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  Three

  After running through a few more tunes, my dad gets my brothers and sisters to line up and start practicing the big dance centerpiece to the show. The routine is elaborate and involves a lot of back and forth between the boys and the girls. It would make sense for me to be included, since it would pair up three guys and three girls, but like I said, I’m not cut out for dancing. My parents did their best to teach me, but eventually they had to throw in the towel and admit that I wasn’t a twinkletoes like the rest of the gang. That’s why I just hang out in the background and strum away, a big fake smile plastered to my face.

  “Are we done practicing after this?” I ask my mom.

  “Yep,” she says. “Why don’t you go and keep your grandmother company? Scoot before your dad notices.”

  She doesn’t need to tell me twice.

  Gran’s in the kitchen, kneading a massive lump of glossy brown dough for her famous porridge bread. There’s a turkey in the oven, and the whole house smells amazing.

  I grab a seat at the table and absentmindedly strum on my guitar.

  “Where’s the rest of the dog and pony show?” she asks.

  “They’re dancing,” I tell her. I don’t need to go into detail—everyone knows I’ve got two left feet.

  “I guess they’ll be twice as hungry when they come in,” she says. “You’d better come over here and get a couple of these into you before the rest of them have a chance to gobble them up.”

  Her eyes twinkle as she slides a plate of her famous cranberry scones, still wafting steam, across the counter. I stand the guitar up against the table and come over to grab one.

  “Yum,” I say, breaking off a piece and sticking it into my mouth.

  “There’s butter in the fridge,” she tells me.

  “I like them like this,” I say. There’s nothing better than a warm scone straight out of the oven. Gran’s the best cook in the world. Her specialty is old-school Scottish food—oatcakes, farm cheese, bread-and-butter pickles. Yes, she makes haggis, but it isn’t nearly as bad as people seem to think. It’s basically a giant sausage. If that grosses you out, you should show up sometime when she’s making blood pudding. It’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like, and it’s delicious. My dad and I are the only ones who’ll eat the stuff.

  “Dancing aside, how was practice?” asks Gran. She’s forming loaves, putting them into pans and covering them with tea towels to rise.

  “Same same,” I say, stuffing a second scone into my mouth.

  She smiles at me, shaking her head. “I don’t know how you people do it,” she says. “When your parents told me that they were thinking of putting you all onstage, I didn’t believe it. I definitely didn’t think it would last this long. Now look at you.”

  “Yeah, lucky us,” I say.

  “Well, you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your family,” she says. “As long as you’re stuck with them, you might as well make nice music together.”

  “Stuck is a good way to put it,” I say.

  “How do you think I feel?” she asks. “I’m not gonna graduate from high school in a few years with my whole life out there waiting for me. I’m here in the zoo for the long haul, or at least until they put me on an ice floe and push me out to sea.”

  “I never thought about that, Gran,” I say. “Maybe we should start making plans to escape.”

  “Save up those music bucks, boy. We’ll go online and buy a secondhand motorcycle with a sidecar and then hit the road for Argentina. You can teach yourself gaucho music, and I’ll find some wealthy retiree with a cattle farm who’s looking for a nice Canadian lady to settle down with.”

  “I didn’t realize you were in the market, Gran.”

  “The only reason I haven’t remarried is because all the eligible bachelors in this town are widowers, and I was friends or enemies with every single one of their wives. I can’t stand the thought of them gossiping about me up in heaven. Or wherever they are.”

  I’m still laughing when the rest of the family comes tumbling into the kitchen, all of them talking over each other.

  “Who’s hungry?” asks Gran.

  Stupid question. Just as she predicted, the scones are gone in about ten seconds flat.

  “Everyone listen up for a minute,” yells Mom. “I need you all to give me a list of your current measurements so I can get our stagewear finalized.”

  We begin calling out our sizes at her, but she holds up her hand and pulls a piece of paper and a pen from a drawer. “Write it all down,” she says, handing the paper to Shamus. “I’m not a dictation machine.”

  Supper is typically delicious. Gran’s gone overboard, and the table is packed with food. You’d think it was Christmas.

  “So are you going to fill us in on why we barely heard from you this semester, Kathy?” asks Dad.

  “You heard from me,” she says.

  “Once a week, if we were lucky,” says Mom.

  “Once a week is a lot, Mom. How much did you want me to call? I told you, school was really busy. I had a big research project that I worked on for almost three months.”

  “The kind of research project that makes you blush,” says Shamus, and he’s right. Her face is beet red. Kathy can’t hide anything. None of the rest of them can either. One of the advantages of my darker complexion is that I don’t look like I’m going to cry or freak out every ten minutes.

  “Is there a guy?” I ask her.

  “You could say that,” she says. “His name is Casey.”

  “Weird name,” say Maura and Molly at the same time.

  “Not really,” says Kathy.

  “Is he the reason you were late coming home this year?” asks Johnny.

  “Pretty much,” she says. “He needed help with a project he’s been working on, so I stuck around for a few weeks to give him a hand. Anyway, he’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?” asks Gran.

  “I mean he graduated a couple of weeks ago. I was helping him tie up some loose ends, but he’s gone to Africa to do development work.”

  “For good?” asks Dad.

  “For a few years, anyway,” says Kathy.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Kathy,” says Mom.

  “It’s okay,” says Kathy, although she doesn’t look okay. “How’s Delia?” she asks, turning to Shamus and changing the subject.

  “He doesn’t go out with Delia anymore,” Maura says.

  “Oh no,” says Kathy.

  “I’m going out with Mary Sexton,” says Shamus.

  “I thought you were dating Laureen Shea,” says Mom.

  “That was before Mary but after Delia,” says Johnny.

  “Wow, Shamus,” says Kathy. “You’ve been busy.”

  “Listen up, guys,” says Dad. “I think we need to talk about scheduling. We have a lot of shows booked for the next couple of months, and I expect we’ll have more soon. It’s important that we’re all on the same page.”

  Scheduling. Ugh. The worst thing about being part of the Family McClintock is listening to Dad drone on about schedules. He goes into great detail about what shows we’ll be playing, the acoustics of the venues, the types of audiences to expect, blah, blah, blah. None of it matters, as we don’t remember any of this crap and we always put on the same show, more or less.

  Gran gets up and starts clearing plates as the rest of us try not to fall asleep.

  I’m in the middle of doing this thing where I shift my eyes and the pattern in the tablecloth turns 3-D, when Dad says something that snaps me back to attention.

  “But the real big news of the summer,” he says, leaning back in his chair and looking at us with a gleam in his eye, “is that we are currently lined up to open for the Vince Beach Band in Halifax at the end of the month. Saturday after Deep Cove Days, if I remember correctly.”

  Our mouths drop open at the same time.

  “What’s the Vince Beach Band?” asks Gran, dropping pieces of pie in f
ront of the twins.

  “Are you kidding?” asks Johnny. “The Vince Beach Band is one of the biggest country bands of the last few years. You know, Gran—he sings ‘Big Old Boots’.”

  “Never heard of him,” she says.

  “How the hell did you swing that, Dad?” asks Shamus as Molly and Maura start singing.

  “Big old boots, big old hat, big old truck, ain’t nothin’ better than that.”

  “Turns out I used to go to school with one of his managers,” says Dad. “I reconnected with him online a few months ago, and one thing led to another.”

  “We’ll have a big old time at the bingo hall, I’ve got a big old heart, and you can have it all.”

  I’m not into country music, not even a little bit, but I have to admit that opening for the Vince Beach Band is a pretty big deal.

  “We’re not the only openers. It’s a big show and they’ll have a couple of other acts, but we’ll get to do three songs,” Dad says. He’s obviously pleased with himself, and for good reason.

  “That’ll be a big audience,” says Kathy.

  “Biggest one we’ve played yet,” says Mom. “By a long shot.”

  “Who knows, kids.” says Dad. “This could be our leg up to the big leagues.”

  Four

  “The Vince Beach Band?” asks Bert, his mouth hanging open.

  “That’s what I said,” I tell him. We’re back in his basement, trying to figure out what to play at the talent show. I’ve agreed to do it on two conditions: that he promises to practice, and that I can decide to pull out at the last minute if I want to.

  I’m actually kind of excited now that I’ve decided to give it a shot. Bert’s right. It can’t hurt to put some effort into playing something I like for a change. Even if it all falls apart, it’ll be kind of fun to jam without my parents breathing down my neck and my little sisters stepdancing around the room.

  “That’s totally nuts, Neil,” he says. “The Vince Beach Band is, like, a real band! They’re, like, on TV and in magazines and stuff.”

  “Yeah, Bert,” I say. “I know.”

  “Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “How does something like this even happen?”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” I say. “Dad is friends with some guy who hooked us up.”

  “Oh man,” says Bert. “You’ll be rolling in cowgirls. Vince Beach kind of sucks, but chicks dig him. He’s bound to let you make out with some of his extra honeys.”

  I laugh. “We’ll see.”

  “So when is this happening, anyway?” he asks me.

  “Saturday after Deep Cove Days,” I tell him.

  “You’re sure it’s not going to mess with the talent show?” he asks.

  “Yes, Bert,” I say. “It’s on Saturday night, and I’ve told you a million times, we always have Thursday off.”

  A couple of years ago, when we found ourselves playing lots of shows, our parents laid down the rule that Thursday would always be a day off. No practice, no shows, not even costume fittings or choreography. They said it was important for us to have a break to look forward to, and since a lot of our bookings are for Friday and Saturday nights, Thursday became our mini-weekend.

  “So what’s the plan, anyway?” I ask him. “Do we want to try to figure out a cover song, put our own spin on it?”

  “No way, man,” he says. “If we want to impress the judges, we need to show up with our own material.”

  He jumps up from his drum set and runs across the room to grab a pile of loose leaf, which he shoves at me.

  “I’ve been working on some lyrics,” he says. “I’ve got a couple of options. What do you think?”

  I look at the first sheet. Like Yo Wiggle is written across the top in giant block letters, flanked by what I think are supposed to be naked women, but which look more like otters with wigs and big boobs.

  “What is this?” I ask him.

  “Just read it,” he says.

  I like yo wiggle.

  I like yo jiggle.

  Come on and snuggle, My sexy muggle.

  I look up from the paper. “Sexy muggle?”

  He shrugs. “It’s hard to find something that rhymes with ‘snuggle.’”

  I shake my head and keep reading.

  I wanna kiss ya.

  I really miss ya.

  I wanna make ya

  A sexy cake, yeah.

  “Bert, these are the worst lyrics I’ve ever heard,” I say.

  “Oh, well, excuse me,” he says. “Maybe I should have written them in Gaelic, so you could truly appreciate them.”

  “Seriously, man, they’re just rhyming couplets.”

  “What’s wrong with couplets?” he asks. “The Beatles had lots of songs with quick, snappy rhymes.”

  “So you want us to be like the Beatles?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “I was thinking of something more like Jay-Z meets One Direction, only with lots of hardcore drumming.”

  “Sorry, Bert, it sucks,” I say. “There’s not even a chorus.”

  “Fine,” he says, snatching it away from me. “Read the other one.”

  He’s obviously taken more time with this one. Half of the words have been scratched out and rewritten.

  Pass the Test

  I really hate to study, but I’d study lots for you.

  I’d listen well, so you could tell that I’m in love with you.

  I’d work hard on my essays, my readings would get read

  And I’d go over all your lessons, every night in bed.

  Chorus:

  I wanna pass the test.

  I want you to be impressed.

  Out of all your other students, I want you to like me best.

  “Holy crap, Bert,” I say, looking up. “This isn’t half bad.”

  “You think so?” he asks.

  “Well, it has a chorus at least,” I tell him. I keep reading.

  I’ll meet you in your classroom, when everyone’s gone home,

  And you can give me special lessons, now that we’re alone.

  If I can be your favorite, the apple of your eye

  I’ll write it on the chalkboard, a hundred thousand times.

  I wish that graduation wasn’t quite so far away,

  I wish that I could kiss you on your luscious

  lips today,

  I wish that you were thirty, and I was twenty-nine,

  I wish that you weren’t married to that meathead

  Mr. Klein.

  “Bert!” I say. “This song is about Mrs. Klein?” Mrs. Klein is our math teacher. Bert is always talking about how hot she is, but personally, I find her kind of scary.

  “I think I love her,” he says. “She’s so hot.”

  “You are insane,” I tell him. “We can’t use this song. We’ll get in trouble.”

  “Leave that to me,” he says. “All I have to do is rewrite the last verse and nobody will have any idea who the song is about.”

  “I guess that could work,” I say. “I have to admit, the lyrics are pretty catchy.”

  “What about music?” he says. “Do you have anything in your bag of tricks?”

  Although I like to make up melodies and screw around with different chord progressions, I’ve never tried to do anything with lyrics. I try out a few riffs I’ve messed around with, but we both agree that none of them sound right.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess we have to start with one or the other. Trying to combine lyrics that have already been written with music that’s already been written just doesn’t work.”

  “Well, we have the lyrics,” he says.

  “Yeah. Give me some time to come up with something,” I tell him. “I still don’t know how we’re going to make this work without a singer, though.”

  “We’ll find one,” he says. “You’ve gotta have faith, my man. I think we should start asking around, see if anyone’s interested.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t blab it everywhere yet,” I tell him. “I don’t
want anyone in my family to find out that I’m doing this.”

  “What’s the big deal?” he asks. “You guys play music for a living. What difference does it make if you have a little side thing going on?”

  “I just don’t want anyone interfering,” I tell him.

  “Whatever you say, man,” he says. “But I sure wouldn’t mind some help from Kathy.”

  I spend a little time trying to come up with some music for the song, but nothing comes to me. When Bert starts banging around on his drums, suggesting that he might find a melody in the noise, I decide to leave. I’ll probably have an easier time figuring something out with a clear head.

  Five

  On the first Saturday of July, we cram into the minibus and head off for our first show of the season.

  My parents bought the bus a couple of years ago, when we started getting more out-of-county bookings. It originally belonged to the Nova Scotia Department of Natural Resources. It’s old and kind of beat-up, with some rust around the wheel wells, but it runs well and, like Dad always says, as long as it gets us to our shows on time, it doesn’t need to be pretty. It’s still its original bold blue, although Dad has painted over the government logo and stenciled the band name on the back and sides. It’s safe to say that we stick out when we’re on the road. The most important thing is that it fits all of us. There’s room for twelve passengers, all of our gear and some boxes of the swag that Gran sells at the merchandise table before and after our shows.

  Today’s gig isn’t far from Deep Cove. We drive just a few miles out of town and then Dad turns on to an unpaved road, and we chug along for a few hundred meters before pulling into a gravel parking lot behind a quaint old church. We’ve done this same show, a fundraiser for the church, every year since we started performing. It’s a good way to kick off the season. The acoustics are great, the crowd is small but enthusiastic, and, best of all, the local ladies make sure we’re well fed. There’s always a table full of sweets and little sandwiches set up in the meeting room at the back of the building. It’s kind of like a green room, only there’s a picture of Jesus staring down at us while we eat.