Famous in a Small Town(40)

Right now I held August’s hand. I watched the cars and trucks pass by on the interstate and didn’t look over for a while, until August moved to pull his shirt back down. He ran his free hand under his nose.

“I’m okay,” he said finally. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t, but I nodded anyway.

He squeezed my hand once and then let go.

Brit and Dash were standing by the car when we approached, each holding giant Styrofoam cups. Brit handed one to August when we reached them. “It’ll settle your stomach,” she said.

He took it. “Thanks. Sorry.”

Dash was worried, I could tell, but his expression betrayed nothing. “Should we go back?” he said, and then added, “To Acadia,” when panic flashed in August’s eyes.

“Yeah, fuck the showcase, some Missouri school’s gonna sweep the awards anyway,” Brit said, before taking a pull from her soda. We all knew we’d be in trouble for ditching, but in this case, I cared as much as they did. Which is to say, not at all.

“No, it’s fine,” August said. “We should get going. You don’t want to miss it.”

So we got back in the car and went.





twenty-seven


The day at the showcase—which stretched into the evening—was long, and everyone was cranky by the end of it. Spending that many hours in plastic seats, outfitted in head-to-toe polyester, isn’t ideal, but we made it through.

I didn’t like leaving August when we got there. He parted ways with us outside the arena where the showcase was held and said he’d meet us back there before the bus was taking off.

I wanted him to stay. But I didn’t know if he would find spending the day in the stands as a spectator to be particularly soothing, so I just watched him as he headed away, down the street and out of sight.

I don’t know what he did all day. I texted him—a quick Going on soon, a picture of Brit with her hat askew, tongue sticking out, eyes rolled back, captioned Hot in here—but he didn’t respond.

But he met us at the appointed time that evening all the same, hands shoved in his pockets. It was hot outside too, felt hotter than at home, even as the sun hung low in the sky. The air was thick with humidity.

It grew dark as we drove back. I looked over at August as we neared Greenville, but he was facing the other direction, didn’t turn away from the window. Didn’t say a word as we neared it, reached it, passed it. Then it was disappearing in the rearview, and we were headed toward Acadia.

I left my hand on the seat next to me, palm up, but he didn’t take it.



* * *



I watched videos that night, of Megan performing on her season of America’s Next Country Star.

The full episodes were hard to find online, even cut up into ten-minute chunks on YouTube. But some of Megan’s performances had been uploaded, and some compilations of her behind-the-scenes bits had been cut together.

At the start of one in particular—her performance in the first live show of that season—she raised her mic to her lips before the band began, looking up through her lashes at the crowd.

“I want to dedicate this song to everyone in my hometown of Acadia, Illinois. I love you all so much.”

She did a rendition of “I Hope You Dance” that brought the house down.

One of the judges—giant cowboy hat, black button-down shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest—leaned back in his chair when she was done. “Megan, how d’you think the people in Acadia will feel about your performance?”

Megan shifted from foot to foot. “I don’t know. I just hope they’ll be proud of me.”

He nodded. “I think they’re gonna be real proud.”

A smile split her face, wide and radiant.





twenty-eight


I went over to the Conlins’ a few days later. I hadn’t seen August since the Saint Louis trip.

He came to the door when I knocked.

“Let’s go to Bygones,” I said. “Let’s go treasure hunting.”

He looked at me for a moment. His face betrayed nothing—like Brit when she asked one of her capital-Q Questions, where you would get the eyebrow wrinkle or nothing. But there was some kind of contemplation in his eyes, like he was considering something more significant than a proposition from the world’s most average clarinet player.

He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”



* * *



So we went to Bygones. That was the secret to finding the deals, after all—You gotta keep coming back around. The inventory’s always changing!

We brushed through the rows of dishes and old silverware; through Mrs. Cabot’s booth that may or may not have contained Brit’s mom’s garbage, and paused in front of a booth in the corner that contained several rows of china dolls, all staring blankly.

I nudged August. “Which one do you think is evil?”

“Do you mean which one do I think is the most evil? Because they’re all baseline at least a little bit evil.”

“Most likely to be found in the empty room of an abandoned house.”

He pointed to one with a purple taffeta dress. “That one. For sure.”

“Most likely to move in your peripheral vision.”