Famous in a Small Town(38)

Dash is driving?

Seniors could drive separately if they wanted. I thought about the conversation with my mom before dinner—her frowning as she dumped a jar of pasta sauce into a pot.

“Why don’t you ride the bus?”

“It’s crowded. And loud. We can’t listen to our own music. We can’t stop for McDonald’s.”

“Wear headphones. I’ll buy you an Egg McMuffin before you leave.”

“Mom,” I said. “Please.”

She “hmmed.” I leaned my head against her shoulder.

“Please please please please?”

“You know, repetition isn’t a great foundation for a convincing argument. You want to have multiple points to support your claim.”

My mom’s persuasive-essay assignment was legendary among Acadia Junior High sixth graders. I still remember Brit complaining about it.

“Dash’ll be super careful. You know him.”

“It’s not Dash, it’s Brit the Great Distractor I’m worried about.”

“I’ll be there. I’ll mediate.”

I ended up winning out. Eventually.

Yeah, I texted August, and this time added two thumbs-up emojis before August could reply.

Can I ride with you guys?

I blinked.

You want to come to the showcase?

He didn’t reply immediately. August didn’t have an iPhone—neither did I—but I knew that you could see the other person typing if they had an iPhone too. The little bouncing dots that tell you the other person hasn’t forgotten you. They’re just … composing.

I couldn’t tell here, though. So maybe August was typing out a long message, or maybe he was typing and retyping a short one, or maybe he had drifted off to sleep—at the late, late hour of 9:00 p.m.—or any other number of scenarios I considered, phone in my hand, until a message finally appeared.

It was much shorter than the pause had implied:

I mean I can

That was neither yes nor no. I didn’t know what to do with that.

Then he replied again:

Just want to go home for a minute

I hadn’t even considered it. Saint Louis is not the big mean city. Acadia wasn’t his home. Saint Louis was. Of course he’d want to go there. It caused something unpleasant to squirm in my stomach, though, however irrational it was.

Should be no problem, I said. Check with Dash though, it’s his car.

He didn’t reply again.

But he was there in the morning, when we all met in the parking lot at school. We parted ways with Flora and Terrance and piled into the Cutlass—Dash and Brit up front, me and August in the back.

Not like a double date.

Brit played deejay, playing songs from her phone since the Cutlass only had a tape deck. We talked a while—me and Brit mostly, with Dash chiming in occasionally—and I didn’t notice at first, but next to me, August seemed restless. Distracted. He kept fidgeting more and more as we made our way through the cornfields and the soybean fields and yet more cornfields.

(Brit: “You know what I hate most about it? It’s like someone copy-and-pasted the landscape. Just the same sky and the same field over and over again. Like, have some creativity, at least. Break it up with a little flavor every now and then.”

Dash: “The billboards add flavor.”

Brit: “We clearly have different ideas about flavor, Dashiell.”) August spoke eventually. “Can you pull over up here?”

“Huh?”

“Can you stop? Like at the McDonald’s. Please.”

Dash didn’t comment, just guided the car to the exit ramp like August asked. We parked at the McDonald’s, and we were all taking off our seat belts when August said, “I need to borrow the car.”

Brit paused, halfway out of her seat. “Are you serious?”

His expression was dead serious. He got out and we joined him on the pavement. “I’ll be back, I promise.” He looked at Dash. “I won’t steal your car, I won’t strand you, I swear to God. Just, please, can I borrow it?”

Dash’s brow was furrowed. “Why?”

“I …” August shook his head. “It’s important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. Please. I know it’s a lot but please trust me.”

I thought of Brit’s conversation with August on the patio: I would jump off a bridge if she asked me to. Because I know she wouldn’t ask without a really good reason.

“Please,” August said again.

Silence.

And then Dash extended the keys toward him. Something like relief flooded August’s face.

“Thank you. Thanks.” He took them, and crossed around to the driver’s side. “I’ll be right back.”



* * *



We all got food at McDonald’s and sat in a booth by the window. It looked out over the attached gas station. Cars and trucks pulled in and out. I watched as a family piled out of a crowded-looking van, stretching like they’d been driving awhile. I wondered where they were headed.

“Where are we even?” Brit said after a few moments of eating.

“Greenville,” Dash replied.

“How do you know?” Brit said.

“I’m the driver. I actually, like, read signs and stuff as they go by. I actually keep track of where we’re at, if you can believe it.”