Open Road Summer(5)

After a moment, I said, Yeah. I’m pretty sure we could be. She linked her pinkie with mine, our secret signal, and the planet spun on beneath the starlight. These days, the world doesn’t seem nearly big enough to outrun our problems.

My eyes follow a blinking airplane light, and its steady path leaves me thinking about how far we’ve come. It’s no secret that Dee has come a long way from the middle of nowhere, Tennessee, but, as the cast on my arm reminds me, I have, too. The difference is: I still have a lot farther to go.





Chapter Two

Charlotte


I’ve been to Dee’s concerts before, of course, but never like this. Nothing is like this. We spent yesterday at the concert hall, as Dee and the band did a final dress rehearsal, but now this place is a never-ending fun house of Dee look-alikes. Younger girls stand with their moms alongside countless girls our age in matching outfits—blazers and horseshoe necklaces and ballet flats. I even spot a decent number of good-looking guys. I’ll come back for them when I’m done with my phone call.

I’m hunting for a place quiet enough to wish my dad a happy birthday because even Dee’s dressing room is too noisy. When I mentioned that I was stepping out to call my dad, I pretended not to notice Dee’s freshly waxed eyebrows lift in surprise. She recovered quickly, though, and gave me an encouraging smile.

Of course Dee doesn’t expect me to check in with my dad. My family life belongs in the lyrics of a bad country song. My mom walked out on us when I was eight, and my dad took it badly. He moved the two of us from Chicago to his hometown of Nashville, presumably to be closer to the Jack Daniel Distillery. Even though he quit drinking when I was twelve, enough damage had been done. I was mad at my mom for abandoning us and mad at him for abandoning me emotionally. Not even Dee’s good influence could keep me from trying to hurt my parents the way they hurt me. At least that’s what my court-appointed therapist thinks, and I hate to admit that she’s probably right. I also hate to admit that she’s court-appointed.

My track record started with mouthing off in seventh grade and skipping a few study halls in eighth grade. Freshman year of high school, I flirted with senior boys and made out with them in their cars, just to feel that rush of it all. I snuck out of the house to parties, where I smoked, drank bad beer, and needed Dee to help me home. After Dee left on her first tour, I lost my virginity to a guy I barely knew, which was an experience that’s barely worth remembering.

An underage-drinking charge sent me to court last fall. I tried to laugh it off when I told Dee, who sighed into the phone from whatever city she was in at the time. I hardly said a word during the sentencing, but somehow the judge dubbed me a charity case. She gave me a community-service requirement and mandated therapy to rehab my attitude. I set myself back on the straight and narrow, or I tried, at least. But then I met Blake during my community service. He made everything worse.

My list of offenses runs long, and I’m not proud of any of them—except maybe the time I outran a cop while wearing stilettos. But things changed in April, and so did I. I’m trying to get my act together, but I can’t be someone I’m not. I still flirt with boys to get what I want, and I still crave the occasional cigarette. I’m just not as bad as I used to be.

I turn another corner, only to find even screechier girls at a merchandise counter. This is getting ridiculous, so I stop dead when I spot a door that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. After glancing around for security guards, I decide to authorize myself. I look official enough; I have my most expensive camera and my tour pass around my neck. The latter identifies me as ALL-TOUR VIP REAGAN O’NEILL, complete with a grim-faced picture. I wasn’t ready when the guy took the photo, the hallmark of someone who is better behind the camera than in front of it. Turning the doorknob, I see that it’s the back end of an empty conference room. Perfect.

“Hey, Dad,” I say as soon as he answers the phone. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you, darlin’.” He sounds surprised that I bothered to call. “How’s everything goin’ so far?”

“Good.”

“Good,” he says after a moment. “You sound tired. Are you tired?”

“Yeah. We’ve been up since five o’clock this morning.”

He chuckles. “Well, now, I don’t think you’ve been up that early since you were a baby.”

I want to say that I’m often still up at 5 a.m. without his knowing it, but I trap the words inside my mouth. That was the old me, and the new me is still learning.

“Is she nervous?” My dad adores Dee—of course he does. Any parent would.

“A little. Mostly excited.”

“Good. Can’t wait to hear about it.” There’s a pause, and he asks, “You stayin’ out of trouble?”

“Yes, Dad.” I can practically hear Brenda feeding him the questions. “So far I’m hanging out with Dee or sitting around. That’s it.”

“Well,” he says, “thanks for checkin’ in.”

“I’ll call in a few days,” I promise, and then he says a hello from Brenda. I swallow hard. “Hi back.”

After I hang up the phone, I’m surprised to find that I actually miss my dad. I have no siblings and no mom, so he’s my only real family. We’ve had our rough spots, but he’s worked hard to change. He’ll show his sobriety chip to anyone, and he turns down drink offers with a smile and a “No, thank you—five years sober.” He’s always wanted people to know, to keep him accountable and understand that they could talk to him if they were having the same kind of struggle.