* * *
The band worked the barbecue, in association with the Lions Club. Mainly we bussed tables, but a portion of the profits would go toward fundraising, so it was worth it. That’s what I told myself as I cleared trash.
The fireworks were shot from the baseball diamond at Fairview Park. People usually laid out their blankets and chairs in the surrounding areas ages ahead of time, reserving the best spots. Brit’s house backed up to the park, so we always sat in her driveway to watch. The trees had grown taller over the years, so we didn’t have quite the same view as when we were younger, but it was tradition.
We sat outside, me and Dash in lawn chairs, Flora and Brit and Terrance sprawled out on the ground. My dad stood at the end of the driveway with Brit’s dad, each cradling beers.
I loved the fireworks. The ones that launched into the air with colorful tails, the silence before they burst out into a purple or red or green cloud. The ones that sparked and then flared gold, or screamed in little spirals on the way down. The bright ones that lingered with tendrils shooting out slow, like a big flower blooming in air.
When I was little, I thought that once fireworks went off, all those shiny bits would rain back down to earth like brightly colored coins. And if I could just find them, if I could run to where they fell, I could collect them all up and keep them. I didn’t understand that they weren’t something you could grasp once they’d been spent. Their existence was temporary—you had to lose them in order to appreciate them.
I thought of August, watching with Kyle and Cadence. They had staked out a spot on the hill sloping down to the baseball field.
I texted him after the fireworks ended. The sky was still filled with smoke.
What did you think of the show?
I thought he might not answer for a while, but my phone buzzed immediately.
A+ fireworks
And then again:
I like how the sky looks here
People often said the stars looked nicer out in the country, that city lights dimmed them.
Me too, I replied.
* * *
Brit slept over at our house that night.
I paused in front of the dresser while she was down the hall brushing her teeth. I picked up a half-empty perfume bottle sitting atop it, raised it halfway to my face for a smell, then changed my mind and set it down. It’d just stoke that ache in my chest.
I remember when Ciara first left for school. I remember sitting on my bed and looking at Brit sitting across the way on Ciara’s.
She had left so much behind, and I couldn’t fathom how she could do without her music box, her favorite posters, her stuffed animals.
I remember crossing to the dresser, opening the music box, and watching the princess turn. It still had jewelry inside—a friendship bracelet woven with embroidery thread, a jumble of necklaces, a pair of hoop earrings she had gotten from a girl in her class. It was stuff that would’ve fit in a suitcase. “How could she leave it?” I murmured. “Like she doesn’t even care.”
“Maybe it’s the opposite,” Brit had said. “Maybe it’s not like she left it behind because she doesn’t care about it. Maybe it’s like … she left it here so that part of her would still be here, you know? So that this would still be her home, and she’d still have part of it that belongs to her.” She had stretched out across the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “And, you know”—she looked over at me—“it means she’s coming back.”
twenty-five
Sophie:
What’s your favorite thing about summer?
Ciara:
Nooooo schooooooool Sophie:
Still have to work though Ciara:
True true
But at least they pay me for that Sophie:
What do you like best? In Acadia?
Ciara:
The YYS
The Burger Shack Going out at golden hour Fireflies
Why do you want to know?
Sophie:
Just reminding you of all the great things For when you get here
twenty-six
July continued with band camp—a solid week of all band, all the time. We practiced in sections, we worked on formations, we tried to avoid crashing into one another when executing turns (Chelsea and Becca failed, and took a small portion of the woodwinds section down with them. Brit laughed so hard she crashed into Dash herself, but luckily he was solid enough to keep them both upright). No one passed out from heat this year, but everyone complained about being dehydrated. Terrance kept striking poses to show off how toned his calves were getting from all the marching, and his section leader kept threatening to take his trumpet away if he didn’t stop, though the threats rang pretty hollow when she couldn’t keep from laughing as his poses got more and more over the top.
After camp, the rehearsal schedule continued, albeit scaled back a bit. We were preparing for the Midwest Marching Summer Showcase, which would be in Saint Louis partway through the month.
I got a text from August the night before we were set to go: You guys are going to stl tomorrow?
I sent a yeah in response. It looked sad on its own, so I started to pick out a string of emojis to send after it, but he answered while I was still curating.
Dash is driving?
Seniors could drive separately if they wanted. I thought about the conversation with my mom before dinner—her frowning as she dumped a jar of pasta sauce into a pot.
“Why don’t you ride the bus?”
“It’s crowded. And loud. We can’t listen to our own music. We can’t stop for McDonald’s.”
“Wear headphones. I’ll buy you an Egg McMuffin before you leave.”
“Mom,” I said. “Please.”
She “hmmed.” I leaned my head against her shoulder.
“Please please please please?”
“You know, repetition isn’t a great foundation for a convincing argument. You want to have multiple points to support your claim.”
My mom’s persuasive-essay assignment was legendary among Acadia Junior High sixth graders. I still remember Brit complaining about it.
“Dash’ll be super careful. You know him.”
“It’s not Dash, it’s Brit the Great Distractor I’m worried about.”
“I’ll be there. I’ll mediate.”
I ended up winning out. Eventually.
Yeah, I texted August, and this time added two thumbs-up emojis before August could reply.
Can I ride with you guys?
I blinked.
You want to come to the showcase?
He didn’t reply immediately. August didn’t have an iPhone—neither did I—but I knew that you could see the other person typing if they had an iPhone too. The little bouncing dots that tell you the other person hasn’t forgotten you. They’re just … composing.
I couldn’t tell here, though. So maybe August was typing out a long message, or maybe he was typing and retyping a short one, or maybe he had drifted off to sleep—at the late, late hour of 9:00 p.m.—or any other number of scenarios I considered, phone in my hand, until a message finally appeared.
It was much shorter than the pause had implied:
I mean I can
That was neither yes nor no. I didn’t know what to do with that.
Then he replied again:
Just want to go home for a minute
I hadn’t even considered it. Saint Louis is not the big mean city. Acadia wasn’t his home. Saint Louis was. Of course he’d want to go there. It caused something unpleasant to squirm in my stomach, though, however irrational it was.
Should be no problem, I said. Check with Dash though, it’s his car.
He didn’t reply again.
But he was there in the morning, when we all met in the parking lot at school. We parted ways with Flora and Terrance and piled into the Cutlass—Dash and Brit up front, me and August in the back.
Not like a double date.
Brit played deejay, playing songs from her phone since the Cutlass only had a tape deck. We talked a while—me and Brit mostly, with Dash chiming in occasionally—and I didn’t notice at first, but next to me, August seemed restless. Distracted. He kept fidgeting more and more as we made our way through the cornfields and the soybean fields and yet more cornfields.
(Brit: “You know what I hate most about it? It’s like someone copy-and-pasted the landscape. Just the same sky and the same field over and over again. Like, have some creativity, at least. Break it up with a little flavor every now and then.”
Dash: “The billboards add flavor.”
Brit: “We clearly have different ideas about flavor, Dashiell.”) August spoke eventually. “Can you pull over up here?”
“Huh?”
“Can you stop? Like at the McDonald’s. Please.”
Dash didn’t comment, just guided the car to the exit ramp like August asked. We parked at the McDonald’s, and we were all taking off our seat belts when August said, “I need to borrow the car.”
Brit paused, halfway out of her seat. “Are you serious?”
His expression was dead serious. He got out and we joined him on the pavement. “I’ll be back, I promise.” He looked at Dash. “I won’t steal your car, I won’t strand you, I swear to God. Just, please, can I borrow it?”