HONEYCOMB
Patricia McCowan
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2014 Patricia McCowan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McCowan, Patricia, author
Honeycomb / Patricia McCowan.
(Orca limelights)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0579-8 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0580-4 (pdf).--
ISBN 978-1-4598-0581-1 (epub)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights
PS8625.C69H65 2014 C813’.6 C2014-901553-4
C2014-901554-2
First published in the United States, 2014
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935397
Summary: Nat loves to sing and hopes her newly formed trio will win a chance to play at a big music festival, but first she has to learn to trust her own voice—both on and off stage.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Rachel Page
Cover photography by Dreamstime
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO BOX 5626, STN. B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
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98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
17 16 15 14 • 4 3 2 1
For my parents, who always encouraged my love of the arts, no matter what.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Acknowledgments
One
I don’t have butterflies in my stomach; I have big flapping pelicans. I’ve never been so nervous. In the dark backstage of an old church auditorium, Harper stands in front of me, watching the act that’s before ours. She’s pulled her dark, curly hair into a pile on top of her head, and excitement sparks off her like a meteor shower. Jess waits beside me, rock-steady as always, her guitar slung toward her back, her hands in her jeans pockets.
The three of us are the last act on the last day of March-break music camp, and I’m hoping the act onstage will never end. Not because five guys doing an all-horns version of “Smoke on the Water” is great. It’s weird. But once Brassed-Off is done, we’re up.
Why am I so nervous? I’ve sung in front of tons of people at school choir competitions. But it’s easy to blend in with a choir. In three-part harmony, if I suck, I’ll stand out. It’s the standing out I’m afraid of.
Harper stage-whispers, “We are so gonna bring the house down after these goofs.” She glances at me, winces, puts her hands on my cheeks. “Nat. Girlfriend. Breathe.”
I take a deep breath.
“Now put your stage face on.”
I do my best to smile as if I mean it. I can’t let her and Jess down. “It’s okay. I’m good.”
“You’re gonna be more than good, Nat. You’re gonna be great. We’re gonna be great.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. I’ve known Harper only a week, but already she treats me like her best friend.
Still, I look to Jess—Jess and me and singing have gone together since grade one. “Harper’s right,” she says.
The pelicans in my stomach stop flapping so hard.
Applause. The Brassed-Off guys bow and come bouncing past us, high-fiving and fist-bumping one another. Harper rolls her eyes.
Darrell Bishop, the head of the camp, bounds out of the audience and onto the stage. The lights shine off his wire-framed glasses and perfectly bald head. “Was that not awesome?” he shouts. The audience claps.
He glances toward us, making sure we’re ready. Jess pulls her guitar into position. Harper flashes a huge smile. She grabs my wrist and squeezes. I can’t tell if it’s to reassure me or to keep me from bolting.
Darrell gives us a thumbs-up and turns back to the audience. Our audience. “To finish off tonight’s showcase of terrific young musicians, let’s welcome to the stage three velvet-voiced gals. This trio couldn’t agree on a name for their group”—the audience laughs, and Darrell raises one hand—“but that’s okay, because they only came together this week, and hey, they sure find harmony when they sing. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Harper Neale, Natalie Boychuk and Jess Lalonde.”
Harper pulls me into the light. Jess follows close behind. Pelicans or not, it’s time to sing.
Harper takes center stage behind the microphone, with me and Jess flanking her. We’re tight together in a bright circle of light. It makes Jess’s smooth black ponytail shine. Harper’s caramel-colored skin seems to glow. I’m probably half-invisible beside them, all wispy blond hair and pale eyes.
Harper cozies up to the mic. “Fellow music geeks and gods,” she starts, her voice silky, relaxed. At home. “I can’t believe we’ve been together for only a week. It already feels…I don’t know, like we’re a family.” She shades her eyes to look out at the other musicians, who have joined the audience. “Is that corny?”
“No!” they cheerfully yell.
Wow. Harper is only a year older than Jess and me—she’s sixteen—but she can banter like a pro. Down in the front row, Darrell beams.
Harper smiles and nods. “Cool, cool. So, to keep this family-groove thing going, the girls and I have a song to share with you. Sound okay?”
The audience whistles and cheers. I quietly clear my throat and hope no one can hear my knees knocking together.
“Sweet,” Harper says. She looks over to Jess, who smiles her easygoing smile as she strums the intro to “Four Strong Winds.”
I take a breath, and we dive into the song.
I have to watch Harper’s and Jess’s mouths to make sure I stay in sync, see the cues for when to breathe. We worked hard on this all week, from the moment on Monday when Darrell discovered how our voices fit together to our pre-show rehearsal today.
I remember not to push the higher notes so they don’t sound harsh. During the first chorus, Harper’s fingers tap my back—a hint to move closer to her so our voices meld. My mouth dries out. So much to worry about. At least my knees have stopped shaking.
The second verse. Something shifts in me. The song takes over. Jess’s voice is a deep current for Harper and me to sail on top of. It’s suddenly easy to know when to breathe. I risk a look at the audience—smiling faces, a few people singing softly along. Everyone is together in the song. Nothing matters but all of us right here, right now, living the music. And my voice is helping to make this happen.
Too soon, the song ends. Jess’s last chord vibrates in the air. Then, a beat of thick silence.
“Thank you,” Harper murmurs into the mic.
Cheers break the spell. Relief washes over me like a sweet, cool shower, and I laugh.
I did it. I remembered the words, I got the harmonies, I didn’t suck. I performed. I want to do this again. No, I have to do this again. I stand there, grinning, until Darrell waves us forward. “Take your bows!”
I practically fly to the front of the stage, and the clapping gets louder. Harper gets there next. She shoots me a dark look, freezing me for a second, then smiles out at the audience. Jess joins us. We all hold hands and bow. As the clapping dies down, Harper pulls her hand away and blows a kiss to the audience, triggering one last wave of applause.
“That’s how it’s done,” she says so only I can hear, and she heads backstage.
Two
Jess and I step into the noisy after-party at Harper’s grandma’s house. For once I’m in a living room that’s true to its name; it’s full of life, crowded with paintings and posters and jumbled bookshelves. And our fellow musicians.
“Cool,” Jess says. Her ultimate compliment.
We pick our way to an empty spot. On our left, the Chen sisters plunk out a piano duet. To our right, a violinist argues about rap versus hip-hop with a guy from Brassed-Off. I scope the room for Harper but don’t see her. I can’t shake the look she gave me before our bow.
“Did you talk to Harper after the performance?” I ask Jess.
“Nope. I saw Darrell talking to her, and then she left with her grandma.”
“But you’re sure we’re still invited?” I picture Harper storming into the party, telling me to leave.
“Of course we’re invited.” Jess grabs a handful of chips from a bowl perched on top of the piano. “We complete her.” She snorts.
Harper had said that in a rehearsal. I thought it was sweet, but it made Jess hoot with laughter. And that made Harper leave the room in a huff.
The Chen sisters finish their duet in a tangle of fingers and laughter.
“You have to admit, Harper was amazing tonight,” I say.
Jess brushes off her chip-salty hands on her jeans. “She was good, Nat. We all were.”
A tall red-headed guy squeezes past us with a banjo. Gabe Neufeld. I’ve been noticing him and his smile all week, and trying to get up the guts to talk to him. He wraps his plaid-shirted arm around a guy playing a harmonica in the dining room.
“I wish music camp wasn’t ending,” I say.
“Me too.” Jess nods. “I will admit that.”
Jess and I have just spent six fantastic days together, going to workshops and rehearsals during the day, singing together in her and her mom’s apartment at night. Meanwhile, my parents and twelve-year-old brother, Eric, drove all over Manitoba to his hockey games. Tomorrow they come back, and I go home to endless hockey talk and stinky equipment bags. So much for my newfound life in music.
“Bandmates! Girlfriends!” Harper squeals as she comes toward us. Several heads turn. She’s changed into red skinny jeans and a sequined top for the party.
“Group hug!” Harper grabs me and Jess. We’re both pretty tall, so she only comes up to our chins.
I laugh, relieved that Harper isn’t mad at me. But over the top of her curls, I see Jess grimacing. She’s never been big on hugging. Sometimes I think Jess took up guitar just so she’d have a shield.
Harper lets go. “Welcome to Casa de Musica, aka Grandma Barb’s place.”
“It’s nice she’s letting us all invade.” Jess straightens her T-shirt.
“She insisted! Gran’s a music chick from way back.” Harper points to a framed poster behind us. Under swirly orange letters spelling out Angels and Mortals two bearded, long-haired dudes in jeans and fringed jackets; two women in floral dresses sit on wicker chairs. “That was her band in the sixties.”
“Cool,” I say, looking closer. “Which one is she?”
A warm voice behind me answers, “The one in the floppy hat, looking quite full of herself.”
Grandma Barb in the flesh is short and slim, wearing faded jeans and a pink paisley blouse. A braid of brown hair threaded with gray drapes over one shoulder. “I grew out of that, thankfully.” The corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
“The hat?” I ask.
Harper laughs. “No, Nat. The being full of herself.”
I feel myself turn red, but Grandma Barb takes my hand and says, “I do wish I still had that hat. Come on, let’s get you girls something to eat. Performers are always starving after a show. Especially a show as good as yours.”
Grandma Barb pulls me toward the crowded warmth of the kitchen. I’m happy to follow. Performer. She called me a performer.
* * *
The party’s been going for a couple of hours. I sip from a big mug of tea with honey—“Good for the voice,” Grandma Barb said—and listen to Gabe play a Sufjan Stevens song on his banjo.
“He’s really good,” I whisper to Harper, who’s snug beside me on the living-room couch.
“You mean he’s really cute,” she whispers back.
I giggle. “You’re really right.” I’m drunk on tea and music.
Harper looks at me, wide-eyed. “Oh ho! Nat and Banjo Boy.”
“Shut up!” I elbow her.
Jess gives us a “Shh!” look from across the room. Darrell’s standing beside her, absorbed in Gabe’s playing.
Darrell finally got to the party about ten minutes ago. Grandma Barb greeted him with a big hug and a beer. She taught him guitar when he was a kid, so Harper’s known him forever.
Gabe finishes the song and says, “Thank you. Thank you very much,” in a bad Elvis impersonation. It makes him even cuter.
I put down my tea to clap. Loudly.
Harper grabs a plate of oatmeal cookies from the coffee table. “I’ve heard the way to a banjo player’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Right. Heard that where, exactly?”
She pushes the plate at me. “Go!”
I take the cookies. “Okay, I will.” I try to sound sassy. Performing tonight has made me braver. I step over kids sitting on the floor.
Gabe’s talking with another guy when I reach him. “Hey, uh, nice song,” I say to his back. So much for sassy.
He turns around, and there’s that smile. That face. Cute hardly covers it.
“Pardon?” He slings his banjo over his shoulder. His glance shifts from me to the cookies.
I raise the plate. “The song you just played. It was great. The way you—”
“Thanks.” He takes a cookie and is about to bite into it when he says, “For the compliment, I mean. And the cookie. Sorry—I’m so hungry.” He pops the cookie into his mouth.
“I know! I was too. It’s from performing.” My alto voice has suddenly gone soprano on me. I watch Gabe chew.
He has really nice lips, full but not too full, and his cheeks are flushed as if he’s come in from a walk in fresh air. His eyes are spring-leaf green. He swallows and gives me a polite nod. “Good cookie.”
I’m staring. I’m a dork with a plate of cookies, watching a guy chew. I put the cookies down.
Before I can think of anything halfway intelligent to say, Darrell comes and shakes Gabe’s hand. Jess appears, saying, “I should call my mom to pick us up, Nat.”
“Already?” I’m Cinderella with the clock starting to toll midnight.
“Oh, hey, hang on,” Darrell says. “I want to talk to you girls. Where’s Harper?” He scans the room and waves her over.
What would Darrell need to tell us that he hasn’t already? Did we do something wrong in the show? Jess doesn’t look worried, but still…
Gabe says, “I should get going.”
“Actually”—Darrell puts his hand on Gabe’s shoulder—“I want to talk to you too.”
Gabe and us. Now I can’t tell if I’m nervous or excited.
Darrell grabs another beer and leads us to the closed-in front verandah. “It’ll be quieter here.”
Quieter and colder. March doesn’t mean spring in Winnipeg. I rub my hands against my arms. Damp boots and shoes are piled by the door. We sit down on an old plaid couch. Darrell leans on the window ledge. Gabe’s beside me, still holding his banjo.
Darrell takes a swig of beer. “You guys know you were good tonight, right? Really good.”
Phew. We didn’t do
anything wrong.
Jess and Gabe and I glance at each other and shrug. Harper keeps her eyes focused on Darrell.
“Come on,” he continues. “No false modesty. You were good. You’ve all got talent, you worked hard, you all rose to the challenge of performing.”
Gabe says, “It’s the first time I ever felt like a real musician.”
“Bingo.” Darrell leans forward and taps his knuckles against Gabe’s banjo. “Now, you’ve all got a choice. You can go on taking lessons, maybe impressing your friends or your music teacher at school…whatever.” He looks at the floor. Pauses. “Or you can ramp it up. Take things to the next level.”
Inside me, the crazy pelicans are back. Jess stares at Darrell with the same expression she gets working out a difficult chord progression on her guitar. Darrell picks up his beer. Takes another slow swig. Puts down his beer. Looks at us.
“Argh! Come on, Darrell,” Harper prompts. “The next level is?”
“I was waiting for someone to ask that.” Darrell grins, pulls a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and reads, “‘The Young Performers contest gives teen musicians a chance to be part of the famous Tall Grass Music Festival. Contest winners will work with established musical mentors before performing at the festival itself.’” He looks up. “It could be a long shot, but—”
Harper leaps to her feet. “But we should totally go for it!”
I feel my mouth open, but nothing comes out. My insides swoop with happiness. Another chance for the trio to sing. For me to sing. On a real stage. At a real music festival. I spring up and grab on to Harper. We jump up and down like excited little kids.
I hear Gabe say, “That’d be amazing.”
Darrell says, “Jess?” He sounds worried.
I stop Harper’s bouncing. Jess sits still and quiet, regarding Harper. I don’t expect crazy-excited from Jess, but calm-excited would be good.
“I’m going to go call my mom. It’s late.” Jess stands up, doesn’t look me in the eye.
“But you’re in, right?” I ask. The air in the verandah feels even colder than before.
“Maybe, Nat. I don’t know.” Jess walks into the house. I hear laughter and someone playing the violin inside. She closes the door behind her, and everything goes quiet.
Honeycomb Page 1
