Offbeat
Page 6
I’m thinking the same thing. But I also like my privacy. Here, it looks like you couldn’t sneeze in your tent without everyone knowing.
“It does smell a bit though,” I say. Even in the fresh air on this sunny day, I catch a whiff of stinky feet.
“Wait until we pass the outhouses,” Murray says with a grin. “You don’t need a map to find them, just your nose. They are already starting to overflow.”
“Okay, okay, we get it,” I say, but I can’t help smiling. “Where’s Liam’s tent? And how can you possibly find it?”
“All the tents kind of look the same,” Shilo says. “It’s like we’re lost in a never-ending smelly tent world.”
“Well, Liam doesn’t have a tent,” Murray says. “He has a little different setup.”
I’m curious. How does Murray know so much about Liam when I’m the one who hung out with him for practically a whole day?
“Wait until you see it. It’s kind of awesome,” Murray says, laughing. “That way,” he adds, moving toward yet another cluster of tents. This one is centered around a small wooden cart like the ones that might sell popcorn at a fair. “I remember this food stand. He’s near here.”
I look around and spot what looks like a giant lime-green sock with a zipper.
“That’s Liam’s,” Murray says, walking straight up to the sock. “Cool, eh? Kind of a cross between a sleeping bag and a mini tent.” He peers in through the mesh window “Looks like he’s not home.”
“Not exactly a surprise,” I say. “It’s tiny. I’d go nuts staying in there for long.” I feel a strange mix of relief and disappointment that Liam is not here.
“I think it’s kind of cute,” says Shilo, walking over to peek through the mesh. “Like his own mini world.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
I whirl around and there’s Liam, a thermos mug in one hand, a granola bar in the other. “I waved at you guys from the lineup, but you didn’t see me. Didn’t want to lose my place in the line.”
“I love your mini tent,” Shilo says.
“Thanks—”
“My fiddle got dropped the other night and there’s a huge crack in it,” I say, unzipping my case and gently pulling out my fiddle. I can barely stand to look at it.
“Man, that sucks,” Liam says, reaching out to run his fingers along the crack.
“Murray says you know a luthier here. A good one,” I say.
“Oh yeah, Grace. She’s awesome. I’ve known her for years. I spent part of yesterday helping her out.”
“Can she fix my fiddle? Like, right now?” I ask. What if I have to play on the spare fiddle? How can I possibly do my best on that thing?
“Sure, why not?” Liam says without hesitation. “I’ve got my breakfast. Let’s go.”
Sixteen
The four of us walk to Grace’s tent without talking, dodging festivalgoers like we’re in a video game. I am thinking about how long glue takes to dry.
“I’ll wait outside.” Shilo plunks down on some grass near the tent, then pulls her flute from its case. “I will entertain myself and others.”
“I’ll stay too,” Murray says. Shilo looks like she just won a prize.
The luthier’s tent is filled with fiddles, hanging on hooks from the ceiling and the walls. I reach up and gently touch a beautiful dark fiddle. Its striped pattern reminds me of flames. I rock the fiddle gently from side to side, allowing the sun to catch the fiery lines. The earthy smell of wood mingles with a slight chalky taste in the air from all the rosin. I could bottle all my years of playing into that smell, like a perfume.
“Liam?” A woman’s voice pulls me into the moment. “You’re back?” A woman with long gray hair and a friendly face greets us. “I could use all the help I can get. Most kids seem to want to volunteer for something near the Main Stage or backstage with the performers.”
“Hi, Grace,” Liam says with a smile. “This is my friend Rose.”
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello, Rose, welcome to my…workshop!” Grace says with a laugh.
“It was fun hanging out here yesterday. And maybe we can both help out for a bit today,” Liam says. “But I was also wondering if we could show you Rose’s fiddle. It’s got a bit of an issue.”
A bit of an issue? It’s like an earthquake rocked through it. I feel my neck tense. Will this work?
“Of course,” Grace says. “I’m working on a rush restoration right now and could really use some extra hands. Liam, maybe you can deal with any customers that come by looking for strings or things like that. Here’s the cash box.” She hands him a plain metal box. “Prices are marked. Rose, why don’t you come on over here with your fiddle?”
“Okay,” I say. Grace seems familiar in some way, and I feel drawn to her.
She sits down at a long wooden table covered with strange-looking tools of all shapes and sizes, a mason jar of paintbrushes, and pieces of wood stacked at one end. Two bright lamps shine their light on a fiddle in the center. It looks destroyed. My face must show my shock.
“Looks worse than it is,” Grace says with a small laugh. “But have no fear. I can get this fiddle back to making beautiful sounds.”
She adjusts her beat-up wooden stool and leans forward over the fiddle, which is in two completely separate pieces.
“What happened to it?” The smell of fresh wood shavings draws me forward to take a closer look. I catch a whiff of something chemical but not overpowering.
“Here.” Grace pats the stool next to her. “This is a performer’s fiddle. It bounced out of the case and down onto the pavement when it was being unloaded from their band van.”
“Ouch,” I say, leaning forward to check out the damage.
“So I had to remove the top to glue a crack in the body.” She reaches for a long, thin knife, which she dips into what looks like an ancient, dirty coffeemaker. Grace sees my expression and laughs.
“A little stinky, isn’t it? Don’t worry—I don’t make coffee in this pot anymore. This is where I mix my glue.” She pulls the knife out quickly and leans over the fiddle. She carefully edges the glue into the crack. I feel my neck start to relax.
“Kind of mesmerizing to watch, isn’t it?” Grace glances up and smiles. She doesn’t seem hurried.
“Yeah,” I say, returning her smile. “Can you do this with any fiddle? Take it apart and put it back together again?”
“I can if there’s a crack or a problem with the sound post.” She puts down her knife carefully, cleaning the gluey edge off on a piece of scrap wood, and rubs her eyes with her arm.
I have to know if there’s a chance. “My fiddle. It’s broken,” I blurt out. “And it’s very special to me.” For some reason I feel safe here. Like I’ve been here for days. And I don’t want to leave.
Grace reaches over and places a hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “Yes, I’m sure it is special. Gives you strength even.” I just nod, not wanting to sob. “Do you want to tell me more about it?”
Again the words tumble out. “It was my dad’s. And I need it…my mom’s coming. The final round…tomorrow…” I’m not making any sense.
“Okay, okay,” she says gently. “Well, why don’t we have a look?” She clears a spot and I scramble to my case, take out my fiddle and lay it down on the table. Grace takes a look, gently moving her fingers along the crack.
“This is fixable. But I’ll need to take the back off, fix the crack and then glue it back on.”
“How long will that take?” I ask, calculating the hours left until the contest.
“I’m not sure it will be dry by tomorrow,” Grace says. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
I nod and sag down on the stool. She gets to work, using a long sharp tool to carefully release the back.
“There, I’ve almost got the back off. Then we’ll be able to see the whole inside and assess the damage properly.”
I hold my breath. She carefully pulls off the back and then flips it over. Inside, I can see a careful
ly painted flower. A white rose with soft, open petals, trailed by a black, curved stem studded with thorns.
“Did you know about this?” Grace asks. I shake my head.
Liam has wandered over to the table and looks with interest at the painting. “Cool,” he says.
“It’s much more than just cool,” says Grace, looking right at me. “Instruments are not just for music. They can be art. Carvings, pictures, words—they all bring a little bit more magic to an instrument. Your fiddle and this painting are very special. It would be interesting to find out who the artist was.” She picks her knife up again and reaches for the glue.
“Do you think your dad knew?” Liam asks.
“I have no idea,” I say. A white rose. If only I could ask him.
Seventeen
“I hope that everyone had a good day.”
Ms. O’Krancy smiles from the head of our dinner table. The whole fiddle group has gathered. After we were done at Grace’s tent, Shilo, Murray, Liam and I went to the last half of the Celtic String Band workshop.
The meal tent is jammed with performers, everyone talking about the final contest round tomorrow. All I can think about is the white rose inside my fiddle. Whether my dad knew it was there. And if the glue will be dry by morning.
“Why aren’t we allowed to have our cell phones?” Emilia asks. “I really want to listen to some recordings.” I tune out as Ms. O’Krancy starts explaining how it’s good to “unplug” once in a while.
“I need to prove to my mom I’m taking music seriously,” I say in a whisper to Shilo. “Otherwise she’s going to cancel my lessons. Especially now that I’ve broken my dad’s fiddle.”
“I don’t get it,” Shilo says, shaking her head. “You are serious about music. Why can’t she see that?”
I sigh. “I wish I knew.”
“Look, there’s Robin Ross,” Shilo says. “I think she’s sitting with some of the musicians from Lunar.” We watch as Robin says something and the table breaks out in laughter. “I am dying to go ask her for an autograph,” Shilo adds. “But don’t worry—I won’t.”
“The other day she told me about some college called Berklee. I want to know more about it.” I imagine myself onstage with Robin Ross. I would improvise an amazing harmony part, and then she would introduce me as the young fiddler to watch. I shake off the daydream. First I need to win the contest.
“You have to go talk to her,” Shilo says. I want to, but I don’t have the nerve.
“Any more questions?” Ms. O’Krancy’s voice pulls my attention back to our table. “You all did a great job at our performance. Those of you in the fiddle-contest final are ready. We’ll all be there to cheer you on. Make sure you get to bed early tonight!” She picks up her plate and, as if on cue, everyone starts talking all at once. I look over at Robin’s table again.
“Go.” Shilo nudges me, but I can see she is only half focused on me. Murray is sitting across the table from us but has turned to watch tonight’s performance. After every meal one of the performing groups jams together. Tonight it’s a guy on a ukulele and a woman on a cello. I stop obsessing for a few minutes to listen. But something inside tells me this is my chance.
“I’m going over there,” I say, standing up from the bench and grabbing my plate. Robin was so friendly before. Why shouldn’t I go talk to her? I’m a performer too.
I weave through the tables. The music makes it difficult to walk slowly, because the duo is playing an upbeat jig, and the cellist is doing some crazy percussive sounds on her instrument. I reach Robin’s table in what feels like one breath. But just as I take the last step, the whole table erupts in laughter again. I veer left and keep my eyes looking ahead of me, like I’m looking for someone across the room.
When I reach the bussing station with my plate, I’m deflated like a wrinkly used balloon. I dump my plate and slowly scan the room, playing it cool. Robin is still at her table. I can’t do it. But I don’t want to go back to our table either, so I head out the nearest entrance and flop down at a picnic table covered in gross dishes that lazy people did not clear.
If I can’t talk to Robin, then I should go and practice my tunes. But I’m worried about seeing my mom tomorrow. What if she takes away my dad’s fiddle and my lessons?
Music is all I’ve ever wanted to do. But maybe it’s time to get real. Maybe I should start picturing myself as a soloist in front of an orchestra, wearing a beautiful gown and playing the classics.
I remember the day my dad took me to my first violin lesson. My mom was in law school at the time, and my dad worked at night, so he was always the one to take me places.
We pulled up to an old house on the east side of town. My dad knocked on a battered door that looked too small for him to fit through. He smiled down at me and squeezed my free hand. My other hand clutched the violin-case handle. A tiny woman with dark hair answered the door. Her name was Karen, and she had won a place in the city orchestra when she was only nineteen. She trained me well in the classics. But she also taught me a lot about the Celtic music I love so much. She grew up on the east coast of Canada, playing past her bedtime with her parents at kitchen parties. Maybe somehow I could play both kinds of music too.
My vision of myself in a fancy dress, playing Bach in the orchestra, keeps getting shoved aside by one of the new tunes I just learned in the string workshop. The Scottish reel makes me picture a lot of stomping black boots. I want to be part of that kind of frenetic, delirious energy.
Just then Robin bursts out of the meal tent. I scramble to catch up to her. People stroll in every direction, and I have to keep my gaze on the case on her back, which bobs up and down as she walks.
The case stops. A woman coming from the other direction has stopped Robin. I scurry forward. The other person gives Robin a hug and then continues on. Now’s my chance.
“Robin!” I call out. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple more—”
“I’m so sorry,” she interrupts, “but I’ve got to get ready for my performance in fifteen minutes.” She smiles. “But find me later, okay?”
I stand there feeling like a complete idiot. People keep streaming by. I’m blocking the path. Robin was kind and what she said made sense, but I still feel like I did in third grade when I was the only girl not invited to Emilia’s birthday party.
I’m dreading seeing my mom tomorrow more than ever. Some way, somehow, I have to make her understand.
Eighteen
When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I see is the spare fiddle.
I sit up like I was stung by a wasp.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Shilo says. She’s standing in front of the tiny mirror, putting on lip gloss.
“I gotta go check out my fiddle,” I say.
“What about breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, whipping on yesterday’s clothes. “I’m going to run over and see about my fiddle. Right now.” I shove my sneakers on and bang out the yurt door. The glue had all night to dry. It had to work. My mom is on her way.
I hurry through the Marketplace in the still-cool morning air. When I spot Grace’s tent I break into a run.
I stop in front of the tent to catch my breath. Then I enter, carefully weaving through the fiddles hanging from the ceiling.
“Grace,” I call out as I make my way toward the work table. “It’s Rose.”
She’s not there. And I don’t see my fiddle on the table. Does that mean it’s fixed and she’s trying to find me? Or that she couldn’t fix it? I have a horrible urge to smash something. I turn around and almost run smack into Grace. She puts her arms up and gently takes my hands.
“Oh, sorry to frighten you,” she says, her voice calm. “I knew I’d see you today, but it’s pretty early.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I say. But I need to know. “Um, where’s my fiddle?”
She keeps a hold on my hands and squeezes them a bit.
“Well,” she says. “I was able to take the back
off and repair the crack—”
“Okay, good,” I say. “So can I play it today?”
“But I had to wait for that glue to dry overnight,” Grace continues, ignoring my interruption. “Today I’ll glue the back piece on.” She pauses. “But it will take all day to dry. If you try to play your fiddle before the glue is completely dry, you could damage it further.”
I stare down at our joined hands as her words sink in. I won’t be able to play my dad’s fiddle in the contest.
“Rose,” Grace says. “Listen. I know this fiddle is special to you, but just play the other one like you always do. Bring your heart to your tunes.”
I wrench my hands away and run out of the tent, biting my lip to keep from crying.
Outside, the sun blinds me and I feel disoriented. A smiling couple holding hands walks by me. I smell coffee and cinnamon as they pass. It triggers a memory of my dad bringing me a cinnamon bun in the morning, coffee in hand, foot tapping to music in his head. He was often out late at night, performing. But he still got up early to be with me. And he kept on going. Until he couldn’t.
I think of what Grace said. And then of my dad’s words. No hesitation.
I start to run. There are only a few hours left before the fiddle contest. I’m going to spend every minute practicing my tunes.
* * *
“Guess what?” Shilo squeals as I step into our yurt. “Murray asked me to work on a tune together when we get home, him on fiddle, me on Irish flute! Plus, I’m meeting him before the contest. He says he’s nervous and wants company. What’s up with your fiddle?”
“The glue’s not dry,” I say. “I’m playing the spare fiddle.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “Do you want to borrow mine?”
I hug her. “You’re the best,” I say. “Your fiddle has great sound. But I’ve never played it before. At least I’ve been playing the spare for the last few days. I’m getting used to it.”
The contest starts right after lunch. Part of me would rather just curl up in bed right now. Not face my mom. But the contest is my chance.