Famous in a Small Town Read online

  “So twenty percent of fall fest concession and ten percent of games will go toward fundraising,” Mrs. Benson said.

  Next to me, Terrance tapped his pencil absently against his notebook as Mrs. Benson talked about concession logistics. Tap tap tap. It started to take on a rhythm—tap tap TAP tap, tap tap TAP tap.

  Mrs. Benson paused for a second to glance pointedly in our direction, and then resumed speaking.

  Terrance looked over at me, brown eyes full of mirth, and then tapped again.

  I grinned.

  I had known Terrance my whole life—our moms were both teachers at Acadia Junior High. My mom taught language arts, and Terrance’s mom taught science. They had been friends themselves since high school, had gone off to college together and later came back to Acadia—first my mom, then Mrs. Cunningham, who we called “Aunt Denise.” A plastic-framed photo hung on our fridge showing the two of them in college, posing together wearing matching denim jackets, each with their hand on their hip. My mom had bangs teased to an impressive degree, while Aunt Denise had gorgeous box braids. This is a genuine moment in time right here, Aunt Denise would say when she was over, tapping the picture on the fridge. No, this is a genuine betrayal, my mom would reply, seeing as you never told me how terrible I looked with that hair. Aunt Denise would just laugh.

  Mrs. Benson continued about the fall festival: “And then we’ve got the Megan Pleasant contest. Fifteen bucks to enter, but we’ll keep ten and five will go toward the prize.”

  I watched Terrance print MP contest in his notes.

  It was a tradition—every fall festival for the last eight years had featured a Megan Pleasant talent competition. It was lean the first couple of years, when she only had a few songs out. You’d end up hearing “Blue Eyes” or “Make Your Move” a dozen times or more. But now there were three albums’ worth of material to work from, and you could sing any Megan song you wanted, or lip-sync (though you’d never win if you lip-synced), or dance, or do an instrumental cover. The grand prize was a cut of the entry fees, and we’d take the rest for the fundraiser.

  So many people entered that it was one of the highest-earning parts of Fall Fest. There would be guaranteed at least two hours of Megan Pleasant–themed content to sit through, and the town ate that stuff up. She was by far the most famous person to come out of Acadia. In fact, she was pretty much the only famous person to come out of Acadia.

  I guess Brit was a little famous in her own right—the fastest high school girls’ runner in the state. They put her name up on the sign at the town line—BRIT CARTER, IHSA CLASS 1A 100M RECORD HOLDER. But that wasn’t remotely like having your own fan site, or arena tour, or feature in Rolling Stone.

  Terrance and I walked home together after the meeting. He toed a rock on the ground, and we kicked it back and forth as we walked.

  “Party at Tegan’s on Saturday,” he said as we neared my house. “Should be fun.”

  I nodded. I was thinking about Mrs. Benson’s parting words—This won’t be easy, but we just need to buckle down and focus and we can make it happen. It was encouraging, until after a moment’s contemplation she added a second This won’t be easy.

  “Obviously, I’ll see you before then, but like, don’t forget,” Terrance said, bumping his shoulder into mine.

  “You mean, don’t forget to tell Flora.”

  I wanted Flora and Terrance to be together, with the same spirit that I would smoosh my dolls’ faces together when I was little.

  His lips twitched. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I genuinely—No idea.”

  “Sure,” I said, heading up the steps to my front door. “Good night.”

  He waved and continued on down the street.

  * * *

  It wasn’t that I had forgotten about the encounter at McDonald’s on Saturday—meeting Kyle’s brother for the first time. But come Tuesday night, it wasn’t at the forefront of my mind as I laid Harper down in her crib.

  I had spent the evening getting her fed and keeping her occupied as you did an almost-one-year-old. I put the Conlins’ dog, Shepherd, out in the backyard so Harper and I could have some quality floor time. We looked at some books. We played with some toys and her favorite puppet: a black glove with a plush spider body on top (it made your fingers look like the spider legs, and it legitimately blew her mind). I got her in her jammies and sang her a made-up song about the ocean (Harper and me, swimming in the sea, with the turtles and the dolphins and the fishy fishy fishies). I held her and we danced around the room she shared with Cadence as I sang, turning in little circles until eventually she rested her head in the crook of my neck with a soft thunk.

  I laid her down, switched on her night-light, peeked once more at her in the crib—her eyelids were drooping—then slipped out of the room and left the door cracked a bit.

  So I didn’t forget the encounter entirely, but it didn’t spring to mind either that night. That’s why when I swung around the corner into the kitchen and saw someone standing there, I let out an unholy yelp. I didn’t register that it was August, Kyle’s brother, standing in front of the open fridge and eating out of a Tupperware. All I registered was stranger danger.

  He jerked in surprise and promptly dropped the Tupperware.

  “Jesus,” he said, clapping a hand to his chest.

  “What are you doing?” I said, which didn’t exactly make sense in the moment but came out all the same.

  “I was eating.” He blinked. “What are you doing?”

  I had frozen in a weird defensive stance, which I apparently no longer needed to hold, now that the threat had been identified. “I thought you were an intruder.”

  “I’m not.” Amusement shone in his eyes.

  “Well, I know that now,” I said. “You should announce yourself when you walk in somewhere.”

  “I didn’t know anyone was home.”

  “You thought Harper was watching herself?”

  “I mean, she does seem pretty independent for a baby. I saw her change the oil on the car yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but she always forgets to coat the gasket.”

  He grinned and then looked down to where the remains of the lasagna we had for dinner were spread across the floor.

  “Sorry,” he said, grin vanishing. “Sorry about that.” He grabbed the roll of paper towels off the counter. I crouched down to help him clean.

  “Were you eating cold lasagna?” I asked, scooping pasta remains into the Tupperware while he wiped up the trail of sauce.

  “Yeah?”

  “But the microwave is right there. Love yourself.”

  “I like it better cold.”

  “What?”

  “Warm lasagna is too”—he waved a hand—“disorganized.”

  “What?” I repeated.

  “It holds together better cold. It’s more cohesive.”

  “Are you working on some kind of seminar about this?”

  “Yup. Yeah. I am, actually. I’m the world’s foremost cold-lasagna scholar.”

  August glanced up at me, and I couldn’t explain it, but I was struck with that brand-new-box-of-crayons feeling. Every color pristine, every as-of-yet-uncolored picture a tantalizing possibility.

  Acadia High School was by no means huge—there were ninety-six kids in the upcoming senior class. Over the course of my past eleven years in the Acadia school system, I had had a handful of crushes. In seventh grade, Peyton Simms and I went to the Valentine’s dance together (we shared one awkward slow dance and then retreated to opposite sides of the gym). Sophomore year, Logan Turner and I hung out a few times, and kissed by the baseball field in Fairview Park (we called it quits a few days later).

  That was okay. Not everyone could manage to spin out new romantic entanglements every other week like Brit did, or get together with their actual literal future spouse in high school, like Heather and Kyle. I was so busy with band, and school stuff, college applications, work. I
could wait until college.

  But I wasn’t super opposed to the idea of not doing that, should the opportunity arise.

  August gave the floor a final swipe and then tore off another sheet of paper towel, handing it to me. My fingers were covered in sauce from picking up pasta pieces.

  “So, uh.” I wiped my hands as he picked up the Tupperware and took it over to the trash can to empty it. “How long are you visiting for?”

  “Not sure,” he said, his back to me.

  “Kind of open-ended, then?”

  “Sort of.” A pause. “It’s just temporary.”

  “Like for the summer?”

  Brit would inevitably make a joke about summer lovin’. She would be relentless. I was okay with that.

  Before August could respond, there was a cry, suddenly, from Harper’s room. I got to my feet. “Be right back,” I said, pitching the paper towel into the trash and heading away.

  * * *

  He was gone when I emerged.

  I checked the living room and out the back door. Shepherd bounded up, tail wagging, and I stepped aside to let him in. He followed at my heels as I opened the basement door and stuck my head downstairs, although there was nothing much down there. Just a washer and dryer by the stairs, and some old tools and piles of drywall—Kyle had been saying for ages that he was going to fix it up down there, make it into a proper room, but he hadn’t quite gotten around to it yet.

  The place was empty. Except for Harper and Shepherd, I was alone. August didn’t return for the rest of the evening; he was still gone when Heather and Cadence returned.

  “Jammy time,” Heather said, ushering Cadence toward her room and then plopping her purse down on the kitchen table to riffle through it.

  “August was here earlier,” I said, trying to sound offhand but probably failing.

  “Ah, sorry,” she replied. “I forgot to give you a heads-up he might be around. Kyle said you guys ran into each other the other night, so hopefully it wasn’t a total surprise.” She located her wallet, thumbed through it. “I, uh, didn’t want to say anything before about him coming because some stuff was still up in the air about it. But that’s where Kyle was at, when he was gone last weekend. Getting August.”

  “Oh.”

  She handed me some money for the evening. “Hey, do you think you could do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  I had been babysitting for the Conlins for almost three years now, ever since she and Kyle and Cadence had moved into the house two doors down from us. There were very few favors I wouldn’t do for Heather.

  “Maybe you could help ease him in here a little bit, introduce him to some people. Help him get settled in so when school starts he’s not going in cold, not knowing anybody?”

  I bit back the word temporary and nodded instead. “Yeah, sure.”

  Heather looked relieved. “Great. Thanks. That would be great.”

  three

  Sophie:

  Is it hard being a new person in school?

  Ciara:

  Yes but no

  I mean everyone is new at the start of college

  So at the very least, you’re all in the same boat

  Sophie:

  How did you make friends?

  Ciara:

  I honestly don’t know

  Sophie:

  Super helpful

  Ciara:

  No, I just mean it kind of happens organically I guess

  If you’re lucky

  There are people in your classes that you just start talking to

  People in your dorm that you see a lot

  Going to events on campus, joining clubs and stuff

  Sophie:

  You have to be good at talking to people though

  Ciara:

  Good thing I am

  And you are too

  Sophie:

  You think?

  Ciara:

  Yeah

  Who do you think you learned it from?

  four

  I had gotten a job working at Safeway last year and had boosted my hours for the summer. I wanted to work as much as I could before band stuff started up again, so I was dedicating a fair amount of time these days to bagging groceries and collecting carts and restocking shelves.

  I was helping an older lady load her grocery bags into her car, a couple of days after babysitting for Harper, when I heard voices nearby. I recognized one—it was Mrs. Benson, from the booster club. She taught at Harrison, the elementary school. Her voice carried, which was an excellent quality in a fourth-grade teacher, and also in an eavesdropping target.

  Not that I was trying to eavesdrop. But I couldn’t help it.

  “You know, it’s a huge honor, it’s incredible, I get that,” she was saying. “But good Lord, the money that goes into this thing, it’s unfathomable.”

  “How’s the fundraising going?”

  “Honestly? I know everyone thought it was a long shot when they were getting the audition together, but I wish we had started then. With that kind of lead, we’d be all right, but as it stands … there’s so much more to go. Michelle, you have no idea. These kids would have to sell candy bars to the moon and back.”

  I finished with the bags and shut the trunk. Quietly enough to not draw attention.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” the older lady said, and I smiled as I took her cart and steered it back toward the cart return outside the front of the store. Slow enough so I could keep listening.

  “There’s more to come, though,” the other woman—Michelle—said. “Sponsorships, July Fourth, the sports banquet.”

  “Yeah, but we really need to get creative. If we do what we always do, we’ll get the same we always got, which is just enough to fund those little trips here and there. Honestly, coming from Indianapolis, I just don’t think she gets how chipping in two grand is impossible for most of these kids. And there’s only so much money we can wring out of the people and businesses in town.”

  “She” was undeniably Meredith Hill, the band director, who had taken over for Mr. Haverty, the long-standing director of the Marching Pride of Acadia. He retired four years ago, and Ms. Hill had come from Indianapolis to replace him.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” the other woman said.

  Mrs. Benson nodded. “Keep your fingers crossed. I’d hate for them to have to pull out. It’s happened before apparently, with other schools, but … I know Sam, at least, is so, so excited to go. I’m sure Becca is too.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Well, keep it between us, and I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Sounds good. Night, Jen.”

  “Night.”

  I slotted the cart into the one in front of it and headed inside.

  * * *

  I volunteered at the library on Saturday mornings.

  It wasn’t a huge place—just one room, with the checkout desk in the middle. The general-fiction shelves sat to the right in tall rows, with the nonfiction shelves lining the room. The kids and teen books were tucked on the other side, in each of the corners.

  The head librarian was named Mel. She was probably midfifties, and humorless, but she knew everything there was to know about books. I’d swear there wasn’t a book in there she hadn’t read.

  She knows everything, Flora said. She’s like the internet.

  She was possibly better than the internet sometimes. I’d volunteered there since freshman year, and Mel had never once redirected to an ad for male enhancement.

  When I got to work this morning, I took a seat in the Kids Korner.

  Why do we have to spell it like that? Why can’t we just spell “corner” the normal way? I had asked, when Mel first announced her plan to redesign the children’s area.

  It’s for kids, Mel had answered simply.

  Yeah, even more reason we should spell it right, don’t you think?

  She looked at me, deadpan: It’s cute.

  So every few months I hand-lettered a new s
easonal banner with KIDS KORNER outlined on it in sparkle paint, and it was cute, I guess—if an inconsistent foundation in spelling could be considered cute.

  The Kids Korner faced the teen area in the opposite corner, which had its own banner, although it didn’t change to match the seasons. It was a permanent fixture, a large purple sign with cutout bubble letters attached to it spelling out the words TEEN ZONE.

  The Teen Zone sign had appeared after I started volunteering there. Mel never discussed it, but it was a source of great delight among my friends—so much so that we christened the Cunninghams’ pole shed, where we did the majority of our hanging out, Teen Zone 2.

  After all, it’s where the teens are at, Brit had said. It’s the zone for teens. We almost can’t exist in any other kind of zone. Child Zone? Forget it. Adult Zone? Fuck that noise. I am for the Teen Zone only.

  She also often used it as a euphemism: I want to put my Teen Zone on his Teen Zone. I want her all up in my Teen Zone.

  Today I sat across from the non-euphemistic, original Teen Zone with my copy of The College Collective. The library was pretty empty for a Saturday morning—a couple of people wandering the fiction shelves, one tween girl thumbing through a stack of novels in the Teen Zone. But there were no kids to populate Kids Korner, so I flipped open my book.

  The College Collective was a website whose college application timeline I had adopted. Unlike some of the other sites that guided more broadly, they broke it down month by month for your last two years of high school. Things to consider, action steps you should take, tips and helpful suggestions. I sent away for their hard copy handbook at the beginning of sophomore year and received a thick spiral-bound book with a multicultural band of smiling kids on the front, arms slung around one another. It was well-worn now, I had thumbed through it so often.

  I had been one full year under the College Collective’s guidance (it started with SOPHOMORE YEAR, JUNE), and, accordingly, I felt like I was in good shape. I had taken the SAT and ACT early, with plenty of time to retake (I knew I could do better on math). I had created my general list of schools, and I was prepared to narrow them down this summer to a finalized list that I would begin targeting closely. I had focused on my grades this past year (junior year transcript is essential), and my extracurriculars (homecoming committee, band). I volunteered (the library), and I had a leadership position (MPASFC), and work experience (the grocery store).