“Cool,” says Iona, and she does a rousing drum solo.
The beat thrums through me.
Reid calls to Iona, “Sounds awesome.” And then to me, “You too, Larkette.” It’s been his nickname for me for years now, something to do with a nursery rhyme called “Alouette,” which is about a lark.
I pick up the guitar I use for practice, Iona’s old one, and play the notes that Nifty just played. We try them in the minor chord that was working so well, and I sing, my voice raspy in a good way. I fill the song with emotion and let my fingers lead the music, which swells and surrounds us. I’m nothing but the music. We build a little structure, and Reid adds another layer to the melody. He plays quickly, contrasting with Iona’s slow beat.
We rehearse several of our old songs, and then I play my ideas for “Colony” to them. We try that out for a while, and then Iona takes off on the drums, so we just listen to the crash of her rhythm. When she’s done, I bring up the show with Nifty. He’s got something possibly for us in October. I insist we start to tweak the set list and fix our lineup. We’ve done a couple shows before, but this would be bigger for us—in a bigger venue.
Nifty says, “You’re keen.”
“We should make a huge deal of this—get out there more. We’re really good, guys.”
We take a break, because we’re all sweaty and thirsty. Out of the blue, Reid says, “Saturday Drowning.” He has a habit of doing this, speaking as if there have been more words before, as if he’s in the middle of a conversation that the rest of us aren’t having. He glances at me and continues. “It’s been on my mind. I dunno. Maybe that’s totally creepy. I know Sandcross is in a coma. Maybe it’s creepy. Sorry . . .” He goes quiet. Only someone who knows Reid well would notice the faint flush at his collarbone. He pushes his glasses up. “Yeah. Anyway. We could be something else, Larkette.”
Alec not surfacing, the reflection in the water of the sky above, pain in my chest, Suzanne crying out, the water cold silk . . . I say, “It’s a good name.” A sense of déjà vu comes over me, and nausea threatens. Everyone looks at me, eyes full of sympathy. I slow my breath.
“Guys, can we, like, sing or something?”
I start back on “Colony.” My voice is husky and low. Nifty picks up when I break, and the others join in. A new verse comes as I sing, and when I get to the end, the rest of them cheer.
As I longboard down the street from rehearsal, Nifty catches up with me on his bike.
“You got a moment, Lark?”
“Course.” I stop and lean the board against a fence, scraping my knuckle slightly.
“So, Cole’s parents are not cool with us.”
“Seriously?”
Nifty stays on his bike, one foot on the ground like he might be about to zoom away. “Problem is . . . Cole isn’t . . .”
“Uh, a few more hints might be helpful, Nifty. Cole isn’t what?”
“Not answering. Cutting me off.” He takes his e-cig and vapes.
“Those are gross,” I say. I suck my scraped skin.
“I think he might be about to break up with me. His parents are BIGOTS.” He stamps one foot. “And he should just stop being such a mama’s boy.”
“Why don’t you say what you really mean, Nifty?” I reach up and squeeze his stick-man forearm. “But honestly, think about it. It might be hard for him. For them.”
“Bullshit.”
“Calm down. Your parents are cool, right? But they knew with you for, like, always.” I let go of his arm. “You really like him, huh?”
Nifty nods, looking just like he did when he was four.
“Have you met his parents?”
“Course.”
“I mean, properly. Actually gone to their house—not just for a hookup with their son?”
“I like what you’re saying here. A visit. Old-school social call?”
“Can’t hurt. Or maybe even invite them to a café. Let them get to know you. Suggest it to Cole, and let him decide.”
“Okay, I get it. Time for the Nay-man to man up.”
“Okay, ‘Nay-man.’” I roll my eyes and giggle. “Man up.” I flip my board, which hits the ground with a clink. A distant car alarm goes off.
“Are you all right . . .?” he asks. “You know, about Alec?”
I shrug. “I wonder if maybe we’d be together . . . I mean, we were just getting to know each other. Nothing had happened. Yet.” My face gets warm, surprising me, and then my eyes leak all over the place.
Nifty pulls me in for a hug.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, after I’ve cried against his soft jacket. I pull away. “This is why the show’s important to me. I want us to make the most of it.” I gesture widely. “Of everything.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it?” He waves his e-cig.
“That still counts as addiction, you know,” I say. “And yes, I’m more sure of that than anything.”
“These are cool, and you know it.” He strikes a pose as if he’s on the cover of Vogue, hip out, e-cig held in the air.
I laugh. “If you say so.”
“You only wish you could be as cool as this.” He points at himself. Then he points at my hair. “Though, now you’re rocking the nutty hair, you’re getting there.”
I shove him lightly, making his bike wobble. “Call Cole later. Tell him how you feel, but don’t push. Suggest your plan. You might as well.”
I put in my earbuds and push off on my board, bumping along the sidewalk as I listen to Fox Confessor Brings the Flood. It’s old, and I love it—my mom loved Neko Case. As “Hold On, Hold On” starts, I find myself singing along, but then through my earbuds, I hear my cell. I come to a stop and flip up my board.
I want him to kiss me more,
kiss me harder.
I become liquid.
More words appear.
Nothing like Alec.
Nothing like this.
The message vanishes, leaving me cold in the dying day.
Day 13: late afternoon
Lucy passes me a J-cloth. Her hair is in thin braids, as if she’s just come back from a beach holiday. “Thank the Great Spirit you’re on with me tonight, and I’m not working this on my own,” she says. “I have a feeling we’re going to be busy.”
I plug my phone into the system. “Lana Del Rey, okay? I know—it’s not cool to love her as much as I do.” Her trippy, poppy rhythms bloom in the empty café. Music adds emotion to places, fills spaces, colours everything, and this album makes me smile.
Lucy weighs me up. “You’re not on planet Earth tonight.”
“I was working with a song, playing with it, sitting with the words, hearing the band riff on it, making it fuller. I haven’t quite got the melody right, but I’ll get there. It’s on my mind all the time.” I hum a few notes to her over Lana.
“I like it.”
“It started the day Alec took me to the lake.”
“You’re going to do it as part of the set?”
“The show isn’t a sure thing yet.” I start wiping the counter in front of her.
She moves a dirty cup for me. “Nifty told me it was ninety percent. And I know you can make that last ten percent happen.”
“I’m definitely going to make it happen.” I hug myself. “A show will be so cool.”
“Maybe one for your guitar?”
“Don’t start that again.”
“You love your Tak.”
“Give me a break, Luce. Seriously.”
She holds up both hands in surrender.
The door opens and eight people come in, chatting loudly. “I knew it,” she says, as even more people come in behind them, the lineup quickly doubling.
I look up about an hour later to see Martin Fields sitting by the window, staring out, his cell lying in front of him.
He catches my eye and says, “Hey! Hi, Lark! Wow. Cool hair.”
I touch my bob lightly. “I’m getting used to it.”
“I know Suzanne’s been
in touch, but I want to say thank you, too.”
Suzanne sent me flowers the day after the accident. And a card made by Annabelle. The flowers are in my bedroom, all of those petals drying. Martin jumps up and reaches out to shake my hand. He’s stubbly-faced—one of those cool, hip dads with his hoodie and jeans.
“I only did what anyone would.”
“Yeah, but you were the one who did it. You know, Suzanne told me that Annabelle wanted to come and find you—she was the one who asked to go through the reeds. Then their canoe tipped.” He shakes his head. “Alec . . . right? I’m sorry he’s still—Have you seen him?”
“I’ve called a few times. There’s no change. His parents don’t want visitors yet. Only family.” I shrug, trying to disguise that I’m hurt and frustrated.
Annabelle zooms in wearing pyjamas, and Suzanne follows, curly hair in a bandana and wearing a striped sweater dress and knee-high boots. She kisses Martin and then notices me.
“Lark—it’s good to see you. How have you been?” Her voice is gentle.
“Hi, Lark!” Annabelle clambers into a chair. “Dessert, dessert, dessert.”
“Special dessert night,” Martin says. “It’s been busy with work.”
“Talking about work—give Lark your card,” Suzanne says to Martin, and then to me, “You’re still writing songs? You should call and set something up. I kept meaning to mention it when you were our sitter.”
I blush. Totally not cool. But Martin hands over a white business card with green lettering: MARTIN FIELDS, his number and email address. Nothing else.
“Least I can do,” he says. “Really, anytime.”
I take their order for chocolate cupcakes, milk and two herbals teas. Words for another song come into my head, words about what was nearly lost, about how different today could be for them.
Another customer comes up to the till. The Fields eat their cake and then leave into the deepening night, Annabelle turning back to wave at me. Then Lucy’s mom—Dolphin—shows up. She’s wearing a long blue dress patterned with small white flowers, with matching nail polish—even down to the tiny flowers. She comes over to hug me tight.
“Oh, Lark, honey.” She sighs. Her voice is breathy. “Every single time I see you, I feel us going right back in time.” She pulls away and inspects me. “Your hair. You cut it. Love the colour. Your mom would have loved it.”
I nod, wishing she’d stop doing this.
“You still look just like her,” she says.
Dolphin and my mom were best friends for years. Now, Dolphin can’t seem to see me without seeing my mom, which makes me happy and fills me with loss at the same time.
Dolphin puts a hand on my cheek. “Oh, I feel her in you. You’re a channel for her spirit.”
I smile tightly. Finally, finally, she goes to chat with Lucy. She only stays a couple of minutes.
Later, after the last customer leaves, Lucy ties her headscarf over her hair and starts wiping up the kitchen, while I flip the sign on the door. The headscarf is multicoloured and covered in jangly beads. It matches her long hippie skirt.
“I don’t know what happened tonight. Biii-iii-zzzzy.” She wipes down the coffee maker.
“Done now.”
Lucy pulls a crocheted shawl around her shoulders. “Ready for Nitrogen Vice?”
“New Agey, you say?”
“You’ll love them. The main singer’s got, um, what do you always say? Great lyrics.” She catches the look on my face and giggles. “Trust me!”
“Where are they playing again?”
“Lydia’s. I told you all this, Lark.” She leans against the refrigerator, where she’s just put the breakfast muffins she made for the morning. “You told me you’re going to start living, right, until Alec wakes up?”
I chuck a cloth at her. “I don’t know if Nitrogen Vice is living exactly.”
“Uh, seize the day—that’s what you said. Come on, they will have started already.”
I pull out my cell, which has a new message.
Dad:
Wanna ride home?
Lark:
Going out with Lucy—okay?
Don’t wait up.
Dad:
See you tomorrow night
—I’m out in the a.m.
Stay safe.
Lark:
Night. LU.
Lucy checks herself in the mirror hanging by the front door. The song I’ve been working on drifts into my head, and I make notes in my phone, while Lucy finishes getting ready. She redoes her cherry lipstick and then turns to Candy Crush. I let her play, even though the muzak from it is annoying as I’m trying to get the lyrics down. When I’m done, I pick up my longboard, and we lock up.
The moon is a bowl of milk above the chilly evening. Lucy lights one of her clove cigarettes, inhales, and then exhales with a sigh of pleasure.
“That was the girl’s family I was talking to earlier,” I say. “You know, the day I went with Alec to the lake.” My breath ghosts in front of me.
She grabs my hand. “The one you saved?”
“I guess so. I wonder what it would be like if I hadn’t gone to her. Do you ever wonder about that?”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I guess there’s no point wondering.”
Ten minutes later, we arrive at Lydia’s, where we flash our fake IDs. We’re there so often, the security guy doesn’t even really check. Warmth and music wraps round me, and even though right away I can tell this isn’t going to be a band I love, I relax. Lucy gets us each a vodka cranberry, and we settle into a booth.
“I’m making some plans I wanted to run by you. When we finish school.” She takes a sip of her drink. “I’m going to nanny for a year abroad, I think. Make some money. Hit the road.”
“That’s so cool! Where?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“How about France or Italy?”
“Maybe . . .”
Reid walks in with a group of his friends. He nods a hello and makes his way over. He shakes his head toward the band, letting me know that he thinks they’re as terrible as I do. The lead singer has picked up a triangle and is jangling it while humming into the microphone. I press my lips together so I don’t laugh out loud. The drummer looks like he’s in some sort of trance, but Lucy is tapping her hand on the table to the rhythm, or lack thereof. The singer has a nice voice, though, and she’s got good presence—the sort of person you watch on the stage, even if she is now sighing her words.
Reid puts his hands on our table and leans over.
“Isn’t she amazing?” Lucy says.
He nods noncommittally, but he catches my eye, and his gaze reads: We are way better than these guys. A feeling of certainty buzzes through me. Our band is going to crush it. If we take it seriously, we’re going to go sky high.
Reid shakes his head as the singer puts her mouth so close to the microphone, she’s almost eating it. “Anika, Boh & Hollie . . . rumours they might play here in the summer.”
“I know. It’s exciting.”
“I like the new song, Larkette. The last couple of rehearsals were great.”
Something in his smile looks just like his mom’s. I have a memory of Reid’s mom and mine sitting together, drinking sugary black tea, talking and whispering, while Reid and I built train tracks across the floor. As we got older, he and I fought over the Wii. We would Just Dance like crazy—he beat me every time. Both our cells ping, pulling me back to the present.
The moon casts shadows
on Alec’s face.
I just wanted to see you.
Be near you . . .
He traces a pattern on my palm.
“What’s this?” I ask Reid.
“What?” Our fingers brush as he takes my cell phone from me. “There’s nothing there.”
I grab it back and check. He’s right.
“What was it?” he asks.
“A creepy message with no sender.”
&n
bsp; Reid lifts his glasses and rubs under one eye. He always does that when he’s thinking.
“Isn’t it weird your phone went off at the same time?” I ask.
“You think I sent you a creepy message? Come on, Lark, give me a break.” He holds up his cell. On it is a message from Nifty.
I shake my head. “I’m being stupid. Sorry.”
The mood is suddenly weird, and the singer is totally not hitting her high notes.
Reid says, “I guess I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” and he walks back over to his friends.
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. The taste of my drink is ashy, and my chest is tight. Who would send me a message like that? Why is someone trying to torture me? I put both hands on the table to steady myself, but the room is spinning.
Day 17: afternoon
In my room, I work with Garage Band. Then I do some vocal warm-ups before I sing a few lines of “Colony.”
“We started with a blank page
On it we wrote our story
A case of something empty
Before we added you to me . . .”
I layer drums beneath. Time disappears, meaning nothing, and when I surface, I flop onto the bed. I lie there, the duvet soft against my cheek, and I think about the day I hung my Tak on the wall. It was my fourteenth birthday. Mom and I were supposed to be going to get our nails done together—there’s a place downtown that Dolphin goes to: she’s obsessed with having perfect nails, despite all her hippie-ness. I’d been desperate to go, and we were going to meet Dad for my birthday supper at a Chinese fusion restaurant after. Then we had tickets for Neko Case.
I’ve replayed how that day was supposed to go a million times. Instead, that morning, Mom tried get out of bed, but she was too woozy, too dizzy to stand. She spent the day in bed; by evening, she was in the ER. She never left the hospital.
Raging that birthday, raging at the fact I didn’t get to go to Neko Case, I put the Tak away.
Mom lived for only twenty-one more days. Cancer, when it makes its mind up to take you, shows no mercy. She had a tumour the size of a seven-month-old fetus. Impossible to remove without killing her, so they sewed her back up, leaving the tumour to spit vile cancerous cells through her major organs.