Famous in a Small Town(13)

“Saint Louis is not the big mean city, good Lord. It’s just … a city.”

“You’re from Saint Louis?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I guess I pictured you from … a bigger, meaner city.” Not that Saint Louis wasn’t big—just that I had been there before. I had imagined August from somewhere … less familiar, I guess.

“Which city is the big mean city? Chicago?”

“No. Maybe. Just like. A big place. Lots of people. Anonymity. Graffiti. Cool shoes and stuff.”

“Like those?” He pointed to Brit’s beat-up sneakers.

“These were cool once upon a time. She just keeps running through them.” They were all worn down in the heels, the rubber starting to come apart. Brit did everything hard—when she was into something, it was all in, whether it was partying or friendship or track. Especially track.

“She’s the fastest runner in the state, you know,” I said, fumbling with one of the rubber flaps on the soles.

“Really?”

“Mm-hm. In the hundred meter. She had the two-hundred record too, but this girl from Collinsville beat her by a third of a second at their last invitational.” I made a face. “Fastest runner for girls, I should say. But she’d hate if you made that distinction. She wants to be fastest, period. Go to the Olympics and all that. She takes it really seriously.”

I didn’t know why I was telling him all this. I hadn’t drunk anything—I didn’t need to, apparently, to say what I was really thinking. Sometimes I wondered if Brit played it up as an excuse to say anything she thought out loud.

Then again, maybe if I had been drinking, I would’ve had the courage to ask August out on a date. Because I had pretty much decided—I liked him. I didn’t know him very well, but that was what dating was for, right? And anyway, there were so few people in town that when someone came along that you were actually interested in, you had to go ahead and do something about it.

But it was easier to talk about Brit, so I just fumbled with the laces on her sneakers and said, “She’ll definitely get a track scholarship somewhere.”

August nodded, and I wondered if he was bored. His expression gave no indication either way, decidedly neutral.

“It’s like her … thing,” I added, like that somehow conveyed the importance. It was less complicated-sounding than “revenge quest.”

He nodded again as we reached the garage, and then asked, “What’s your thing?”

You could be my thing. Your thing could be my—God, that was …

“Band,” I said, “I guess.” Even though there was no guessing about it.

“Kind of got that from earlier. What’s map as fuck?”

“MPASFC, the student fundraising committee. I’m the president. Well, the new president. Kayla Jenkins was president until last week. She’s going to nursing school—she graduated—so I like, ascended or whatever.”

“Very biblical.”

I smiled. “What about you?”

“Thing-wise?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. Nothing serious. Not like, Olympics serious, at least. I played in jazz band in middle school, but I was pretty terrible.”

“Really?” If August was going to stay in Acadia, he could join band. He could march with us. “What’d you play?”

“Saxophone.”

“Of course you did.”

His lips quirked. “What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know. It just … fits.”

“What do you play?”

“I’m the world’s most average clarinet player,” I said, and then it was quiet.

Had we used up all our conversation? It wasn’t ideal. I’d have to think of topics of discussion if we were going to go out—questions to ask and stuff like that.

But it was late, and maybe we were both tired, and also maybe it wasn’t so bad being able to be quiet with someone.

“I should probably get going,” he said finally, and I probably should’ve asked then, in the silence, but the opportunity had dissolved. “Will you … I mean, will you get home safe? I could hang around.…”

“Nah, I’ll wait for Flora and Terrance.” Terrance was busy serenading people—which made me wonder if it’s not so much the skill that really matters but the confidence—and Flora was with him.

We had never collectively acknowledged it as a group, but Flora was undeniably the Girl with the Blue Boots. She “passed the time by playing flute,” and she had a pair of blue fake leather lace-up boots that she wore all the time when we were in middle school. And Terrance did love her “like the stars in the sky, yeah, like a lovestruck guy.” I guess the farm thing was a misdirect.

I waved a hand at the bikes. “Brit’s is the green one.”

“Thanks.”

“Now I just need your shoes, and then you can be on your way.”

It was August’s turn to smile.





seven


I replayed the party in my mind that night as I got ready for bed. Put on my pajamas, switched off the light, and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Terrance singing, Brit swaying back and forth with one arm slung around Dash’s shoulders, Flora’s bright eyes as we all sang along. I thought about August, gently bopping his head, looking like he might join in on the chorus, though he never did.