Stumbling on the Downbeat

By Shawna Quinn

Life isn't so hard, Emma. Just be who they want you to be...

For fifteen year old Emma Bastien, life should be simple. Make friends with the popular kids. Excel at something. It worked for her brother, after all. He was a hero.

But now her brother is dead, her closest friendship is destroyed, and her social circle is starting to resemble a grotesque group of bullies and snobs. Her father barely notices her, and her mother makes her feel like the entire weight of her brother's absence in on Emma's shoulders.

So when Emma's ex-best friend, Rebecca, joins a drum corps, Emma does too. What better way to impress her withdrawn parents and mend a broken friendship? But it soon becomes obvious that things might not be so easy. Drum corps is hard. Really hard. The normal rules for popularity don't seem to apply. And despite the best of intentions, she can't seem to get on anyone's good side.

Well, aside from the corps' director, that is. But attracting special attention from the drum corps' elusive leader only seems to complicate Emma's plight. Emma can't seem to figure out who to trust on her march to success, or what success even means any more.

Will Emma mend old wounds and find her place in the spotlight? Or, more importantly, will she find herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawna Quinn
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994792105

Shawna Quinn

When I was nine I won second place in a national writing competition. Second. Place. Second only to the one kid who blew the judges socks off. Of course they gave the runner-up title to about a dozen others, but that's besides the point. I loved to write, and somewhere, someone appreciated my words. I went on to get a BA in English with the intention of teaching elementary school. It was here, after all, that I found something "special" in myself. Why not dedicate my life to helping other children find their passion? I traveled to Korea to teach, to test out the profession, and five years later found myself back in Canada with a full passport of stamps and no teaching degree. Life has its way of pulling you in unintended directions sometimes. Back on home soil I met the man that would become my husband, adopted two tiny dachshunds, birthed a daughter, and ended up in lake and wine country, tending to my garden and typing away whenever Violet (my toddler) slept. I always wanted writing to be my vocation (and it has been - from marketing to blogging to curriculum design and creative contributions), but never thought I'd have the courage or the dedication to write (GULP) a whole book.Now, after publishing my first novel, I realize that the heart knows what it wants often before the head does. The head gets caught up in fear and doubt and other people's opinions. In the end, we must follow our hearts, and mine has led me to the path of authorship. It is a salve for the soul, and anyone that may stumble upon my stories and find something valuable, something they can connect with, makes it even more meaningful. Moving a story from the heart to the brain to the world is a beautiful, terrifying, incredible process, and I thank all of those who share it with me.

Book preview

Quinn / STUMBLING ON THE DOWNBEAT / 208

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter One - Off the Line

Chapter Two - Exhibition

Chapter Three - Cadence

Chapter Four - Syncopation

Chapter Five - Jank

Chapter Six - Re-Entry

Chapter Seven - Charge

Chapter Eight - Chops

Chapter Nine - Box 5

Chapter Ten - Chorus

Chapter Eleven - Coda

Author's Note

About the Author

STUMBLING ON THE DOWNBEAT

Shawna Quinn

COPYRIGHT © 2015 Shawna Quinn

www.shawnaquinn.com

All rights reserved.

Cover photo by: David Biase

ISBN: 978-0-9947921-0-5

TO my parents, who’ve always thought I was cool; my daughter, who hopefully will someday; and my husband, who reminds me that it doesn’t really matter.

"MUSIC is your own experience, your thoughts, your wisdom. If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn" - Charlie Parker

CHAPTER ONE:

OFF THE LINE

EMMA sat at the table staring at her plate of salmon, brown rice and steamed broccoli. No bread, of course. Atkins. She always knew when her mother was particularly upset. Calorie intake for the family fell down to almost non-existent.

It was a nice service. Emma’s mother carefully carved a bright, green broccoli floret into four equal miniscule pieces before gently spearing one into her mouth. Her knife tinkled softly against the china.

Mmm, her father contributed, glancing back and forth from his plate to the paperwork positioned next to his dinner.

Emma chewed her salmon in silence. The flaky meat turned into a paste in her mouth. After that afternoon, she couldn’t seem to get anything down. The funeral had lasted less than an hour but it had felt like forever.

It had been two years since Emma had seen a dead body. Two years for the rest of Falcon Hills, for that matter: under this kind of circumstance, at least. But today had been different. This time people were anxious. Unsure. You could sense it in the energy of the stuffy room, edgy and peppered with shallow breaths. Silence had echoed off the community hall’s panelled walls and low ceiling, insulating the congregation in its own uncomfortable hush. Everyone’s eyes moved about as they inspected each other for indicators on how to behave.

The last funeral had looked somewhat like this one. Packed room. Forlorn faces. But there had been a different energy. Parents had been there with white-knuckle grips on their children’s hands. Girls had moaned and wailed, calling out her brother’s name. Adoring fans, no doubt. Emma had hardly recognized anyone. A sea of faces there to pay respects to their hometown hero. To be close to him. Everyone always wanted to be close to him.

People mourned with conviction that day. Today people had simply looked uncomfortable.

She was such a lovely girl, wasn’t she Em? Her mom set her silverware down carefully as she spoke. She was on your swim team years ago, wasn’t she? She beat you in that one race…

The 500 metre backstroke. Yep, that was her. The salmon glue had formed into a ball in her cheek.

That was a tough one. You would have been -

The all round champion that year, if only I had held on. Emma shook her fork theatrically in the air, feigning frustration. Yep, Mom, that sure was a tough one.

Yes, right. So close. Remember that, honey? Her mom put her hand gently on Emma’s father’s wrist.

Mmm-hmm, he lifted his paper closer to his face.

Too bad about that. She was a good swimmer, wasn’t she sweetheart?

Yeah Mom, real good. Emma took a deep drink of her water. The lump slid down her throat like sludge. Maybe I should have tried horse racing instead.

Real nice girl. Her mother lifted her fork and knife and pierced another mini-floret.

Emma set down her cutlery and picked at her cuticles. The background hum in her ears was elevating to a dull roar as it sometimes did since the day Dylan disappeared, and she tilted her head back and forth to try to shake out the sound. Her mind drifted back to earlier that afternoon, the memory of aromas from the community hall overtaking the smell of fish in the air. Decaying wood and salty residue of dinners cooked in the communal kitchen over the years, buried deep in the aging walls. The incense of lost time.

The funeral began at 4:00 pm, late enough for most of the town to justify leaving work early. A priest entered the hall from the back of the room. He coughed to himself as he plodded up the aisle, the squeak of his shoes echoing off the silence. As he stood for a moment at the podium reviewing his notes, the last few attendees trickled in the side entrance, finding standing room against the wall, the heavy doors smacking shut behind them. Somewhere someone fidgeted with the lights. The preacher cleared his throat.

"The Mackenzie family would like to thank all of you for coming today and showing your support in this time of great loss. There is no greater sorrow than the loss of a child. Nothing can take away that grief, but it is in joining us today to celebrate the life of Amy Mackenzie that we can all come together and show our love and support.

Amy was a bright and talented girl, with so much to offer the world. She excelled in everything she set out to do, and was loved and respected for her character. We remember her for her resilience, her dedication, and her tenacity.

The hum throbbed in Emma’s ears. Dedication to her own glory, maybe, Emma thought, feeling immediately guilty. It’s too bad people don’t care about swimming and mathematics like they do about football. She could feel an empty, aching feeling growing in her gut. Above the racket in her head, the preacher’s words bled into one another: a noise like a churning river. She couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t feel anything. It was as if she was under water, the images and sounds around her murky and distorted. When Amy’s mother got up to speak, the whole room took a deep breath, holding it in their lungs like life rafts. Emma kept her eyes forward. She focused them on the rusting screw that held the back cushion on the folding chair in front of her. Her ears buzzed and whirred like a generator. She wished she had her disc man with her. A little Dizzy Gillespie would be perfect to drown out the noise. Or Sarah Vaughan, even. Anything but this roar.

After the homages were paid, the gathering began to line up for the viewing. Emma’s mother stood, whispering to her daughter to take her time before following behind her husband to the exit. As Emma stood in line her palms began to sweat. It was the second time she had ever noticed her hands doing this. The first was last year on Claire’s daybed when Bradley Durham put his hands up Emma’s shirt while she listened to Gary’s lips smack up against Claire’s neck. She remembered thinking how awkward it was that teenagers felt it was appropriate to feel each other up in the same room as one another. Like one person judging your every move wasn’t unnerving enough. She remembered very little else from the encounter. Not the texture of his lips, or the taste of his tongue. Just sweaty palms, the sound of saliva, and an urge to run for her life.

A hand suddenly clamped down around her wrist. Turning, she met Claire’s wide doe eyes, watery and wavering like a mirage. Claire squeezed her arm and pulled her in for a hug. It’s weird, right? she whispered in her ear. It’s like losing a best friend or something.

Hmmm, Emma said dully and pulled away.

We’re all here for each other. She smiled, giving a nod of encouragement as Emma inched forward. It’ll be OK.

Yeah, I know. Emma’s voice was short.

Claire’s eyes widened slightly, then softened as she moved toward her. Hey. I’m sorry. I know this is probably…hard on you, she whispered.

On me?

You know. With, like, your brother and everything.

It was two years ago, Claire.

I know, I know. Claire fidgeted with her hair, looking toward the back of the line where Gary stood with his cronies who were punching each other in the arms.

Emma sighed. I’m sorry. I don’t know what my problem is.

It’s OK. I get it. This is just really tough on everybody.

Emma turned back toward the casket before she let her eyes roll. The line inched forward.

Standing over the coffin, Emma felt a wave of relief. Amy didn’t look dead. She didn’t even look sad. Not like a suicidal teenager should look. She looked confident and composed. Her mousy brown hair was strewn elegantly around her face and tumbled around her turtleneck collar. Her pink cheeks looked soft enough to touch. Emma felt a wave of jealousy as she stood there staring at her. At least you don’t have to witness this spectacle, Emma thought. A room full of people trying to figure out how to be sad.

They had never found Dylan’s body.

Emma exited the hall and walked out into the rain. The air was clammy and cold and the rain seeped into her bones. Emma stood, opening her eyes momentarily to the sky, letting the water lick her with its icy stroke. Her mother had run ahead to the car, tucked under the billowing veil of her jacket. Emma watched the fabric dance in the wind. It looked like a flag of surrender. Emma’s mother had been carrying that pennant for years now, bringing it out to wave to the world whenever the opportunity presented itself.

It hadn’t always been that way. She remembered how her mother used to silence a room with her entrance. Like Grace Kelly in those movies her dad used to watch all the time. Graceful and confident. Emma often recalled a memory of her at a Christmas party they hosted, dressed in a long silky green dress, her back up against a wall, like in an ad for some expensive jewelry. Something glamorous. She was laughing and her head tilted toward the ceiling as her wine swished slowly around in her glass. Emma’s dad stood beside her, his hand placed on the small of her back, watching. There were others standing around her, laughing in the same enthusiastic tone, then falling silent as she would make some comment, something wry and political, their heads tilting and their eyes following her hair as it danced across her shoulders. One of the women at the party that night, some colleague of hers, had told Emma she was the spitting image of her mother that night. Emma didn’t see it. She could never stand that straight, that confident, in a room full of people. And she could never be that elegant.

It was rare that she heard her mother talk about politics now. There were never any parties, any people around to talk about politics with. No one really talked about anything at all in their house, for that matter. Not these days.

Emma looked up from her dinner and over at the clock. 5:57 pm. She breathed a silent sigh of relief. 6:00 pm meant the evening news, which meant her father would take the rest of his dinner to the den.

Well, almost six. Her dad pushed his chair away from the table. He kissed his wife on the forehead. I’m sorry about your friend, Emma.

It’s OK. Emma glanced up to give him a smile but he had already left the room. Emma watched the back of his head as he walked down the hall. The few grey hairs he had acquired sparkled majestically in the light of the hall. He looked like a politician, which was fitting. Emma couldn’t remember the last time she fully trusted any of his words. But still, the desire to connect with him, to feel the heat of his eye contact even, was at times like these almost too much to bear. She pushed herself away from the table.

Wait, Emma. Why don’t you finish your dinner with me? Her mother’s eyes were two desperate moons. She glanced sideways at the photo of Dylan over the fireplace, the way she always did when she wanted something from her daughter. Emma felt the salmon turn over in her stomach as if it were alive, flopping around violently out of water. She sank back into her chair, dragging it back up to the edge of the table.

Sure, Mom, she ceded.

That’s my girl. Now eat your broccoli.

The two sat in silence for a long time, slowly chewing their vegetables. On the mantle, the clock ground out the time in dragging, heavy tocks that pulled the seconds on like a chain gang heaving spades through the mud. Emma searched her repertoire for parental small talk subjects but came up dry. She just sat there instead, suffocating in the dead air.

She let her eyes wander to the paintings that hung on all four walls surrounding the dining room. Each one was set in an agricultural landscape. The rolling hills looked just like the terrain that stretched out from their small town. Littered here and there were cows and horses, and prominent in each was one solitary cowboy, hat dipped just below the eyes, exaggerating his independent spirit. Her father loved the prairies, but those images were more a nod to the man he had always wanted to be. A desperado, solitary and free, exploring life’s secret places. Emma had always appreciated that about him. Something she felt some connection to. But the past few years had drained him of any trace of that fire. Now they were just pictures hanging on a wall, staring down at him as inconspicuously as wallpaper.

There used to be other frames there, too. Her mother’s PhD, for one. Emma wondered where it had disappeared to.

Emma, her mom said at last. You know you can talk to me about all this.

All what?

You know, your friend.

She wasn’t my friend, Mom.

Of course she was, Emma. And it’s OK. You know, if it hurts. Or if it brings up anything…

She wasn’t my friend. Nobody at that funeral was her friend. Nobody cared about her. Nobody even knew her. It was all a joke, today, all of us being there. Emma was surprised at her own sudden admission, but the words felt like silk sliding out of her mouth.

How can you say something like that?

Because it’s true. It was ridiculous, everyone standing around pretending to be totally devastated. It was all a big show. And she probably deserved a lot more than that, I’m sure.

Emma, come on. That’s not fair. She was a lovely girl. I’m sure all those people were really heartbroken over their loss.

Emma snorted. How do you know she was ‘lovely’? All you know is that she beat me in some stupid race a million years ago. That’s all anybody knew about her. She was good at stuff. She was in everything. Her name was everywhere. I mean, what does ‘lovely’ even mean, anyway? Emma pushed her broccoli around her plate in a circle. The fork tines screeched as they etched over the pattern of purple lilacs.

Emma, I’m just trying to…

I get it. Emma gritted her teeth and looked up. Her mom had set down her silverware delicately against her plate, folded her hands in her lap, and started to whimper.

Aw, Mom.

Her mother shook her head, wiping tears from under her eyes with a napkin. When Emma stood up to make her way over to her, she waved her off.

Look, I’m sorry, Mom. Emma thought about taking back her words, but couldn’t manage the effort.

Her mother glanced at the mantle.

After a few dramatic sniffles, she refolded her napkin, placed it next to her plate, and got up, a smile painted across her face. Dessert?

No. Thanks. And hey, I’ll get all this. Emma started clearing the dishes.

Her mother was quiet for a minute, gazing blankly at her plate, her smile fading into a vacant stare. Emma waited for her to come out of her trance before taking her dish, standing awkwardly behind her at the table. The clock echoed its heavy heartbeat.

It’s too bad when people like her go, you know? There are just so many other types of people in the world…

Sometimes the words that came out of her mother’s mouth made her want to throw something in her face, something hard. She knew what she was trying to say. There are so many mediocre types of people in this world. Isn’t it a shame that this time it wasn’t one of them, hey Mom?

I’m going to go lie down. And with that, she left the room, leaving only a subtle trail of floral perfume. Emma breathed it in, attempting to hold on to a memory that was trying to find shape in her mind. But all she could feel was a sensation of sinking.

Hey Lips, how’re the blow jobs going?

Emma fumbled with the lock, twisting the metal dial again to 27, 36, 14. As it burst open, it came flying from its hinge. Emma swiped it expertly out of the air with her left hand, looking over at Vic and winking.

Nice snatch. He winked back, slapping her hard on the back.

You wouldn’t know a nice snatch if it bit you on the-

Vic punched her in the arm. Emma smiled and reached into her locker for her books.

You got band practice or something? he kicked at the side of her trumpet case.

What’s it to you?

"You don’t think it’s massively lame that you are in band? You do realize…it’s band, right?"

What? I’ve been carting this thing around thinking it was something useful for shop class.

I forgive you since we all need an art credit, but it’s still pretty weak.

That’s generous of you, Emma said, sliding the lock back on its hook and picking up her instrument.

You’re lucky you’ve got those long eyelashes. He batted his at her. People forgive you for things when you’ve got eyes like that.

What a charmer.

You coming to the party Saturday? Gary said everyone’s going. Should be a good one.

Everyone?

Yeah. Coooooody will be there. He batted his eyelashes at her again.

She turned and looked him directly. Right after Amy’s thing?

Uh, yeah, after the thing.

Huh. I’ll think about it. She pushed past him and made her way toward the music room.

You should go. And try wearing something hot for once. You don’t want to be the ugly girl at the party, he yelled after her.

Emma turned, sending him a single-finger salute over her shoulder as she walked away. Prick, she thought. Her friends always managed to find a way to make her feel ashamed, of herself or of them, she was never sure. A party right after a memorial. Jesus. Truthfully, she desperately wanted to go to the party. Cody would be there. But she couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Out of principle. She thought of her brother, the funeral, the weeks of darkness that followed. No one had partied then. That would have been a violation. So why was this different?

No, there had to be a line somewhere.

Emma slipped through the doors of the band room as the bell finished its final ring. Tucking herself into her seat at the back of the ensemble, she flipped open her case and took out the silver horn from its plush, red velvet lining. She oiled the valves and put the mouthpiece into position. There was something comforting about holding her trumpet in her hands. Something familiar. She could grip it confidently, her fingers and thumb wrapping around the frame each time in the same way. But with slight variations in the order she pressed the three valves, or the position of her lips, there were endless possibilities. Emma was pretty good at the trumpet. She was pretty good at most things. Not great, but not bad. But playing the trumpet was different than doing well on a math test. There was room for expression, individuality, even if she wasn’t sure what she wanted to express. There was opportunity.

Mr. Peterson ran in through the doors out of breath and excited. The lights above reflected off the beads of sweat that glazed the top of his bald head.

Getting that mouthpiece nice and wet? Emma heard Cody’s raspy voice behind her from the drum pit, oozing through the air like hot lead. She could almost feel his breath on her neck. She tensed, furious at the arrogance of his words. And at herself for being somehow, nonetheless, turned on. She kept her eyes forward.

Mr. Peterson fumbled with the music stand, clearing it from the front of the room. He scrambled up on the podium and spoke to them in wheezing phrases. For a moment he looked Emma directly in the eye, the way he sometimes did to his students, making them sit up straight and pay close attention - a sudden shock of intensity that shot through his fidgety exterior like the jab of a blade.

Folks, some news. We’ve got some visitors this morning and I’d like you to give them your undivided attention. This is Rory and Tracey and they are from the Cardinal Renegades, Western Canada’s only competing drum corps. Let’s give them a great big warm Falcon Hills welcome. His voice was airy and enthusiastic, but