Offbeat

by Megan Clendenan

How could he forget to mention that? “Oh,” I say. And then after a beat I add, “That’s great!” Actually, I’m not sure how I feel. I am happy for him, but I wanted to win.

  “Yeah, it will be great to have a few friendly faces in the audience. If you can, come by and listen.” He puts his fiddle back in his case. “Oh, and I wanted to ask—”

  I have a crazy thought that he’s going to ask me to do a duet with him as part of his performance. Maybe we could do “Skye Boat,” just like we did now.

  “—are you still game for the session tonight?”

  “Definitely.” I slowly put my own fiddle away. I’m glad Liam couldn’t hear my dumb thoughts.

  “Great.” Liam heads down the path, then turns and calls out, “Thanks, Rose. This was a good day.”

  Nine

  The evening drags on. Shilo and I eat dinner in the food tent. I wonder how Liam’s performance prep is going. “I can’t believe how long it took him to tell me he won the People’s Choice. No way I could have waited all day,” I say.

  “You definitely could not have kept that secret,” Shilo says, laughing. I’m still imagining Liam and me playing together. Like the picture on the festival website.

  “Hi, girls.” A voice shatters my duet dream. Shilo’s mom approaches our table. “I wanted to let you know that I’m volunteering at the variety show this evening. I won’t be back until late, so make sure you get to bed early tonight, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, she takes off.

  I think about Liam’s invitation and our plan to meet at nine. Maybe the variety show will go later than the session. But what if Anna comes home early and I’m not there? I need Shilo’s help.

  After dinner, on our way to group rehearsal, I work up the nerve to talk to her about it. “I have a big favor to ask of you,” I say. “I need to stay out late tonight.”

  Shilo gives me a bug-eyed look before she answers. “Why? Where are you going?”

  “Liam asked me to go to a session with him,” I say. “That’s when musicians get together to play tunes.”

  “Oh!” Shilo says.

  “I would invite you as well, but how can we both go?” I say. “It starts after curfew.” I know that sounds lame.

  “What? You’re going to get in trouble,” she says.

  “Not if you cover for me,” I say. If Shilo agrees, maybe one day I can return the favor. “We could come up with something really good. Then, if your mom does find out, she won’t even know you were covering for me. Please!”

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “But don’t get caught.”

  “Do you think your mom would believe I was sick and went to the first-aid tent after rehearsal?”

  “I don’t know,” Shilo says. “You never get sick. Maybe if she gets home before you do I’ll tell her we were late coming back from rehearsal and you were right behind me. You stopped to talk to someone you met at our workshop. Maybe Robin Ross. But you should only stay a little while. Like half an hour.”

  “Thanks! You are the best,” I say, giving her a hug.

  Our two-hour rehearsal feels more like a week-long math class. Finally we finish, and I run ahead of everyone back to my yurt. I peer once into the tiny, dirty mirror above the small table between our beds. In this heat my head is a frizzy mess. I twist and scoop my hair into a half ponytail. It will have to do.

  As I make my way to the meeting spot, daylight fades into inky dusk. The path feels deserted. The trees start to look like dark hands about to reach out and grab me. I stumble on a root. I cry out, then keep going at a slower pace. I don’t know what time it is. I hope he’ll wait for me.

  Ten

  I am relieved to see Liam sitting on the log, strumming his fiddle.

  “I knew you’d come,” he says with a smile. He gets up and we walk to a round, white canvas building that looks like it has a tree growing out of the roof. Glass front doors and a circle of windows flood warm light into the dark night.

  “Will there be room for us?” I ask, then wish I hadn’t. Probably a dumb question.

  “Sure,” Liam answers. “Musicians never get turned away from a session. We just make room.” He bounds up the three stairs and pushes open the doors without knocking. I’m happy to let him go first. As I enter, I see worn wooden floors covered with black instrument cases. In the middle of the room a giant tree trunk, bark grizzled and worn, reaches up and through the roof.

  Musicians sit in a circle of wooden chairs. Most hold fiddles, but I also see three guitars, a ukulele and a couple of flutes. Two cello players sit next to each other, talking excitedly. A girl about my age with long blond hair and glasses tunes a harp in the corner. I spot a few empty chairs and want to grab two of them right away so Liam and I can sit next to each other.

  “Liam! You brought a friend!” A girl with short spiky hair, holding an Irish drum, waves at us.

  “Hi, Sara. Rose, this is Sara. She’s always trying to push the fiddles faster with her drumbeats,” Liam says, smiling. “She thinks we’re all too slow. Don’t worry—Rose knows how to keep the pace moving. You should have seen her tearing up the stage yesterday with ‘Drowsy Maggie.’” I smile. Liam’s comment brings back some of the warmth I felt as I played the reel.

  “Oh yeah?” Sara says. “Welcome, Rose.” Sara seems so confident, even though she’s not much older than me.

  “Thank you,” I squeak, trying to reclaim my lost voice. I take my fiddle out and tuck it under my right arm. In such a crowded space, I’m terrified it will get damaged if I put it down.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s get started,” Sara calls out above all the chatter and random notes. “People will keep trickling in, but let’s play. Why don’t we start with ‘Mairi’s Wedding’ to loosen up?”

  Liam and I stand behind the circle of chairs. We missed out on grabbing seats.

  “Do you know the tune?” I ask Liam, my voice low. No one has music stands.

  He taps his foot. “Yep, it’s a standard. I bet you’ve played this one even if you don’t know it by name.”

  “Sure, yeah,” I say, trying to sound confident. I’ll figure it out. I’ll tear it up.

  “Okay, it’s in the key of D,” Sara calls out, tapping her drum in a steady beat. “I’ll give you one bar to start. Try to keep up as best you can.”

  My brain runs through all the tunes we’ve learned in the Celtic group. Maybe I do know this one. I place my bow on my D string and hope that’s where it starts.

  “One, two, three, four,” Sara calls out. The room erupts in sound as we rip through the first few bars of music. I don’t recognize the tune, but I like it. It’s cheerful and up-tempo.

  One of the best skills my classical violin teacher has taught me is the art of the fake. She said all musicians do it sometimes. There is no shame, she insists. I move my bow back and forth across my open D string. I try to mimic the fingering of the fiddler seated in front of me.

  I look over at Liam. He’s bobbing his head and swaying from side to side. I can hear him loud and clear. I hope he doesn’t notice that at this moment I’m a total faker. I watch his fingers as we move into the second time through the tune. Folk tunes are short and are usually played at least three times through, often more. The second time around I catch a few riffs and manage to play along. I feel awkward, but I keep my foot tapping. I can’t quite put together some of the phrases, so it all feels separate to me, not quite right.

  The second half of the tune goes to the E string, and this time I catch a section of the melody. I feel part of the group for a few moments. Then I’m lost again. But by the third time through, the tune starts to click, and my fingers reach for the notes before my brain can overthink.

  “Let’s pick up the pace for the last time through!” Sara yells above the music. Around me the room hums and moves. Sara’s drum and the deep cello bass line drive the fiddles forward, urging and pushing, like there’s a race somewhere or a party to get to. The melody line jumps above the harmony, wanting to be noticed.

 
; I try to keep up, but I haven’t quite got the tune and fall back to faking. I keep my face composed and move my fingers and bow to match people, but I’m all wrong and I hope Liam doesn’t notice.

  “Awesome, hey?” says Liam once the tune is over.

  Sara announces the next tune. I don’t know it either, so I’m back to faking. Liam looks so relaxed. So does everyone else. I wish I could have had a set list. And I wish I had a watch so I could keep an eye on the time. I don’t know how late Shilo’s mom will stay out. I’m jammed into the circle, with another line of fiddle players standing behind me. We start yet another tune I don’t know. I’m going to be in big trouble.

  Eleven

  Moonlight guides me along the dark path. Liam was chatting to Sara after the session ended, and I didn’t want to stick around. When I reach the yurt I share with Shilo and Anna, it’s all lit up. Through the window, I can see Anna pacing.

  “Uh-oh,” I mutter. Maybe I can say I got lost in the woods. I take a deep breath, walk up the stair onto our yurt platform and grab the worn wooden handle. I pause for a second before I push it open.

  “Thank goodness!” Anna cries. I squint in the bright light. Anna rushes over and wraps herself around me. Over her shoulder I can see Shilo on her camp bed, her head propped up on an elbow. She has a weird look on her face.

  “I was so worried,” Anna says, squeezing me. I feel a bit light-headed from her hug and wish I could sit down. She backs away, drops into the one battered wooden chair we have and flicks her sandals off. “I have the whole festival security team out looking for you.”

  I look over at Shilo for some backup, but now she’s staring up at some really exciting spot on the ceiling.

  “Sorry, I ran into Robin Ross after our rehearsal, and then after that I guess I wasn’t paying attention to the time…” I walk over to my own bed, drop my fiddle case, pop my shoes off and curl my legs up. Nothing I can think of will work. Fell in a creek? Not wet. Witnessed a heart attack and had to run for medical assistance? Got lost? They all sound ridiculous.

  “Rose.” Anna interrupts my thoughts. She is massaging her temples, her head bent forward. “You’ve been missing for more than two hours.” She looks at me. “I am willing to listen if you want to tell me the truth about where you’ve been.”

  The silence lasts for what seems like forever. Shilo won’t even look at me. Anna has dropped her head and is massaging her temples again.

  “Okay, this is the truth. I heard about a Celtic music session happening after our rehearsal,” I say. No need to mention Liam. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t ask you because you were busy volunteering.” I feel a bit bad as soon as I say this, but I was scrambling. “I thought I would only be a little while.” I shift a bit on my bed, and it creaks. I feel cornered in this silent room.

  “I saw you tonight at the meal tent. You could have asked me then, although I still would have said no. The fact is, you broke curfew, so as your official chaperone I have to play by Ms. O’Krancy’s rules. So tomorrow you will not participate in any performances or workshops. And you are banned from all parts of the festival except the yurt, the outhouses and the meal tent.” She sighs loudly and shakes her head. “I am sorry to have to do this. I know how much being here means to you. But you should have thought of the consequences before breaking the rules.”

  “But our group performance is tomorrow night!” I say. “Please, please, please let me do the performance. I’ve been working for two years for this. I’ll gladly miss everything else tomorrow.” I can’t believe this is happening. My light-headed feeling isn’t going away.

  Anna looks sad. “You are definitely not attending any workshops or any other part of the festival tomorrow.” She pauses. “But I will talk to Ms. O’Krancy about the evening performance, as I don’t want your behavior to affect your entire group. No promises. She may very well ship you right home.”

  Anna stands up and slides her sandals on. “I have to go talk to security and let them know you’ve shown up. Get ready for bed. It’s almost midnight.” She heads out, the door shutting behind her with a bang.

  I exhale and look over at Shilo. “Ugh, this sucks. Sorry I took so long. But it was hard to leave—I was all jammed in.”

  Shilo flips around on her bed so she’s facing away from me and pulls her covers up.

  “Shilo, what’s up?” I know she’s mad, but I need someone to talk to.

  Shilo reaches out and flips off the only overhead light. I’m left sitting in the dark.

  I pull my own covers up, not bothering with pajamas. In the dark and the silence, the tears come. I let them run down my cheeks and try not to sniffle. I hate myself for getting Shilo in trouble. What will my mom do when she hears how I screwed up?

  I close my eyes and think back to all the faking I did tonight. I never realized how hard it is to learn tunes on the spot. My dad did it all the time and made it look so easy. What if I’m really not good enough to become a professional musician? Then what?

  Twelve

  I almost miss out on the performance. I sit around by myself all day, banned from everything. Including watching Liam play his People’s Choice performance at the Marketplace stage. If only I had made it back before Anna did. If only I had just asked Anna if I could go to the session. Maybe she would have said yes. Then instead of being stuck here, I’d be watching Liam play. To distract myself, I practice the Cajun tune Robin Ross taught us yesterday. I play until my fingers cramp, but I still can’t remember the whole melody.

  It isn’t until after dinner that Ms. O’Krancy decides to let me join the performance, but only for the good of the group. Anna called my mom but didn’t get hold of her.

  Now our fiddle group stands on the stage built into the trees. The audience sits below us on the grass. We are lit by real stage lights. I can feel the energy and warmth of the audience being drawn into our tunes. Feet stomp, and hands clap.

  Our tunes are a part of me, as much as my fingers, my heart. My feet tap on the rough wooden floor of the stage. Each note flows crisp and bright from my dad’s fiddle. I concentrate on my bow strokes, flowing some notes together with long slurs. Other times my bow attacks the strings. Shilo is with me on every note, every bow stroke. We imagined this night so many times. If only she was talking to me. I can feel her silence.

  My hands start to shake as I lose focus, thinking about how I messed up last night. My bow starts to quiver on the string. I press the bow too hard, and my notes come out biting and creaky. I miss a count and am offbeat for a bar. I start to panic and then cringe as my pinky finger comes short for a high note and I’m out of tune, like a little kid. I try to keep breathing normally. I can’t mess this up.

  We finish our set of three jigs. Ms. O’Krancy, accompanying us on the guitar, starts a blistering fast reel. She used to tour the country with a folk band so knows how to get a crowd going. I shut my eyes for just one second to feel my fiddle vibrating in my hands and hear a snap!

  My A string has broken. It’s ridiculous to try to play without it. But I don’t want to embarrass myself, not now. I pretend to play, but heat rises to my face. More faking. Just like at the session.

  The last tune of the set feels like it’s happening in slow motion. My ears are probably the color of bright red apples. Finally it ends. I bow with shame. I show my fiddle to Ms. O’Krancy and then slink off the stage to the storage area near the back.

  I don’t want to miss more than one set. I race to the table with the instrument cases, fling my case open and grab the extra strings I keep in the top pocket. I can hear stomping onstage as the group starts another set of reels. I sit down and place my fiddle between my legs, untwist the shards of the broken string and start winding the new string on the scroll.

  I’m winding too fast, and the string refuses to lie flat. I hear Shilo start her flute solo. I have less than one minute to make it back onstage for the final set. What am I going to do? I glance up and see our group’s spare fiddle. I hate the spare fiddle. It’
s practically made of plywood. I want to play my dad’s fiddle. But then I imagine the group taking the final bow without me. I put my fiddle on top of a pile of cases and grab the spare fiddle. The wood feels cold.

  As I walk back out onstage, Shilo is just finishing her solo on the Irish flute. The audience is silent. The high melody rings through the night, filling the forest and floating up to the sky. I tiptoe through the group to my place in the front. The stage lights almost blind me. I turn to watch Shilo. Her eyes are closed while she plays. I know she is nervous. I smooth my hand along the spare fiddle. It feels rough compared to mine. Ms. O’Krancy signals to us to get ready as Shilo plays her last note, long and sweet.

  On the first note of the reel, I cringe. It sounds like I’m playing through an ancient record player, all static and noise. I push harder on the strings, hoping my energy will somehow bring beautiful sound to the fiddle. No luck. And then we’re done. I grab Shilo’s hand on one side of me and Murray’s on the other, and we bow together, all of us. We stand up straight again and all file off the stage to the back.

  “Nice solo, Shilo!” Emilia runs up and hugs Shilo. I want to say the same, do the same. I wanted to give Shilo the first hug.

  “Rose, what happened to your fiddle?” Emilia asks.

  “String broke,” I say. “No big deal. I grabbed the spare fiddle because I was having trouble with the new A string. I’m going to go fix it now.” I walk over to where I left my fiddle. It’s not there.

  “Hey, has anyone seen my fiddle?” Everyone is busy reliving the performance, note by note. “I thought I left it sitting on top of the cases on the table.”

  “Well, that was dumb,” Emilia says. “That’s not a safe place to leave it.”

  “I was kind of in a rush,” I say, my cheeks hot. “You needed me out there. You can barely keep up.”

  “Okay, girls, that’s enough.” Ms. O’Krancy steps in between us. “Rose, are you sure that’s where you left it? Take a look around.”