Offbeat

by Megan Clendenan

  “People live here,” Shilo says, leaning over to see out the window. “See those little houses over there? Apparently they all face the moon and are shaped like tiny pyramids. And people only eat food that they grow here, and they do yoga all the time.”

  “I can’t believe they scheduled the first round for this afternoon,” I say. “Why not tomorrow morning? What if we miss it?” We bump along the road into thick forest, where the fir and cedar trees completely shade out the sun. I spot several VW vans parked in the trees and a few tents set up off the road. The forest opens up again to a clearing.

  “Look,” I say, pointing. The clearing is completely jammed with tents, like a tiny village. “I bet that’s where the spectators stay,” I add. “Performers must stay somewhere else.” I hope so anyway. It looks crowded to me. I can tell from the shocked look on Shilo’s face that she thinks the same.

  “Yeah, I don’t think my mom would ever agree to stay in one of those tents,” Shilo says. The bus keeps moving, and the forest closes in on us again. Then there’s another clearing, this one with a giant pyramid-shaped building made of tea-colored cedar in the center. The building is surrounded by dozens of tents, but not the kind you sleep in. They’re more like the kind you see at fairs, with tables under the canvas. A row of rainbow-colored awnings forms a path from the parking area to the tents.

  “All right, everyone, listen up.” Ms. O’Krancy stands. “We made it! Now we need to check in and get our performer badges. Don’t lose them. Please remember you may circulate through the festival during the day and after dinner, but your curfew is nine o’clock. If you’ve signed up for the fiddle contest, grab your instrument and we’ll head over as soon as you have your badge. It starts soon, but if you hurry you should still have a chance to compete.”

  “Look at that guy!” Shilo whispers loudly and points. I push her arm down and try to look casually where she pointed. A guy with long dark hair is weaving through the crowd. He’s carrying a battered fiddle case on his back. He’s wearing one of those slouchy knit caps even though it’s summer. He walks like he knows exactly where he’s going.

  Outside the bus the dry June heat seeps into my skin. Shilo and I stick close to each other in the crowd. Everyone seems to be hugging each other. There are instrument cases everywhere, piled high on the ground with backpacks and taped-together suitcases. Tents stretch out in all directions, with all sorts of food on offer—donairs, fish tacos and fruit smoothies. A whole tent is devoted to mandolins. One of the tents has a giant silver coffee urn and a big sign that says Bring your own mug. Pay what you can.

  “That’s where we go.” Ms. O’Krancy points toward a tent where there is a long line of people with papers in hand. I spot a group of kids sitting in a drum circle off to one side. I grab Shilo’s hand and try not to look like a total staring idiot.

  “Can you believe we’re here?” she asks.

  “We are totally ready to be here,” I say. “But this lineup is going to drive me crazy.”

  “There he is again.” Shilo nudges me and gestures with her head. It’s the cute guy with the cap. “Are you going to try to talk to him?”

  We watch him stroll up to the front of the line and give a high five to a young girl with a tiny fiddle case. She looks up at him like he’s a rock star. He smiles and says something that makes her laugh.

  “What is he doing?” I say as the girl lets him in line. I should have thought of doing that.

  After what feels like hours, Shilo and I finally reach the front of the registration line. The guy in the cap has disappeared.

  “Welcome!” A man and woman sit at a table stacked with a jumble of colored paper.

  “Okay, you two are official performers, so here are your backstage passes,” says the man. He hands us each a big laminated badge on a string. I take a quick peek. There’s my name: Rose Callaghan.

  “Do we still have time to make it to the fiddle contest?” I ask. My words tumble out so fast I sound like a crazed cartoon character.

  “Well, it’s already started, but I’m not really sure how far along they are,” says the woman. “It’s being held at the Garden Stage. To get there you follow the path behind us.” She stands up in what feels like slow motion, turns around and points toward a forest trail. “Now here’s your map, your meal tickets and your yurt assignment. Oh, and some cookie vouchers! Don’t lose those. Any other questions?”

  I couldn't care less about cookies right now. I grab the pile of paper from her hand.

  “Thank you so much. No questions.” I smile sweetly, and Shilo and I bolt toward the trail.

  Four

  I feel like I do just before I walk onstage to perform. Only right now I’m not sure where the stage is or whether I’ll be too late. I check the map.

  “Okay, here.” I point. “We walk down this trail, like the woman said, past the Main Stage and then down another forest path to the Garden Stage. Let’s go.”

  I crumple the map into my pocket and start speed-walking the trail. Shilo races to catch up, and we link arms like we always do.

  As we approach the Main Stage area, the crowds thicken and the sounds of the festival stream right around me. The bass pounds through every bone. The high pitch of a flute pushes me forward. I’m glad for Shilo’s arm as we are jostled between dancing kids with painted faces, some dressed in fairy clothes.

  “Whoa.” Shilo stops. “Check it out. It’s Lunar! This must be their first performance.”

  On the Main Stage, framed by speakers and lights, the band is performing its latest big hit, the sound filling the sky.

  “Wow, look how they move around on the stage,” I say. “So not like us when we perform. These guys look like they’re having fun.”

  The banjo player sidles up next to one of the fiddlers and gently hip-checks her. She laughs. I imagine myself right in that moment. Wishing we could listen and watch, I drag Shilo along.

  A tune starts playing in my head, the familiar rhythm lifting me lightly through the crowd—the tune I hope will bring the judges to their feet and make them forget the last player. Ahead I can see a big sign with an arrow that says Garden Stage.

  Shilo and I weave through a tangled mess of power cords to the mossy forest trail rimmed by giant evergreens. As we walk, the Main Stage sounds begin to fade. I sneak a peek behind me. No one.

  “Let’s run,” I say. It’s so quiet in the trees that all I hear is my breath and my feet crunching the gravel on the path. But then I hear, quietly at first, the sounds of a fiddle rocketing through the “Tam Lin” reel, a tune that makes you want to dance. Or fight. It’s my tune. I stop running to listen. Each note is clear and perfect.

  We reach a clearing full of people sprawled about on the grass. A small stage, built around the trees, seems like part of the forest. The guy we saw in the lineup is on the stage, playing my tune. I drop my fiddle case off my back with a thump.

  “That’s the one I was going to do,” I hiss to Shilo.

  He finishes the last note with a jump. The audience claps, and a few people even hoot. Then he bows so deep he almost seems to be mocking the crowd. His wavy dark hair just grazes his shoulders and swishes back and forth as he bows.

  He walks to the edge of the stage, jumps off easily and keeps walking. I try not to stare as he joins a small group of musicians who all look older than him.

  “He was pretty good,” Shilo says. “You’ll just have to come up with another tune. You’re good at that.”

  I spot a table that looks official and march over.

  “Hi,” I say to a guy relaxing in a chair. “Can I still enter the contest?” My hands start to shake. The contest is the only plan I’ve got to show my mom how serious I am.

  “Hi. Well, let’s see. The cutoff for checking in was about fifteen minutes ago,” he says. “But there’s no one who really minds, you know what I mean?” I stare at him. I don’t really know what he means. I wish Ms. O’Krancy were here to help. He looks at me. “Ah, why not? What’s your
name? I’ll check the list.”

  “Rose Callaghan,” I say. “And check for Shilo Scott as well.” I watch as he scrolls down the list with one finger, moving about as fast as an inchworm. Out of the corner of my eye I see Shilo hovering.

  “Murray’s just about to go on!” she says. “How the heck did he get here so fast?”

  We both turn to see Murray stepping onto the stage. He introduces himself, puts his fiddle under his chin and starts playing. He sounds pretty good. He plays “St. Anne’s Reel,” a really fast tune I wish I could choose.

  I turn back to the desk. The registration guy is still searching for my name, flipping papers and making a giant mess of his table. I stuff my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. I need to win this contest. But to win I need to actually be in the contest.

  “Here we go! I found both of you,” he says. “You can go stand in line, stage left. You’ll find out tomorrow who made the top twenty. And don’t forget to cast your vote for People’s Choice.” He points to a big red box on the table with a pile of blank papers next to it.

  Murray finishes up his tune. I leave Shilo clapping and walk straight to stage left. There are only a few performers in line to compete. I look out at the crowd. It’s way bigger than I expected.

  The next performer in line is struggling to tune her fiddle. She looks at me, then quickly focuses again on her tuning, biting her bottom lip. I feel as scared as she looks. I close my eyes and try to think of the perfect tune. I don’t want to do one that was just played.

  The girl in front of me heads onstage. I have only a few minutes left. Shilo is next in line behind me. The fiddler onstage drones out the ending to a slow tune, one that may have actually been written for a funeral. I hear some quiet, polite clapping. Then it’s my turn. I walk up the stairs.

  “I’m Rose Callaghan,” I say as soon as I reach the microphone. I put on my best performance smile.

  No hesitation. That’s what my dad used to say. Thinking of my dad makes me realize I know just what to play. I lift my bow and start to fiddle. The notes of “Drowsy Maggie” storm out of my instrument. I tap my toe and move from side to side to feel the rhythm. The reel picks up speed like a downhill skier, snow flying, wind gusting. I can feel my bow arm aching to keep up. I forget the rush to get here. I forget the guy in the cap who played my tune. I just feel my fiddle under my chin, the warm sounds and vibrations flowing through me.

  Five

  After the contest Shilo and I sit on the grass next to the stage. The rush I got while I was performing has faded, and now all I can think about is whether I played the high B notes in tune. I was lucky I was able to come up with an alternative at the last second. I should have had more tunes in mind. It was dumb to be unprepared.

  “You sounded good. You’ll probably make it to the final round,” Shilo says. “At least you didn’t forget to play the second half of your tune, like I did. I don’t think I have a chance.”

  “Hey.” It’s the guy in the cap. I sit up a bit straighter. “Nice tune. Tough one.”

  “Yours was also a tough one,” I say.

  “Yep,” he says with a shrug. He slings his fiddle case onto his back and motions toward the path. “I’m Liam. You planning on grabbing some food at the dinner tent?”

  “Uh, yeah, I was just about to head over there.”

  “Want some company?”

  “Sure.” I take my time putting my fiddle away so I don’t seem flustered. I glance up and see him tapping a foot and swaying a bit to some private music in his head. I do that all the time too.

  “I’m going to go see if I can find Murray,” Shilo says to me, smiling. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

  I grin back at her and then join Liam on the path. Close up he smells like spearmint.

  “So you’re Rose.”

  “Yep, I’m Rose. Am I wearing a name tag?”

  “No,” he says, laughing. He has a good smile. “I heard you introduce yourself onstage.”

  Okay. Right. He was listening.

  “I love that tune you did,” Liam says as we walk. “I wonder why they called it ‘Drowsy Maggie’ when it’s so upbeat. No way you could sleep through that tune.”

  “Yeah, I like playing that one,” I say. “I like all the string crossings.”

  “Do you remember when you first started playing, how it felt kind of awkward? My brain felt pulled in all directions, and my fingers wouldn’t cooperate.” He reaches up and adjusts his knitted cap. His jeans are faded, and the hole in the knee looks real, not like he bought preripped jeans.

  “I remember wanting to play like my dad,” I say. “It looked like he wasn’t even thinking. But I have to work hard to stay in tune, keep my bowing smooth and keep my brain from overheating.”

  “Totally—me too. Then one day I stopped thinking and just played.” Liam gestures wildly with his hands, playing air violin. “Now I’m free. When I play the rest of the world disappears.”

  “When did you start playing?” I ask, slowing my steps so we can talk as long as possible.

  “When I was a kid. Everyone in my family plays an instrument. It’s just what you do. Fiddles were always hanging about, so that’s where I started,” Liam says. “Sounds like you lucked out with a dad who played too.”

  The thought of my dad makes my brain lurch to a stop, and I can’t think of anything to say. We walk in silence. I focus on placing my feet over the roots and rocks so I don’t fall flat on my face. Liam softly sings a tune. I can’t help but smile.

  “Have you ever been to a real session?” he asks.

  “I play all the time with my group,” I reply.

  “Yeah, but that’s an organized group with a teacher telling you what and how to play.” Liam adjusts his cap. “A session is where everyone sits in a circle, someone starts a tune and everyone who can or wants to plays. Some people do harmonies, some do melodies. There’s lots of different instruments. It’s real and in the moment. It’s what Celtic music is based on.” He pauses and turns to me. “I’m going to a late-night session tomorrow night.”

  I want to go. I have to go. But I don’t want to act completely desperate. The sun has dipped low, and a hazy gold light shines through the trees. The evening suddenly feels full of possibility.

  “How do you get invited?” I ask, trying to sound like I’m only considering.

  “No invitation needed—it’s open to all musicians. Are you a musician?” He looks at me and grins.

  “Yeah, I’m a musician,” I say. But my face flushes. I so want to be a real musician. “I just meant how did you hear about it?”

  “I went to one on the very first night I arrived. Really cool. And you’d be surprised how much you’ll learn from some of the old players if you just listen and don’t play super loud,” Liam says.

  It seriously bugs me that he thinks he knows how I’ll act. He just met me. And it bugs me even more because I know I probably would play loud. I like being heard.

  As we approach the giant white meal tent, I can hear the sounds of dinner getting under way. People are chatting, and plates and cutlery clink.

  I stop and turn to Liam. “Where do we meet?” I say.

  He looks right at me. He has warm brown eyes.

  “Nine o’clock. You see that big log right over there?” He nods toward a fallen tree covered with green moss and ferns. “I’ll meet you just behind that.”

  “Okay, cool,” I say, even though I’m thinking nine is pretty late.

  Six

  “Come on, I want to get a good spot.” I steer Shilo through the Marketplace and toward our first music workshop. People dash in all directions. A woman with a guitar on her back and a baby on her front marches by me carrying a coffee and a waffle.

  The workshop this morning is with one of my music idols, Robin Ross, a famous fiddler from Louisiana. Last week I spent a whole evening surfing around her website. She has a few albums, she headlines festivals, she teaches, she’s famous. She’s definitely ser
ious about music. But not classical music.

  “Over there—I see it.” We head toward a squat wooden building with a big sign saying Robin Ross—Cajun Fiddle. I hope we get a spot right at the front.

  We scoot inside a large room with high, beamed ceilings. Sunlight pours through the windows.

  “Come on in!” A woman wearing a snug orange sleeveless dress with funky-looking boots sits in a circle of mostly empty chairs. Her hair is in perfect ringlets. “Take a seat wherever you like.” Her voice sounds like there’s no hurry. “I’ve got some great tunes lined up for us to learn together.”

  I want to ask Robin so many questions about her music, her life, everything. Instead I say nothing. I feel like the words are stacked so tightly in my throat they can’t escape.

  We unpack and choose seats close to Robin. The circle fills quickly, and people start putting out a second circle of chairs behind the first one.

  “You were right—I’m glad we got here early so we could get good seats,” Shilo whispers as everyone gets settled. One woman starts to set up a music stand in front of her chair.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Robin says. “Cajun music is an oral tradition—that means we learn by ear, and we don’t use sheet music.” The woman gets a bit red in the face but puts her stand away.

  “All right, everyone, let’s get started. I am Robin Ross. Welcome to my Cajun fiddle workshop. Some of you may know me, some of you may not.” She smiles as she talks, and her ringlets bounce about. I sit frozen in my chair. I don’t want to miss a word. “What I do know is that y’all are here so I can share some great tunes and fun facts—should we jump right in?”

  “Woot!” Shilo calls out.

  “Let’s play!” says a voice just behind my chair. I swivel around to look. It’s Liam. He’s sprawled on his chair, a big smile on his face. I smile at him and then quickly twist back to face Robin. I glance at Shilo, and she’s giving me a raised eyebrow. I try to ignore both of them and focus on Robin—I need to figure out how she became so successful. And I need her to recognize me as a promising player.