fine, Mom. Really. We did the routine, you know, the bail and scoop thing, and we were back in the boat in about two minutes. Everything’s okay, and we were wearing our life jackets the whole time.”
Mrs. Nearing’s eyes narrowed as she absorbed this information. “Well, if you were back in the boat in two minutes, then it wasn’t that which made you late, was it?” Ouch. Too much information, handed over too quickly, without thinking it over first, Alan thought, referring to a handbook he had at home called “How to be an Effective Operative”.
“I guess we just lost track of the time,” Alan said. “Really, we’re sorry.” They were out of the boat and up onto the dock. Together, they pulled the canoe up out of the water and carried it into the boathouse, Ziggy locking the door behind him with his own key. Then Alan hugged his mom—sort of an air-hug, as she was dressed in nice clothes, and his T-shirt and shorts were soaking wet. This was the right move, and he saw that she was softening. He decided to press his luck.
“We still have time to change before the train gets here, though, right? And can Ziggy and Josée come to this thing with us? I have to have someone to talk to, you know. Candace will be all over this violin guy.”
“She’d better not be,” his mom said. “I don’t want either of you pestering him. He’s a virtuoso, and they’re very highly strung.”
“Like his Stradivarius violin, eh?” Ziggy said, who had heard all about the famous violinist from Alan. The virtuoso, Hugh Pratt, was coming to town to perform in a concert specially arranged by the Laingford Music Appreciation Society. A local businessman had donated a huge amount of money to hire a whole orchestra and a conductor to come up from the city, Alan had said. Mrs. Nearing, who was the vice-president of the Society, had volunteered to pick Pratt up at the train station and had volunteered her kids to help carry the luggage. They would be expected to attend the welcoming reception, too. Alan knew his sister Candace would be into it, but he wasn’t. He liked the Music Society concerts, but their social events were boring—definitely not kid-friendly.
That was why Alan had promised not to be late—not to hold things up so that Hugh Pratt would not be left waiting at the station. He looked at his watch (still ticking after being dunked in the river), and it was only a quarter after five, so they were only fifteen minutes later than he’d said they would be.
“When’s the train, Mom? We do have time still, right?”
Mrs. Nearing grinned suddenly, a sly glint in her eye. “The train’s not till six,” she said. “I knew you’d be late, my lad, no matter what kind of threats I threw at you. So you three have exactly half an hour to dry off and put on something decent before we have to leave. Yes, Ziggy and Josée can come, if you have something clean in that disgusting room of yours that will fit them.”
“Sweet!” Alan said.
“Indeed. You’ll be sweeter after a shower, I think. You smell like gasoline, all of you.”
“It’s that pure, clean Kuskawa water, Mrs. Nearing,” Ziggy said, grinning. “With a little jet ski fuel mixed in.”
“Don’t get me started on the environmental stuff, Ziggy,” she said. “I can’t afford to let my blood pressure rise right now. I need to be all calm and pleasant and civilized for the Society’s reception.”
“Where’s the party being held this year, Mom?” Alan asked. “It was at the Mooseview last year,” he added in an aside to the others. “The food was amazing.”
“Oh, you’ll like it, I promise you, love,” she said. “It’s at Giles Weems’s place—that enormous mansion on the lake. I believe he has a teenaged son, Dylan. Do you know him? And I know they’ve got a pool table down in the basement. You’ll find plenty to do.”
Two
I can’t believe I’m actually going to meet Hugh Pratt,” said Alan’s fifteen-year-old sister, Candace. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the van, talking excitedly to her mother and completely ignoring the others in the back.
“It is rather exciting, isn’t it, darling?” Mrs. Nearing said. “But don’t crowd him, all right? Some musicians are terribly sensitive, you know.”
“He better not be too sensitive,” Alan muttered. “Your perfume would knock out an army. Did you take a bath in that stuff?”
“Alan, you are such a pig,” Candace said. But it was true. Candace had kind of overdone it in terms of personal hygiene. Whatever perfume she was wearing had filled the van with its sweet, flowery-candy scent, and Mrs. Nearing had powered down the windows almost as soon as they had backed out of the driveway, although she hadn’t mentioned the reason. Alan exchanged a grimace with Ziggy and Josée and made choking sounds.
“Mom! Make him stop,” Candace said.
“Oh, I ask you. You’d think you were still six years old, all of you,” Mrs. Nearing said. “Alan, try to act civilized, at least when we have Mr. Pratt in the car.”
Candace had the famous musician’s latest CD with her and gazed dreamily at his picture on the front cover.
“I’m going to get him to sign this,” she said.
“Well, wait for the right moment,” Mrs. Nearing said. “Don’t shove the thing at him as soon as he gets off the train.”
“Mom. Of course, I wouldn’t do that. Give me some credit.”
He was good-looking—at least his picture was, Alan thought, staring over at the movie-star profile of the Canadian virtuoso plastered across the front of the CD, all white teeth and gleaming black hair. The musician was wearing a tuxedo, and his famous Stradivarius was under his chin, as if he was in the middle of playing something. Alan knew that it was posed, because you couldn’t possibly look that good while you were playing. He had once practiced in front of the mirror, just before a recital, and saw that whenever he played the hard parts, he stuck out his tongue, like he had just burned it. Still, maybe virtuoso violinists learned how to smile and play at the same time. Alan knew he would never be a virtuoso—in fact, he would have given anything to quit violin lessons completely, although he hadn’t had the guts to mention this idea to his mother. It was Candace who had the potential, not him. She was already playing solos in the concerts given by their music teacher, Mr. Ziegler, and she took special classes at the Royal Conservatory in the city. Candace had a chance at a first-chair orchestra position, her mother said. Alan, on the other hand, had a chance at maybe being the guy who swept the floor after the show. Still, he kept taking lessons, because he knew his mother would call him “a difficult person” if he told her he wanted to quit.
“So how did this guy get hold of a Stradivarius? Is he, like, a millionaire?” asked Ziggy.
“He won a Canada Council contest,” Candace said. “Some American magnate donated the Strad, and they had a big competition for all the young up-and-coming violinists in the country. Hugh Pratt won, and he gets to play the instrument for five years, to help build his career.”
“Oh, I get it. So it’s a loaner—he doesn’t actually own it.”
“No, but that’s the point, right? When you’re young and starting out, there’s no way you could afford something like a Strad, but the chance to play an instrument like that for five whole years—can you imagine? I would kill for that kind of opportunity.”
