I KNOW it shouldn’t be unusual to hear “The Star-Spangled Banner” on the Fourth of July but, trust me, it’s an act of revolution when it comes out of Rose’s violin at the Loser’s Day party. From the first moment the bow hits the strings, I know she is doing it on purpose and I know she’s causing trouble.
Rose’s parents have hosted their Loser’s Day party every Fourth of July since they moved here. At first I didn’t understand why anyone would call a party on Independence Day (clearly a winner’s day) a loser’s party. But the Ashcrofts are not Americans. They’re British—the ones we defeated to get that independence—so they are, in this case, the losers. And strangely, Rose’s dad thinks this should be celebrated.
The backyard of Rose’s house is decorated with twinkling lights and signs that read: LOSER’S DAY and WELCOME WINNERS. Lots of the neighborhood is there. None of us feel un-American by attending, even though the only flags flying are Union Jacks. That’s the British flag. It’s actually called the Union Flag, but Brits call it the Union Jack. For Jack who? I wonder.
The food is very strange, with names like Bubble and Squeak, Bangers and Mash, Toad in the Hole, Black Pudding (which is actually blood pudding, and isn’t a pudding at all but a sausage), and Spotted Dick with custard (yep, that’s its real name). Rose’s parents don’t make a big deal about it being counter-revolutionary. After all, they call it Loser’s Day. They know who won. They know they’re in America. They just want to give us a little flavor of their country. Oh, I’m sorry: flavour. And every year, we all think it’s fun (except for the blood sausage part).
Rose no longer shares this opinion.
And this is her own little revolution. Each year Rose plays the British national anthem, “God Save the Queen,” while we Americans boo (not too seriously) and Mr. and Mrs. Ashcroft sing proudly. But this year instead, full of the spirit of George Washington and Paul Revere, she’s playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I glance over at Rose’s mother, her arms crossed by the barbecue. Fuming.
Yet Rose is playing beautifully, transforming our national anthem into a rebellious love song to her adopted home. Some of the American grown-ups place hands over their hearts. Ally leans into the General, her brothers Mark and James by her side. My mom puts her arm around me. Zora sits on Dad’s shoulders. We all tend to forget (because she hates it so much) that Rose is a spectacular violinist.
When the last long note ends, everyone cheers. Rose smiles. Then looks at her mother defiantly.
As the sun goes down, the fireworks display from the pool begins. Everyone crowds into the Ashcroft’s front yard and takes a place in a lawn chair or stretches out on a blanket in the soft grass. Little kids crawl into laps as the colorful show erupts in the night sky. Rose, Ally, and I sneak to the upstairs porch off Rose’s parents’ bedroom and watch by ourselves. We see Rose’s brother, Simon, walk around the corner of the house with Ashley. I see Zora, sitting on Dad’s lap, pointing to the sky.
“We’re going to visit my grandma the week before school starts,” I say. I’ve been meaning to tell them for a while now, but there hasn’t seemed to be the right time.
“In Chicago?!” Ally exclaims.
“You mean before I leave?” Rose says.
“Yeah.”
“But why? They know I’m moving, right? Don’t they understand we need all of this summer?”
“I guess not,” I say and feel a wave of sadness run between us.
“Can’t you talk them out of it?” Rose asks.
I shake my head. “Tried. It’s kind of a done deal.”
“Oh,” murmurs Rose.
“Gosh, Birdie,” says Ally.
Quietly, we stare up at the sky. I’m relieved when Rose breaks the silence. “They don’t do this where I’m going.”
“What, no fireworks?” Ally asks.
“No. No Fourth of July.”
“Oh.” Ally sighs.
And I realize this will be our last Loser’s Day party together. I may never enjoy the Fourth of July again.
“Will you have to wear a uniform at your new school?” Ally asks.
“Probably. Mum will be thrilled. She loves to watch me suffer.”
I spot Mrs. Ashcroft among the crowd in the front yard. Rose’s mom has always been nice to me, except after the stink bomb incident. But that seems to be behind us. I try and think when it started getting so tense between Rose and her mom. It can’t have always been this way.
“My dad’s moving…” A loud burst of fireworks drowns out Rose’s voice.
“What?” Ally asks.
“Next weekend. My dad’s moving.” Rose says it loudly so we can hear, her eyes locked on the combusting sky.
It’s only July and it’s getting real now. In less than six weeks, Rose will be gone. In less time than that, I will be saying good-bye to her. Then someone else will be living in this house. And we’ll be starting school, each of us, alone.