Honeycomb

by McCowan, Patricia;

  She leaves us for Feathered Hair. I don’t envy them for a minute.

  “That was stellar, Nat.” Jess surprises me by putting her arm around my shoulder and squeezing me close. “Well said.”

  “Thanks.” From here on it’s just the three of us, working in argumentative harmony. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hang on.” Harper turns to Robert, who looks a bit stunned by what’s happened. “Can you pull up the website? Honeycomb needs to be back on that list.”

  “Happily, ladies, happily.”

  As he types, Jess says, “Great shirt, by the way.”

  Robert pulls his T-shirt tight. It reads Words fail. Music speaks. He chuckles. “You know, my wife hates it.”

  For once, my words didn’t fail. Now our music won’t either. Not if I can help it.

  Sixteen

  The night before the Tall Grass festival, I’m singing scales at the piano in the basement when my phone buzzes. Gabe. Darrell offering to bring me to TG 2morrow 2 see Honeycomb? But ok if u say no. :-)

  I smile to myself and text back, Call me right now.

  I hold the phone and remember the terrible moment in Darrell’s office when Gabe realized he didn’t get into Tall Grass. How hard he had to work to look like it was okay. How I couldn’t come up with anything to say to him.

  My cell rings. I take a breath. “Hey.”

  “Hey. So, uh. It’s been…I was such a…”

  “How are you?”

  Gabe takes a breath too. “I’m okay. Yeah.

  Good, actually.”

  “How’s your banjo?”

  He laughs. “Banjo’s good. It says hi and, uh, it misses you.”

  I hear a strum of the banjo through the phone. I play a few notes on the piano in answer. “It’d be great if you come to Tall Grass tomorrow, Gabe.”

  “It would? Sweet! I’ll tell Darrell. We’re looking forward to it.”

  “Me too. Listen, I have to go. Gotta practice.”

  “Right. Okay. So. See you tomorrow?”

  “See you.”

  After that, singing scales feels like singing the sweetest song ever written.

  * * *

  Jess, Harper and I stand in the hot, stuffy shade of the performers’ tent at Tall Grass. Other musicians mill about in varying states of nerves. Harper’s confession when she arrived a minute ago has put me into the super-nervous category. I take hold of her shoulders. “A sore throat? How could you have a sore throat?”

  “From staying up late, I guess. My mom and dad got into town last night so they could see the show.” She gestures past the tent, in the direction of the noisy crowd. “They’re out there in the audience with Grandma Barb. I’m so excited! I’ll be okay, Nat.”

  “You better be.” I try to sound bossy and upbeat.

  “I’ve had some Thayers throat lozenges—my mom says singers swear by them. I’m good to go.”Her voice cracks, and her hand goes up to her neck.

  “Stop talking,” Jess commands. “You’ve got a water bottle? Don’t answer out loud.”

  Harper nods and holds one up.

  “Good,” Jess says. “No sore throat’s gonna stop us now that we’ve made it here.”

  We take in our surroundings. There’s a scattering of plastic chairs, though the only person sitting is a girl with a huge Afro, tuning her cello. Everyone else is more into pacing and hugging. The two guys in black who had their sessions with Ingrid before us are huddled in a corner, still in wool hats and heavy boots despite the July heat. A banner hanging from one wall of the tent, says, Welcome, Tall Grass Young Performers!

  I take some deep, calming breaths, the way Ingrid showed us. The air smells of sun-warmed canvas, vinegar from a nearby abandoned plate of fries, and sunscreen. I decide it’s a fantastic combination.

  “So.” I grab Jess’s and Harper’s hands. “This is a little different than the backstage of that church in March.”

  Harper grins.

  “This is the real deal,” Jess says.

  While that makes me nervous, I have faith in Honeycomb. This last month, working on our own in Grandma Barb’s sunny attic, we learned to help—and to trust—each other. The arguments don’t frighten me anymore. Part of the process.

  A woman with a headset and a yellow Tall Grass Volunteer shirt approaches us. “You’re up next, Honeycomb. All set?”

  I give Jess’s and Harper’s hands one last squeeze. “We are.” I let them go ahead of me on the roped-off, grassy pathway to the stage.

  Harper wears a flower-patterned sundress. Her curly hair is piled up on her head, the way it was for the March-break showcase. Jess is in her usual tank top and faded jeans. But her guitar hangs across her body on a brand-new, beautifully beaded strap that her mom, Louise, gave her this morning.

  My mom surprised me this morning too. When Dad loaded Eric’s hockey-camp gear into the car, Mom kissed them both goodbye, walked back up the driveway to where I was standing and wrapped her arm around me.

  “You’re not going?” I asked. I had resigned myself to the fact that my family simply didn’t get my love for music.

  “Hockey doesn’t need me for once. Seeing you sing is all I want to do today.”

  She had planned it out with Louise the same day Jess came over to convince me to stay in Honeycomb.

  Now Harper, Jess and I arrive backstage. I hear the chatter and laughter of the crowd. The volunteer gives a thumbs-up to Robert, who is waiting behind a large speaker on the stage. He looks suitably splendid with his dreadlocks and an embroidered tunic. He steps out and announces, “Music fans of all ages, you are in for a harmonious treat. Please give a warm, Tall Grass Young Performers welcome to…Honeycomb!”

  * * *

  Our first song starts smoothly. The tone is light and lilting. It seems to suit the mood of the audience. They’re relaxed, happy to be here, heads bopping along, reminding me of Gabe’s description of his first Tall Grass day.

  I guess he’s out there somewhere, but I don’t have time to scan the crowd. I concentrate on Harper’s voice, making sure my harmonies are solid and confident. She stands in the center, and Jess and I face each other, keeping eye contact so our timing is in sync.

  Then we hit the chorus and Harper’s voice hitches, like it’s caught on something sharp. Her eyes widen for a split second, but she carries on.

  In the next verse, Harper goes sharp on a high note. She backs slightly away from the mic, losing volume. I look her in the eye and start to sing the melody with her. She gives a tiny nod. Jess keeps her harmony going. We still sound okay, but my heart’s whirling in my chest.

  Harper keeps smiling, though, and that reminds me to make sure I am too. Grandma Barb told us smiling keeps our tone warm.

  We make it to the last chorus, and I let Harper have the melody to herself again. She finishes strong.

  Applause. My heart slows down, relieved to have gotten through the song. But I also feel like our time onstage is going by too quickly.

  Jess and I take a step back. We’ve agreed that Harper should do the intro to the second song, as she did at the showcase.

  Harper reaches down to get her water bottle, then smiles her best and brightest smile. “Thank you.” Sunlight glints off her bracelets as she takes a quick drink. “My name’s Harper Neale. How’s everybody’s day so far?”

  The audience cheers. Looking out, I don’t see Gabe, but I spot Darrell in the fourth row, his bald head sunburned, smiling proudly. A few rows back from him, Louise waves to Jess. Mom claps her hands above her head and woot-woots, a rowdy superfan.

  “Yeah, it’s feeling pretty great for us too,” Harper continues. “We’re gonna keep the day feeling great with this next song, ‘Blue Skywriting.’ Makes me think of the big blue sky we’re all enjoying today.” She lifts her hands, and the audience applauds some more.

  Harper, the pro. I hope her parents are as proud of her as she is of them. They should be.

  She looks at me and gives a tilt of her head. I come
closer.

  “This is Nat Boychuk,” Harper says to the crowd. More clapping. “Nat’s going to lead us in this beautiful song.”

  Lead? I swing my head to look at her and almost knock my chin on the mic. She puts her arm around me and whispers into my ear, “My voice won’t do it justice. We all know you can do the melody.”

  Harper goes on. “Jess Lalonde there is going to work her guitar magic and sing her beautiful harmonies along with me.”

  As the audience claps, Harper switches places with me, so now I’m the one in front of the mic. She quietly says, “Show them how it’s done.”

  I have a quick, vague sense of lots of happy faces looking up at me before I turn to Jess. Steady, calm Jess. My best friend. She counts us in.

  Seventeen

  We’re at Jess’s guitar solo before the song’s bridge when I spot Gabe at the edge of the crowd. Our eyes connect. I remember how cold he was the last time we saw each other at Crescendo. I also remember how much he had wanted to be on this stage.

  Holding his gaze, I sing, “But the clouds, you brought them on / and the words you wrote, now they are gone / you’ve left me here, no sign of dawn.”

  Gabe mouths, “I’m sorry.”

  “With your blue skywriting.” Harper’s and Jess’s harmonies support me from either side. “Bright blue skywriting.” I turn to face the rest of the audience. The energy and happiness coming off the crowd make it feel like they’re the fourth member of Honeycomb. “Blue skywriting swept me away.” Together, we bring the song home.

  The applause sweeps onto the stage in a warm wave. I reach out my hands and Harper and Jess take them. We step away from the mic. I try to change places with Harper so she’s in the middle again, but she shakes her head at me. “Stay right where you are,” she whispers.

  We bow. The clapping lasts a long time, long enough for me to know that I was right, back in March. That this—the music, the stage, the crowd—and all the hard work that led to this moment—is where I belong.

  The first person to find us backstage is Gabe. “Honeycomb! You were awesome,” he yells, giving Jess and Harper high fives.

  He turns to me. As if by some secret code, Jess and Harper step away to take congratulations from other people.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Gabe says.

  “You too.” He has more freckles than he did before. He looks sunnier.

  “It was great to see you onstage. You got the melody back!”

  I laugh. “Yeah, that was a bit of a surprise.”

  “Not to me.” The hurt and angry Gabe is gone.

  We move closer to each other. “I’m glad you came today,” I say.

  “Me too. Hey.” Gabe puts his hand on my shoulder. “Did you notice who was standing beside me in the crowd?”

  I shake my head.

  “Middle-aged dude from Crescendo Music.”

  “Bushy-Beard!” I laugh.

  “He’s got a massive cheering voice. Pretty sure he’s Honeycomb’s biggest fan now. You better go visit him after all this.”

  “I will. If you come with me.” I poke a finger lightly at his chest. “And if you promise you’re going to try for Tall Grass again next year.”

  “Yeah, you better,” Jess says. She and Harper are back beside us.

  “I will,” Gabe says. “In fact, I already know one of the songs I’m going to work on. But I might need your help.”

  Harper, sucking on one of her throat lozenges, says, “You do know Nat’s a singer, not a banjo player?”

  Gabe hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “There’s whistling in this song. I happen to know she’s quite the whistler.”

  “I’d love to help you,” I say.

  Then we’re surrounded by Louise and Mom and Darrell. Hugs, handshakes, more hugs. Grandma Barb arrives with Harper’s parents, who give off so much music-biz shine it’s easy to see where Harper gets her confidence.

  “After-party at my house,” Grandma Barb announces. “I insist!”

  We move like a friendly swarm away from the stage. Darrell and Gabe talk about acts they saw earlier. Louise and Mom chat with Grandma Barb. I hear “I’m embarrassed to say I had no idea they were that good” from Mom, and “Oh, yes” from Grandma Barb. Just ahead of me, Harper links arms with her mom and dad.

  “Now that’s an impressive trio.” I point as Jess comes over to me.

  “Imagine the egos if they rehearsed together.”

  “Hey, Harper gave me the melody today.” I bump against Jess. “I’ve got to thank her for that.”

  “True.” Jess bumps back. “It’s important for the lead singer to thank her backup singers.”

  That stops me short. “You guys are not my backup singers! We’re equal. A trio.”

  “I was teasing.” Jess laughs, hitching her guitar case over her shoulder. “I know we’re equal. I think Harper finally realizes we are too. Thanks to you.”

  I smile at my best friend. “We’re Honeycomb.”

  Jess slings her arm around me. “We are.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to Bronwyn, Caroline and David for your love and support throughout the Honeycomb-building process. To my brilliant writing-group pals, Pat Bourke, Karen Krossing, Karen Rankin and Erin Thomas, thanks for being my first readers. Writing takes brains and heart, and you are generous in sharing yours with me. I sing the praises of Sarah Harvey, who created the Limelights series, and Robin Stevenson, my editor, for their professionalism and enthusiasm. To everyone at Orca Book Publishers, a round of applause for working so hard to bring quality books to young readers. Finally, thank you to the countless musicians who provided the inspiration for (and soundtrack to) writing this book. As Harper says, “Music knows everything.”

  PATRICIA McCOWAN originally wanted to be an actor. She took acting classes as a kid, was a drama club nerd in high school and studied acting at the University of Winnipeg and the Banff Centre. After acting for a while (and then becoming a mom), she directed her creative energies to writing. Her short stories have appeared in ya anthologies, as well as in print and online magazines. Honeycomb is her first novel. Visit patriciamccowan.com for more information.