“Looking for skippers,” he muttered. “Got to be flat. Smooth. Like this.” He indicated the ideal size with his finger and thumb. I found a good one and offered it to him.
Someone was playing the violin nearby. And they were playing one of Dad’s songs: “O’Ryan’s Train.” When I was little, Dad brought me a big black dog that he said was for me—even though I wanted a puppy. Mom said he was just dumping him with us because he was going on tour and no one else would take him. His name was Mars, but I called him O’Ryan, after that song. It was my favorite song, until years later when Dad told me that it was the last one he wrote before Hank—the drummer—overdosed on heroin and they all cracked apart. That song was a hit. It even made it onto the charts. A crossover favorite, the critics said. Their best work, just as it was all coming apart.
I followed a hedge to the end and looked across the road to see who was butchering the song. It was supposed to be fast and twangy, but this was mellow and slow. I was ready to resent whoever it was. But it was the girl from the bus station.
It was the girl from the ferry.
She stood with her face turned to the sun, her violin case open in front of her, playing my dad’s song.
Owen appeared at my side, his shirt folded up and weighed down with rocks.
“That’s Dad’s song!” Owen said. “She’s playing Dad’s song. Let’s go listen!”
He took off at a run, stones falling out of his shirt as he did.
“Check for cars!”
He lurched to a stop and had a quick look, and then he was running across the street and hollering. “Hey, you’re playing my dad’s song!”
She stopped. “Your dad’s song?”
My stomach flipped. I wanted to cross the road, and I didn’t want to cross the road. I wanted to go talk to her, but I wasn’t sure that I could. But it didn’t matter, or it couldn’t matter, or I wasn’t going to let it matter for once, because I was going to do both.
As I crossed the street, I could tell that she was trying to figure out where she’d seen Owen before, but then she saw me, and I could tell by the look on her face that it was all coming together.
“I remember you,” she said. “The evil joy-killing half sister. Where’s the other one?”
“The Gumboot.” I gestured behind me. “My stepmom loves their wasabi scrambled eggs.”
“Really?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Ah, okay.” She laughed. “That explains it.”
I stood there. She stood there. Owen waited for something interesting to happen, and when it didn’t, and the moment stretched on and on, he gave up and headed back to the café with his skipping stones.
“Traffic!” I shouted as he neared the edge of the road. I kept my eyes on him until he disappeared into the café.
“So.” She cradled her violin. “The Railway Kings. Your dad?”
“He played guitar, mostly,” I said. “But he wrote, too. He wrote ‘O’Ryan’s Train,’ actually.”
“That’s very cool.”
“If you’re into the Railway Kings. Not many people are. Were, I guess. It’s a certain type.”
“Definitely. My parents were big fans. Are, I guess.”
“Mine too.”
The girl squinted.
“That was supposed to be a joke.”
“Ah. Right. Got it.” She picked a quarter out of her violin case and held it out.
I took it. “What’s this for?”
“That’s the going rate, right?” She grinned. “As set by your entrepreneurial little brother. His jokes are pretty funny.”
“Yeah?”
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Iguana.”
I knew this one. “Iguana who?”
“Iguana be your friend.”
“Funny.” I blushed and gave the quarter back. “My jokes are free.”
“Cool.” The girl nodded.
“Cool.” I nodded too. I should go join the others at the Gumboot. They would’ve ordered by now. But I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. “Do you busk here a lot?”
“Not really.” The girl looked around suddenly, as if she wasn’t exactly sure where she was. “I came up to teach a couple of classes at the fiddle camp.”
That was the bus. Those were the kids. The girl with the ponytail. “You teach? That’s cool.” I took a deep breath. I was going to keep this conversation going as long as possible. “Have you been playing the violin for long?”
“Since I was five.”
“That’s a long time,” I said, wondering how old she was. As young as fifteen? As old as twenty? “My dad tried to teach me guitar, but I don’t have a musical bone in my body. I draw, though.”
“What do you draw?”
“Everything.” I had my sketchbook with me, but I wasn’t about to show it to her. I never showed anyone. “Objects. Little things. Teacups. Keys. Bicycles.” It sounded silly, in a list like that. “People who catch my eye.” Which I regretted saying almost immediately. I felt my cheeks get hotter.
“Does your dad still play music?”
“Sometimes. He’s a set painter in the movie industry now.”
“Still cool,” she said. “In Vancouver?”
“Yep.”
“So you live in Vancouver too?”
“For now.” I told her that my mom was in Haiti. But I didn’t tell her about Raymond. Or what I thought about it all. “You?”
“East Van, born and bred.”
“Really?” I felt a catch in my throat. “M-m-my dad lives in East Van too.”
I took a deep breath, willing away the stutter.
“We should get together, then.” The girl grinned. “Do you like mochas?”
“I love them! They’re so good. I love the whipped cream.” I sounded like one of the twins. Not smooth at all. Eager, and utterly graceless.
“Great,” the girl said with a laugh. “Then we have to go to Continental?”
“Chocolate whipped cream, yes! Absolutely.” I said it too quickly, and I could feel another spew of excitement brewing. Calm down, Maeve. Take your time. “Breathe.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I was flustered; the stutter was back. She was probably already regretting suggesting coffee together. “I m-m-mean, yes. That’d be g-g-great. Coffee. Sure. I could do that.” Then I had to actually press my fingers to my lips in order to stop talking altogether.
“We should probably know each other’s names, then.”
“Good idea.”
“I’m Salix.” She tucked her violin under one arm and reached out a hand.
“I’m Maeve.”
We shook hands and both held on for one second too long, then two seconds, and then Salix let go first.
“That’s an interesting name,” I said, recovering. “How do you spell it?”
“S-a-l-i-x.”
She slipped her phone out of her pocket. “What’s your number?”
A girl was asking for my number. That had never happened before. Jessica had already had my number from being my lab partner, and Ruthie had always had it. If I was going to count Ruthie at all. Which I shouldn’t. Not really.
I was so shocked that a girl was asking for my number that I actually couldn’t remember it. I had to take out my phone and check before reciting it, and then I tucked it back in my pocket, fully expecting to never hear from Salix again. She was being polite, that was all. She probably was a very busy person and would forget. But then my phone buzzed while she was still standing right in front of me.
Continental. 2pm Friday?