I lean over the edge of the stage, and there it is on the ground, several feet away from the table.
“No,” I breathe. It can’t be. I hop down and pick it up. I turn it over, my heart thudding faster than our last reel. There’s a giant crack all the way down the back. My dad’s fiddle is ruined.
Thirteen
I wake the next morning to the sound of a slow, sad cello. I sit up and hug my legs. I’m alone in the yurt. My stomach grumbles to tell me it’s way past breakfast. Beside my bed lies my fiddle case with my cracked fiddle. Shilo won’t speak to me. I feel like a failure. I can’t even change a string, let alone play like a real Celtic musician.
I reach out and fumble in my case for the photo of my mom and dad playing music. Mom looks so happy in the photo, her face bright and fresh. I have so many questions. Why doesn’t she play the flute anymore? If Dad were still around, would he have come to the festival with me? Would Mom have joined us? Everything could have been so different.
“Argh,” I say out loud to no one. I dress quickly and then look out the window. All I can see is a big fat crow picking at a brown apple on the ground. No people. The cello drones on from another yurt. I’m allowed to go to workshops today. There’s a bluegrass jam that I really want to check out. But first I need to find Shilo.
I open the door. Outside, it’s just me and the crow. As I walk past, the crow looks up at me and caws loudly.
“Yeah, I imagine I’m making you mad too.” I say. “I’m good at that.”
I walk past the other yurts, their porches draped with towels and random clothes.
My thoughts are bouncing around like popcorn. Only Shilo can really understand how gutted I am about my fiddle. And right now she hates me because I got her in trouble. Being shut out by Shilo makes everything that’s happening even worse. I need to find a way to make things right between us again.
I see the huge wooden information board with the festival schedules and results tacked on it. Shilo was taking the Fabulous Flutes workshop before lunch, so I scan the board for the location and time. It ends at eleven thirty on the far side of the biggest meadow.
I veer across the meadow, my feet squelching in the damp grass. A hummingbird buzzes the wildflowers. I hear the beautiful high notes from the flutes floating above all the other sounds. As I get closer I see Shilo sitting in a chair at the front of an open-air tent, her legs crossed, feet bare.
I lean against a nearby stone wall and nest in between huge sunflowers to wait. My toe taps out the beat of the flute’s tune. What if Shilo already told Emilia about what I did? Emilia won’t stand up for me—she wants Shilo to be her best friend.
The workshop ends and I watch Shilo pack up her flute and start walking toward me. She’s smiling. But as soon as she sees me the smile vanishes.
“Hi,” I say quietly. She stops a few feet away, arms crossed. Her mouth is set. “How was your workshop?”
“You can’t pretend that nothing happened,” she says. “You got me in trouble.” Her voice trembles. “Obviously you only care about yourself.”
“That is not true,” I say. I don’t want to lose my best friend. I want us to keep playing music together. “I need to talk to you. I hate us being mad at each other.” But the words I’m sorry are still jammed down at the base of my throat.
Shilo bites her lip. “Okay, fine, let’s talk,” she says. “Let’s go this way. I have an idea.”
I feel my jaw unclench. I let her lead me past a greenhouse and over to a huge wooden swing set. We each jump on a swing and start pumping our legs. It’s silent except for the squeak of the metal hangers as we swing back and forth.
“The swings were always my favorite,” Shilo says. A good sign. She’s talking to me.
“What about the monkey bars?” I counter. “Remember how we used to climb on top of them so we could look down at the rest of the playground?”
She swings back and forth a few times before answering.
“I was looking up, Rose, not down.”
I swallow, considering what she means. “You think I think I’m better than everyone else,” I say. This is not where I wanted this conversation to go. I can feel my insides coiling up as I get ready to defend myself.
“Don’t act surprised,” Shilo says quietly. “You do like to be the leader. And sometimes you act like you can do whatever you want. But the other night you got me in trouble. My mom was sure I knew where you were, and she was really mad. You can’t do whatever you want and expect me to just follow along like an idiot.” Her quiet voice worries me. “You could at least say you’re sorry. I’m supposed to be your best friend.” Her voice cracks, and she won’t look at me.
I feel small and rotten for letting her down. We swing for a few minutes that feel like hours. I think back to when my dad died. How Shilo sat with me in my room for days, curled up on my carpet, listening to music. She never forced me to talk. I have to apologize.
“You’re right,” I hear myself say finally. “I’m sorry that I lied, got you to cover for me and then didn’t come back. I feel really terrible about getting you into trouble.”
Shilo leaps out of her swing and lands on the grass, taking a few big steps to steady herself. I do the same, flinging myself out of the swing. She wraps herself around me in a big Shilo bear hug.
“Forgiven,” she whispers. “I don’t want to fight. I want to have fun with you. But you had to say sorry. And you’d better not leave me out or get me in trouble again.”
I hug her back fiercely. “I won’t. I promise,” I say. “But tell me what I missed.”
We settle down again on our swings.
“Okay, well, I was really mad at you,” she says, leaning her body back so that her long hair brushes the ground as she swings low. “I was so excited about us hanging out together at this festival. But you took off with Liam. And then you showed up so late after the session. My mom was freaking out.”
“I know.” I lean back hard, pumping myself up higher. “I really am sorry.”
“It has been awful not being able to tell you everything that’s been going on,” Shilo says. “Like, yesterday I ran into Murray and we walked to a harmony workshop together.” I can see her face getting pink even as she swings by me. “It’s so cool that he plays so many instruments. And he’s so relaxed.”
I really want to ask if they went to Liam’s performance. Instead I say, “Did you make plans with him for later?” I let myself slowly glide to a stop.
“No,” she moans, her shoulders lurching forward along with her hair. “I should have tried, but honestly, I was worrying about you and couldn’t get the words out.”
“You’ll get another chance,” I say, feeling terrible again. “I’ll help you.”
“So what happened? Why did it take you so long to get back the other night?” Shilo asks.
“It was crazy,” I start, relieved to finally tell someone. “The room was packed with people, and I didn’t know most of the tunes. I tried to figure some out, but I was faking it most of the time. I felt really dumb.”
“There’s millions of tunes,” Shilo says. “You can’t know them all.”
She’s right. But I want to be the musician people notice, the one improvising and playing in a higher octave. Not the clumsy girl figuring out the notes and playing on open strings.
“I know,” I say, launching myself off the swing. “There’s so much I need to figure out today. But first, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving!”
Fourteen
Shilo and I eat lunch in the performers’ meal tent. I’m so hungry I barely taste the hummus, pita and carrots. Outside, the sky has turned gray.
“I need a plan fast,” I say as we take our dishes to the cleaning station, swirl them around in the hot, soapy water, then walk outside. “There are only two days left until the final round of the fiddle contest. I need to get my fiddle fixed, and we need to practice our tunes.” A drop of water hits my nose. Then another. People around us start scurryin
g.
“Let’s go,” Shilo says. “I don’t want my flute case to get wet.” Rain splatters down, soaking our hair and clothes. We run to our yurt and fling the door open. It smells like a hot, wet bus full of people.
“Since we’re stuck here, we might as well practice,” Shilo says, curling up on her bed after we’ve changed into dry clothes. She grabs her worn copy of the Irish music book that everyone uses, O’Neill’s Music of Ireland. “You want to be ready.”
Shilo’s words remind me that she didn’t make the final round. “Wait, you don’t need to stick with me,” I say. “You can go to another workshop or something. Find Murray.”
Shilo shrugs. “I like hanging out with you. It’s cozy in here—except for the smell.” She smiles.
I don’t know what I would have done if she was still mad at me. “I really have to get my fiddle fixed,” I say, tucking my bare feet under my sleeping bag. I picture the horrible crack in the fiddle. What if it’s never the same again?
“Even if there was a way, I really don’t think we can go out in this rain.” Shilo tucks her feet under the covers. Rain drums on the yurt wall. “What tunes are you doing in the contest?” she says, sitting up and flipping through the pages of the book.
“I’m not sure. What are the contest rules again?” I ask. I want to make sure I know exactly what to do for the contest. I can’t mess up. Again.
Shilo rummages through her backpack and pulls out the crumpled page from the registration package. “Here. Contestants will be asked to play three tunes in the final: a hoedown (breakdown, reel or hornpipe), a waltz and a tune of choice. Okay, I’d stick with Irish tunes. So pretty.”
I watch a moth fly frantically from light to light like it has no idea what to do or which way to go. I know how it feels. I wonder what tunes my dad would pick. Whenever I would play a new tune I’d learned from my teacher, he would pick up his fiddle—now my fiddle—and join in. He knew them all.
I realize I’m clenching my jaw so hard that my head hurts. “This is ridiculous. There’s no way I can get my fiddle repaired by tomorrow since we’re stuck here in a rainstorm.” I picture Liam showing up to the contest with his beautiful dark fiddle under his arm, his tunes all prepared and ready to go. Me with a crappy spare fiddle and unprepared because I can’t seem to focus.
Shilo nods. We both sit on her bed in silence for a minute, the only sound the slight buzz from the fluorescent lights. “I know you’re bummed. But for now, can’t we play some tunes? The spare fiddle might suck, but you don’t.” She looks over at me, a sad half smile on her face. I bite my lip so I don’t cry.
My thoughts race around and around. Only playing music will stop them. Even on the sucky might-as-well-be-plywood spare fiddle. “Let’s play,” I say.
I have just tuned up when Anna walks in.
“Mom.” Shilo looks startled to see her. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the festival store?”
“I found someone to take over for a few hours.” She sits down on her bed with a sigh and looks pointedly at me. “I came back to give Rose a message.”
I sit up straighter. Maybe she found a way to get my fiddle fixed.
“I left a message for your mom to let her know you broke curfew and we had to search for you. She just called back. She’s coming to the festival the day after tomorrow. That’s the earliest she can get away.”
“What? Why?” I imagine my mom arriving, her navy suit pressed, her hair sleek. “I know I let you down, but I’m sorry.”
Anna crosses her arms. “I know, but your mom just said she’s coming. You’ll have to talk to her.”
Hot tears form in my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away. “Fine,” I say. My mom will show up mad at me for breaking curfew. And then I picture the look of distaste on her face when she sees Dad’s fiddle, destroyed. I have to get his fiddle fixed before my mom arrives. And I have to win the fiddle contest. It’s the only way to show my mom I’m serious about music. That I’m good.
Fifteen
I wake to the shrieking of crows. Yurts are not soundproof.
“Argh,” Shilo moans. “What are they doing? It sounds like every crow in the area is having a full-on screaming match right above us.” She clutches her pillow over her head. Anna has already left for an early volunteer shift.
“It’s like the rain last night. Everything bad has to happen while we’re at this festival,” I say. “Of course crows are going to wake us up. Next, I’ll walk outside and probably get pooped on by a seagull.”
“And then all the outhouses will back up and we’ll have to do our business in the woods,” Shilo says from under her pillow.
“And the meal tent will serve that lentil stew from yesterday for every meal for the rest of the week, including breakfast.”
“Ewww!” Shilo squeals and pops out from under her pillow, smiling now. “Okay, that’s yucky. Makes the crows seem like a beautiful sound to wake up to.”
Our silly conversation makes me forget for a moment that today is the last day before the final contest round. My fiddle is cracked. Unplayable. My mom is on her way.
“Someone’s got to be able to repair my fiddle,” I say from under the covers. “It probably just needs some glue and varnish.”
“I think we should ask Murray for help,” Shilo says.
“You’re just saying that because you like him.”
“I do, but that’s not why,” she replies.
“Okay, why then?” I slowly sit up.
“His mom plays violin in the orchestra,” she says, brushing her long hair out as she talks. I watch, mesmerized, as she untangles a giant knot. I would never have the patience to look after such long hair. “He might know something about getting instruments repaired.”
Probably couldn’t hurt to get some advice. “Okay, let’s give it a try,” I say. “Do you happen to know where we might find Murray?” I’m teasing her, and she knows it.
“Yes, yes, I do,” Shilo says with a smile.
Outside, the air is cool, but last night’s clouds have vanished. We walk in silence through the maze of yurts. Performers are quietly waking up. The sinks next to the outhouses have a six-deep lineup of girls carrying their toiletry bags.
“Zombies in pajamas,” Shilo whispers to me. I don’t say anything. I am trying not to get my hopes up. She links her arm with mine. “Okay, it’s the last one on that row,” she says, pointing to a yurt. “There.”
I march up to the door and knock. Not a polite knock. More of a this-is-the-police-let-me-in type of knock. I turn around and see Shilo behind me, a nervous smile on her face. “You so like him,” I say and turn back around. The door opens.
Mark, one of the other fiddlers in our group, stands in front of us wearing a fleece onesie covered with blue penguins. Normally I’d comment, but there’s no time for that today.
“Hi,” he says. “What’s up?”
“We’re looking for Murray,” I say. “Is he here?”
“Hey, Rose.” Murray appears beside Mark. He’s dressed, at least, wearing plaid shorts and a Bob Marley T-shirt. He’s holding his mandolin. “What’s up? Oh, hey, Shilo. You guys want to do an early jam? I love it.” Murray has a wide grin. It’s hard not to smile back. But I’m on a mission.
“I’d love to jam—”
“My fiddle has a giant crack in it,” I say, cutting off Shilo. “I heard your mom plays violin in the orchestra. Can you help?” No time for long explanations.
Murray frowns. “Hmm. I mean, I can try, but I don’t really know much other than I heard there are a few good luthiers around.”
Why didn’t I think of this yesterday? With all the fiddlers here, there’s got to be a few repair experts at the festival.
“But you know what?” Murray adds. “You know that guy Liam?”
“Um, yeah,” I say.
“He definitely knows one of the luthiers. Yesterday he was telling me how she’s from his town and how she travels from festival to festival. I h
eard she’s really good, like practically a magician, you know with glue and stuff. Why don’t you ask him about her?”
“Do you know where he might be?” Magic is exactly what I need. “I have to talk to him right away. I have to get my fiddle fixed right away.” My words cartwheel out.
“Okay, then, let’s go.” Murray grabs his mandolin case and shuts the door behind him.
The three of us wind our way back through the yurt maze. “Wait,” I say. “Where exactly are we going?” It looks like we’re leaving the performers’ area. “Where is Liam? What’s your plan?”
“It’s all good,” Murray says. “Try to relax. I know exactly where his stuff is. He’s set up in the spectator area because he’s basically crashing the festival.”
We reach the edge of the tent city, the one we saw from the bus. All I can see are hundreds of tents, a sea of bright colors, all practically on top of each other. This will take forever.
“Come on,” Murray says. Shilo and I follow.
We step between tents, the tent nylon brushing against my bare legs. Some doors have been tied open and I want to look inside, but I don’t want to seem like a snoop. I see bare feet poking out of one tent, a few piles of dirty clothes, an empty guitar case.
We pass a cozy circle in the middle of a group of tents. I see campstoves perched on coolers, beat-up plastic bins and colorful blankets. A few girls older than me, wearing bandannas and long skirts, sit on the ground, drinking out of steel camping mugs, huge sunglasses partially covering their faces. They look so confident, so sure they are where they’re supposed to be. I try to look casual, like I know exactly where I’m going.
“See over there?” Murray points toward what looks like a huge spiderweb nestled in the trees beside the tents. “That’s the sticky tape web. Anyone can add to it.” As we walk by, a few people unroll white tape and wind it around the already huge web. In the middle of the web some guys are sleeping, knit caps and sunglasses on.
“Whoa!” says Shilo. “This is crazy. And so fun-looking. I wish we could stay here.”
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