A Town Bewitched Read online

  Madame Lacroix smiles with delight as we adlib our skit, her chin nodding up and down. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Samantha roll her eyes at Sydney. She whispers something and snickers. I cringe, but keep on.

  The door flies open when someone comes in late, and a gust of wind blows a stack of pages off of Madame Lacroix’s desk. She bends over to pick it up exposing … her butt crack.

  “Ah, le plombier,” I say to Charlotte.

  The class lets out a big guffaw. At least they know the French word for plumber.

  Madame Lacroix gathers up her papers, tidies them into a neat pile, and then smiles and nods again. “Well done, girls.” She has no idea the joke’s on her.

  With the ‘butt crack’ incident, the kids seem to have found some sort of temporary respect for Charlotte and me. There are no more rolled eyes, sucking sounds, or elbowing for the rest of class.

  As we leave the room, a small miracle happens when Taylor actually catches up to us. “That was funny, you guys,” she says.

  “I know.” I smile. “It was kind of mean, but …”

  “She deserves it.”

  “Ahhh,” I say, thinking how Mom would feel if that happened to her.

  Then Taylor’s face grows serious. “By the way, I’m sorry about your dad.”

  Her words take me by surprise. It’s like back in the days when we were friends. Something in my throat catches, and I manage to mutter, “Thanks. That means a lot to me.” My eyes fill with tears, and I realize to my horror, I’m in serious danger of crying, and the last thing I need is to give the IGs a new reason to text about me. But I can see by her expression, Taylor isn’t there to make fun of me. She really means it.

  I guess she sees my emotions are ready to burst because she squirms a bit, then says, “Well, bye,” and leaves.

  With Taylor’s kind gesture, it’s as if a gate’s been opened. Kids come to me and give their condolences. Even kids who usually act like I don’t exist wave to me in the halls. It’s nice, but it’s hard on the feelings. I manage to swallow the ever-growing lump in my throat each time – until Travis comes along just before last period.

  “So how do you like your dead dad?” He sneers and continues on his way like he said nothing out of the ordinary. My heart dives, and the lump I’ve been swallowing bursts like a dam. I flee to the washroom, Charlotte on my heels, where my tears spill over while she keeps thumping my back telling me it’s okay when it really isn’t. I can’t stop crying, and we miss Socials Studies.

  It’s not over yet because the next day, Travis passes by the locker we share at lunchtime. Looking straight at Charlotte, his eyebrows turned up in a nasty V, he says, “So you got ditched in China by your folks, eh?”

  Charlotte draws in a sharp breath of air, turns and looks at me with a can-you-believe-this-guy look, and then explodes. She swings around, her eyes bulging and her forehead wrinkled, and shouts, “What the heck do you know about it? You’re such a loser! You think you’re so hot, but you’re nothing but a jerk! And I’d much rather have the parents I have than the ugly thugs you have.”

  Poor Travis. It’s kind of true. His parents are a bit of a homely couple, dressing in really old, worn-out clothes. I think they buy them from the second-hand store.

  Travis turns to Kyle, and they both throw their heads back and burst into a raucous laugh. They strut down the hall like nothing happened, but I swear I see a little hurt in Travis’ eyes.

  Charlotte snatches her lunch bag out of our locker and slams it shut. She storms to the little alcove where we eat every day.

  “Ew, I just hate that guy!” She rips open her bag, nearly spilling its contents. “He’s always gotta run me down for being adopted.”

  I sit down next to her, unroll my bag, and pull out my ham and cheese sandwich. “I know. He’s awful.”

  “He makes me soooo mad!” Charlotte’s face is burning red as she grabs her cream cheese bagel and gobbles it up like a ravenous wolf.

  Nearby, shoes swish on the linoleum floor, moving slowly, undecided. I look up to find a familiar face standing before us. It’s Peter, one of Mr. Bachinsky’s most advanced violin students.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He holds a textbook under one arm – Math 10 – and rakes his blond hair with the fingers of his other hand.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Going to the library?” I ask.

  Shifting his weight, Peter ignores the question, and instead blurts out, “I heard what Travis said. What a jerk!”

  “I know,” I say.

  “He’s got some serious issues.” he says, squirming.

  “I agree.” Charlotte gives an appreciative smile.

  I think of asking Peter to join us for lunch, but he looks so uncomfortable, I hesitate.

  Maybe I should have spoken up sooner because he shifts some more, and then scoots toward the library mumbling, “Well, I guess I better be going.”

  We watch him let out a huge sigh as he leaves. He stumbles over a gym shoe on his way down the hall.

  Charlotte moves a little closer to me and whispers, “Ewwww, I think he likes you.”

  “What do you mean?” I search my bag for a cookie.

  “Because he’s so nervous around you,” Charlotte’s eyebrows wiggle up and down.

  “No way.” I wave my hand since there’s no chance anyway. After all, he’s a year older than us, but against my will, a grin starts creeping across my face.

  Charlotte takes a bite of her apple. “Well you’ve gotta admit, he’s kind of cute.” She covers her mouth to giggle.

  “I suppose. Not my type, though,” I lie, still fighting that creeping grin, but my mouth won’t stop twitching, so I change the subject. “So what are you doing after school?”

  Charlotte’s eyes light up. “I’ve got a lesson with Kate McDonough.”

  “Oh.” I press my lips together.

  “She’s so cool. Everyone’s talking about her.” She speaks as though Kate McDonough is some famous rock star or something. “Even the neighbours are putting their kids in fiddling. And I know all kinds of people starting Celtic dance lessons with her.”

  “Seriously?” I squeeze my chocolate chip cookie so hard, it breaks.

  “Yeah. She told Mom she’d teach me Pelican Reel and Smash the Windows.”

  “Pelican what?” I laugh, a scornful edge to my voice.

  “Pelican Reel. Kate told Mom fiddling tunes have funny names. A lot of them are named after people too. She knows all about it. She’s so amazing.”

  “Not that amazing,” I argue. “I thought you said you were going to take lessons from Mr. Bachinsky.”

  “I am, but I’m taking lessons from her too. What about you? When do you start your violin lessons again?”

  A disturbing feeling descends upon me. “Tomorrow. But I haven’t practiced a note yet, and I’m supposed to be doing my ARCT this year.”

  “Glad it’s you and not me. I hate exams.” Charlotte shakes her head, then throws her apple core into the garbage can.

  The humming sound of the bell startles us. We pick up what’s left of our lunches and our feelings, shove them into our locker, and then head to class.

  Chapter 6

  Uncle Jack’s Tacos

  When Dylan and I get home, the phone rings. I run to pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  Silence echoes on the other end.

  “Hello?” I repeat myself.

  Again, silence.

  I press the end button and place the phone in its port. “Probably one of those telemarketers,” I mumble.

  Dylan’s poking his head in the fridge, looking for a snack. “Hey, who ate all the Rice Krispy squares?”

  “I don’t know,” I say offhandedly.

  The phone rings again. I pick it up. “Hello?”

  Quiet again.

  Holding the phone away, I check the call display. It’s empty.

  “Strange.”

  The front door bursts open.


  “Hi, kids,” Uncle Jack calls. “I’ve come to cook you supper.” He walks in and heads for the cupboard, digging around for a non-stick frying pan.

  “Oh, good.” I smile. “What are we having?”

  “Your favourite – tacos.”

  “Yes!” I say, throwing a fist into the air.

  “And you can thank me for it,” Dylan jumps in. “I told him we were tired of Mom’s cooking yesterday. You know, meat, rice, and either broccoli or carrots. I’m soooo sick of that.”

  “Me too.” I nod. “Are you hanging out tonight, Uncle Jack?” I really need a good dose of his humour after Travis, and if there’s anyone who’ll understand, it’s him. Besides, I haven’t seen Uncle Jack for a few days.

  “Can’t.” Uncle Jack shakes his head. “Gotta play.” He takes a large cleaver from the knife block and begins chopping an onion.

  “But you play every night. Can’t you cancel out just this once?”

  “No go. The last few nights have been jam-packed in the pub.”

  “With that new fiddler?” I ask.

  “Yeah. She’s really something else.” Uncle Jack empties the onions into the pan.

  I scowl. “Who is she, anyway?” I walk to the cupboard and take out plates. “I saw a poster last week at school advertising lessons.

  Uncle Jack grins, showing his dimples. “Kate’s from Cape Breton,” he says, his eyes shining.

  A twinge of jealousy touches me as I wander over to the table and lay the plates down on the place mats. “So how old is she?”

  “I’m not too sure. Old enough … and young enough.” The smile on his face is so wide, all his teeth show.

  “So can’t you get someone else to play?” I set four glasses on the table.

  “'Fraid not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she plays Celtic music, and no one else knows how. She’s been teaching some of the guys in my band, but to ask someone to sub? It’d never work.” He throws the ground beef in with the onions and breaks it up with a wooden spoon. The aroma fills the room, making my stomach growl.

  The front door creaks and Mom comes in, her arms loaded with groceries.

  “I’m home.” She walks into the kitchen and lays the bags down on the counter.

  I turn to Mom, desperate. She’ll surely be on my side. “Mom, Uncle Jack says he can’t stay tonight because of the new fiddler.” Then I add, “And can you believe Charlotte’s taking fiddling lessons from her?”

  “Oh, good for her. I was thinking of signing up Dylan and me,” she says, smiling as she digs down into the bag. “And you too if you want.”

  “Are you serious?” I scrunch my eyebrows, feeling betrayed that Mom would actually side with this woman.

  “No, I’m not kidding. It’s a wonderful opportunity. I mean, what are the chances of someone like that moving to Hope? Besides, Dylan will love it.” Then she throws me the punch. “I hope you don’t mind me using your violin.”

  I glance over at the block of wood disguised as a musical instrument, remembering the masterpiece that still stands in Kristoff’s shop and the broken promise.

  “I don’t care.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

  Mom frowns at me like I’m about to get in serious trouble. I prepare for the lecture when Uncle Jack, a dishcloth draped over his arm like a butler, saves the day, announcing, “Dinner is served at the exquisite Tacos del Jacko’s.

  Mom’s still giving me the eye, but I ignore her, grab my plate and load it up. Dylan devours four in all, a lot for a scrawny little kid like that. I have three. They’re delicious, but I’m still stewing inside as the conversation continues.

  “So tell me more about this fiddler?” Mom asks. “Is she single?”

  Uncle Jack grins. “So far as I know.”

  My stomach churns. It’s obvious he’s interested, and it’s only a matter of time before we lose him to Kate McDonough. Stupid fiddler. Why does she have to come along and interfere with my life?

  Fuming, I swallow down the last bite of my taco, and then grab my plate, shove it into the dishwasher, and shut the door. I don’t want to hear about Kate McDonough anymore! Who cares about fiddling anyway? Snatching my backpack, I leap up the stairs to my bedroom to do my homework, as far away from the conversation as possible.

  I set up my textbooks and go to work. Then, at nine o’clock sharp, the notes of Uncle Jack’s guitar dancing beside the vibrant trills of Kate McDonough’s fiddle begin creeping through the crack of my slightly opened window. They whirl about and swing together, the rhythm pounding like the drum of an ancient Celtic bodhran. I let out a huff, then get up and slide the window shut. After all, just because the others dance to her music, doesn’t mean I have to.

  Chapter 7

  The Lesson

  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.