Page 11 of August Lane
August had taken extra care with her appearance. Her hair was pressed into a silky black sheet that hung to the small of her back. Her shirt was formfitting, with a lower neckline than she was brave enough to wear to school. Her ears sparkled with tiny diamonds that glittered like stars against her skin. She felt shamelessly pretty. Free to bask in attention without being judged for it. She’d nearly reached the concert venue with all that confidence intact when a familiar voice shouted her name.
Richard Green (or Dicky, as he harassed girls into calling him just so he could leer when they said it) stood in the center of a group of football players waiting in line for the Ferris wheel. He wore a white Arcadia High T-shirt, and his dark hair was damp beneath a backward baseball cap. He poked out his bottom lip and mouthed, “I miss you,” while his teammates laughed.
August had only been a student at Arcadia High for two weeks. She’d attended Eastside High until the state decided two public high schools were unnecessary for such a small town and closed it before her senior year. Arcadia High was newer, bigger, and whiter, since it pulled from expensive subdivisions in the unincorporated areas of the county. That summer, the school had paired the majority Black Eastside transfers with Arcadia High peer mentors hoping to, as they stated in the official welcome letter, “smooth the transition.”
August had been paired with Richard Green. He was cute in a way only rich boys could be: carelessly confident, with an infectious playfulness that seduced you into adopting his optimistic view of the world. From June through July, she’d been someone else, a girl who was taken on picnics and had long make-out sessions pressed against leather BMWseats. But on the first day of school, when someone wroteslutin permanent marker on her new locker, all those romantic moments were revealed for what they were. August had been the poorly hidden secret of a guy cheating on his girlfriend. In twenty-four hours her loose reputation was cemented, and now Richard only looked her in the eye while making jokes about fucking a local celebrity.
Guys like Richard were the reason August never dated. No one saw her. They saw Jojo Lane’s daughter: Jojo the Oreo, as everyone liked to joke. Richard had tricked her into thinking he was different and didn’t consider a Black woman singing country weird at all. “Jojo’s cool,” he’d claimed in that flippant way that made you feel silly for worrying about it. “Good music doesn’t have a color.”
August spotted the funhouse and shoved her ticket into the hand of the guy watching the door. Once inside, she stumbled when the floor started scissoring back and forth. Her heart was pounding. The memory of what she’d done with Richard was a bomb in her chest.
She took careful steps until the floor gave way to colorful platforms that were supposed to move up and down but were suspended in the air, probably broken, which explained the lack of people waiting in line. Two pimply boys jumped on one, shaking it while they screamed like monkeys. The hall of mirrors was next. She caught a glimpse of her reflection. The clothes and makeup that had made her feel confident five minutes ago seemed desperate now. She ducked into the next room and was doused in darkness.
After a bit of grasping, she found a patch of wall and leaned against it. The speakers played music from a local country station, and August tried to focus on the lyrics. It was the last verse of “Travelin’ Soldier,” a song she loved. She sang softly at first but was lulled into something louder by the good acoustics. Soon she was belting the chorus with vocal runs that made her throat hurt but also kept her from crying over Richard, which so far, she’d managed not to do.
The song ended, and she heard labored breathing. Someone stood a few feet away, but it was too dark to make them out. August pushed away from the wall and widened her eyes, as if that would infuse light into the pitch-black room. “Is someone there?”
A low voice answered “Yes,” then added “Me” between rapid huffs of too little air. She waited for his name, but he asked, “Are you okay?”
The question stumped her. He was the one who sounded like someone had a pillow pressed against his face. Then she realized he’d been there the whole time, listening to her whine about never holding another guy’s hand. “I’m fine,” she reassured him. “It’s a sad song.”
“Yeah, it is.”
She sensed him moving closer, so she folded her arms so they wouldn’t accidentally touch. They stood silently in the dark, listening to the opening lyrics of “Islands in the Stream.”
“The Bee Gees wrote this song,” she said, then instantly regretted tossing outthatparticular fact. No one knew how much she loved country music. It always led to more comparisons to her mother. More bullying. But the guy couldn’t see her. There was no way for him to know she was a Black girl with an encyclopedic knowledge of eighties country pop.
“The Bee Gees?” Disgust strengthened his voice. She could almost hear his mind rebelling against the thought of disco royalty having anything to do with the iconic duet. “Are you serious?”
His voice was deep and winding, the way cowboys spoke in the Westerns her uncle Silas watched. That man would put up with almost anything except her talking through an episode ofBonanza.
“Gross, right,” she said flatly. “Wasn’t disco just cocaine and the Hustle?”
He made a sound, an amused snort smothered by a grunt. “You makin’ fun of me?”
“Yes.” She listened for a moment. “It’s a good song.”
“One of the best songs,” he corrected. “Underrated. The whole thing is this big romantic gesture—”
“Like Dolly and Kenny were musical soulmates singing about finding your soulmate.”
“Exactly.” His voice echoed in the empty room, and he immediately fell silent. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “You have a nice voice.”
“I know.”
“Better than Natalie Maines.”
“Don’t get blasphemous.”
He laughed. She smiled, thrilled at prompting the sound. It was a small thing that felt big, making someone laugh.
“Do you ever sing in front of people?” he asked.
“In the choir at church.”
“Everyone sings there. I mean, do you perform?”
August pictured her mother bouncing across the stage in rhinestones and heeled boots. The wordperformalways made her think of something from the circus. “If you mean, do I stand onstage alone with a microphone, no.” She paused, then admitted, “But I want to. I will one day.”
