Sorta Like a Rock Star(60)

Kids I don’t even know sell tickets door-to-door.

Mrs. Baxter collects money.

Mr. Valerie sells advertisements and puts together the program.

And I take BBB to see Ms. Jenny every single day.

I drink tea with Private Jackson—and I fill that blank spot on the last wall of his living room.

Everything is moving toward something—but I’m sorta in a daze.

Sometimes I think I see my mother.

Whenever I see a school bus—my heart leaps.

When I see a bleach-blonde in a crowd.

When I close my eyes at night.

When Donna kisses me, sometimes I pretend, and I get to feeling really badly about my wishing Donna was my mom—back when Mom was actually alive.

I wonder if Mom’s death was God answering that wish.

I wonder.

I feel guilty a lot.

I sweat through the nights.

I shiver through the days.

The only thing I really like doing—believe it or not—is drinking green tea with Private Jackson. Sipping in complete silence, surrounded by my haikus.





CHAPTER 57





On the day of The Save Bobby Big Boy Variety Show—before school—I finish my prom dress. It is a silver sleeveless with an empire waist and a scoop neck that shows off what little cleavage I got. When I try it on, my Life Skills teacher, Mrs. Tyler, says, “It’s the best prom dress ever made in this classroom. A-plus.”

I smile at her and begin to look forward to wearing it later.

All day, students smile at me dramatically and say, “See you tonight, Amber,” way too much.

I mean, I’m all about a good variety show, but it seems like people are really going nuts for The Save Bobby Big Boy Variety Show.

Too nuts.

I skip lunch, and go right to The Franks Lair.

When I enter, thirty students stop speaking and turn to face me.

Total frickin’ silence.

“What’s going on?” I say.

“We’re finalizing tonight’s plan,” Franks says.

“Cool,” I say.

From Das Boot, Chad says, “If you come in right now, it’s going to ruin the surprises.”

“Surprises—plural?” I ask.

“Come on, Amber,” Jared says. “Just trust us.”

“Am I still emceeing?” I ask.

“All’s you have to do is show up at the auditorium at six forty-five,” Ty says.

“What time does the show start?”

“Eight,” Franks says. “See you then.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling quite weird and a little embarrassed by how little I have had to do with the preparation.

I chill outside for a bit, and then finish up my school day.

Ty drives Ricky and me to Donna’s, and after I take BBB out—I actually take a nap. I’m always tired lately. Naps are becoming my favorite. Word.





I wake up to Donna yelling, “We have to get you to the auditorium in less than an hour!”

So I get up and shower.

Makeup is applied.

Hair is blown dry.

Silver prom dress is put on my pre-woman body.

Red pumps are put on my nasty feet.

Prayer is said to JC—with much conviction and hope. “Please help everyone to be who they need to be tonight! Amen!”

Ricky is wearing a tuxedo.

“You look dapper, Ricky!”

“Amber Appleton is wearing a silver dress!”

“Are you ready for this?” Donna asks, and I nod once.

Amber Appleton, Bobby Big Boy, and Ricky Roberts are driven to the CPHS auditorium in Donna’s Mercedes with the heated seats on.

When we arrive, there is this huge line to get into the auditorium. There are no seat numbers, so if you want a good seat, you have to line up early.

We have to walk past this line to get to the stage.

When the crowd sees me, they actually start cheering—as if I were a rock star.

No bull.

There are hundreds of people lined up—all looking at me with these really sympathetic eyes.

We pass a section of Korean people—maybe forty of them.

We pass a group of women who look a lot like Door Woman Lucy.

And we pass a lot of Childress citizens.

Halfway up the line, some reject starts chanting, “Amber! Amber! Amber!”

All of the morons in line start doing the chant, and I start to blush.

When I notice that Donna is also chanting, I elbow her and say, “Stop.”

She laughs at me and keeps on chanting—like a complete dork.

When we get to the front of the line, Ricky heads into the auditorium, and I start to cry.

The first person in line is Private Jackson.

He’s in a yellow button-down shirt, like always.

He has his ticket in his hand—as if he’s some excited kid waiting to get into a ball game.

He’s smiling at me all proud of himself.

I know this is the first time he’s been out in public—besides walking Ms. Jenny and getting groceries—probably since he came home from ’Nam.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

BBB licks PJ’s hand.

PJ pets BBB’s head, and says, “I wanted a front row seat, so I came early.”