Open Road Summer(21)

I liked Blake because he was always in motion. There was always another party to stop at before heading home, a weekend on a houseboat with his friends, and any other adventure that came up. He was reckless, always the center of attention. As we made our way to the back porch at any given party, people slapped him on the back and called him by nicknames with suspicious origins.

He graduated from high school two years ago and failed out of his first year of college, so I probably should have picked up on his aura of loserdom. At first, I didn’t care about Blake’s future, because we didn’t have a future. I just liked hanging out with him, having his arm slung over my shoulder at parties as he joked around with his buddies. Blake, for all his faults, was never boring. But then I got used to him finding me by the keg, smiling as he said, “There’s my girl.” I got used to his slow grin and the persistent cologne meant to mask the pot smell. For a minute, I thought I belonged somewhere, and for that same minute, it felt nice. Until it broke me.

My cast feels especially heavy today, edged with my desperation to scratch an itch I’ve had for over a month. I push my finger under the gauze, uselessly rubbing at any spot I can reach. I’ve suffered the thickness, the musty smell, the underlying ache as a reminder of the changes I need to make. Let the cast be your cocoon, my therapist said, and I rolled my eyes. But I don’t have the patience for metamorphosis. I want to be free.





Chapter Six

Charleston


“You have to swear,” Peach says. “If you think anyone notices you, you have to leave. Okay?”


It’s late on Saturday, and we’re in our Charleston hotel. Earlier today, Dee played an afternoon show at an outdoor venue. The weather stayed clear, and the grassy space for the audience made the whole show feel perfect for summer. It was Dee’s last show without Matt as an opener. Now that the backup band is prepped for a few of his songs, Matt will be playing a set in every city. He called a bar here in town to ask if they’d let him play a set tonight, as practice for Dee’s show. They agreed, and he asked us to come along.

“And you do have to be up early to leave for Little Rock,” Peach continues, now biting at her thumbnail. She’s nervous about us going, but not so nervous that she’ll cancel her date with Greg to come with us. Best chaperone ever. “So be back at the hotel by curfew.”

“Okay, okay.” Dee adjusts her wig. It’s a soft brown, straight and long. Her makeup artist gave her dark eyebrows, too, and she’s wearing my clothes. My low-cut tank top and skinny jeans are tighter than anything she’d usually wear. She’s traded in her flats for a pair of spike heels. She doesn’t look like Lilah Montgomery at all, and she certainly doesn’t look like Dee.

Normally she wouldn’t risk this kind of exposure, to be seen at a bar. But Matt assured us that he could get us in to watch the show, and Dee’s eager to see the set he has planned to open her show. Plus, she’s thrilled at the idea of outsmarting the media.

Dee rummages through a jewelry box at the bathroom sink. “Aha. Perfection.”

She fishes out a necklace and clasps it around my neck without asking. It’s a silver arrow, pointing straight to the right. She knows I’ll love it, and I do.

“I’m so excited!” She claps her hands. “I feel so normal!”

I do not. I feel almost nervous, not quite as in control as I’d like to be. Something about Matt puts me off guard, and I don’t like it. As I was picking out something to wear, I caught myself worrying that I’d look like I tried too hard. I decided on a black tank-top dress, which is tight and cotton and simple, very I-just-threw-this-on. The necklace gives it a more feminine touch. Still, I lean forward in the mirror, adjusting my bra for maximum cleavage.

Peach gives me an intentionally loud sigh, and I glance up. She makes no secret of her feelings about my wardrobe. Any time a roadie gives me a second look, Peach clucks at me like I’m on a stripper pole.

“You’re seventeen,” she says disapprovingly.

Dee, not realizing that Peach was directing that comment toward me, chimes in, “I know! Only young once!”

I survey Dee’s heavy makeup, searching for the right word. “You look so . . . vampy.”

“Vampy?” She giggles at herself in the mirror. “These are your clothes.”

“I know.” I laugh, too. “But they look strange on you.”

She shimmies her hips in a sort of victory dance. “I like it. I feel exciting.”

“You’re Lilah Montgomery. Doesn’t get much more exciting than that.”

“Tonight, I’m Dee. The night is ours, and I’m free to be. Little old me.”

Dee writes rhyming lyrics even as she speaks. With another little spin, she grabs her purse and links her arm in mine.

On our way out the hotel door, Peach yells, “Be careful. I mean it, y’all.”





At the door of the club, Dee is surprisingly confident for someone who has never been in a venue underage without a record-label rep. Mack dropped us off at the front, but not before giving us a quick lecture about making good choices. He’ll be just around the corner, watching TV at a local sports bar, and if Dee is exposed as Lilah Montgomery, he can pick us up in two minutes.

“Matt Finch’s guests,” Dee tells the bouncer, leaning to glance at his clipboard. Above us, the marquee reads: MATT FINCH LIVE—ONE NIGHT ONLY. “Samantha Alabama and Ronnie O.”