Totally Unrelated (4 page)

The twins come running in from outside, breathless and sweaty, their hair a mess. They skip over to the food table.

“What are you doing?” Molly asks.

“Thinking about Vince Beach,” I say. “He's so dreeeeeamy.”

They both giggle and run off with some cookies.

I go through the lyrics in my head one more time, strumming absentmindedly, and suddenly the tune drops into place as if it's been there all along. I almost laugh at how easy it seems now that I've got it figured out, even though I couldn't for the life of me tell you where it came from. I strum and pick faster, humming along with the guitar. I want to be sure I commit the melody to memory before I get distracted and lose it forever.

My father sticks his head into the room. “Neil! Quit goofing around and help your brother run cables up to the speakers in the balcony. We'll be playing in less than an hour. Get a move on!”

“You got it,” I say, jumping up from my chair. I'm still hanging on to my guitar, and I quickly run through the melody line one more time before I place it carefully into its case. Then I grab a couple of brownies and head out front to help.

* * *

The show goes well. There are definitely more people here than last year. The pews are so full that some people have to stand around the edges. Dad's been saying for a couple of years now that as word spreads, we'll become more and more in demand. Looking out at today's audience, I get the feeling he's right.

For one thing, the average age of the audience seems to have dropped by quite a bit. The old ladies who've flocked to our past performances are still here, soaking it up, but there are also quite a few young people in their twenties and thirties, many of them with little kids. I'm not surprised that the audience is almost entirely devoid of teenagers, but there is one notable exception. She's around my age, and I've never seen her before. She's got short black hair and glasses with bright red frames, and she's wearing jean shorts and a plain white tank top. She's sitting in the front row with an old lady and a little boy who keeps fidgeting. The old lady is so engrossed in the music that she doesn't pay any attention to the kid, but the girl manages to keep him under control. Every once in a while she leans in and whispers something in his ear, and he laughs and calms down.

My best guess is that the old lady is their grandmother, and red-glasses girl has been dragged along to the show to babysit. She's pretty cute, and throughout the show I keep stealing glances at her, hoping nobody catches on. I'm not too worried. The chance of anyone paying attention to me while the rest of the McClintock circus sings, dances and plays weird instruments is pretty slim.

Afternoon shows are usually a bit more subdued than nighttime performances, especially when they're at churches or community centers. Something about the surprising energy of today's crowd gets us going, though, and by the fourth tune we're really pumping out a good set. Even though I am not a fan of the music, I have to admit that it's pretty cool when a show goes especially well. We're always well rehearsed enough to sound good at any performance, but every once in a while we're on fire, and today is one of those days.

Without even noticing, I start to really get into what we're playing. The piano and fiddle are pounding away, and the twins are at center stage, facing each other and doing a dance-off. For little girls, they sure can move. They play to the audience, throwing in some hand gestures and occasionally snapping their heads sideways and winking to the crowd at the exact same moment. People go nuts for the mirror-image stuff.

I take advantage of the audience's focus on them to glance at red-glasses girl and realize with a shock that she's looking right at me. I immediately drop my eyes, but when I peek again, she's still staring, only now she's smiling at me. I'm so surprised that I miss a few chords. I catch the tune again almost immediately, hoping nobody will notice, but something tells me it didn't slip by my dad.

Six

After the show, we bring our instruments into the back room and put them safely away before heading back out to mingle with the crowd. I hate this part of the job more than anything. I'm no good at small talk, and it takes some serious effort to pretend that I'm in love with Celtic music.

Of all of us, Shamus and Kathy are best at the schmoozing thing, probably because they're older and have had more practice. The twins just stick close to Mom and smile and giggle at everyone, which, of course, people love. At least Johnny hates the meet-and-greet as much as I do. Dad won't let us skip it, though, so we usually stick together as far away from the crowd as possible.

“What is up with all the hipster families?” I ask him when we're standing off to the side.

“I know, right?” he says. “I guess Dad's onto something when he talks about us catching the wave.”

“What wave?” I ask.

“Are you serious?” says Johnny. “He's always going on about how Celtic music is coming up, and we're totally in the right place at the right time. Do you ever bother to listen to him?”

“Not really,” I say. “He talks too much. I just hop on the bus when everyone else does.”

He laughs. “I should try that.” He glances past me. “Incoming.”

I turn around in time to see the old lady from the front row hurrying up to us, clutching her program in her hands. Red-glasses girl and the little kid are following her.

“Oh my goodness!” says the lady. “I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that show.”

“Thanks,” Johnny and I say simultaneously.

“Honestly,” she says. “I grew up in Cape Breton, and I was transported right back to my childhood. How wonderful that you're all keeping it alive, and in such fine fashion!”

We get a lot of this kind of nostalgic enthusiasm at our shows, from people who grew up here or who had parents who grew up here or who've always been fans of traditional fiddle music and
just had to come hear it for themselves
.

“Thanks,” I say again. “I'm glad you liked it.”

She looks past me at Johnny. “You know,” she says, “I always wanted to play the bagpipes. Do you think it's too late for me to pick it up?”

I slide out of the way and leave Johnny to give her a pep talk. Red-glasses girl smiles at me and holds out her hand.

“Hey,” she says. “I'm Sandy.”

I shake her hand. “I'm Neil.”

“I know,” she says. “Your name is in the program. This is Beast.” The kid makes claws with his hands and growls at me.

“Beast,” I say. “That's a pretty wild name.”

Sandy leans in as if she's about to let me in on something big. “His name isn't really Beast,” she says in a mock whisper. “It's Bailey. He only answers to Beast these days, though.”

I look at the kid, who narrows his eyes at me and emits a low snarl.

“I can see why,” I say. “So are you guys around for a while?”

“Grandma's rented a cottage for the month,” she says. “We're here until just after Deep Cove Days. Then we head back home to Toronto.”

“Cool,” I say. This is the part where any clearheaded red-blooded teenage dude would ask if she wants to hang out sometime, but of course I can only come up with “cool.”

“You guys were really good,” she says.

“Oh yeah?” I ask. “This your kind of thing?”

She leans in again. “To tell you the truth, I'm not really into Celtic music.”

I laugh. “To tell
you
the truth, neither am I.”

“I'm serious though,” she says. “I was totally digging your playing. You're really good.”

“You think so?” I ask, thanking my DNA for the millionth time that I don't blush like the rest of the clan.

“Totally,” she says. “I actually play a little bit myself.”

“No way,” I say. “That's really cool.”

“Sandy!” says Beast, reaching up and grabbing her shirt. “When are we going?”

Their grandmother, who's been grilling Johnny, turns around.

“I suppose you're right, Bailey,” she says.

“We should start thinking about what we're going to pick up for the barbecue tonight.”

“It was cool to meet you,” I manage to say to Sandy. Apparently the only word I know how to use is “cool.” My brain is spinning and I'm trying to figure out how to ask if she wants to jam sometime, when she saves me the trouble.

“We should get together and play guitar sometime,” she says. “If you're interested. I don't really know anyone around here.”

“Yeah,” I manage to spit out. “Sounds great.”

We exchange numbers, and Johnny and I watch as they walk away.

“You definitely got the better side of that deal,” he says. “You've got a date with a cute girl, and I think I might have agreed to give bagpipe lessons to an old lady.”

* * *

In the bus, everyone is excited about how well the show went.

“It was tight, guys,” says Dad. “Really, really tight. The only time I heard anything screwy was when Neil dropped out for a few bars about halfway through ‘Fisherman's Reel'.” He twists the rearview mirror until he can see me, sitting way at the back.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “Sorry.” Of course he has to finish off his praise of the show with a dig at me.

“No big deal, guy,” he says. “But maybe you and I should sit down over the next couple of days and work through your parts. Don't want you to get left behind.”

It hadn't sounded all that bad to me.

“I think everyone sounded perfect,” says Gran. “I had half a mind to jump up there on stage and throw a few steps down myself.” She leans over the seat in front of her, where Molly and Maura are sitting. “What do you think, girls? Should old Gran get some new dance shoes and join the show?”

The twins are giggling at her as we pull in to our driveway.

“How did it feel being back onstage, Kathy?” Dad asks as we're unloading the bus.

“It was good,” she says. She must realize how unenthusiastic she sounds, because she forces a smile and adds, “It was great. I really missed it. Sorry—I guess I'm kind of tired. Is it okay if I go take a nap?”

“Of course,” says Mom.

Kathy disappears into the house, and I see Mom and Dad exchange a look.

“She's acting very strange,” says Dad.

“She's heartbroken,” says Mom. “I think she really likes this guy, and now to have him move to the other side of the world…We should all give her a bit of space.”

“She should brush it off and find someone new,” says Shamus. “Moping over him isn't going to do her any good.”

“Listen to you, Casanova,” says Gran. “We can't all find a new soul mate every week and a half.”

“I'm just saying that if I was going out with some chick and she moved away to China or Argentina or someplace, I wouldn't lose sleep over it,” he says.

“You should write Valentine's cards, Shamus,” says Johnny.

We hustle the last of the equipment into the garage, and Dad shuts and locks the door.

“Great first show, gang,” he says. “Now let's see if we can keep that up all summer.”

Seven

In the morning, Dad herds us into the garage and we spend a couple of hours running through our newer songs. He tells us to break early, but before I have a chance to escape with everyone else, he asks me to stay.

“Why don't we take a crack at some of your stuff?” he says. “Work the kinks out.”

“I guess so,” I say. “I didn't realize there were any kinks.”

“Nothing serious,” he says. “I've just noticed that you seem to be drifting off a bit during practice. Almost like you might not be putting everything into it.”

I know he's right. I've been daydreaming lately, uninterested in the stuff I'm expected to play. It's just so boring to do the same backup on the same songs, one performance after the other. I don't really understand what the big deal is—it's not like anyone comes to the shows to see me. I know how far that argument will get me, though, so I grab a stool to sit across from him.

“So I've noticed that you've been getting a bit lazy,” he says. “You're falling back on chords too often. Let's try ‘Old Joe's on the Town Tonight.' I'll take you up to the bridge, then you play through it for me.”

He drops right into the song without even thinking about it. He can be a bit of a slave driver, but I have to admit that my old man is a hell of a talented musician. I listen for the melody line, tapping out the rhythm against my guitar, and pick it up when he hits the bridge. He's right that I've been cheating through this part for a while now, relying on chords instead of picking out the tune, which is more difficult, so when I try to do it the way I originally learned it, I screw it up.

He puts his hand up. “Okay, hang on,” he says. “See what happens when you get lazy for a few shows? You lose it.”

“Dad, I don't get what the big deal is,” I say. “It sounds fine when I just keep the rhythm.”

“Well, we don't want it to sound fine,” he says. “We want it to sound great. Neil, you know how this works. We're only as good as our weakest part. I know you're better than this. I've heard you play these songs a thousand times.”

“Nobody is coming out to see me,” I protest.

“You're right,” he says. “They're coming to see all of us. Together. Now, I want you to run through this piece with me until we've got it down pat.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

We run through “Old Joe's” a few more times, and then he makes me practice two more songs until he's satisfied. By the time we start to get rolling, I'm half glad he forced me to do it. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I probably wouldn't know how to play guitar at all if it wasn't for my semi-famous family.