It took me a moment to understand what she meant. I was going to be the substitute! I wanted to whoop and start dancing right that minute. My happiness was complete when Grandma said, “For the dance, you'll be wearing Ron's kilt.”
“You'll only be wearing it for the dance, mind,” Grandpa told me. “Afterward, you'll have to return it to your brother.”
I nodded. I was so happy about joining the dancing that I didn't mind the thought of giving up the kilt immediately afterward.
I know a little Scottish dancing. Once, Grandpa and Grandma took Ron and me to a Scottish festival in Vancouver called the Highland Games, and I immediately fell in love with the dancing. When I saw the dancers leaping in the air, I wanted to bounce with joy.
The dance that impressed me the most was the one where the dancer hopped repeatedly over a pair of crossed swords on the ground. Grandpa told me it was called Gillic Calum. The dancer skipped so neatly and lightly that it looked easy, but I knew it must be very hard, even dangerous. Yet the dancer looked like he was having a great time. Maybe the danger added to the excitement.
Afterward, I begged Grandpa to teach me the steps of some Scottish dances. He absolutely refused to teach me the sword dance, no matter how hard I tried to persuade him. I wondered whether he refused because it was too dangerous or because I was a girl. What if Ron had asked Grandpa to teach him the sword dance?
Of course Ron hadn't asked. At the Highland Games, Ron hadn't gone to any of the dances, only to the sports games.
But Grandpa hadn't given up on getting Ron into his troupe at this year's Folk Fest. “Don't you want to give the dancing a try, Ron?” he asked. “You'll like it! I've seen how light you are on your feet.”
Ron shook his head and said quickly, “I'll be too busy to practice. I promised my teacher to help coach some of the younger boys in my kung fu class.”
Grandpa sighed. “All right, I won't force you.”
I couldn't help feeling jealous. Ron was Grandpa's red-headed laddie, the one who, by rights, should be wearing the kilt.
It made me feel better when Grandma said, “Fiona will do splendidly in the dance. I just know it.”
Ron was more cheerful, too. Not only was he safe from the dancing, he was also saved from the kilt. “Our family is going to be really involved in the Folk Fest this year,” he said.
“Who else is going to take part?” asked Grandma.
“I'm going to compete in the junior division of the kung fu exhibition bouts on Saturday morning,” said Ron.
I knew he was very proud that his team had been chosen to compete. For weeks, Ron had been talking about the kung fu exhibition at the Folk Fest, and he had been practicing furiously. There was a good chance that he might win his bout in the exhibition.
Dad spoke up. “We'll all be busy at the festival. I've been asked to talk at a session about children's books by local authors.”
I felt a surge of pride. Dad is a good speaker, funny in his quiet way, and the kids love him. But why hadn't he told us sooner?
That was exactly what Grandpa MacMurray said. “Why did you keep the news to yourself until now, Frank?”
Dad smiled. “Well, it's supposed to be a surprise, but since everybody else is talking about the festival, I couldn't resist coming out with the news.”
Why did he have to keep it a surprise? I began to suspect there was more to Dad's talk than he was telling us.
Anyway, this year's Folk Fest was going to be one of the best ever for our family. I didn't see how anything could spoil it.
as soon as I came home from school on Wednesday, Grandpa began to teach me the dances we'd be doing at the festival. I had taken some folk dancing classes, but I still had to practice before I was ready to join the other dancers coming over that evening.
Footwork wasn't the only thing I needed work on. I also had to know how to hold my hands: when to raise which one over my head, and when to keep them on my waist (Grandpa called this position “akimbo”). The fingers had to be just right, too.
Grandpa's troupe consisted of eight dancers, and our program would start with some Highland reels. I already knew the steps of the reel: advance right foot, close with left foot, advance right and hop, then advance left, and so on. What I needed was practice doing the steps in loops that wound back and forth, which were typical of reels.
I also needed drilling on the way to move my shoulders so that I could pass another dancer back to back without the two of us bumping into each other. Under Grandpa's directions, I spent some time trying to move lightly and easily, and to look as if I was having a good time. Actually, I was having a good time, but making it look easy wasn't easy.
After dinner, Grandma helped me put on my costume for the dance. At last, I got to put on Ron's kilt!
“I don't know what the world is coming to,” grumbled Grandpa when he saw me all dressed up in the kilt and blouse and wearing the sporran and Balmoral cap.
“You have to face reality, Alec,” Grandma told him. “Nowadays you can't find many boys who like to dance.”
Strictly speaking, we were supposed to be four boys and four girls for most of the dances. But even in Vancouver, Grandpa's troupe always had fewer boys than girls, so he had to have some girls dressed as boys. Everybody wore plaid skirts and frilly blouses and the same kind of bonnet, and from a distance, you couldn't tell the boys from the girls.
The whole troupe of dancers came over after dinner. Including me, our group consisted of five girls and three boys. Most of the dancers were not much older than I was. Grandpa told me that he was in charge of the younger group, but there was also another troupe of older dancers doing more complicated stuff.
Looking around at the other dancers, I couldn't help noticing that they looked very different from me. They all had brownish or red hair and pale skin. Several had freckles. My black hair and darker skin really stood out in the crowd. I tried not to let it bother me.
We started practicing in the living room, and soon the whole house shook as we thumped and stamped and hopped and skipped. Besides coaching us on the dancing, Grandpa provided the music with his fiddle. Once, I called his instrument a violin, and he corrected me. “I'm a fiddler, not one of your stuck-up violinists!” he declared. Fiddler or violinist, he was good, and the tunes just leaped off his instrument and set our feet jumping to keep time.
Even after a whole afternoon of practicing with Grandpa, dancing with the others was a challenge. I didn't have too much trouble making my feet do the right steps and keeping my arms in the right position. But I saw what Grandpa meant about being in the right place at the right time. Soon after we began, I bumped into another dancer—a girl about my age with curly ginger hair. She just smiled and kept on dancing. After that, I concentrated harder and managed not to bump anybody again.
I love all kinds of dancing, and I was a little disappointed that Dad couldn't teach me any Chinese dances. “Chinese farmers did some folk dancing, usually connected with rice planting or harvesting,” he said. “But most other dances were done by professionals in the old days.”
“What about now?” I asked. “Is there much dancing in China these days?”
Dad smiled. “Actually, many Chinese in the cities prefer Western ballroom dancing!”
So that's why I don't know any traditional Chinese dances. I do know some American folk dances, but I still think the Scottish dances are the most fun. As we rehearsed in our living room, I could almost imagine myself leaping around in the purple heather.
After an hour of dancing, Grandpa called for a break. His face was streaming with sweat, his thatch of red-gray hair was standing on end like a rusty Brillo pad, and his eyes were shining. He loves dancing as much as I do, and I was determined to make him proud of me, even though he really wanted Ron, not me, to be in the dance troupe.
At the thought of Ron, I looked around and found him sitting on the sofa with Grandma. Both of them had been watching the rehearsal. One of the boys in the group went over to Ron,
and the two of them started talking.
“Hey, why aren't you dancing?” the boy asked.
Ron grinned, looking a bit embarrassed. “The dancing looks okay, but I don't know if I can manage all that hopping while wearing a skirt.”
“It's not a skirt,” protested the boy. “It's a kilt.”
“Skirt, kilt, what's the difference?” said Ron.
“I know what's bothering you,” said the boy. “You're afraid people will think you're a sissy. Well, let me tell you …”
I noticed that Grandpa had been listening to the exchange. Now he moved forward. “Come on, let's get back to the practice,” he said. “We don't have time to waste, and we have to do better in that last reel. Some of you were falling behind in your hops.”
After another hour of practicing, we were really exhausted. Grandpa declared that we had practiced enough for the night, and we all flopped down on the floor and groaned with relief. I struggled up and helped Grandma serve juice and cookies to the dancers.
I started talking to the girl I had bumped into earlier. “Hi, I'm Maggie Guthrie,” she said. “This is my first time with the Scottish dance troupe. How about you?” Maggie's ginger-colored curls now hung limp with sweat.
“I'm Fiona Cheng,” I told her. “This is my first time, too.”
Maggie took a cookie and looked curiously at me. “You're Chinese, aren't you? Do you know any Chinese dances?”
“No, my dad hasn't taught me any Chinese dances,” I said lightly. “But I think Scottish dancing is more fun than any other kind. And I'm half Scottish too,” I couldn't help adding.
Although I tried not to show it, I was bothered by her question. Normally I don't mind looking Chinese. But now I was very conscious that I didn't belong. I felt like a prune in a bowl of strawberries.
I began to think it would help if I did dye my hair. It would make me fit in a little better with the rest of the troupe. And I was tired of feeling left out. I wanted to blend in for a change.
At school on Thursday, I told Amanda I was thinking of dyeing my hair. She stared at me. “Do you really mean it?”
“I'm dancing in my grandfather's troupe,” I told her. “All the other kids have red or auburn hair. One boy has light brown hair, but nobody has black hair like me.”
“But what will your folks say?” asked Amanda.
“I don't want them to know until it's all done,” I said. Before I lost my nerve, I quickly added, “I need your help, Amanda. Can I come over after school and dye my hair at your house?”
Amanda gulped. “Okay. Maybe we can get Melissa to help. Like I told you, she's been thinking about dyeing her hair, but she still hasn't made up her mind to do it.” After a moment, she said, “Maybe seeing you do it will help her decide.”
Before going to the Tanakas' after school, Amanda and I went to the nearest drugstore to buy some hair dye. I found so many different kinds of dyes that I had no idea what to get. “What color are you trying for?” asked Amanda. It was a good question. I just wanted something that wouldn't make me stick out in the dance troupe. “Well, maybe I should aim for Ron's hair color.”
Mom's hair is a fiery red, but Ron's hair is closer to the color on the package labeled “chestnut.” So that was what I wound up buying.
We found Melissa at home. As usual, she looked at me without much friendliness. But her expression changed when Amanda said, “Fiona wants to dye her hair red, Melissa. Can you help her with the dyeing?”
Melissa broke into a smile. “Sure! Hey, when my mom sees how nice your hair looks, maybe she'll change her mind and let me dye mine.”
We got to work. Actually, it was Melissa who did all the work, while Amanda stood around getting in everybody's way in the crowded bathroom. Melissa put on a pair of rubber gloves that came with the kit and squeezed the goo from the tube of dye. Underneath the strong perfume, I could tell there was another smell, something chemical. I didn't know what it was, and I didn't want to know.
After all the goo was used up and worked into my hair, Melissa stood back and looked at me thoughtfully. “Hmm … your hair still looks awfully dark. Maybe it's because it was almost black to start with.”
“We probably have to wait a little before the color changes,” suggested Amanda.
We waited for about ten minutes, while I sat on the edge of the bathtub and peeked at the mirror every so often. It was pretty uncomfortable. The package said to wait for forty-five minutes, but shouldn't the color be redder by now?
“I've got an idea,” Melissa said to me. “I have a package of dye for blond hair. That's the color I've been thinking of using. Why don't we put some of that stuff on your hair? It should lighten your color a bit.”
“I don't know,” said Amanda. “Better not take a chance.”
I looked in the mirror again. My hair was still dark brown, not Ron's chestnut. “Okay, let's try it,” I said.
So Melissa opened her tube of dye and worked some of it into my hair. “Hey, I'm beginning to see a difference,” she said after a few minutes.
I looked in the mirror. She was right. My hair was definitely lighter. Then things began to happen, and happen fast.
“It's red enough now!” yelled Amanda. “Isn't there some way to stop the dyeing?”
“We'd better rinse!” said Melissa.
I leaned over the washbasin while Melissa ran hot water over my head. “Ouch! That's too hot!” I cried.
“The water has to be hot enough to stop the dyeing,” panted Melissa.
After some furious rinsing and massaging, Melissa stopped the water. “It's not going to change any more,” she said. Her voice was shaking badly, and that really scared me.
What scared me even more was the sight of Amanda. She was hunched over, with her hands covering her face.
I took a deep breath, and slowly raised my eyes to look in the mirror.
You know when you scoop some orange Jell-O into a bowl and it's still wobbling? That was how my hair looked, as I stood there trembling and stared at myself. I swear that my hair would have glowed in the dark if we'd turned the lights off.
So much for blending in.
After a long silence, Melissa cleared her throat. “Maybe we should go back to the store and get some dark-brown dye.”
“I don't need to dye again, because I'm already going to die when my family sees this,” I said hoarsely. “Anyway, it's late and I have to go home.”
My feet began to drag as I approached our front door. What was I going to say to Dad and Mom? To Ron? To Grandpa and Grandma MacMurray? If my hair had turned out chestnut, I could have explained that I wanted to look like part of the dance troupe. But how do you explain orange Jell-O?
Ron was the first person I met in the house. He stared. “You've got to be kidding!” he said. “What were you thinking?”
“I guess I was thinking I needed a change.”
“It's a change all right. You look like a tree with leaves that are turning bright orange and falling off. Is your hair going to fall off too?” Then he laughed and went into the kitchen to fix himself a snack. It would never occur to him that I might want to have hair the same color as his.
The next person I met was Grandma. She was sitting in the living room, and when she saw me, she put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my poor Fiona!”
Laughter I was prepared to face, but sympathy was too much. My mouth trembled, and I could feel hot tears welling up.
“Come here, darling,” said Grandma. She pulled me over to the sofa and sat down next to me, putting her arms around my shoulders. “I suppose it's too late to change? The dye is permanent?”
“I'm stuck with it until my hair grows out!” I wailed. “It will take years!”
“Not years, only months,” she said, giving me her handkerchief.
That wasn't much comfort. I honked into the handkerchief, which became a soggy mess. “I dyed my hair because I want to belong to the troupe,” I said, sniffling. “I want to look like a Scottish dancer!”
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Grandma's arms tightened around me. “Listen, Fiona, not all Scots have red hair. In fact some have dark hair, as dark as yours.”
I sat up. “I didn't know that!”
“Before the Celts arrived in Scotland, there were people living there called Picts,” said Grandma. “They were a smaller, darker people. They had mostly dark hair and spoke a different language.”
I had thought that Scottish people were all big and fair, and looked like Grandpa and Grandma MacMurray. I wiped my eyes with Grandma's soggy handkerchief. “Are there many Picts left?” I asked.
“You still see people in Scotland who are small and dark, especially in the Highlands,” said Grandma. “Your dark hair wouldn't have looked too out of place.”
“Then why is Grandpa so anxious for Ron to be one of the dancers?” I asked.
“Let me explain,” said Grandma. “Your grandpa loved to dance. He was a notable dancer in his youth. The name Alec MacMurray meant something in the world of Scottish dance.”
I tried to picture Grandpa leaping around in a kilt.
“Oh, you should have seen him when he was young!” said Grandma, her eyes sparkling. Then she sighed. “Your grandpa had always hoped that someday he would have a boy who would love dancing as much as he did.”
“Instead, you had Mom,” I said softly.
“We're both very proud of your mother,” said Grandma. “Don't think for a minute that we're sorry we never had a son!”
“But Mom doesn't care much about Highland dancing, does she?” I said.
Grandma gave me another hug. “And you do. How you look doesn't matter, Fiona. The only thing that matters is that you're a grand dancer. Grandpa will find that out soon enough.”
“Find what out?” said Grandpa, coming into the living room.
“Guess,” said Grandma, and she winked at me.
I waited for Grandpa to say something about my hair, but he just looked at me for a second and then said, “Better do your homework now, Fiona. We have more rehearsing to do this evening.”
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