Offbeat

by Megan Clendenan

  I pick up the spare fiddle and check the strings. The last thing I want is another broken string. I play some scales to relax. Focusing on the slow vibrations calms me, even on the plywood fiddle. I run through my tunes. Shilo has gone off to meet Murray now, and I’m happy to be alone for a while. I don’t want to face the nervous energy of the performers’ meal tent, so I eat lunch from my stash of granola bars. I have to force myself to chew and swallow.

  Finally it’s time. I pack up the fiddle, take one last look in the mirror and head out to the Main Stage.

  I hear the crowd before I see it. I step carefully over the gnarled roots along the well-worn dirt path, and as I reach the clearing I see what looks like a zillion more people than at the first round.

  “Whoa.” I can barely see any grass. There are blankets and beach chairs and kids running wild. People cluster in small groups, talking excitedly. Around the edges of the crowd, fiddlers frantically rehearse. I look up at the stage. It’s empty but for a few microphones. My mouth feels dry from the granola bars, like I can’t swallow. I take a swig of water.

  “Rose!”

  I hear my name and scan the crowd. It’s Anna. Shilo is with her.

  “I’ll go see where you are in the order of play,” Shilo offers and heads toward the stage.

  “I want to rehearse one last time,” I say to Anna. Thankfully, she leaves me alone at the edge of the crowd. Onstage, the festival organizer is at the microphone, saying something about the sponsors.

  I spot Liam on the edge of the crowd. He’s sitting on the grass by himself, holding his fiddle guitar style. He looks calm. I look away before he sees me. I have to concentrate. I pull the spare fiddle from its case. It’s ugly. I play through my reel to warm up. My fingers tangle as I’m crossing strings, and for a moment I feel like someone has ripped the tunes from my memory.

  “Rose.” Shilo runs up. “You’re up third. You need to go wait by the stage.”

  I feel dizzy. Shilo pulls me toward stage left, where we are supposed to wait. The first contestant is onstage playing “Westphalia Waltz,” and I can tell by her shaking bow that she must be very nervous. Like me. My palms start to slick up with sweat, and I put my fiddle in my other hand.

  “Hi again.”

  I look up, and there’s Liam standing on the first stair leading up to the stage.

  “Itʼs pretty funny that we’re playing one after the other.”

  “Hey. Well, at least I get to see you in action first,” I stutter. He’s shattering my focus.

  “From this close, you’ll be able to hear all my mistakes.” He grins. I seriously doubt he will make any.

  “I’m going to go find a good spot to watch you,” Shilo says. “Good luck!” A quick hug and she’s off. The girl onstage finishes to polite applause. She bows and exits the stage on the other side.

  “I’m up,” Liam says. “Wish me luck.” The announcer calls his name. Liam jogs up the stairs, marches to the microphone and gives a nod toward the judges’ table. I see his toe tapping out a beat already. He raises his bow and starts into a fast-paced reel. The crowd claps and stomps. For his second piece he plays an energetic waltz that gets a few people dancing up front.

  He moves smoothly to his tune of choice, and my whole body freezes. It can’t be. Not again. The same one I picked! “The Coulin,” an Irish air, one I thought no one else would choose. I can’t believe my bad luck.

  Liam makes the haunting long notes both uplifting and wistful. The audience is silent. Even though I’m furious, I shut my eyes and let the sounds wave through me. It’s mesmerizing, and I know it’s challenging to play smoothly. I have to admit, Liam plays it very well.

  I need to choose something else. People will think I’m copying him if I play the same tune.

  Liam wraps it up with a gentle vibrato, just as I would. The crowd erupts in applause. I grip my bow so hard, the edge digs into my palm. That was supposed to be my moment, my tune. A woman appears next to me, holding a clipboard.

  “Be ready to walk onstage as soon as he starts walking off the far side,” she says in my ear.

  Liam bows and quickly exits. I stand there, motionless. The woman nudges me with her clipboard. I scamper up, almost tripping on the last stair. My ears feel plugged, like I’m underwater. I drag myself to the microphone. I manage to plaster on a smile, but my face feels like clay.

  The crowd waits. I hear a familiar voice. “Go, Rose!” Shilo’s cheer seems to unglue my body, and I raise my fiddle to my chin. I take a small step back to make sure I’m not too close to the microphone.

  I tap my foot to count myself in and play. My reel choice is “Mason’s Apron,” which I’ve played for years and know inside out. It rolls off my fingers, my bow arm moving as though driven by puppet strings. An echo from the sound system bounces back to me, and my fiddle sounds too loud, too harsh. I take another small step back. I focus on my fingers darting on the fingerboard and add some ornaments to make the tune my own. The crowd is clapping, so I must be doing okay.

  I move into the waltz. “Ashokan Farewell” is popular and will probably be played five times tonight. But I needed something really familiar since I don’t have my fiddle. I focus on my vibrato and try to squeeze some good sound out of the plywood fiddle.

  As I play the last notes of the waltz, a memory of my dad and a tune he taught me comes to mind. It was one of the first tunes I learned from him. He would play three notes and I would echo them back until I had learned the whole thing. It’s a simple, beautiful melody, difficult because the entire tune is played on two strings at a time. To me, it reaches out to somewhere beyond, a place I can’t describe.

  It’s perfect. I take a deep breath, count in and then dive right in. No hesitation. When I’m done, I’m not even sure whether I played all the repeats. I just bow and walk off the stage.

  Nineteen

  I find a place to sit in the audience. I don’t want to talk to anyone, not even Shilo. The rest of the contestants blur together. Each performer seems to sound better than I ever could. But I feel strangely calm in my little bubble of strangers.

  “Hi.” I turn and find myself face-to-face with my mom. She looks out of place, even though she’s wearing old jeans and a striped T-shirt, her working-in-the-garden weekend clothes. “I saw you play and watched you move down here after your set.” Her eyes look a little shiny.

  “Oh. Hi.” I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. I brace myself for the lecture. I’m doomed.

  “I thought you played very nicely. Especially the last tune,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to play it on your dad’s violin.” I look away. She knows everything. Anna must have told her.

  “Yeah, well, don’t bother being nice to me. I know you’re planning on taking my fiddle away and canceling my lessons,” I say. She doesn’t reply. I can’t stop the words. “How can you possibly say I’m not serious about music?”

  I’m nearly shouting now, but the performer onstage has everyone stomping their feet to a reel, so it doesn’t matter.

  “Maybe I should go live with Shilo and Anna. At least there I would be able to play the music I want. And you wouldn’t have to deal with me. You could forget about me. About Dad.” I’m crying now and not even sure what I’m saying. But instead of putting on her lecture face, Mom puts her arms around me. She hugs me. Tight. I let her. I feel all the worries from the week pouring out of me in tears.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she whispers. “You’re the only one I have left. I know you miss him so much. So do I, even though that’s really hard for me to admit. And I’m sorry. I was wrong to say you weren’t serious about music. I was just scared for you. The life of a musician is not an easy one. Your dad worked so hard and sacrificed so much just to make ends meet. But when I saw you up there onstage, I could see that you love it. Just like he did. Even when you’re unhappy, performing comes naturally to you. Maybe you don’t even know that. I started thinking about all the hours of practice you’
ve put in, for so many years. No one ever made you do that. It was all you. Your choice.”

  Maybe I’m not doomed. “Wow. Thanks, Mom. Yeah, I’ve been angry with myself for not knowing all the tunes. I feel like I could have worked so much harder, should be better at learning the tunes by ear, better at improvising.” It feels so good to let all my worries out. “And I’m so mad at myself for wrecking Dad’s fiddle,” I say, sniffing. “But it’s being repaired by an expert right now.”

  Mom squeezes my shoulders. “Yes, and that is probably going to cost quite a bit. Good thing I’m here, right?”

  Okay, so at least I know my mom hasn’t been replaced by a super-nice robot version. I shrug. I hadn’t actually considered how I was going to pay Grace. I was completely caught up in just getting the fiddle fixed. I guess moms are good to have around sometimes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer interrupts us on a scratchy mic. “The Grand Prize winner will be announced in five minutes.” At least it will be over soon and I can slink away.

  “We should move closer to the stage,” Mom says, squeezing my hand. “You should be ready.”

  “What for?” I say. “There’s no way I’ll win. I changed tunes at the last minute. I should have chosen a waltz with more energy. I totally didn’t feel it.”

  “Let’s go.” She pulls me along. We step around blankets covered in water bottles and snacks—even past one with a sleeping baby. We find Shilo and Anna.

  Now that I’m this close, I start wondering if I actually have a chance. My heart bangs so loudly I’m afraid I’ll pass out. What if they choose Liam and me as co-winners? Would we both get to go onstage with Lunar?

  The announcer calls the second- and third-place winners. Not me. Not Liam. There’s still a chance.

  “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” the announcer says. “Make sure you come out tonight to hear this fiddler perform live onstage with Lunar.” He pauses.

  “It was a close call. All the performers were magnificent. They are the future of our industry!” He pauses again. Just get on with it!

  “The Grand Prize winner is Murray Cummings!”

  Murray? Shilo and I look at each other in shock. I swing around and see Ms. O’Krancy and Murray heading toward the stage. Murray has a huge smile on his face, but he looks stunned.

  “Way to go, Murray!” Shilo screams. Anna and Mom are clapping wildly. I start to clap too, stiffly at first, but soon I’m cheering right alongside Shilo.

  “He was amazing,” Shilo says. She’s right, I realize. I heard him play, but I was so wrapped up in my own stuff that I wasn’t truly listening.

  After a long hug from Ms. O’Krancy, Murray makes his way onto the stage. One of the fiddlers from Lunar is there too. She shakes Murray’s hand. I see Liam across the crowd. He is jumping up and down and clapping for Murray. I wonder how he feels inside. I think of my own performance. Only the last tune I played came from my heart. But that one tune did feel good.

  “There’s always next year,” Mom says. “Now how about we go and see how your violin is doing? After that we can talk about how you broke curfew.”

  Twenty

  “Hey there.” As Mom and I inch away from the Main Stage, I hear a voice. I whirl around and see Robin Ross. “Did ya’ll enjoy yourselves? I saw you up there earlier and remembered you wanted to talk to me. Did you want to hear more about Berklee College?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, stumbling over my words. Mom stands next to me, a curious expression on her face. “I was really interested in what you told me about that school. I’m taking classical lessons right now”—I steal a glance at my mom—“but I want to learn about all kinds of music.”

  “Well, Berklee is the place for that. I bet you would fit right in. You sounded great up there. You’re a natural.”

  “Really?” I want to believe her, but I didn’t even place. “I had to change my tune of choice at the very last minute because the performer who went onstage right before me played the same one.”

  Robin nods and laughs. “Yep, that’s happened to me before. That’s how you learn to roll with the punches, you know? And you came up with another tune that sounded great. That’s what being a musician is all about.” Robin waves at someone ahead of us in the crowd. “Well, I have to get rolling now, but yeah, you check out Berklee’s website. It’s a great place to study if you’re serious about being a musician. Good luck!”

  As she disappears into the crowd, I can’t stop smiling. She said I was a natural!

  “Mom?” I say, turning to her. “When we get home, can you tell me more about when you and Dad used to play together? I found a picture in Dad’s fiddle case. You were playing the flute in the picture. You looked so happy.”

  My mom’s eyes fill with tears. For a second I feel mad again. She still won’t talk to me. But she hugs me for the second time today, then lets go and smiles.

  “Those times with your dad were some of the happiest of my life,” she says. “But I stopped playing when I went to law school and never seemed to find the time to pick it up again. I felt like I had lost all my ability. I was embarrassed to even try.” She squeezes my hand. “But yes, when we get home we will talk. And I want to hear more about Berklee too. After seeing you up on the stage today, I’m thinking that it just might be the perfect place for you to study music. Maybe you could start with a summer program.”

  What is happening? As we weave through the crowd I’m amazed by how confidently my mom moves. Like maybe she’s been to festivals before. In another time. I have so many questions.

  “Which way?” Mom asks. I grab her hand, and now it’s me leading her through the crowd. We reach Grace’s tent and enter, heading straight to the back. At the workbench, huddled over a guitar in pieces, sit Grace and Liam. He looks up and smiles. I grin back like an idiot.

  “Good news.” Grace smiles. “Your fiddle came together nicely. You can see where the crack was, but I believe the sound has been restored. I hope you don’t mind, but I asked Liam to play a tune for me so I could test it. He plays so well and I wanted to hear what your lovely fiddle could do.” She reaches behind her and takes my fiddle down from a violin stand.

  “I don’t mind at all,” I say, reaching out to take the fiddle. I hold it in my hands, savoring the warm wood once again. I turn it over. I can barely see the crack line. “Wow, thanks so much!”

  “It was my pleasure,” Grace replies. “Did you find out who painted the rose?”

  “Oh, that was me,” my mom says, extending her hand. “I’m Claire, Rose’s mom. The fiddle, and the painting inside, was a gift from me to my husband.”

  “You did that?” I sputter. “You paint?”

  My mom smiles a real smile. Just like the one in the picture with my dad from long ago. “Yeah, believe it or not, I even went to art school,” she says with a wink. “I can show you some of my work when we get home.”

  I stare, wondering what other surprises she’s going to spring on me. This has been one weird day.

  “Go ahead,” Grace says to me. “See how it sounds. Take it outside if you like.”

  Liam nods toward the back door of the tent, his fiddle under his arm. My mom and Grace are talking, so I head out with Liam, my dad’s fiddle placed carefully under my arm.

  “I think it’s pretty cool that Murray won,” Liam says. “He played awesome. I thought I might at least place, but hey, I guess you never know what the judges will like. I’m definitely going to watch him tonight with Lunar.”

  “Me too,” I say. “Sorry I missed your People’s Choice performance. I bet you were awesome.”

  He smiles. “I was scared, but I think I pulled off at least a few tunes the way I wanted to.”

  “Nice. So are you coming back next year?” I try to memorize everything about him. His dark hair. His fiddle. The hands that move with grace. And the hat, always the hat. When I’m back home I want to remember him just like this. Right in this moment.

  “I don’t kno
w. I’m still going to look into that whole farm-intern thing. Who knows where that will lead. You?”

  “I’m definitely coming back,” I say. “Hey, I know I got all caught up with my broken fiddle and everything, but thanks a lot for bringing me to the session the other night.”

  Liam smiles. “Yeah, that was pretty cool. I love that you can show up in a room and learn music you’ve never heard with people you’ve mostly never met.”

  “But didn’t you know most of the tunes?” I ask.

  “I knew some,” he says. “But I did a lot of faking. Didn’t you?”

  I smile a huge smile. “Yep, sometimes.” So I’m not the only one! I need to remember this in the future. “Okay, let’s play.”

  “You pick the tune,” Liam says. “I’ll play harmony.”

  “‘Skye Boat,’” I say, smiling. “Simple and classic, remember?” Liam nods and brings his fiddle up under his chin. Our eyes meet, and we start on the same breath.

  We may not be onstage together, like the picture on the festival website, but we’re playing together right now. I know my mom will still punish me somehow for breaking curfew. But she’s promised to tell me stories about my dad and her art. And she’s willing to talk about Berklee! She will probably still nag me as much as ever, but I think it will be different between us from now on.

  As I travel through the melody, the music erases all the chatter in my head. In this moment, I’m good.

  Acknowledgments

  The music festival in this book is fictional, a strange and wonderful combination of the many festivals and workshops I have attended over the past decade.

  Thanks to Dave and Owen for everything. Thanks to my critique partner, Kim Woolcock, for being the best writing “co-worker.” Thank you to my editor at Orca, Tanya Trafford. Thanks to her encouragement and her editorial superpowers, this story was infinitely improved. And a shout-out to all the musicians I have played with and learned from over the years—thanks for the music, thanks for the inspiration!