The follow-up sign came a tenth of a mile or so later, equally imposing, white letters on a black background: JESUS CHRIST HAS THE ANSWER.
We had a group chat, the five of us, called WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY, and since its inception, everyone had to periodically sound off with our own answer to the question. Like someone would ask WWYSE, and Brit would say, At the YYS watching Tyler chew his fucking nails, or Terrance would say, In line at the Burger Shack because you know those onion rings take time, or Dash would say, Praying for y’all. Seriously.
Flora always gave a very sweet and well-meaning answer to the actual question, like w/ my best friends in the world!!!!! or w/ our Lord praising Him!!!!!! .
The morning after Tegan’s party, I tapped out a message to WWYSE: What if Megan Pleasant played the fall festival?
No one answered immediately. Not that I thought they would, but part of me had hoped it would instantly spark a conversation. Great idea, Sophie! That’ll totally raise the money we need! She’ll definitely do it!
So I went on:
Like what if she gave a concert?
People would flip their shit
She hasn’t been here in a few years, and she’s pretty famous now We could raise a lot of $$$ for the parade
Brit replied a little while later. I was surprised she was awake.
I see a couple problems with that
Such as? I replied.
For starters, she hasn’t been here in a few years, and she’s pretty famous now So?
So.… … how exactly are you going to convince her to come?
The Pleasant family had moved out of Acadia a few years ago. That’s probably part of why she stopped coming—no family here to visit. Even still …
There’s got to be someone in town with a connection, I said. Some old friend who could contact her, or know how to get in touch with her family. They were from here. She loves Acadia.
Uhhh you know what they say ???
Lord help me I am never going back
That’s just a song
LORD HELP ME BUT I AM NEVER EVER GOING BACK
She sent a link a moment later, headlined A PLEASANT PLACE: THIRD ALBUM SEES COUNTRY DARLING LEAVING HER HEARTLAND BEHIND.
I frowned and typed, That’s just rumors.
Why would they print rumors? Brit replied.
Dash chimed in then: Why does anyone make anything up? For clicks and money Terrance too: I know that’s why I do literally everything And finally Flora: I think it’s a great idea Sophie!
* * *
I thought about my message to Megan all day at work. I regretted it—it was too short, I wrote it too fast. I should’ve drafted it, revised, proofread. I didn’t feel like I captured it at all—what the band meant to me. How it was intrinsic to the town, to us as friends.
Dash and Brit were on the drum line. Side by side on their snares, what they did was precision, like surgery; it was deft and purposeful.
Terrance was in brass on trumpet. “Flashy,” he would say with a grin, and it was true—the trumpets got the coolest solos.
I was in the woodwinds with Flora—her on flute and me on clarinet. My rented clarinet was the same one that Ciara had played—I made sure to ask for it special. It still had some of her stickers on the case, halfway peeled off. Ciara never loved band like I did, though, only did it because she didn’t want to play a sport. For her, it was an obligation, a box to check, but for me … it was a community.
I loved it. Everything about it. The field on a Friday night, the crunch of the grass underfoot. The fancy uniforms for performances and competitions, the T-shirts and shorts for parades and afternoon games. I loved that moment when we got something on its feet, when we combined the music with the formations. I loved practicing through the neighborhood behind school, marching up and down the streets, past Flora’s house and mine, past the library and the park.
We were the Pride of Acadia, and no one was prouder than me.
nine
Ciara:
I saw a mullet today!!!!
Sophie:
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ciara:
It was incredible
11 out of 10
His hair was like … righteously thick 90s Dad would be SHOOK
Sophie:
Lolololol I can’t believe he ever had one Ciara:
Right?
Like not even just that it was a thing But that it was HIS thing Sophie:
90s Dad went on to land 00s Mom Ciara:
I know
Their 90s hair looks combined Would have been too powerful Sophie:
It was def more like a half mullet by then Ciara:
Yah
Business in the front, office worker’s going away party in the back Like sheet cake and a card from Barb in Accounting in the back Sophie:
I feel like a mullet spotting is good luck Ciara:
Yes! Love it!
The new four leaf clover It’s decided
Sophie:
ten
I babysat for Cadence and Harper on Tuesday night.
Cadence decided she was going to “help” me take care of Harper for the evening, which mostly consisted of her giving a running commentary of Harper’s thoughts and opinions.
Changing Harper’s diaper: “She doesn’t like that.”
Filling Harper’s tray: “She’s extra hungry tonight.”
Getting Harper in her pajamas: “She wants to wear the purple duck ones instead.”
“Those are in the laundry.”
Cadence’s eyes were solemn: “She’s okay with that.”
The girls were in bed—wearing clean pajamas—and I was finally cleaning up from dinner when the back door opened slightly.
I turned at the sink, a pot in hand.
“This is me announcing myself,” August said through the gap. “You know, in case you go into intruder alert mode.”
I smiled. “No lasagna will die tonight on your behalf.”
He stepped inside, and I turned back to the sink to finish scrubbing.
“What was for dinner?”
“Mac and cheese.” I still had Harper’s high chair tray to clean, all orange-crusted.
“The stove kind or the microwave kind?”
“The stove kind,” I said, and suddenly he was right behind me, reaching past to grab a paper towel from the roll above the sink. He folded it up and stuck it briefly under the flow of water, and then went over to the high chair.
“That’s like a hundred times better than the microwave kind, you know,” he said as he began to scrub the tray. It would be faster to wash it in the sink, but it probably doesn’t do much good to critique the nice thing someone is doing, so I just watched for a moment. He was wearing the same shirt he had on the night of the lasagna encounter, and I wondered briefly if it was his favorite shirt, or if he wore it specifically on Tuesdays, or if his closet was lined with rows of that exact shirt, like a cartoon character.
I went back to rinsing the pot.
“No leftovers tonight, sorry.” I had horked down the rest of the mac and cheese while Cadence paused her description of Harper’s inner monologue to tell me stories about dance class. She kept hopping out of her chair to show me moves, gravitating back to eat a forkful of food and then returning to the center of the kitchen, like a moth bouncing in and out of a porch light.
“No problem. Not hungry anyway.”
I finished at the sink and watched August give the high chair one more swipe. He tossed the paper towel in the trash and then turned to me. For a moment we were both just standing there.
“Do you have, like … stuff to do?” he said finally. “While the girls are asleep?”
“Yeah, I usually go through Kyle and Heather’s room. Try on all their clothes, roll around in their bed. That kind of thing.”
He looked at me for a split second and then grinned. “I meant, like, watch TV or something.”
“I usually do homework. But no homework now, so … maybe TV. Or a book or something.” I looked at him. “What about you?”
“Probably just gonna hang out.”
“Ah.” We could do that, I almost said, before realizing it wasn’t an invitation. Then I blinked. “Where’s your room?”
“We’re standing in it.”
“This is the kitchen.”
His eyes shone. “After hours, it’s my room.”
“What?”
He moved over to the window seat off the back of the kitchen, in the little alcove by the back door. It was a spot you’d sit in to take off your shoes, next to Kyle’s boots and a pile of Cadence’s sneakers.
For the first time, I noticed the quilt folded up on top of a pillow, shoved in the corner of the alcove. I watched as August sat, leaning against the wall and drawing his legs up.
I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen. “That’s where you sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“For real?”
“What?” I must have looked alarmed, because he shook his head. “It’s fine. It’s great, actually. It even opens up.” He stood, picked up the cushion, and lifted the windowsill. “I can keep my stuff in there.”
A folded pile of clothes lay inside—no duplicates of that shirt, which ruled out the cartoon-character theory—alongside a scrunched-up backpack, a few other odds and ends.
The window wasn’t nearly long enough, though. August wasn’t hugely tall—shorter than Terrance by an inch or two, and Dash by more. But he’d still have to curl up to sleep, under the pink-and-white quilt with rabbits on it.