Where Silence Gathers (Some Quiet Place #2)(88)

Then someone’s arm is wrapping around me and a voice is saying, against my ear, “Come on, then.” Georgie. I hesitate, though, and search for my aunt and uncle. Saul and Missy wave at me, giving permission even as Worry holds both their hands.

So we all go to the last bonfire. Since I’m driving myself, I make a stop at the apartment. By the time I get to the lake the party is well underway. Georgie greets me with her usual flair and soon flounces off to be with Billy. Briana is there, talking to Rachel Porter. Smiling, I move to stand by the fire. I toy with the bundle in my hands.

It takes me a while, but eventually I throw my father’s shirt onto the pile and watch it catch the flames.

Georgie comes to stand beside me. The shadows dance and quiver over her perfect skin. “I think I’m going to stay here for a while,” she murmurs.

Now I look at her. “What about California?”

She shrugs. “Some dreams are just that, Alex. Dreams. They’re fun, they keep us going, they’re what make us human. And they change. I’m okay with that.”

I face the fire again and watch the remains of the shirt become ash. Then I say, “Bullshit.”

“What?” Georgie turns to me and frowns.

“You heard me. Bullshit. You’re scared.”

Anger quivers into view and puts his hand on her back. “You’re one to talk,” my friend snaps, her eyes bright and defiant. “You didn’t even finish high school.”

“That’s right. I didn’t. And I regret some of my choices. But I’m making new ones.”

For once, Georgie doesn’t press for more or try to argue a point. She just absorbs this, then clears her throat. She’s still angry, still frightened, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Our emotions and our choices are our own. “So what’s next for you, then?” she asks awkwardly. “Mark texted me. He said he was tutoring you.”

I let her change the subject. “He is, since I’m so behind. Andrew pulled some strings, and I’ll be able to finish school at Green River this summer. After that, who knows?” That’s the most terrifying part about life, I think; not knowing how things will turn out. But I’m learning that it’s also the best part. I have a life to live, to fear, to discover. I think of that night I went to the lake with Revenge, leaping into those freezing waters without hesitation.

Someone turns on a radio, and Elvis sings over the crickets. Groans erupt down the beach. “Turn it off!” Marty Paulson shouts. Briana flinches from her place next to him. She must feel my stare, because our eyes meet across the fire. Our last conversation plays in my head: No one comes out of the closet in Franklin. We’re not as progressive as the rest of the world. We still play Elvis every day, for God’s sake.

During all of this, I was so convinced that things had to change. And I was right. I’d just been pursuing the wrong things. Suddenly I know what I have to do. “Georgie, make sure they don’t turn off the radio,” I say in a rush, moving away. Frowning, she calls after me, but I just take my keys out. “Make sure!” I jump into my car and tear off.

Our local—and only—radio station on the mountain stands next to Ian’s store. All the lights are on and I can see Joe through the front window, drinking out of a coffee mug. He’s an old man with peppery hair and a penchant for bulky vests. Rapping on the edge of the screen door, I wait for him to look up before going inside.

“Alexandra Tate,” he greets in that throaty voice everyone knows so well. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” There’s a book resting on a stool, one of the romance novels he pretends aren’t his. They’re the reason he sometimes tries to talk like he’s British.

I drop into the chair across from him and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Without warning I say, “Joe, I know this is your station and you have the right to play whatever you want. And I respect that, I do. But don’t you think Elvis would want you to play other music, too? I mean, so many of his songs were about love and experiences. Shouldn’t we be able to learn about that through someone else?”

The old man blinks, as though this is incomprehensible. “Elvis was king, Alex.” He adjusts one of the knobs. “And anyway, I’ve been running this place for over twenty years. No one’s been able to change my mind about this. They’ve offered me every bribe known to man, to no avail. Why should I make an exception for you?”

The song playing finishes. I twist my lips, thinking of Briana. Change. Some of them come naturally, and some we have to force into being. My mother did tell me that I would change the world. We just have to start with small pieces of it. “Okay, let me put it this way,” I say slowly. “If I have to listen to one more Elvis song, I’m going to get violent.”

Surprise flickers in Joe’s gaze … and a little wariness. Though he tries to hide it, the Emotions give it away. Fear winks at me, his near-white hair glowing in the dim lighting. My eyes narrow in response.

“You remind me of your mother,” Joe mutters after an obvious pause. He doesn’t sound happy about it. His finger taps the counter beside him. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I wait again. Then Joe swings around and switches the microphone on. “All right, folks. We’re going to do something a little different tonight, per request of the … feisty Alexandra Tate.” He swivels toward me. “Any requests, kid?”