
The applause is unstoppable. Parents pound their feet on the floor of the gym. No one can stop the din for a full two minutes until Mr. Watkins finally speaks into the mic again.
“And now, for a bit of change, Dylan Montgomery is going to play us a solo entitled Brenda Stubbert’s Reel.”
Several calls of “aw” sound as Dylan strolls up the stairs to the stage like a professional. When he gets to the center, he lifts his violin with an intensity as though he’s going to perform a difficult concerto. He nods to Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack plays a short introduction, and Dylan begins. His bow flies fast and furious, through cuts and trills and difficult double-stops.
“Holy smokes,” I say. “I hear him practice all the time at home. He’s never played that well before.”
“He’s totally stoked,” says Mom who’s slipped back into her seat beside me.
“But that good? He’s going to clean up on Granville Island playing like that.”
“Yes, he is,” Mom says, her eyes shining.
Dylan repeats the last refrain. The audience is dead silent, and I notice several parents wiping their eyes. Then he weaves the bow across the strings, finishing on a perfect unison. The applause is thunderous. He has to bow three more times before the townsfolk let him work his way down the stairs, clapping and whistling. Alice runs up and takes his hand, leading him to her seat.
“Oh, my gosh,” I say, “He’s actually going to sit with her, and he’s holding her hand!”
“I guess he doesn’t hate her as much as he lets on,” Mom says.
“I’ll say.” I shake my head.
Mr. Watkins is at the mic again. “And now, what we’ve all been waiting for – the Hope Celtic Band.”
The audience gives it up as high school students carry instruments to the stage like members of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. I grab my flute and find my seat in the woodwinds section. Mr. Waring steps up to the podium like Leopold Stokowski. He taps his baton. We raise our instruments and wait for his stick to come down. With a simple gesture, we’re off. My fingers fly like a virtuoso, and I nod and tap my foot like I’m having a good time, my lips turned up slightly with a hint of smile while I pretend to play. I’m sure I have everyone convinced. Who wouldn’t believe it? After all, I’m sure I look like the old me except on the flute. Scanning the audience, I see faces filled with delight and parents smiling at one another, but when I look over at Mom, her mouth hangs open in an expression of horror – she knows! I’m so dead.
My stomach feels hollow. Why does Mom have to be a music teacher?
By the time I get to Danny Boy, I figure it’s over. My fingers stop moving, and I sink lower in my chair until the music ends, and we parade back to our seats to the roaring applause of the audience. Everyone else whispers vibrant compliments to each other, but I keep my head down, certain I’ll be grounded for a month.
Mom looks at me like I’m some kind of changeling. I stare straight ahead as though I’m really interested in what will happen next, hoping she’ll somehow forget about it.
Mr. Watkins jumps back onto the stage, pretending to step dance. Embarrassed for him, I look away, but everyone else eats it up. He finishes his goofy dance and grabs the mic.
“You know, I’ve been in this school now for over twenty-five years, and I have to say that this is by far the best concert our school has ever had. The students have all worked so hard, and even the townspeople have joined in. It’s really made the whole thing special.”
The audience cheers and claps.
“And it’s all because of a beautiful young lady who made all this possible. A few months ago, this town had no idea what Celtic music was, and now it’s alive with the exciting rhythms and sounds of Cape Breton, thanks to Kate McDonough. Kate, cou
ld you come up here to accept a token of our appreciation?”
The red-haired fiddler walks up to the stage to hoots, cheers, and foot stamping. She accepts a bouquet of red roses, nodding and waving to everyone. The noise is deafening, and I think it’ll never end. I mean, the concert was good, but it wasn’t that great. So I refuse to clap and keep my hands lowered at my side … until Kate McDonough’s eyes stop and rest on me.
I break into a sweat thinking she’ll come after me like she did at the Stompin’ Boot, but she doesn’t look mad. There’s something else – desperation in her eyes, like she wants to talk to me. I turn to Charlotte.
“Let’s go.”
Chapter 23
The Sign
“But the food,” complains Charlotte. “There’s a reception.”
“Never mind,” I hiss. “It’s now or never. If we don’t want to get caught, they can’t notice we’re missing.”
“But there was some great chocolate cake, and I –”
“You can skip the chocolate cake for once in your life!” I growl.
Pulling Charlotte’s arm all the way back to my locker, I grab my backpack and yank her out a side door, hugging the back wall of the school. We take a path through some woods and walk briskly for ten minutes, and then clamber up a grassy hill until we come to the highway entrance to Hope.
“Quick, let’s hide in there,” I say pointing to a clump of tall evergreens.
We wait until a string of cars has driven by, then dive into the hideout. I take out the package from my backpack. Two paintbrushes fall out. Unwrapping the old Harrison Hot Springs towel, I pull out two small cans of paint – brown and white – and then take out the knife I’ve smuggled from home to open the lids.
“Okay, are you ready?” I ask. “We’ll wait until there’s no traffic, and then we’ll run out.”
Charlotte glances around nervously. “I don’t know about this.”
“Come on. People do graffiti all the time. It’s harmless.”
“But what if we get caught?”
“We won’t. It’s us we’re talking about, remember? The two suck-ups? They’ll never suspect us.”
“Well, alright.”
“Okay, one, two, three, GO!” I order.
Giggling, I dash out, Charlotte close behind, each of us balancing a can of paint that slops as we dart.
“I hope this doesn’t splash on my good, black pants.” Charlotte’s voice sounds worried.
“Just keep the can as still as possible!” I shout.
It’s so dark we can barely see the sign. I feel for the P, then dip my brush in the brown paint and paint over a portion of it.
“Quick!” Charlotte squeals.
Dipping the brush in again, I give it another coat. “Okay, your turn,” I say.
Charlotte sticks her brush in, and paints a long line near the bottom.
“Now do it again!” I order.
“Oh shoot,” Charlotte exclaims. “There’s a truck coming.”
“Quick, then!” I scream.
She recoats the brush and gives a final stroke.
“Now run!”
“But what about the paint and brushes?”
“Never mind! Just go!”
We dive into the clump of trees, laughing so hard we can barely breathe. The truck passes, and darkness surrounds us again.
“I can’t believe we did that!” shrieks Charlotte.
“Me neither.”
Tears run down our cheeks, and we roll around laughing for a full minute. Then I notice something.
“Shoot,” I say. “I got paint on my hands.” I kneel down and try rubbing it onto some wet grass. “It won’t come off.”
“Oh, no. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know. We’ll think of something, but let’s go back and get the cans and brushes. We don’t want to leave any evidence.”
“Okay,” says Charlotte.
As we wait for a long line of cars to pass, something rustles close to us.
Charlotte gasps. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice shaking. “I think there’s someone there.”
“Maybe it’s a bear!” Charlotte squeaks.
“Or a cougar!”
A dark form moves toward us.
“Let’s get out of here!” I shout.
We leap down the hill to the path in the woods, screaming like banshees. Heavy steps follow us, snapping twigs and branches. My foot lands in a hole, and my arms flail about until I catch my balance again. When we near the bottom of the hill, I look back over my shoulder. My heart almost stops.
“It’s Kate McDonough!”
Charlotte throws her head back to see. “Holy smokes! You’re right. But I thought she was at the reception. I mean, it’s all for her, right?”
“I know. And she was on the stage when we left. How could she have followed us?”
“I don’t know.” Charlotte’s puffing really hard. “But I sure hope she didn’t see our faces.”
Looking ahead, I see the lights of the town through the trees. The footsteps have stopped, so I throw my head back over my shoulder to see if we’re in the clear. Convinced we’re safe, I slow to a fast walk and prepare to have a serious talk with my BFF.
“You know, Charlotte, has it ever occurred to you that all those weird things started happening when Kate McDonough showed up in this town?”
Charlotte turns to look at me. “Like what?”
“You know, the dead birds, the vandalizing of the Medical Dental Building, the spray-paint on the tombstone.”
“But I thought we agreed it was probably Travis.”
We come out of the woods, our feet landing on the hard pavement of the street.
“Maybe, but I have my suspicions. Something strange is going on in Hope.”
“Like what?”
“Like what? Tell me honestly, have you ever seen a whole town go bonkers over something like this Celtic music stuff?”
“No…” Charlotte says, her breath slowing down.
“And not just everyone, but the IGs and other teenagers who don’t care about anything. Even jocks. Since when do they like old music like that?”
“Yeah, but that’s because it’s fun,” she says.
Houses slide past us as we walk.
“No.” My voice rises. “It’s more than that. It’s like the whole town is … bewitched.”
Charlotte’s quiet for a moment, and then says, “Aw, come on. I don’t believe in any of that stuff.”
“Neither did I, until now. I mean, how do you explain her showing up like that back in the woods?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she has a twin?”
“And how come we could see her so clearly? You saw how dark it was.”
“Maybe she had a flashlight,” Charlotte says.
“And she was shining it on herself?” I shake my head. “I tell you. There’s something really wrong with her – something inhuman. I mean, look at her eyes. Nobody has blue eyes like that. They’re like a wild animal’s. And why is she so interested in me?’
“I don’t know. Maybe she heard you were a child prodigy in violin. And she is friends with your mom,” Charlotte offers.
“Yeah, but it’s not like she’s ever been to our house before or anything.”
By this time, we’re close to home. I check to make sure there’s no sign of Mom or Dylan, then slip around the back. The door of the toolshed creaks as we slide inside. I grab a roll of paper towel that lies on Dad’s old workbench, and we quickly douse it in turpentine, cleaning our hands. It stings my skin, but I keep rubbing until I think the paint is gone.
“That should do it,” I say.
“Yeah,” Charlotte agrees, rubbing the back of her hand a final time.
“Now let’s go to the bathroom and wash the turpentine off.”
“Okay.”
We creep up the back stairs and into the house. As we scrub off the paint thinner, I hear the front door open. Dylan’s ru
nning steps announce that he and Mom are home. I slam the bathroom door and lock it just in time as he scurries up.
“Hey!” he shouts, “I’ve gotta go. Hurry up.”
“Go downstairs!” I shout back.
“No! It’s urgent! Mom?” calls Dylan.
“Go away!” I yell, still rubbing my hands.
“Aw, come on! What are you guys doing in there anyway?”
“Nothing,” I say. Charlotte breaks into nervous giggling, and I join her.
“I’m telling,” Dylan threatens.
We wait until we hear his footsteps go down the stairs, then fling the door open. Running into my room, we shove my wicker chair against the door. A few minutes later, Mom comes up and knocks.
“Is there a problem, girls?” she asks.
“No.” I stifle a giggle. “We’re okay.”
“But they were in the bathroom together,” insists Dylan.
“Oh, Dylan, just let them be,” says Mom. “You don’t have to tattle about everything, you know.”
I hear them move away.
“Phew, that was close,” I whisper.
“Yeah, I’ll say.” Then Charlotte frowns. “Hey, Kira?”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’ve got brown paint on your dress pants.”
“What?” I look down at the right thigh of my black pants where a blob threatens to blow my cover. “Oh, my gosh. I’ve got to hide these.”
I quickly change to a pair of blue jeans and an old hoodie, and stuff the stained pants at the bottom of my laundry basket.
“Here. Let me check you,” I say.
Charlotte circles around, but her clothes are clean except for a patch of mud on her backside.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know, but I’ll to have to think of something pretty quick, or we’re in big trouble.”
Chapter 24
Suspicions
The next morning, I get up early even though it’s Saturday. I stuff my pants and a flashlight under my hoodie and creep down the stairs on tiptoes. Sneaking outside into the toolshed, I take care not to let the door bang shut, and then flick on my flashlight. A dull circle of light shines from it.
A Town Bewitched Page 12
