Connor
The pub wasn’t asfull as the funeral home had been, and most of the people in attendance had been close to Gramps or us. The local newspaper hadn’t announced where the reception would be held, so we were spared the paparazzi unless some got creative and followed.
When I walked in, my eyes immediately went to the photographs on the wall, showcasing all the talent that had played there over the years.
For thirty-five years, my grandfather had played Friday nights at The Wharf with his band. All of the members in his band had been veterans who just hadn’t wanted to put down their instruments after leaving the military.
They had called themselves Adjutant’s Tea, and while they were not full-time professional musicians, they’d enjoyed playing together for the sake of it every Friday night. All of them had other jobs, Gramps’s being a music teacher.
It made sense to hold the reception there, in the place where his old band had played for so many years…in the place where Calum’s band had gotten their start too. The place where my grandparents first met all those years ago.
The old walls were covered in photographs of former performers. There were so many of Gramps in his heyday, and a few snapshots of Nan too. They’d played together on special occasions at The Wharf.
In one photograph, Gramps stood on stage with his arm slung around Nan, grinning down at her as they sang into the microphone. Another was of her playing the piano, the angle of the shot capturing Gramps over her shoulder, singing.
Music had brought them together, healing them from their past wounds. Music had forged their lives together, and they’d raised their only daughter in it. Wrapped up their grandchildren in it; teaching them how to love it just as much as they did.
It was their legacy.
Fittingly, this little bar was also where The Forgotten Flounders had played their first show. Just sixteen at the time, and so green the owner of The Wharf, George Mason, wouldn’t have looked twice in their direction, if not for Gramps.
Of course, it only took them playing one show for George to recognize the talent and book them for more. Weekends only, because Dad had refused to allow Calum out during the school week to play.
Voices buzzed all around. I heard Gramps’s name occasionally, small ripples in the water of conversation. People were sharing their most favourite memories of Gramps, of the times he played at that very venue.
I’d always been proud of my grandparents’ legacy, of the music that thrummed through my veins, but I’ve always been a little fearful of it too. I could sense my father’s discomfort with it.
Gramps had told me it was because Dad didn’t understand music the way we did. He didn’thearit the way we did, and that made him feel like an outsider. When my father felt like he was on the outside of something, he would get angry at that thing. Blame it for causing a divide or making him feel less than.
But he wanted to understand. I know he did. Flashes of the pride in his face after a piano recital came to mind.
Several of Gramps’s old friends and acquaintances started approaching my parents, in pairs or alone, to express their condolences. While they spoke, I scanned the crowds…looking for an escape or a friendly face.
Most of the people in the pub were either my parents’ age, Gramps’s age, or somewhere in between.
Then I spotted a group of familiar faces, hanging toward the back of the pub with Calum, Dare, and Evan. Tai was standing with them, and they’d already managed to attract the attention of a group of girls. GirlsI’dgone to high school with—my old best friend, Michelle, being one of them.
Charlotte Keiper and Emma Jennings were the other two. The disappointment that she’d brought them along knocked me back. Michelle had first-seat knowledge of how cruel the two of them could be.
I could hear Emma’s raucous laughter from across the bar. They each had a fruity, flirty drink in hand, and were far too joyful for the occasion. Tai seemed to be more annoyed by their presence than Cal did, he was studiously ignoring them, locked in his own head.
I hadn’t seen Michelle, Charlotte, or Emma since we all graduated high school. I rarely saw Charlotte’s or Emma’s names pop up on my social media, unless I was sharing photos of trips I’d made to visit my brother or catch one of their shows. Then they’d pop up, liking and commenting.You look so great! Miss you! Say hi to Cal for us! Kisses!
Michelle didn’t just like or comment on certain posts about my brother, like Charlotte and Emma. She interacted on all my posts with equal enthusiasm, but even though she tried to keep up with every aspect of my life…a part of me still felt it was inauthentic.
I once considered Michelle to be my closest friend, although it had been a long time since we’d last spoken in person. When Calum got famous and my popularity skyrocketed, Michelle’s had too by proxy. She’d loved the attention more than I had.
Raised by overly religious parents, Michelle was teased for being the preacher’s daughter all throughout public and middle school. When we both found ourselves suddenly sitting with the popular group at lunch, Michelle dove in with eager excitement while I held back, confused. I wanted to ask them…Why now? Why not before?But I’d known the answer: I mattered to them now because my brother was famous. Their interest had never really been about me.
That hadn’t mattered to Michelle, of course. She’d been excited to fit in with the two most popular girls at our school. We’d always admired Charlotte and Emma from afar—they were the “it” girls of our school. Their clothes were always in, their hair always perfect, and their makeup always applied skillfully, like they were miniature makeup artists.
Until grade twelve, I couldn’t even manage to put mascara on without poking myself in the eye. Thanks to Charlotte and Emma, I’d since learned how to apply liquid eyeliner. Despite their instruction, I never could figure out an eye palate.
I’d drifted away from them the summer before I’d gone off to Dalhousie. The distance had allowed me some clarity to see the flaws in our friendship. Then I’d met Lara, who showed me in a mere two weeks what a true friendship wassupposedto look like. Supportive, uplifting, empowering. Fun.
That wasn’t exactly how Charlotte and Emma had operated. They wouldsayseemingly sweet things, but their words always had double meaning. Looks meanteverythingto them—if we were going to hang out with them—what we wore mattered.
Michelle started buying clothes that met our new friends’ approval, waiting until she got to school to change into them, and changing out of them before she got home.
