We met the boys in the middle.
“You were making out up there,” the smallest one accused. Another one made obnoxious kissing noises. The third wagged his tongue between his fingers. “Dirty homos!”
Suddenly I was with Ruthie, against the wall in her room. And then I was staring at Mrs. Patel slumped on the floor. Oranges rolling into the street. Beaches and bus rides and the fat lady squishing us together. Drummers and dogs barking. The broken flamingo cup. I felt my grip slipping. I teetered forward.
“Hang on.” Salix jumped down.
The boys made wet smooching noises as Salix helped me from below.
“Shut up, you little shit.” Salix took her hand away just long enough to yank the loudest kid off the ropes. He fell backward and landed hard on the cedar chips.
“Oh my God!” I froze. “Is he okay?”
“Don’t touch me!” He sprang up. “Lesbo bitch!”
“He’s fine,” Salix said.
The other two boys were already at the top, and they watched silently while their friend climbed up the other side. When he was up at the top, well out of reach, he spat at us.
“Rug muncher!”
“Oh!” It was so absurd that I had to laugh as I finally stepped off the bottom rung. “Rug muncher? Seriously?”
“Come on.” Salix gave the finger to the boys. She scooped up our flip-flops and her violin and pulled me away from the playground.
“Where did he even learn that?”
“I’m going to guess from a ragingly homophobic older sibling.” When we got to the grass, Salix dropped the flip-flops and took my hands in hers. “That did not go the way that I’d planned. Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Are you sure? Because we were just gay-bashed by three nasty little kids.”
“I know. I’m good. Truly.” But I wasn’t. It wasn’t about being called a lesbo or a rug muncher, though. I was angry about the boys’ timing. If they’d arrived just five minutes later, Salix would’ve already kissed me. But they took that first kiss away. And so it was a first kiss that wasn’t. It was an interrupted kiss. It was still there, but it hadn’t happened. And those five minutes would never happen again. There would be another five minutes in their place—happening right now, almost finished, even—but I didn’t want those five minutes. I wanted the other five minutes back. I wanted that kiss at the top, up there with the dappled lights of downtown spread out below. But that was gone now.
As we crossed the park, I saw Mr. Heidelman hurrying up the other path.
“That’s my neighbor,” I told Salix. “The musician.”
He was heading straight for the drummers.
“What’s he doing?” Salix squinted into the dark.
He stopped at the edge of the drum circle, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Mr. Heidelman?”
“Hello, neighbor.” He swayed to the beat. “It’s Miss Maeve, yes?”
“That’s right,” I said. “And this is Salix. She’s a musician too. She plays the violin.”
“My favorite instrument of all.” Mr. Heidelman raised his voice over the cacophony of drums. “First chair for the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra for nearly four decades until they gave me a lovely retirement party. Which means I’m retired now, I suppose. How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was five.”
“And are you very good? Or just average? It’s okay to be honest. Not everyone can be gifted.”
“She’s brilliant,” I interrupted. “She’s going to go to Juilliard. Like her sister.”
“I’m applying,” Salix said. “I haven’t been accepted.”
“Yet,” I said.
“High sights, indeed.” Mr. Heidelman nodded. “I tell you what: we’ll listen to these drummers for a while, and then you must come back to my place to play for me. Yes?”
“I could,” Salix said. “If it’s okay with Maeve.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Heidelman said, and then he turned his attention to the drummers.
He started dancing, kicking up his legs and flapping his arms. He took my hands.
“Dance, Miss Maeve. Dance!”
I was a terrible dancer, and I didn’t want to prove it to Salix, but then I saw her dancing too, clapping her hands and stomping like she was at a barn dance. She looked like a complete and utter goof, and I liked her even more for it.
Mr. Heidelman stopped dancing all of a sudden.
“Oh, dear.” He leaned heavily on me.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes.” He gasped for breath. “I am not twenty anymore. Not even sixty. That is all.”
I took his arm as he teetered backward. “Do you need to sit down?”
“That would be wise, I think.”
The drumming slowed to a stop. Someone offered up a lawn chair. Salix helped Mr. Heidelman to sit.
“Is he okay?” someone asked.
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“No, no.” Mr. Heidelman waved away the idea. “I’m okay,” he gasped.
“Do you want a glass of water?” A tall man with long blond dreadlocks squatted beside Mr. Heidelman. “Wine?”
“Wine, thank you.” Mr. Heidelman nodded. “A sip of wine would be very fortifying.”
A girl not much older than me—with bare feet and her own baby dreads—came back a minute later with a small mason jar half filled with red wine. Mr. Heidelman took a long sip.
“You cast a spell with those drums,” he said.
“Namaste.” The girl brought her hands together under her chin. “Thank you.”
“You looked like you were enjoying it,” the guy said.
“Indeed I was.” Mr. Heidelman nodded again. “But to tell you the truth, I came over here to politely ask you to stop at eleven, if you wouldn’t mind. You see, I live right there.” He pointed. “And an old man needs his sleep. You understand. You will help a tired old man get a good night’s sleep.” Mr. Heidelman downed the rest of the wine and slowly stood up. “Won’t you?”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” the guy said.
We each took a side and helped Mr. Heidelman out of the park, where he suddenly stood a little taller and took a deep breath. “That’s better. Do you think it worked?”
“That was an act?” I was bewildered.
“No, no. Not really.” Mr. Heidelman shook his head. “I was winded. I did need to sit. And I did enjoy the wine. But yes, I did go over to ask them to stop at eleven. A little drama can go a long way, don’t you agree?”
—
Mr. Heidelman unlocked his door and ushered us in. Salix went ahead, but I couldn’t quite make myself take the first step inside. This was Mrs. Patel’s home. And at the same time, it wasn’t her home anymore at all. Glancing in, I could see the baby grand in the living room, and bookshelves lining the wall behind it.
There was no curry smell.
No TV blaring.
No Mrs. Patel.
“It’s okay.” Salix reached for my hand.
I stepped inside, ready for the panic to grip me, but it didn’t. My eyes went straight to all the art on the wall. I started to kick off my flip-flops.
“No need to take them off,” Mr. Heidelman said.