Page 37 of August Lane
Jessica stiffened at his side. She’d be furious with him later. “Yeah,” she said, eyes full of daggers. “Please. Come.Everyonewill be there.”
August smirked and said, “I have plans. But enjoy your birthday.” She looked at Luke and added, “I hope you get everything you want.”
Luke watched August gather her things and leave. He wanted to say something, signal that this guy he became around Jessica wasn’t him. But whatever August had dislodged inside him earlier was wedged firmly back in place.
Jessica patted his back as they walked to his car. “Niceness is wasted on that girl. At least you tried.”
Luke nodded, even though he hadn’t.
August had considered accepting that invitation to Jessica’s party just to see what her face would do. During the brief conversation, her expression had shifted from mild irritation at Luke to a sour snarl when she spotted August, to a bland smile that was supposed to hide her anger but only made her look like a demonic American Girl doll. If August had said “I’d love to” in response to Luke’s offer, Jessica probably would have sprung a leak somewhere.
Despite how misguided Luke’s invitation had been, it had come from a place of genuine kindness, which was his default. If Luke Randallcould be himself, he’d slide into goodness with little friction. But he had Friends, the capitalFkind that tainted your instincts by deeming anything genuine a social sin. That was the good thing about being a pariah; the only person August had to please was herself.
Still, it would have been nice to have real Thursday night plans, something illicit and chaotic, like normal seventeen-year-olds. Instead, she sat in her room with a cordless phone cradled in her lap, editing the list of notes she’d made to navigate a phone call with her mother.
Meticulously planning her interactions with Jojo was part of the weirdness that came with having a famous parent. There were rules for keeping her mother’s undivided attention. The first was no rambling. The conversation had to be interesting enough to feel like it wasn’t a waste of her time. August tried to be sharp and funny, even when she wasn’t in the mood to be. That was rule number two—no sad talk. No whining about your day, which was tiny and insignificant compared to Jojo’s big, important life. August’s goal during every call was to make sure the conversation didn’t become a chore.
She dialed Jojo’s number. Her mother’s assistant answered the phone. “Is this Miss August? Hi, sweetie, how are you? She’s putting her face on, so it’ll be a second.”
“Thanks, Patty,” August said. “How are your kids?”
Patty launched into a story about her little Caleb’s first steps, and August pretended to be impressed because it was the least she could do for the woman who picked out her birthday gifts each year.
“Here she is,” Patty announced. There was a short period of fumbling with the receiver and distant voices before Jojo said “Hi!” with too much enthusiasm. She answered everyone’s call with the same warmth, even telemarketers, like she’d been secretly hoping to hear from them.
“Hi,” August said, staring at her notes. Jojo was in Kansas City at a folk music festival. She’d mailed August a flyer with her name in a small font, buried in a sea of other musicians. “Excited about the show?”
Rule number three. Start with her. Always. Never you.
“Oh, I guess so. It’s a little thing, opening for someone I never heard of. The usual.” There was a muffled sound, like she was covering thereceiver. “Sorry, people keep asking me questions I don’t know the answer to. What was I saying?”
“That you’re opening for someone who’s overrated.”
Jojo laughed. Pleasure pooled in August’s stomach. She was doing well.
“Yep, exactly. So, how are you? How’s school? Your friends?”
In her efforts to reassure Jojo that it was safe to call on a regular basis, August had embellished her teenage life with imagery stolen from John Hughes movies. There were best friends who invited her to sleepovers. There were science fairs. There were plays in which she sang in a large chorus, and that explained the lack of pictures. The boys were nice to her but standoffish because they were intimidated by her famous mother.
She wasn’t sure what Jojo would say if she knew the truth: that August hadn’t had a real friend since fifth grade, before everyone decided it was embarrassing to have a Black mother who wore cowboy hats and used to yodel in beauty pageants. She couldn’t tell her mother how badly she’d fumbled her chance to reinvent herself at a new school by sleeping with the first guy who offered her an Arcadia Eagles welcome pack of M&M’s.
“School is fine. It’s great. Homecoming is next month.” August was only slightly confident this was true. She’d thrown the event calendar in the trash seconds after it was handed to her.
“Oh Lord, homecoming. I remember that. Is there a dance? Are you going?”
Jojo had a habit of stringing multiple questions together, probably because it saved time. August picked the easiest one to answer. “Yes, there’s a dance. I think it’s a Motown theme. Everyone’s supposed to look like the Temptations or Supremes.”
“I like that. What are you gonna do?”
“I haven’t decided.” She wasn’t going, but she couldn’t help thinking about it. She loved Motown. “Maybe Aretha.”
“Good choice. Let me know if you need help with a costume.”
The idea of Jojo taking time out of her busy schedule to style her wig and wing her eyeliner made a lump form in August’s throat. The worst lies were those you wished were true. “I will,” August said.
There was a silent beat, a lull too long for comfort. August asked“When are you coming down?” just as Jojo said “Sounds like you’re keeping out of trouble.”
Trouble in the Lane house was shorthand for a sprawling list of sins. Failed classes. Drugs. Sex. Are your skirts too short? Are your legs too open? Are you like me in all the ways everyone hates?
