Totally Unrelated (9 page)

Dad looks at Mom. “Do we need to have a family huddle about this?”

She shakes her head. “I don't think so.”

Dad holds the contract in front of him and rips it in half, then hands it to Martin.

“Sorry, Marty,” he says. “The Family McClintock plays together or the Family McClintock doesn't play at all.”

“I understand,” says Martin. “I really wish it hadn't worked out this way.”

“It's not your fault, my man,” says Dad. “But if you happen to be speaking with him, you can let Vince Beach know that he can take his big old concert and his big old bus and shove them both up his big old—”

“Language!” says Gran.

Thirteen

“Neil,” says Dad once we're back on the highway headed toward Deep Cove, “what time is the talent show?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You heard me,” he says. “I want to know if we can make it back to Deep Cove in time for your performance.”

“It starts at two,” I tell him. “There's no way we can get there in time.”

“It's only noon,” says Mom. “If we
drive straight through without stopping, we can be home by four.”

“There's no way it will be over by then,” says Dad.

“It doesn't matter,” I say. “I mean, I appreciate it and everything, but it won't work. Bert would probably do it, but Sandy hasn't spoken to me since I texted to tell her I had to cancel.”

“Give me a break,” says Johnny. “Are you going to give up that easy? That Sandy girl likes you. Why else would she have kissed you?”

“She kissed you?” asks Kathy.

“Ooooooh,” say the twins.

“Guys!” I say. “Seriously, thank you, but I know the situation better than you all do. It's too late. It's not going to work.”

“Neil,” says Gran, “do you know what people said when your parents decided to form a family band? They said it wouldn't work. Now would you mind telling me where the Family McClintock is today?”

“Fleeing the Vince Beach show in a rusty government bus?” says Johnny.

“You're professionals,” says Gran. “Every last one of you. Who cares what Vince Beach or the rest of those clowns back in Halifax think? All I know is that when you guys have the chance to play, you take it and you knock it out of the park. Just ask the crowd that showed up for your Deep Cove Days concert the other night. If you're serious about taking your talent in another direction, Neil, you can't back down just because you hit a roadblock. You have to figure out how to get around it and keep going.”

“She's right,” says Shamus. “Call her.”

The rest of them start chanting. “Call her! Call her! Call her!”

“Fine!” I exclaim. “Just stop yelling, please.”

“You're going to call Sandy?” asks Kathy.

“I'll call Bert,” I say. “I'll see what he thinks we should do.”

Bert answers on the third ring. “Well if it isn't the guy who crushed my dreams,” he says. “Are you calling from Vince Beach's backstage party room? Are the babes all over you?” he asks.

“Where are you?” I say.

“I'm in my basement,” he says. “You want to know what I'm wearing?”

“Listen for a second,” I tell him. “We aren't playing the Vince Beach concert anymore.”

“What?” he yells. “Why not?”

“I don't have time to explain,” I tell him. “But we're on our way back to Deep Cove right now. Have you pulled us out of the talent show yet?”

“No,” he says. “I didn't bother, because they'll figure it out when we don't show up. Wait. Why?”

“Do you think we can convince Sandy to do it after all?”

“Are you serious?” he asks. “I don't know, man. She hasn't returned my messages. I guess it's worth a shot though.”

“Try again,” I tell him. “I don't think she'll answer my call.”

“All right,” he says. “I'll try, but I wouldn't count on it.”

I hang up and wait to hear back from him. Nobody in the bus says anything as we fly down the highway.

When my phone dings with a text message, everyone turns to look at me.

“Who is it?” asks Shamus.

“It's Bert,” I say. “We're on.”

“Put the pedal to the metal!” yells Gran.

* * *

The stage for the talent show is set up in an empty lot close to the beach. The parking lot is full, and there are cars parked on both sides of the road. Dad slowly brings the bus to a stop at the edge of the crowd just as one of the acts finishes and walks offstage.

“Let's hear it for young ventriloquist Walter Willis and his hilariously nasty dummy, Willis Walters!” the announcer is saying as we get out of the bus. “Might be a good idea to take old Willis home and wash his mouth out with soap, Walter. Ladies and gentlemen, you'll notice if you turn around that Deep Cove's very own Family McClintock has just made a dramatic arrival to our show. Obviously they aren't eligible to perform today, but I understand that young Neil McClintock will be performing with a couple of his friends in just a little while. In the meantime, let's all put our hands together and give a big welcome to Claire Campbell, who will be using interpretive dance to tell the story of Deep Cove's founding, set to a medley of Motown classics.”

Sandy and Bert push through the crowd to us, Beast in tow.

“You made it!” says Bert. “Atta boy, Neil. You didn't let us down after all!”

“Neil, I'm sorry,” says Sandy, talking really fast. “I was really upset when you canceled, but I'm over it. You were just doing what you had to do.”

“I'm glad you're not still mad at me,” I say.

“Are you kidding?” she says. “I'm too excited to be mad.”

“Are you guys ready for the big debut?” asks my mother.

“I think so,” says Sandy. “I'm a little nervous though.”

“Me too,” I say.

“What are you talking about?” asks Bert. “You've been doing this since you could barely walk.”

“No,” I say, turning to point at the bus. “I've been doing
this
since I was born. Getting onstage with you guys is totally new territory.”

“We should get over there,” says Sandy. “We're on in a couple of acts.”

I grab my guitar from the back of the bus, then stop in front of my family.

“I'm happy you guys are here,” I say.

“The only way we'd miss this is for a previously scheduled engagement,” says Dad.

Kathy leans in to hug me, Johnny gives me a thumbs-up, and as I start to walk away they all yell after me together.

“Good luck!” I hear them say, in one big voice.

We walk through the crowd and stand by the back of the stage, where Bert has stashed his drums.

The dancer finishes her performance and takes a bow, then skips off the stage to a smattering of applause as the announcer walks back to the mic.

“Let's hear it for Claire,” he says. “Next up, the a capella stylings of the Deep Cove Boyz, or DCB. Come on up, fellas.”

Three high-school seniors in tracksuits climb the steps and break into a harmonized rendition of “Bohemian Rhapsody,” complete with beatboxing. The announcer signals to us from the corner of the stage. “You're next,” he mouths.

“Oh my god,” says Bert. “I can't believe this is happening.”

“Neither can I,” says Sandy. “But I'm glad that it is.”

“I need to ask you a question,” says Bert. “Why didn't you respond to me when I was trying to get in touch with you? It wasn't my fault—Neil was the one who canceled.”

“I know,” she says. “I'm sorry. If you want to know the truth, I have a crush on Neil, and I was really upset that he chose the other gig. Then I was kind of embarrassed and I just didn't want to talk about it.”

Beast pretends to barf, and as I feel the heat rise up through my face, I wonder if my genetic resistance to blushing is failing me after all this time.

“Fair enough,” says Bert, turning to wink at me.

“Wait!” says Sandy. “What are we going to call ourselves?”

“Oh no!” says Bert. “I forgot all about that.”

“I might have an idea,” I say. I tell them what I've been thinking.

“It's perfect!” says Bert.

“Totally,” says Sandy. She leans down and whispers something to Beast, who nods.

The Deep Cove Boyz finish their song with a huddle and then run offstage, pumping their fists. The announcer gestures for us, and we climb onto the stage, carrying pieces of Bert's drums. I'm helping him set up when he glances into the crowd and his face goes white.

“What's the matter?” I ask him.

“Mrs. Klein is here,” he says. “What are we going to do?”

“What are you talking about?” I say. “We're going to do the song, and nobody will ever know what it's about.”

“I don't know, man,” he says. “Part of me wants to scream to the world that I wrote it for her.”

“Try to restrain yourself,” I tell him.

I plug in my guitar, the announcer hands Sandy a mic, and suddenly we're standing in front of an audience and ready to roll. I've been onstage more times than I can count, but I've never been this nervous.

“All right, ladies and gents,” says the announcer. “I believe we're all set up and ready for our final act. So let's give a big Deep Cove—hang on a second.” He hurries over to us. “What do you guys call yourselves, anyway?” he whispers.

Sandy points at Beast, who is standing at the bottom of the steps, staring up at us. “Can you get my brother to introduce us?”

The announcer beckons for Beast to come onstage, then crouches next to him.

“Turns out that this young man is going to do the honors,” he says to the crowd. “What's your name, buddy?”

“Beast!” he yells, and the audience cracks up.

“You ready to introduce your sister's band?”

Beast nods, and the announcer hands him the mic. “Whenever you're ready, Beast.”

Beast looks out at the audience and then back at us, and for a second I worry he's going to freeze. Then he opens his mouth and, with the rage, tone and energy of a seasoned metalhead, screams out at the top of his lungs, “PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR UNRELATED!”

“One-two-three-four,” says Sandy into the mic, and then Bert smashes us into the song and we're doing it, we're finally playing something that I helped write.

The audience seems to be digging us. I have no idea if we'll win the talent show or not, but in this moment I don't care one bit. When we get to the first chorus and I lean in to harmonize with Sandy, I hear an extra-loud cheer from the back of the crowd, and I see my entire family standing by the bus, Molly on Dad's shoulders, Maura on Shamus's. They're screaming and clapping for me, and right now I know for sure that as great as it is to have a big family to make music with, it's even better to know that they're always ready to back you up when you most need it.

Acknowledgments

A huge thank-you to my wonderful family and amazing friends for their support, encouragement and enthusiasm. Thanks so much to everyone at Orca for being such a pleasure to work with, and in particular to my editor, Sarah Harvey, for her faith in my abilities and her significant insight into the craft of writing. A big shout-out to the hardworking musicians and performers of Cape Breton for sharing their gifts with the world. Finally, thank you a million times over to Andrew, who made all of this possible.

TOM RYAN
was born and raised in Inverness, on Cape Breton Island. Like most transplanted Cape Bretoners, he spends a lot of time wishing he was back on the right side of the causeway. He currently lives in Ottawa, Ontario, with his partner and dog. He can be found online at
www.tomwrotethat.com
.