“The mochas. Iced or hot.”
“Sure. That sounds good. I’ve got money.” I dug in my bag for my wallet, but it wasn’t there. I pulled out my sketchbook and pencil case before finally finding a handful of coins at the bottom. I stared into my bag, horrified. My cheeks were suddenly hot. Should I go back home to get it?
“It’s on me, Maeve.” Salix put a hand on my wrist. “Don’t worry about it. Iced or hot?”
“Iced, I guess. Thank you.”
“Done.”
She held the door open for a mom with a baby on her hip—that made three people she’d helped so far, if the baby counted too—and then followed her inside and up to the counter, where she leaned on her elbows and chatted with the boy working the espresso machine. She looked out the window and saw me watching her. I quickly looked away and flipped through my sketchbook.
Salix returned with four glasses: two big ones—the iced mochas with chocolate whipped cream—and two little ones filled with water. She set them down. “It’s amazing that I did that without dropping one.” She pulled a wax paper bag out of her pocket and lifted out a big cookie. “Gingersnap.” She broke it in two and then set the pieces on top of the bag in the middle of the table. “You pick. The person who breaks it gets second dibs. That’s how it goes.”
“You’re obviously not an only child.”
“I have an older sister.” She pushed the cookie my way. “Take your pick.”
“Thank you.” I took half. I broke off a corner. My mouth was dry. I chewed and chewed. When I swallowed, I reached for the water. My hand was shaking, and the water sloshed in the glass as I brought it to my lips.
“So, hi.”
“What?”
“We never said hi.”
“Hi.” I laughed, and the knot in my stomach began to loosen. “How was fiddle camp?”
“Great. I had the little kids. They’re so funny. It’s like a bunch of feral cats trying to sing in tune, only it’s fifteen violins. There was a lot of screeching and yowling.”
Salix’s violin case sat at her feet, along with the same beat-up backpack. “Who’s the guy on your backpack?”
“Beethoven,” Salix said.
“The blind guy?”
“That’s Bach.”
“Ah.” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“What kind of music are you into?”
“I like to listen to it. Does that count?”
“Depends on what kinds.”
“Pretty much anything except country and soapy jazz.”
“Soapy jazz?” Salix laughed. “What’s soapy jazz?”
“Sleepy and slippery and oozy. My dad calls it soapy jazz.” My throat was dry again. I took a sip of my mocha, but there was so much whipped cream that I had to tip the glass way up before the coffee made its way to my lips. And then it was in a rush, and it sloshed down my chin. I pulled the cup away, ending up with a sizeable whipped-cream mustache.
“I asked for extra whipped cream.” Salix offered me a napkin, and I wiped it away. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Elevator music.”
“What?”
“Soapy jazz.”
“Okay, sure. I know what you mean. But what about real jazz?”
“I like real jazz.” Was that the right answer? “My dad has a huge collection of great jazz.”
“Good, because I don’t know if we could continue sharing this table if you didn’t like real jazz.”
“Define ‘real jazz.’?”
“I like the old stuff. Louis Armstrong and Bix Beiderbecke. Django Reinhardt. That kind of thing.”
“Never heard of Bix Blahblahbeck, but everyone knows Louis Armstrong. Who doesn’t love ‘What a Wonderful World’?”
“It’s not my favorite.”
“Blasphemy.” This was feeling easier now. “And I know Django Reinhardt. My dad loves him. Can you play his stuff?”
“I can. Want me to play a bit for you?”
“Sure.” A cute girl playing the violin for me at a sidewalk café? I wouldn’t have been surprised if a Tyrannosaurus rex had lurched down the street and swallowed me whole. It was about as likely.
When Salix stood up and began to play, everyone turned to listen. All the people at the other tables, people walking by with their groceries and dogs and toddlers and cell phones in hand. The guy who ran the used-book store next door came out, and so did his customers. Salix played for about five minutes, and when she stopped, everyone cheered.
“Where do I put the money?” one woman said.
“That was a freebie. By request.”
“That was amazing,” I said. The people hung around for a long moment, but when she put her violin back in its case, they slowly drifted away.
“Thanks.” Salix took a drink of her coffee. “You said you don’t play an instrument?”
“No.”
“Not even the school band?”
“No.” Speaking of school: “Do you go to Brit?”
“Windsor House.”
“Where is that?”
“Strathcona. It’s a democratic school, which basically means we can do whatever we want whenever we want and go whenever we want.”
“I’m registered at Brit.”
“Change that. Windsor. Definitely Windsor. We even have a carnival band, which I think you should join.”
“But I don’t know how to play anything.”
“That’s the beauty of a carnival band. No one will notice.” She shook her head, marveling. “I can’t believe that Billy Glover is your dad and you don’t play an instrument. You have to in my family. It’s a rule.”
“Not many rules in my house.”
“You’re lucky.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’re an awesome violin player. Would you have learned it if your parents didn’t push you to?”
“Probably not.”
“I kind of wish my dad had kept trying to teach me to play the guitar.”
“There’s still time.”
Neither of us said anything for a beat too long, and then I wasn’t sure what to say, so I didn’t say anything, hoping that Salix would say something first. And then she did.
“How was your week?”
Not a hard question.
I could’ve come up with something. But actually, I couldn’t. I should’ve known she’d ask that. What have you been up to? Do anything interesting since I saw you? How was your week?
“M-m-my week?” Mrs. Patel’s legs sticking out. Samosas and French fries spilled on the carpet. A queen of spades. A bloody splotch of ketchup. “It was f-f-fine.”
“Really?”
I blinked.
“Your face says it wasn’t fine.” Salix looked genuinely worried. Which made it even worse. “What happened?”
“It was j-j-just that…” But there was nothing just about it, and all of a sudden I was telling her about finding Mrs. Patel in her pink cardigan, and the paramedics and the police and the soap opera blaring on the TV, and the movers. Salix listened, her face shifting from worried to curious to horrified to sympathetic.
“Oh, I…that’s horrible,” Salix said. “Absolutely horrible. I don’t even know what else to say.”
And just like that, I wrecked the date. Why would Salix want to hang out with someone who could recite the entire soap-opera conversation that was happening in the background while she knelt beside her dead neighbor?
“I should go.” I stared at my drink. I couldn’t look at her eyes, kind and inquiring. If I did, I might cry.