Offbeat

by Megan Clendenan

  Copyright © 2018 Megan Clendenan

  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

  Clendenan, Megan, 1977–, author

  Offbeat / Megan Clendenan.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1792-0 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1793-7 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1794-4 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8605.L5413O34 2018 jC813'.6 C2017-907951-4

  C2017-907952-2

  First published in the United States, 2018

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018933712

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, Rose loves the fiddle and is determined to become a folk sensation. But her mom is insisting she study only classical violin.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

  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.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by Christopher Kimmel/Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  21 20 19 18 • 4 3 2 1

  Orca Book Publishers is proud of the hard work our authors do and of the important stories they create. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it or did not check it out from a library provider, then the author has not received royalties for this book. The ebook you are reading is licensed for single use only and may not be copied, printed, resold or given away. If you are interested in using this book in a classroom setting, we have digital subscriptions that feature multi user, simultaneous access to our books that are easy for your students to read. For more information, please contact digital@orcabook.com.

  For Geri

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from “Casting Lily”

  One

  One

  My fingers fly. They buzz and dart like a swarm of bees on the neck of my fiddle. I tap my toe to keep the beat, but I feel like jumping. Our group is rehearsing for the last time before the Blackberry Music Festival on the Olympic Peninsula, one of the biggest deals for folk music in the whole region. The tension is as tight as our strings.

  “Okay, let’s take a break,” says Ms. O’Krancy, our music teacher, who looks like a wispy-haired elf queen. She puts her fiddle down and goes to check her notes.

  “Rose.” I feel a sharp nudge in my left shoulder. Shilo is poking me with her bow. We have been best friends since second grade. “Want to come over after school?”

  “I’m there,” I say. Anything not to go home.

  I turn back as Ms. O’Krancy claps for our attention at the front. “Ladies and gentlemen! As you well know, we leave tomorrow.” She makes a point of looking at each one of us. Our group has ten members, and we are all here today. “You’ve all practiced hard for the past two years for this chance to perform on the main stage at the festival. You’ll be in front of the biggest audience you’ve had yet. But please remember, this festival is not only about performance. It’s also about participation. You can learn so much from the other musicians. You’ve got five days to attend workshops of your choice—they’ve got everything from Irish to jazz to…” Her voice fades as I picture myself standing onstage, playing to a massive, moving crowd. “…and on the last day of the festival the Grand Prize winner of the fiddle contest will get onstage with Lunar.”

  Wait, what? The group is buzzing. Like most of them, I can’t go a day without listening to Lunar, a band known for its blend of Celtic, Cajun and Latin music. There’s no other band like it touring right now. If I could go onstage with Lunar, the world could just stop. I need to find out more.

  “Okay, on to the Irish jig. Let’s push the pace to double time!” Ms. O’Krancy says.

  We raise our fiddles and wait for our cue.

  “Don’t worry. My mom never talks to your mom because she never sees her,” Shilo whispers. I’m supposed to go home after school and practice for my classical violin lessons. My mom thinks they’re my ticket to the youth symphony.

  “One and two and three and…” Ms. O’Krancy counts us in, and we play, in close to perfect unison. The music erases the chatter in my head. For this moment, I’m good.

  * * *

  After school I see Shilo standing by her mom’s old-style orange VW bug.

  “Hi, Anna. Thanks for picking us up,” I say, wearing my parent-winning smile. I shove my fiddle case in the backseat, between the empty stainless-steel water bottles and piles of cloth shopping bags, and hoist myself onto the cleanest side. Their car smells like dog because of their springer spaniel, Jeffrey. I don’t mention it.

  “Shilo and I were just talking about the music festival. Looks like you two will get to share a room with me,” Anna says as she hops into the driver’s seat. “I guess your mom won’t be joining us because of her work schedule?” I don’t need to answer because Anna is now focused on moving the car through the lineup of other parents. I let Anna grill Shilo about her school day while I stare out the window, playing tunes in my head.

  “Hey, so how about that contest?” Shilo asks from the front seat.

  “I need to find out more,” I say. “Let’s check out their website when we get to your place.” We pull up to Shilo’s house minutes later and walk through the wild jungle of plants in the front yard. Anna heads straight to the kitchen. I know she’s probably making us a snack. Some homemade banana bread or maybe those weird but tasty seaweed chips. Shilo opens her laptop and types Blackberry Festival into the search engine.

  “Check out the main page,” she says. There’s a huge picture of a guy onstage with a guitar, his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He and a fiddler are holding hands as though they are about to bow. She’s wearing a sparkly shirt and tons of beaded jewelry. “This is going to be so fun!”

  “Click on that button there,” I say, wishing I was the girl on the home page.

  Blackberry Fiddle Contest

  Come on out and show off your best tunes.

  First round: Day 1 at the Garden Stage.

  Each contestant will play one tune of choice.

  The Top 20 will advance to the final round on Day 6.

  Maybe you will be the lucky Grand Prize winner who gets to perform onstage with Lunar!

  “OMG, can you imagine how awesome that would be?” I say. I click on another link.

  The People’s Choice Award

  Back by popular demand!

  VOTE for YOUR favorite performer from the first round on Day 1.

  Winner gets their own 15-minute slot at the Marketplace on Day 3.

  �
�Wait,” says Shilo. “Does that mean that some lucky someone gets to perform their own little mini concert?”

  “I think so,” I say. “So we need to practice! I’m going to sign up tonight.” I need to win that spot. Shilo has a solo in our performance because she also plays the Irish flute. I really wish I had a solo too. I want to push myself, to see what I can do. I want to be heard. We play until just before dinnertime and then Anna offers to give me a ride home.

  “Do you have your key?” Anna asks. I can tell by her voice that she’s not exactly comfortable dropping me off at an empty house.

  “I do, thanks,” I say with my parent-winning smile back on. I don’t want her to feel bad about not inviting me for dinner. She knows my mom works late. “And thanks so much for driving me. You rock.” I hop out and wave, my grin still plastered on, key in hand. I walk up the three steps to our townhouse and don’t look back.

  Two

  “Good morning,” my mom says as I enter the kitchen. She looks over her laptop and stops typing as my toast pops up. She noticed me. She even made me toast. I’m surprised. Sometimes I’m halfway through eating before she looks up, usually with a confused face like, When did Rose walk in?

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, crashing down into the padded kitchen chair. “Hey, can you pass me—”

  “Just give me a second to finish this email,” she interrupts and is once again lost in electronics. She is dressed in her usual navy suit, her hair perfectly straightened. She just made partner in her law firm. Apparently law-firm partners need to keep three times as many stacks of paper on their kitchen tables. There’s barely room for my plate and glass of orange juice. I reach over and grab the peanut butter.

  “What were you going to ask?” she murmurs as she types away on her laptop.

  “Never mind,” I say. “I got it myself.”

  “Okay, I’ve got about five minutes before my next conference call starts, and I’ve got all my material prepped. So I’d like to give you your birthday present now.” I munch my toast and don’t bother answering. I don’t want to waste my five minutes of scheduled time with questions.

  “As you know, your father had a beautiful violin. What you don’t know is that in his will he asked that it be gifted to you when you turned fourteen.” My mom is using her lawyer tone, serious and flat. I grip my toast, suspended halfway to my mouth. We sit silently, the only sound the chickadees singing outside our window.

  “Mom, that’s amazing,” I finally sputter. My dad died two years ago. He was the one who always got me the perfect gift. Most of the gifts I can remember my mom giving me seemed like they were bought for another person. Like the leather jacket with the frills on the bottom that I got for my thirteenth birthday. I hate frills. Or, for my twelfth birthday, the party at a pottery studio even though I don’t give a crap about art. I turned fourteen last week and wasn’t at all surprised when she wished me a quick “Happy birthday” on her way out the door and said she would give me my present later. I just assumed that meant she hadn’t bought it yet. “Where is it?”

  “I’ve put it in the den. It’s yours now to take to the festival.” I can see her grinding her teeth. “But…”

  Here we go. There’s always a but.

  My mom hesitates. “I know you’re going to this music festival. And I hope you have a good time. But the Celtic group isn’t the youth symphony. And the symphony is where you need to be to prepare for getting a classical music degree at university.”

  We’ve had this conversation about a jillion times. If I tried to figure out how many more times we’ll have this fight before I actually go to university, I think my brain would overheat.

  “You would learn all the classical symphonies—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven. You might even make some new friends.” As my mom gathers steam, her eyes look like they’re about to pop out of her head. I imagine them taking flight from her sockets, springing out like they’re jet-propelled. I have to choke back a laugh as I imagine searching for my mom’s eyeballs in the kitchen sink.

  “I’ve already told you that I want to play Celtic music and maybe go live in Ireland someday,” I say, wishing her meeting would start.

  “I just want you to be practical.” She checks her phone again. “Here’s the thing. I can’t continue to pay for your violin lessons if you refuse to consider the youth symphony.” She throws her shoulders back and stares me down.

  “What? You won’t pay for my lessons anymore? But they’re classical!” Spit flies out as I speak.

  “That may be, but you’re only using them to improve your technique so you can play those fast songs. I understand music.”

  “Tunes, Mom. They’re called tunes, not songs,” I interrupt.

  “You’re going to have to show me you are truly serious about this instrument. Music lessons are expensive. Especially yours. I would pay for group lessons, but not private. Group lessons are much less expensive.” I know my lessons cost quite a bit. But my teacher, who plays in the city orchestra, also loves Celtic music. When she sees I’m getting bored playing my classical pieces, she teaches me fiddle tunes to give me a break. We don’t mention that to my mom.

  “What?” I feel my hands start to shake. “I play all the time. I don’t waste time watching TV. What more do you want from me?”

  “Show me you’re serious about your musical future. Then you get to keep your private lessons.”

  “This is not fair,” I say. I think of all the scales and arpeggios I do every night after dinner. The pain in my fingertips after practicing for two hours.

  “Sorry, I have to join the conference call,” my mom says. That’s my cue to leave. I walk down the hall to the den. This was my dad’s room. On the desk is a black fiddle case. I walk over and zip it open. I touch the black silk that covers the fiddle and slip it off. And there it is. Beautiful red-brown wood. The color always reminds me of a fire about to burst out. I can’t stop the salty tears. Every happy memory I have from before he died includes my dad playing this fiddle.

  My favorite times were when he played with his friends. They would sit in a circle in our cozy kitchen. Dan, the guitar player, would be grooving with his whole body. Nellie, the other fiddler, would have this giant smile, while Bruce rocked an Irish flute like you’ve never seen a big guy rocking a flute. My mom would even grab spoons and keep a beat going while they played. She would laugh as they picked up the tempo until it was so fast that only my dad was left playing. He would end with a flourish and look around with his big grin. “Too slow for you all to bother?”

  I place the fiddle on my shoulder. It feels like mine and his at the same time. I put it down to take out the bow and open the little compartment where my dad kept the rosin for the bow. It’s empty. I feel around inside the case, trying to find the small round lump. My pinkie finger snags on a rip in the silk lining. I feel a rough edge of paper. I try to pull it out, but it’s too far in.

  I can hear my mom is still on the phone. She’ll be a while. I grab the old-fashioned letter opener from the desk and use it to make a bigger tear in the lining. Now I can pull out the paper. It’s a black-and-white photo of my mom and dad. He’s playing his fiddle, and my mom is playing a flute. They’re young. My mom almost looks like me. And I didn’t even know she played the flute. I sit frozen, wondering why she never told me she played. And why she is so against me playing the music I like.

  Three

  I’ve never been on an airplane before. The air tastes stale, used. I turn to Shilo, who is sitting next to me, reading the boring magazine from the seat pocket.

  “Why haven’t we left yet?” I say, crossing and uncrossing my legs. “I can’t stand sitting here. I swear we were supposed to leave a half hour ago.” I want to get there in time to rehearse before the first round.

  In the seat behind me, one of the other girls, Emilia, asks a never-ending series of questions. “Ms. O’Krancy, will we have practice space? And will there be vegetarian food?” I see Shilo eyeing Murray, one of the two boys in our
group. He has his mandolin out and is quietly strumming, his dark hair falling over one eye.

  “I’m just glad I don’t have to sit next to my mom,” Shilo says, taking out a small mirror and checking out the latest orange streak in her hair. I like that my hair color almost matches the wood on my dad’s—my—fiddle.

  “Your mom’s not so bad,” I say.

  “That’s because she’s not your mom,” Shilo says. “Plus she likes you and doesn’t make you eat seaweed. Though I kind of like the seaweed. It’s salty.”

  “Yeah, well, at least she lets you choose your music,” I say. “My mom told me when she gave me my dad’s fiddle that I have to show her I’m serious about music or else she’ll cancel my private lessons.”

  “What?” Shilo yelps. “That’s completely insane. What are you going to do?”

  “I have to win the fiddle contest,” I say. “That should prove something. Even to her.”

  I check again to see if my mom has sent me a text. Nothing. Once we get to the festival, we’re not allowed to use cell phones.

  “Good morning, folks,” the pilot’s voice booms out on a scratchy loudspeaker. After he introduces himself, he gives us an update. Fog has delayed takeoff. “We hope to be in the air in approximately forty-five minutes. Thank you for your patience.”

  “Ughh! I am not patient,” I say.

  “What about the contest?” Shilo asks, turning to get Ms. O’Krancy’s attention. “Could we actually miss the first round?”

  “Oh, man,” I say, slumping down in my seat. “I sure hope not.”

  * * *

  Our plane finally lands in Seattle and we transfer to a minibus that will take us to the festival site. As we leave the city behind, it feels like the bus is moving so slowly we might as well be going backward. All I can think about is what will happen if I miss the fiddle contest. I imagine my mom calling Karen, my violin teacher, and canceling my lessons. Forever. Then signing me up for stupid group lessons. I’d be stuck with the kids who only want to try music for fun. I look out my window and see fields with rows and rows of vegetables.