On Thursdays, Mom always keeps Dylan with her at school so I can have my violin lesson in peace without him asking when we’re going home every couple of minutes.
After waving good-bye to Charlotte, I unlock the door of our house and am met by silence – no Dead-Eye darts flying around. The stale scent of breakfast still fills the room, and it’s so quiet I can hear the hands move on the grandfather clock.
My stomach growls. Slipping off my shoes, I head to the kitchen and grab a granola bar from the cupboard. I take a couple of bites and savour the flavour.
The ring of the phone startles me.
I reach over and pick up the receiver, but there’s no one there. Staring at the empty call display, I mutter, “Who’s doing this?” and then hang up.
My eyes drift to the living room where my violin lies on top of the piano covered by a thick layer of dust. For a moment, I feel cheated again that the Gold Violin still lies in Kristoff’s shop. Then guilt gnaws at my stubbornness. Dad had always been so proud of my talent. Like the time I played for company when I was six years old, and his chest stuck out so far he said his buttons might pop off. And the time I competed in the music festival against kids almost twice my age and won my first trophy. Dad kept wiping his eyes, and then slipped me a ten-dollar bill when Mom wasn’t looking. Then there was the time I got ninety-two percent on a violin exam. He hoisted me in the air and planted me on his shoulder, parading me around like some sports hero, humming Ode to Joy.
Blinking back tears, I pick up the old violin and dust it off with the cloth that lies draped over my case. I stand back and look at the effect. It does look a little better. Maybe I am being too difficult. After all, it’ll probably only be a few months before Mom takes me to Vancouver to buy the Gold Violin … if it’s still there.
The grandfather clock chimes – 3:45. Pushing the violin in the small case, I squeeze in the shoulder rest beside it. I dig under some sheet music, find the bow, and shake my head at the thinness of the hairs. Shoving it in, I turn the loose knob that barely stops my bow from rattling around when I carry it on my back, and then close the box.
I rush through the front door, taking anxious steps all the way to the pink Victorian house where the Bachinskys teach.
The house belongs to Monica’s old aunt and looks like a wedding cake. Kids have always joked around saying it’s probably haunted and that the old lady’s a ghost, but it’s more like an old museum. There are tall cabinets filled with porcelain figures, and antique furniture that probably stands as it has for sixty years. Monica teaches downstairs and Mr. Bachinsky in the loft. On clear days, we can spot eagles flying between the tall trees, close to the Fraser River.
As I walk in, the smell of antiques and dust fills my nostrils. I hear Mrs. Bachinsky’s aunt moving about the kitchen making tea.
“Hi, Kira,” Monica calls from beside the full-length, black Steinway grand piano that crowns the room. Her voice sounds overly sweet, like she’s trying extra-hard to be nice to me.
“Hi,” I say, standing back in the shadow of the entrance.
“Mr. Bachinsky’s upstairs. You can just go on through.”
“Okay.”
My stomach churning, I climb the creaking wooden stairs, one at a time, to the loft where he kneels on the floor, jingling a set of small keys as he unlocks his briefcase.
“Well, Kira. Good to see you again,” he says, like he too is making a big effort to be super kind. “How have you been doing?”
“Oh, pretty good, I guess, but I haven’t practised a note.” An anxious giggle escapes my lips.
Mr. Bachinsky opens the briefcase and pulls out some music. The pages rustle as he struggles to balance them on the stand. A few slip down, and he stoops to pick them up. “Well, I think that’s okay under the circumstances. We’ll get you going today.”
As I lay down my violin case and open the latch, heaviness creeps over me. I hesitate, then lift up the violin, attaching the shoulder rest. Then I take the bow and tighten it, pulling the horsetail hairs taut. Finding the rosin, I glide the hard, brown square up and back a few times along the bow. It squeaks.
“So what would you like to play?” he asks, his silver mustache twitching the way it always does when he talks.
“I ... don’t know.”
“Hmmm, let’s see.” He presses a finger to his lip. “How about Danny Boy? That’s always been one of your favourites.”
My heart dives. Not Danny Boy! I can’t believe he’d ask me to play the same piece I played at Dad’s funeral! My throat tightens, and my hands turn to rubber, but I can’t say no. Instead, I give an obedient nod and place my bow over the D-string. Then just when I’m going to start, the image of Dad’s weak smile as he lay white as a corpse and as thin as a skeleton pops into my head. I gasp.
“Are you okay?” asks Mr. Bachinsky, turning up his bushy brows.
I feel my face turning red and tears welling up inside me. I try to slide the bow again, but my hands are made of jello. It’s like I’m paralysed. My bowing arm just won’t move. I stay frozen for a full minute, and then finally lower the violin.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Bachinsky sits down, his eyes all concern.
“I … just can’t ...” I turn to hide my face as I hiccough.
“Oh, Kira,” Mr. Bachinsky says, grabbing a box of Kleenex.
Monica’s steps echo on the stairs. She stops as though listening, rushes into the room, and puts her arm around me while he hands me a tissue.
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Is it because of your dad?”
“Yes,” my voice squeaks. “I just can’t play. It reminds me too much of him.” I burst into the most embarrassing, full-blown case of sobbing.
They exchange looks like they don’t know what to do. My sobs reverberate in the room. Then Monica takes control.
“It’s okay, Kira,” she says. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”
Mr. Bachinsky hesitates, and then nods. “She’s right. We can wait until you’re feeling more up to it.”
I take a deep breath and grab another tissue and blow my nose.
“Pack your violin, and we’ll start another day,” Mr. Bachinsky says, sweeping his silver hair behind his ears. “No charge for today.”
I wipe my eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” His nod is kind.
“Okay.” I cross the room and shove the violin in the coffin-like box, my sniffles slowing. “I’m really sorry.”
“Oh, no, no.” Monica pats my back. “You go home and get some rest.”
“Okay, I will.” I start down the stairs, and then look back. “Bye.”
Leaving the Victorian house, I trudge home, my eyes and face still hot. The park lies between me and home. I take the path that weaves through the tall evergreens. Leaves crunch under my feet, and I kick them about. The smell of pine fills the air. A slight breeze cools my face and I shake my hair back.
I’m starting to feel like my old self again when something rustles to my left – a dog? I glance over my shoulder. The sun is setting and long shadows stretch across the foliage. Squinting, I try to make out what it is – something dark crouching behind a tree. I strain my eyes a little harder – is it a human? I feel a cold stare fixed on me. It follows my every move like the eyes of the Mona Lisa.
My instincts cry danger, and I break into a run. Footsteps burst from the shadows and race after me. Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I try to see who it is, but the sun blinds me. I dash, my heart pumping. The steps grow closer, gaining on me. My breath turns ragged as I pump my legs harder. A hand snatches at my clothes. My scream shatters the air. I stumble, and then pull myself free, running until I reach the entrance of the park. But I don’t stop until I’ve raced the two blocks to our house and make it up the stairs. Turning to see if I’ve been followed, I see no signs of anyone.
Who could that have been? Travis? One of the IGs?
I catch my breath, shake my head, then open the door.
Sliding into the house, I contemplate telling Mom about my pursuer, but decide to wash my face first since I know my red, puffy eyes tell a story. I tiptoe into the living room and lay my violin on the piano. The aroma of hamburger frying fills the room, and I can hear Dylan shouting.
“I hate Mr. Grindlemeer!” He stamps his foot as he says his teacher’s name.
“Why? What happened?” Mom asks, a smile in her voice as I hear her breaking leaves off a lettuce.
There’s one thing I’ve got to say about Dylan. Despite the Dead-Eye Dart Guns, he can be really entertaining sometimes. So instead of disappearing into the bathroom like I had intended, I push my hair forward to hide my face and stroll into the kitchen like there’s nothing wrong.
“There’s this new girl in my class named Alice, and she’s really annoying. She keeps taking all my pencils and says I took hers. And then Mr. Grindlemeer gets mad at me.”
I grab the plates and start setting the table, keeping my back to Mom. Dylan’s the perfect distraction until my face cools down.
“But I wrote your name on all your stuff. It shouldn’t be too hard to sort them out,” says Mom, turning the handle of the salad spinner.
“Except my pencils.” Dylan crosses his arms.
I feel like calling out, “Dylan’s got a girlfriend,” but I don’t dare in case Mom hears my nasal voice; so instead, I grab the napkins and put them in place, making as little noise as possible.
“You know she’s doing that because she likes you,” says Mom hiding a grin with her hand.
“Well, I sure don’t like her.”
The phone rings. Worried it might be Mr. Bachinsky, I grab the cutlery and start laying down the utensils in fast motion, my hair so far forward I must look like some kind of hippy.
I hear a woman’s voice buzzing on the other end. Mom unh-hunhs and nods several times.
“Really? Really?” she says. “Okay, I’ll talk to her. Thanks for calling, Monica.”
Busted! I think of making that quick escape to the bathroom, but Mom’s too fast.
“Monica says you couldn’t play today. What happened?” She rests her hands on my shoulders and stares in my face as though I’m a complete stranger. “You’ve been crying.”
“I know.” I prepare myself to get in trouble, but she looks more worried than anything else.
“So tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know.” I throw up my arms. “He wanted me to play Danny Boy and it just brought back too many memories.”
I wait to be scolded, but instead, Mom lets go of me and starts putting the hamburgers together. The silence between us is deafening. Then, after a while, she turns and faces me, her eyes blinking. “Kira, I don’t want to rush you, but it’s always been your dream to do your ARCT. I know it’s tough with Dad gone, but he so wanted you to do it. Remember?”
“I know,” I say, “but …”
Feeling cheated, I want to tell her it’s all her fault since she won’t get me the Gold Violin, that she’s unfair, that she favours Dylan, but her eyes are blinking so fast I’m worried she might start crying. But she doesn’t. Instead, she lays the hamburgers on the table, and we sit, quietly eating.
A while later, she gets up and says, “Okay, sweetie, I’ll give you more time, but don’t let your dream go, okay?” She bends over and hugs me, and then gathers the dishes, carrying them to the sink.
Relieved, I climb the stairs to my room, pull out my books and start my homework. Around 10 o’clock, I’m done. I pull up the warm covers to my neck and drift off to sleep. At 2:15, I awake with a start. Footsteps echo in the street.
Climbing out of bed, I peer down below to where a shadowy figure treads.
It’s a woman carrying a case.
Kate McDonough? I frown. But what’s she doing walking around in the middle of the night?
She stands alone in the street, searching, listening. I can see her, but she can’t see me. She stares up at my window. I step back into the recesses of my room. Then she walks away, the heels of her boots clicking on the pavement.