The next day, the whole town is on fire about the concert. It’s almost like a gala party for the Oscars with people parading downtown and at school in costumes.
Mom and Dylan are all gung ho as well and tune up their ‘fiddles’ before leaving, even though they’ll have to do it again when they get to school. Supper is hotdogs and salad since Mom’s too nervous to cook anything else. Even Uncle Jack has closed the pub down for the night to join in.
As we’re preparing to leave, I readjust my backpack to slide in my flute beside the secret parcel that lies hidden at the bottom.
“You don’t really have to bring your backpack, Kira,” Mom says, balancing two violins and music by the door. “Just bring your flute and music folder.”
“Ah, it’s just easier.” I say, shifting to block her view.
“Well, okay.” Mom puts on her coat while Dylan, as usual, dashes outside empty-handed.
When I get to the van, Mom stretches out her arm. “Here, hand me your bag. I’ll put it in for you.”
“No, it’s okay, Mom. I’ll just take it up front.” I scoot to the other end of the van and lay the heavy pack between the two front bucket seats before she can grab it.
When we get to the school, teens and kids, and even adults clamber about the halls as though they’re about to be on TV. I don’t know what they’re so excited about – it’s just a concert.
Adults carry old fiddles they’ve probably stored in the attic since their Grandpas died, and grade sevens dangle penny whistles from their fingers.
I slip my backpack in my locker and gently pull out my flute, careful not to disturb the extra contents, then head to the band room. Charlotte’s already there helping the younger kids tune their fiddles. Figuring I might as well make myself useful, I join her in adjusting shoulder rests on little half-sized and quarter-sized violins. That way no one will suspect me after we pull off our stunt.
“Thanks, Kira,” says Mr. Waring. “And by the way, nice to see you with a violin in your hands again.”
I give an awkward smile, then head over to the auditorium where Mom’s saved seats for us. Charlotte’s parents sit next to her.
When the crowd’s settled and the lights have dimmed, Mr. Watkins struts to the mic. The audience quiets down as he announces in a phony ringmaster’s voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is my honour and privilege to welcome you to probably the most exciting concert in the history of the school …” He throws out his arms and shouts. “… Celtic Madness!”
The crowd cheers like they’re at a rock concert. I’m almost expecting them to pull out lighters and glow sticks. I pretend to push my hair back and shove my fingers in my ears.
“And to begin this extravaganza ...” He lowers his voice. “Kid Kelts!”
Mom jumps up, adjusting her dress and hair, and leads her group onto the stage. Her students follow in a perfect line. Kate McDonough joins them to loud applause.
“Wow!” I say. “That’s a huge group.”
“I know,” says Charlotte like she’s an expert on the concert. “That’s because everyone likes Kate so much, plus she’s so good at Celt.”
I curl my upper lip into a sneer.
The audience grows quiet in anticipation as the children play the first notes of I’se the B’y, balancing their fiddles on their shoulders and bowing as straight as humanly possible. But when the tune switches to Aunt Mary, someone hoots and feet begin stomping to the rhythm. The crowd’s ecstatic. Then the kids break into St. Anne’s Reel.
“Who’s the little brunette beside Dylan?” I ask Charlotte. “She keeps looking at him.”
“Oh, that’s Alice,” Charlotte says. “I met her during rehearsals. She’s got it bad for Dylan.”
I watch the girl for a while. “You know, she’d actually be pretty cute without those big, brown glasses.”
“I totally agree,” says Charlotte.
The music comes to a grinding halt to exuberant cheers from the crowd. Mom’s group takes a bow in perfect unison and strides down the gym stairs while Alice tugs at Dylan’s sleeve.
“How about that, eh?” Mr. Watkins cries to thunderous applause. “And now,” he booms, “our wonderful, fabulous, amazing grade sevens will perform for the first time in the history of the school on penny whistles!”
The grade sevens leap up, nearly running to the stage to peals of laughter from the audience.
“Have you ever seen such enthusiasm?” shouts Mr. Watkins.
The audience claps and roars with glee.
“Funny,” I say. “If the grade sevens did that on an ordinary day, they’d all be in for detention.”
Charlotte smiles. “I know, isn’t it great?”
I twist my mouth in protest.
Mom comes on stage with Uncle Jack and bows. She turns and cues her group of wild kids. The grade sevens jump in, trilling left and right, in a mind-boggling way. I can’t believe they’re so good. None of Mom’s recorder groups have ever even come close to these guys. I even search the group for fakers, but can’t find any. The set ends to wild applause, and grade sevens skip down the stairs and even jump off the stage. I glance at Mr. Watkins expecting to see a dirty look or a wagging finger, but instead he’s beaming and pounding his hands together. I can’t believe it!
Next, the adult fiddle group marches up on stage, and if the potbellies and wrinkly faces didn’t give it away, I would swear they were teenagers, they’re so excited. Mom slips into the group from the side wings carrying my old violin. My jaw tightens.
Kate McDonough mounts the stage, again to thunderous applause that goes on for at least a minute. Jealousy tears at my insides, especially when Uncle Jack steps up, his smiling eyes focussed on her like she’s his girl.
The adult fiddlers dig into the Swallow Tail Jig. The audience claps to the beat. Wild hoots escape old men, especially when they switch to Mairi’s Wedding. That’s when I notice Uncle Jack’s eyes are sad.
I break into a mean little smile, knowing what that means. Kate McDonough still doesn’t know he’s alive. Yes! But it doesn’t make me feel as good as I thought, and guilt wraps itself around me. Suppose someone didn’t want me to like Peter. How would I feel?
The adults finish their set to deafening applause. They descend the stairs wearing the proud grins of children.
“And now, folks, the next group is going to knock your socks off, and they might even lose their socks too.” Mr. Watkins chuckles like it’s the best joke ever. “With great gusto, may I introduce … the Hope River Dancers.”
Teens scramble up the stairs onto the stage, leaping into their spots, all watching Kate McDonough like a goddess they worship. And I mean every one of them – Sydney, Taylor, and Samantha – all stare at her with adoring eyes. But not just the girls – Kyle and Travis are actually up there too. My chin drops.
Kate McDonough attacks a strathspey that growls and grumbles, and then breaks into a jig. Uncle Jack follows, and they play as though they’re one person. The teens perform their steps like they were born doing them. But how can this be? These are the kids who don’t do homework, who don’t care about anything. This is totally impossible! I fume.
The music ends, and the crowd shoots up to their feet, cheering and clapping like it’s the most amazing thing they ever saw.
“Whoa!” shouts Mr. Watkins. “Can you believe that? I mean, whoa!”
The applause is unstoppable. Parents pound their feet on the floor of the gym. No one can stop the din for a full two minutes until Mr. Watkins finally speaks into the mic again.
“And now, for a bit of change, Dylan Montgomery is going to play us a solo entitled Brenda Stubbert’s Reel.”
Several calls of “aw” sound as Dylan strolls up the stairs to the stage like a professional. When he gets to the center, he lifts his violin with an intensity as though he’s going to perform a difficult concerto. He nods to Uncle Jack. Uncle Jack plays a short introduction, and Dylan begins. His bow flies fast and furious, through cuts and trills and difficult double-stops.
“Holy smokes,” I say. “I hear him practice all the time at home. He’s never played that well before.”
“He’s totally stoked,” says Mom who’s slipped back into her seat beside me.
“But that good? He’s going to clean up on Granville Island playing like that.”
“Yes, he is,” Mom says, her eyes shining.
Dylan repeats the last refrain. The audience is dead silent, and I notice several parents wiping their eyes. Then he weaves the bow across the strings, finishing on a perfect unison. The applause is thunderous. He has to bow three more times before the townsfolk let him work his way down the stairs, clapping and whistling. Alice runs up and takes his hand, leading him to her seat.
“Oh, my gosh,” I say, “He’s actually going to sit with her, and he’s holding her hand!”
“I guess he doesn’t hate her as much as he lets on,” Mom says.
“I’ll say.” I shake my head.
Mr. Watkins is at the mic again. “And now, what we’ve all been waiting for – the Hope Celtic Band.”
The audience gives it up as high school students carry instruments to the stage like members of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra. I grab my flute and find my seat in the woodwinds section. Mr. Waring steps up to the podium like Leopold Stokowski. He taps his baton. We raise our instruments and wait for his stick to come down. With a simple gesture, we’re off. My fingers fly like a virtuoso, and I nod and tap my foot like I’m having a good time, my lips turned up slightly with a hint of smile while I pretend to play. I’m sure I have everyone convinced. Who wouldn’t believe it? After all, I’m sure I look like the old me except on the flute. Scanning the audience, I see faces filled with delight and parents smiling at one another, but when I look over at Mom, her mouth hangs open in an expression of horror – she knows! I’m so dead.
My stomach feels hollow. Why does Mom have to be a music teacher?
By the time I get to Danny Boy, I figure it’s over. My fingers stop moving, and I sink lower in my chair until the music ends, and we parade back to our seats to the roaring applause of the audience. Everyone else whispers vibrant compliments to each other, but I keep my head down, certain I’ll be grounded for a month.
Mom looks at me like I’m some kind of changeling. I stare straight ahead as though I’m really interested in what will happen next, hoping she’ll somehow forget about it.
Mr. Watkins jumps back onto the stage, pretending to step dance. Embarrassed for him, I look away, but everyone else eats it up. He finishes his goofy dance and grabs the mic.
“You know, I’ve been in this school now for over twenty-five years, and I have to say that this is by far the best concert our school has ever had. The students have all worked so hard, and even the townspeople have joined in. It’s really made the whole thing special.”
The audience cheers and claps.
“And it’s all because of a beautiful young lady who made all this possible. A few months ago, this town had no idea what Celtic music was, and now it’s alive with the exciting rhythms and sounds of Cape Breton, thanks to Kate McDonough. Kate, could you come up here to accept a token of our appreciation?”
The red-haired fiddler walks up to the stage to hoots, cheers, and foot stamping. She accepts a bouquet of red roses, nodding and waving to everyone. The noise is deafening, and I think it’ll never end. I mean, the concert was good, but it wasn’t that great. So I refuse to clap and keep my hands lowered at my side … until Kate McDonough’s eyes stop and rest on me.
I break into a sweat thinking she’ll come after me like she did at the Stompin’ Boot, but she doesn’t look mad. There’s something else – desperation in her eyes, like she wants to talk to me. I turn to Charlotte.
“Let’s go.”