They’re still clapping when I get back to my seat. Someone in the far corner whistles. I sit, but I’m also hovering above myself, and smiling so big that my whole body is a grin and my head is warm and fuzzy like the first time Matty kissed me.
Scarecrow gets up on stage and says “Th-th-that’s all folks,” like he’s Porky Pig.
I rest my guitar in its case, latch each of the clips slowly. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want it to be over. I want to climb on stage again to play more songs and keep them clapping. I don’t want to go back to an empty motorhome and my stupid math book.
Everyone collects themselves, pulling on hats and scarves, big sweaters and secondhand coats. People walk past me on their way to the door. A few smile or say, “Good job.” A guy in a tunic gives me a thumbs up.
I dig my mittens and scarf from my bag.
“I’ll walk you out,” Jim says, like that’s what I was waiting for.
“Thanks.”
“Pretty girl. Dark parking lot. You got to.” He shakes his head. It’s fatherly. But that’s how everyone else is too. Fatherly. Brotherly. I can’t picture King Neptune jumping from behind a truck to rape and pillage.
Jim pulls my chair out of the way as I stand. I walk in front of him until we get outside. The James Taylor guy shouts, “Night, Jimmy!”
“Night!” Jim shouts back, then, “Hack,” under his breath like a cough.
“I thought he was good,” I say, letting my feet drag on the parking lot gravel.
“They’re all hacks. You and that Marion girl. You’re the only ones who have any chance of making it. And maybe not even Marion.” He says it like it’s fact, not opinion.
“She’s better than me,” I say, and I know it’s true, but I’m high. My head is spinning. Making it. I have a chance of making it. I have more of a chance than Marion. I don’t even know what it is, and I don’t think Jim is the one who gets to hand it down, but I want it. The air is crisp. My breath makes clouds.
“She’s—don’t get me wrong, she’s good. But you’re the real deal. You’re the whole package. That’s what it’s about. Everyone buys into the package.”
He takes a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and smacks them against his palm until one sticks out. He holds the pack to his lips and pulls the cigarette with his teeth. “Want one?” he says from the side of his mouth.
I shake my head.
“Good girl.” He cups his hand to his face. Lights up. Puffs. “Save those pipes,” he says into the smoke.
“Will do,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Over there.” I gesture vaguely. “I’ll be fine now. Nice to meet you, Jim.” I shake his hand, and sprint to Mrs. Varnick’s car so he won’t follow. The risk of attack is low. The risk of Jim noticing the loose ignition switch is high.
I get the car going again and drive home singing my songs to myself over and over, hearing the applause like it’s filling the car. The drive home isn’t long enough. The exact sound of that clapping starts to slip from my head when I turn down our street.
I park the car in the tire ruts in Mrs. Varnick’s driveway, push the ignition tumbler back in until it pops, and toss the screwdriver in my bag. I walk slowly to the motorhome, memorizing the way it feels to tread the path: the give of the pine needles, the dense winding roots. I am hardwiring my memory, because for the first time it doesn’t feel like this will be the rest of my life.
The motorhome shifts under my weight when I climb inside. I turn on the TV, curl up in the driver’s seat, and fall asleep to black and white static.
* * *
The next day, I fail my math test. I can’t even answer most of the questions.
— Chapter 2 —
This test was your chance to prove yourself,” Mrs. Hunter says, shaking her head at me with fake concern. Her weather-girl hair barely moves. She hands over my paper, marked with red like it has the chicken pox.
I should have held on to my test until the end of class so I could escape before she started grading. But I turned it in early with the smart kids, because there were song lyrics flashing in my head and I had to scribble them in my notebook before I forgot.
“I did prove myself,” I say.
“Ape-rul!” She crosses her arms over her chest, pursing her perfectly lined lips. She was a beauty queen before she was a teacher. I wonder what her talent was.
“I proved I can’t do math,” I say, dropping the test in the trash can by her desk. I stop in the doorway to wave goodbye. Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, and a big smile like I have Vaseline smeared across my teeth.