“Obviously,” August repeated.
The guy speaking was named Troy Fowler. I had been all through school with him. I still remembered one time he missed a week of school in fourth grade to go with his mom to visit family in Michigan. When he came back to class the next week, all he could talk about was an accident they had seen on the interstate driving up there. Two semitrucks had crashed into each other, and multiple cars piled up behind.
“The trucks crashed together, and then the cars behind them crashed into trucks, just bam bam bam”—he had smacked his hands together—“ka-blam!”
There were fire trucks and ambulances and a helicopter apparently, and Troy and his mom were in terrible traffic, even coming the opposite way, backed up for miles as people slowed to look while they passed. The firefighters had held up sheets around some of the crashed cars.
Dash had listened to this account with a frown, his brow furrowed. “Why?”
“So people couldn’t see the dead bodies when they pulled them out.” Troy slapped his hands together again for emphasis. “Ka-blam, remember?”
Right now he blinked at August. “No, he’s totally fine. So it’s funny. He legit thought he was going to end it jumping like eight feet. It was idiotic.”
August opened his mouth to speak, but I had had enough of Troy Fowler, so I tugged on August’s arm.
“Want to go outside?”
We ended up on the back porch. I shot off a quick text to WWYSE: We’re in the back
It was quiet between August and me. I could hear Troy laughing inside. That loud bray. It was idiotic.
“He wasn’t trying to kill himself,” I said.
“Hm?”
“Coach Junior.”
“Oh.”
“And that’s not even—it’s a stupid nickname. His name is Luke. And he was high. Some guys at a party slipped him something. He was totally out of it. Thought he could fly or something.”
“You know him?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Brit’s brother.”
Luke was probably my first crush, though I wouldn’t have known to call it that at the time. Maybe he was Ciara’s too—when we were little he had pegs on the back of his bike and she used to stand on them, holding Luke’s shoulders as he pedaled fast up and down the street, her hair flowing out behind her, a huge grin on her face. She’d say I was too little to ride, but I think she just liked keeping it as something between them.
The breaks in Luke’s legs were bad, and he had to have a couple of operations, had to go back and forth to Effingham for physical therapy. He missed the last few months of his senior year, and deferred his acceptance to University of Illinois. He never ended up going.
He got around fine now, but whatever plans he had before—college, everything—were derailed, and he couldn’t seem to find his way back to them.
We were in eighth grade when it happened. I remember Brit’s eyes, bright and red-rimmed, telling me it was Tanner Barnes and his friends who spiked Luke’s drink as a joke.
“He should be in jail,” she said, voice choked with anger and tears. “He should get arrested for this. He should have to pay.”
This was the origin of Brit’s thesis statement for the next four years—making Tanner Barnes pay. Tanner, who was Acadia’s number one track-and-field star, ranked at the state level. Had scholarship offers from multiple schools. Was close to getting fast enough in the 100 meter to qualify for the Olympic Trials.
He wanted to make Luke look stupid. He wanted to humiliate him. So I’m going to humiliate him right back. One day I’m going to race him, and I’m going to beat him.
How will that humiliate him?
Because he’s an egotistical asshole. So I’m going to do better than he ever did.
I thought of that night outside McDonald’s—What do you want most in the world? I didn’t need to ask Brit, because I already knew.
“That’s terrible,” August said.
“Yeah.” I fiddled with the tab on the top of my soda, and then it was quiet. “So …” I wanted to lighten things up. “Anyway. Anything new with you?”
He smiled a little. “I got a job.”
“Oh yeah?”
A nod. “Dollar Depot.”
“Nice.”
“I think my ability to lift thirty pounds really sealed the deal,” he said. “Also my awesome personality.”
“Can’t forget that.”
It was quiet again.
“Have you done any social media outreach?” The Megan Pleasant plan was never far from my mind.
He made a funny face. “I didn’t think I was really in on the whole … Megan thing. I’m not in the band.”
“Well, we could use your help no matter what. But you should try out.” A pause. “You know, like in case you’re still here for the fall.”
“Maybe.”
“We start back up soon, for the Fourth of July parade. You could audition for Ms. Hill.”
“I don’t have a sax here.”
“You can rent one.”
He gave a noncommittal “Mm.”
I paused, and then spoke carefully: “They have scholarships and stuff, too. To cover the rentals and all that. It comes out of the big fund.”
“Thought you needed the big fund to get to the parade.”
“Well, when we get Megan here, the big fund will be pretty big, right?” I nudged him with my elbow. “At least try out. They’ll have rookie camp for the new students—mostly freshmen and stuff, but also people from other grades who want to join, so you could get all caught up.”
He nodded. “Maybe.”
The back door flew open then, and Brit burst through, Dash following at a more sedate pace.
“Are we interrupting?” Brit said, plopping down next to me and forcing me into August’s side. “I hope not.”
“We were just talking about band stuff,” I said.
“Sexy,” Brit replied, and then leaned across me to August. “You should see Soph on the clarinet. It’s a reed instrument. Lots of tongue action.” She winked, hugely. “Just think of the possibilities. Connect the dots. Between that. And”—she gestured vaguely at his crotch—“all that.”
“Brit.”
“Sophie.” Her eyes were wide and guileless.
“You don’t get how a reed instrument works” is all I could say.
“Of course not, I play snare drum.”
I glanced at August, but he just looked amused. “Is my dick the clarinet? Or the reed? We’re working on a really different size scale either way.”
“What are we talking about?” Terrance asked, pushing through the door with a plastic cup in each hand, Flora right behind him.
“Clarinet-size dick,” Dash replied as Terrance handed him one of the cups.
“Oh geez, can you imagine?” Terrance said.
“I don’t have to imagine,” August said. “That’s pretty much the situation down there.”
Flora’s eyes widened.
“He’s joking,” I told her.
“Dead serious. It’s a total liability.”
Flora started laughing, and then waving her hands in the air as if to get our attention, and then laughing some more.
“What?”
“Just th-th-thinking—” she stuttered, shoulders shaking. “You’d have to use—one of those long plastic bags—that newspapers come in—as a—When you—To protect—” She flapped her hands. “For sex!”
“Flora Maria Feliciano, how dare you,” Brit said as Flora dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes.
“Everyone else gets to make jokes! I don’t get to make jokes?”
“No, it was good,” Terrance said. “I like where your head is at.”
“We know where August’s head is at,” Flora said, and clapped a hand to her mouth, withdrawing it only momentarily to screech: “His knees!”
It was a while before the resulting group reaction died down.
“Okay,” Brit said finally. “All right. I think it’s time we all get to know August a little better.”
“Everyone says that when they find out about my clarinet-size dick.”
Brit grinned. “Tell us all about yourself, August Your-last-name.”
She didn’t remember the last party: Shaw. Conlin. Hm.
“What do you want to know?”
“What’s your deal? Why are you here?”
“What kind of a question is that?” Dash said. “Why are any of us here?”
“Yeah, like what’s my cosmic mission?” August said.
“Why are you here in Acadia? With us, on this porch right now?” Brit replied.
“I mean, I’m on the porch because I followed Sophie.”
“We’re all here on the porch because we followed Sophie somewhere at some point in our lives, but like why are you here in town?” she pressed.
“What do you think of Acadia so far?” Flora added, and I silently thanked her. Sometimes she was the best at wresting control of a conversation from Brit, even if it wasn’t always intentional.
“It’s fine,” August replied evenly.
“You can be a little more enthusiastic,” I said.
“It’s …” He squinted up at the sky like he was consulting with it on an answer, before settling on “Unique?”
That was about on par with You seem really nice.
“You know, it’s actually not unique at all,” Brit said. “There’s another Acadia in California.”
I nodded. “We found it online. They’re trying to put their Acadia High School on the historical register. It’s that nice.”
“Sometimes we pretend what it would be like if we went to the other Acadia High School,” Flora said.