She nods. “Did you know that his grandmother, Mamo Honey, is a famous Nessie hunter from the sixties and seventies? She once worked with the esteemed Loch Ness Project.”
“She did?” I say.
She nods again.
“Hmm,” I say. “In my research, I’m finding that some people believe in that thing down there and some people think it’s a silly story. My cousin Briony told me there’s some race about it but no one has won it yet.”
“Aye.” Ms. Begbie nods. “The Nessie Race.”
“Is Mamo Honey in the race?”
“Mamo Honey officially quit her search for evidence to prove the existence o’ the monster on September sixth, 2011.”
“Why? What happened on September sixth, 2011, to make her want to quit?”
Ms. Begbie pauses again and then says, “That’s her story to tell, lass. However, I will tell ye this. She never, ever speaks of it, so best not to ask.”
“Oh,” I say. “But Hammy Bean is in the race?”
“Aye, Hammy Bean and Cornelius Barrington, who lives in his camper van lochside past the Fort Augustus beach. He helps on the Nessie Quest and is a mate o’ Mamo Honey. Corny an’ Hammy Bean make a good team.”
“How…how does he search for Nessie when he can’t…well, when he doesn’t…I mean—”
“He can’t see,” she says.
“Well…yeah.”
“That would be a wonderful question to ask him on your visit today, lass,” she says. “I’m sure he’d love to talk to ye aboot it.”
“It’s okay to ask? I mean, it won’t be rude to ask him about that?”
“If you’re curious, it’s better to ask him questions than to avoid him because ye dinna understand him,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll ask him.”
I watch her work her needles. I’m seeing Euna Begbie in a whole new light today. A kind of Fort Augustus Sunrise Orange one.
With lots of possibilities inside it.
And that’s exactly how I come to the realization that Euna Begbie isn’t the evil villain I first thought she was.
Not even close.
But I sure wish she’d wear something brighter than that black dress of hers and ugly man shoes. Except, I don’t know exactly how to tell her without hurting her feelings that she’d look a whole lot better in a pair of orange Nikes and a sweatshirt. So I decide to tell her what I like instead.
“Ms. Begbie,” I say.
She looks up from her needles. “Aye, lass?”
“I like it when you smile,” I tell her. “It’s very…very…orange.”
That’s when I see the corners of her lips reach all the way up to her cheekbones, until actual teeth are showing. More than I’ve ever seen on her before.
See what I mean about words and how important they can be? With just a handful of them, I made that smile. And seeing it now makes me wonder what it was that I thought was so scary about her in the first place.
After lunch with Mom in our flat, I head out to find Tibby Manor.
On my way down the heavenly spiral, I name more of the things I miss about home with each step.
Mr. Mews’s fish breath and sandpaper kisses.
Veggieless pizzas from Parry’s.
Watching for cute boys on the sidewalk out front of the house with Britney B.
“Hey!” a voice snaps. “Watch where you’re going, why don’t you!”
I stop dead in my tracks, surprised to see the guitar boy sitting in the same spot.
“You almost stepped on Ole Roy,” he informs me, picking up the guitar lying next to him on the stairs.
Other than me and him, there isn’t a single, solitary person around.
“Ah…who?” I ask. “Because I only see you.” I point to him. “And me.” I point to myself.
“Ole Roy,” he tells me, putting the guitar in his lap and adjusting the tiny knobs at the end of the handle while picking at the strings. “It’s this guy here.”
“You…named your guitar? Thaaaat’s pretty weird.”
“This guitar just happens to be a Gibson Roy Smeck. One of the best guitars money can buy. It took me three whole years to save up my allowance for this thing. It’s named after the famous musician Leroy Smeck. One of the best guitarists to ever live on this planet. His nickname was Wizard of the Strings, and you don’t get that for nothing.”
And then he starts to play. I sit down on the step above him, wrap my arms around my knees and listen. It’s the same music from the other day and it seems to float all the way up to the beams lining the tall ceiling of St. Benedict’s and maybe all the way to heaven. I bet even the stained-glass faces are listening.
“I’m from America too,” I finally say. “I notice you don’t have an accent.”
He just keeps on playing.
“Your mom or dad teaching at the University of the Highlands and Islands in Inverness like mine?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “We rent the same flat in St. Benedict’s each summer. We’ve been coming for the past three years. My mom took this mail-in DNA test and found out she’s one-eighth Scottish, so we’ve been coming here in the summers so she can learn more about our family ancestry.”
“We’re from Denver,” I tell him.
“Manhattan,” he says without looking up.
“Oh,” I say. “What is it that you’re playing? I really like it.”
“You probably won’t know it,” he says.
“Yeah, well, you don’t know that,” I say. “I know lots of music. I’m the president of the Beyoncé Beyhive Fan Club on Tennyson.”
He places a palm flat down on the strings, bringing the music to a quick halt, and looks up at me. “Beyoncé?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Have you heard of her?”
He starts strumming again. “Everyone has heard of her,” he says. “But that’s not the kind of music I’m into.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Not even ‘Single Ladies’? That’s my favorite one.”
He laughs. “Nope.”
“So what kind of music do you like?”
“Have you heard of Taylor?” he asks.
“You mean Swift? Sure, everyone knows her.”
He shakes his head at me. “No,” he says. “James Taylor.”
“Mmm…maybe,” I say. “Does he do that video with the backup dancers who shimmy under the waterfalls?”
“Ah…no. He would never do anything like that.”
“Oh.”
“Have you heard of Jim Croce? Cat Stevens? Otis Redding? Carole King? Bread?” he lists. “Any of those sound familiar?”
“Bread,” I say. “Sure, I’ve heard of bread. I had mine toasted with cinnamon and sugar this morning,” and I let out a loud HA just like Dad does.
He just stares at me, unamused.
“Bread…is a band,” he explains. “The singer/songwriter musicians of the seventies were simple, like with no equipment at all. Just a guy and his guitar. You know, pure.”
“Or a girl, right?” is all I can think of to say.
“Of course,” he says, and then goes back to strumming. “My grandpa Larry played for Carly Simon and toured most of his life with her and her band. He taught me everything he knows.”
“That’s cool.” Maybe he could be one of my supporting characters. Not my Ron or anything, but he’s got a brooding hippie vibe going that might work for a minor character. Not to mention the kid is legit cute. I mean, seriously.
He keeps on playing and I keep on listening.
“Do you write and sing your own music too? Like the singers and the songwriters did?” I ask him.
“Just write it and play it,” he says. “I don’t sing it. Not in front of people, anyway.”
“How come?” I ask. “How will people know
what you have to say if you don’t share it?”
He stops playing again and stares at me with those seaweed eyes. At least that’s how I described them in my feelings journal.
“If you don’t share it,” I ask him, “how do you expect anyone to know what was so important about the songs’ words? I mean, the musicians chose specific words to put together and you like the ones they chose, right? You should probably share yours too.”
He keeps staring like maybe he’s really thinking hard about what I said.
“So…ah, y-yeah,” I stutter, getting up from the step. “I’d like to hear more about what your words mean and all, but I have to get going. I’m meeting someone.”
“Who?” he asks.
“This kid I met up at the dock.”
“What kid?”
“Well, honestly, I can’t remember his real name, but it’s something like Ham and Bean Casserole, and also…he has this red dog…and he works the Nessie Quest booth and is kind of a know-it-all, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yeah, I know that kid. But I’m pretty sure his name isn’t Casserole,” he mocks me.
“You want to make a bet? It’s the closest name to a casserole of anything I’ve ever heard before. Did you ever think that maybe his parents were just fond of casseroles?”
He blinks his seaweeds at me and says, “No.”
“It’s possible,” I say.
“I really don’t think so.”
“But you know him, though, right? I mean, you’ve talked to him?” I ask.
“Not exactly.”
“You come here every summer and you’ve never talked to the kid?”
He shrugs. “Nope.”
“Haven’t you ever gone on one of those Nessie Quest tours?”
He starts strumming again. “N.I.,” he says.
I give him a Cheez Whiz. “What?”
“Not interested,” he tells me.
“So you don’t believe in the monster?”
He shrugs again.
“So what do you do when you come here?”
“You’re looking at it.”
“You just strum your guitar all summer long?”
He stops again and looks up at me. “I go to a private school in New York City and my parents made me a deal that I can have my summers off for my music if I get straight As in school during the year. So all I do in the summer is write music, play guitar and record. I have my own YouTube channel with almost five thousand followers. It’s called Making Trax with Dax.”
“That’s really cool,” I say. “Five thousand is a lot. That sort of makes you famous.”
He shrugs.
“I don’t have a YouTube channel, but I have my very own podcast.”
“Really? How many subscribers you got?”
“Oh, ah…you know, I’m not really sure of the latest numbers. I can’t even remember the last time I looked, but yeah…it’s a lot, you know, I mean, people are listening.”
“Right on,” he says, nodding and giving me a one-lipped smile that is definitely going to make it into my feelings journal.
“So do you happen to know where Bunioch Brae is?” I ask him. “That’s where this kid’s house is. On Bunioch Brae.”
He juts his chin toward the window. “It’s up on that side of the mountain. I can show you if you want.”
“Oh, ah…yeah, I mean, that’d be okay,” I say.
“Groovy,” he says. He slides the worn leather guitar strap over his head and twists the guitar around so that it lies flat across his back, and starts down the hallway.
I scurry after him, catching up at the TOILET door and pointing to the guitar bouncing against his back. “You’re bringing that thing?”
His legs are much longer than mine, so for every one of his steps I have to take three, which means I’m basically jogging next to him.
“Everywhere I go, Ole Roy goes,” he informs me.
“Well, I suppose Ham and Bean won’t mind if Ole Roy visits too,” I say.
He looks at me funny then. “I may not know the kid, but I can tell you for a fact that Ham and Bean is not his name.”
“Wanna bet?” I challenge.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Fine by me. I’ll bet you a million dollars there’s a casserole in there somewhere.”
* * *
On our way to find the house with the red door, I learn that Dax is one year older than me. He’s thirteen and going into eighth grade at some fancy private school in Manhattan where he wears a blue suit jacket with an eagle’s crest every single day and never has gym because they don’t have a gymnasium.
It makes me wish I could go to a fancy private school in Manhattan.
I loathe gym and everything it stands for.
He also tells me that he lives in a penthouse apartment off Central Park, which is like a regular apartment only way bigger. He’s an only child like me and lives with his mom, Lucy, and his stepdad, Gary, but spends more time with his live-in nanny named Luna Santa-Maria than his parents, who are always working or at a cocktail party. He has a golden retriever named Taco who is keeping his grandma Betty company in Queens while he’s in Fort Augustus for the summer.
I also find out Mr. and Mrs. Cady drive a fancy BMW, because Dax waves to them when we see them pulling out of the abbey drive on our way to find the house on Bunioch Brae.
“It’s right there.” Dax juts his chin in the air. “Red door, right?”
I look up at a gray stone house with a small rectangular window above a bright red door with TIBBY MANOR etched in curly letters.
“That’s it,” I say.
To the side of the house is a matching stone shed, the size of a garage, with two ancient wooden doors shut tight, their ancient iron handles wrapped with a heavy chain and padlock.
“What do you think they need to keep locked up so tight?”
Dax just shrugs.
“Go and peek,” I tell him.
“I’m not going to peek in their garage,” he informs me, and then points to a tiny brass knob next to the red door. “Ring the bell.”
I push it and nothing happens.
I stare at him. “It’s broken.”
“It’s an old-fashioned doorbell. You pull it,” he instructs me.
I grab the knob between my pointer finger and thumb and pull. Somewhere inside, a bell rings and a dog barks.
I pull it again.
Ring.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
And then again.
Ring.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“That’s the weirdest doorbell I’ve ever seen,” I tell him.
“Maybe you should pull it again,” he tells me.
So I do.
Ring.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“I was kidding,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “It’s just so weird. Who knew they had doorbells like this in the olden days?”
Flat, barefoot-sounding footsteps slap the floorboards inside and the red door flings open.
It’s Ham and Bean in the same outfit he wore the other day—plaid kilt, Nessie T-shirt and knee-high socks—minus one too-big captain’s hat and slick, shiny cane. With his curly-haired dog.
“Who keeps ringin’ that bell?” he demands while Mac-Talla gives us the once-over. “Have ye no doorbell etiquette at all? Possibly you’re from a doorbell-less planet such as Mars?”
“No,” I snap. “Denver.”
A slow, deep-dimpled smile spreads across his face. “Ahhh, right. Denver,” he says. “It appears that ye have found some tidbits after all. Brilliant.”
“I told you they were never lost, didn’t I?”
Dax looks at me, scratching Mac-Talla on both ears. “You found some what?”
I wave my hand as if to erase the word from the air between us. “Never mind,” I tell him.
He just raises his eyebrows and says nothing.
“It’s her courage,” the boy informs him. “Unfortunately, she’s missing a good-sized helpin’ o’ it.”
Dax’s head starts bobbing up and down. “Yep, I can see that.”
“Hey,” I say, putting my hands on my hips.
“I told her to stop pulling on that bell, but she insisted,” Dax tells him, turning to me with a wide smile, his teeth clenched together.
I watch Ham and Bean scanning the space in between us, searching for the exact location of Dax’s voice. “Who are ye?” he asks.
“I’m…um, Dax,” he says. “Dax Cady. Our family rents a flat at St. Benedict’s Abbey in the summers.”
“Hamish Bean Tibby,” Hammy Bean says. “But all my mates call me Hammy Bean.”
“I told you!” I say to Dax. “I said Ham and Bean and I was right. That’ll be one million dollars, please.”
Dax just rolls his eyes and holds out a hand to shake Hammy Bean’s, but Hammy Bean doesn’t shake it.
“Ah…he’s holding out his, ah, hand there,” I tell Hammy Bean. “To shake yours.”
“Oh.” Hammy Bean holds out his hand, and Dax grabs it.
“Are ye Denver’s brother?” Hammy Bean asks, excitedly pumping Dax’s hand like it’s his first time.
“No,” Dax says. “We just met three days ago.”
“He wanted to come along and meet you,” I tell Hammy Bean. “He plays the guitar—and he brings it everywhere.”
“Brilliant,” Hammy Bean says. “I love music. Both of ye, please come in.” He opens the door even wider. “Do ye play the bagpipes too?”
“Ah, no,” Dax says. “Just the strings.”
Me and Dax step inside the front hall of the ancient house. Above us a grand chandelier hangs with a million tiny bulbs. Dark floral wallpaper and etched wood paneling cover the walls around us, and wide wooden boards creak and groan under our feet.
“Hammy Bean,” someone calls from the depths of the manor.
“Aye,” the boy replies.
“Who’s at the door, love?”
Nessie Quest Page 7