“I don’t know. Nothing serious. Not like, Olympics serious, at least. I played in jazz band in middle school, but I was pretty terrible.”
“Really?” If August was going to stay in Acadia, he could join band. He could march with us. “What’d you play?”
“Saxophone.”
“Of course you did.”
His lips quirked. “What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know. It just … fits.”
“What do you play?”
“I’m the world’s most average clarinet player,” I said, and then it was quiet.
Had we used up all our conversation? It wasn’t ideal. I’d have to think of topics of discussion if we were going to go out—questions to ask and stuff like that.
But it was late, and maybe we were both tired, and also maybe it wasn’t so bad being able to be quiet with someone.
“I should probably get going,” he said finally, and I probably should’ve asked then, in the silence, but the opportunity had dissolved. “Will you … I mean, will you get home safe? I could hang around.…”
“Nah, I’ll wait for Flora and Terrance.” Terrance was busy serenading people—which made me wonder if it’s not so much the skill that really matters but the confidence—and Flora was with him.
We had never collectively acknowledged it as a group, but Flora was undeniably the Girl with the Blue Boots. She “passed the time by playing flute,” and she had a pair of blue fake leather lace-up boots that she wore all the time when we were in middle school. And Terrance did love her “like the stars in the sky, yeah, like a lovestruck guy.” I guess the farm thing was a misdirect.
I waved a hand at the bikes. “Brit’s is the green one.”
“Thanks.”
“Now I just need your shoes, and then you can be on your way.”
It was August’s turn to smile.
seven
I replayed the party in my mind that night as I got ready for bed. Put on my pajamas, switched off the light, and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Terrance singing, Brit swaying back and forth with one arm slung around Dash’s shoulders, Flora’s bright eyes as we all sang along. I thought about August, gently bopping his head, looking like he might join in on the chorus, though he never did.
And then, somehow, amid everything, Brit’s words sprang into my mind:
You know who should sing in the Megan Pleasant contest? Megan Pleasant.
Ten years ago, Megan was a contestant on America’s Next Country Star.
At seven, I was more of a fan of the boy bands of the moment and Disney Channel tweens with fledgling singing careers. But the whole town watched America’s Next Country Star. The live shows were broadcast in the high school, projected in the auditorium so we could all watch fifteen-year-old Megan clutching the microphone, bowing her head and praying before singing “This Kiss” for Nineties Week, or “Jolene” for Classics Week, or “Our Song” for My Idol Week. We all watched Megan get further and further along in the competition, and before the semifinals, they even sent a camera crew to Acadia to get footage of people holding signs saying things like WE LOVE MEGAN and ACADIA’S PROUD OF YOU.
She was the youngest contestant on the show, and she became an absolute fan favorite. People printed up T-shirts with OH MY STARS on them, because that was her constant exclamation—when she got through to the live shows, when a Grammy winner showed up to mentor her. I liked “oh my stars,” but my favorite was when she would try something that didn’t work (a particular run, a song that maybe didn’t quite suit), she’d shrug and smile and say, “Worth a shot.” (There were “Worth a shot” shot glasses sold at Miller’s for ages, which some parents deemed inappropriate, but they sold nonetheless.)
Megan made it to the finals but didn’t win. She came in third place, but it wasn’t long before she had gotten a recording contract anyway, and soon there was a first single, a first video, a first album. Soon she was Megan Pleasant, country singer, instead of Megan Pleasant, reality-show hopeful. Either way, she remained Megan Pleasant, Acadia’s hometown girl.
Realistically I had probably seen her around town, before she became famous. But the first time I remember seeing her—really seeing her—she was seventeen and was set to perform for Acadia’s Fourth of July celebration. She was two years off of America’s Next Country Star, and her first album was out. “Gave You My Heartland” had just gone certified gold.
I was in fourth grade, and we had to write essays about our heroes. I was one of the winners picked for my grade. The prize was to meet Megan.
She gave us T-shirts with “Megan’s Champions” on them. It was a community-outreach program she was doing—Megan’s Champions would get together to rake leaves or carry groceries for old people or whatever. Like a renegade Girl Scouts or something, and they would post videos about it online, encouraging people to do the same in their towns.
I became an official Megan’s Champion that day. And I fell a little bit in love with Megan too.
I didn’t know how to describe it at the time, but she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. She had the prettiest nails—painted pale pink—and long shiny brown hair, olive-toned skin. I had never seen anyone cooler in real life, I had never even imagined anyone as cool as she was, not even Ciara, who was infinitely cooler than me. It was a little like when you play Barbies, and you pick yours, your girl, and you say stuff about her accordingly—My girl does this; my girl does that. I wanted to be Megan Pleasant, but I also wanted her to be My Girl.
She took a picture with all of us, in our Megan shirts, and I got to stand right next to her. I kept this picture up in a place of honor in my room for years after, and even now, it was pinned to my bulletin board, only partially obscured by pictures of me and Flora and Brit at homecoming, of Dash and Terrance posed in front of the Cutlass.
Tonight I slipped out of bed and went into the living room, where my dad’s old computer was set up on a desk shoved in the corner by the pass-through to the kitchen. It was slow as hell to start up, but I wanted to type this out for real, so I waited, and while I did, I composed the message in my head.
When it finally booted up, I went to a site I visited often when I was a kid. It wasn’t the official Megan Pleasant website—that had changed drastically over the years—but a site that had remained relatively unchanged since that meeting back in fourth grade. The official Megan’s Champions page.
That picture from July Fourth was still posted. I was the smallish one to Megan’s right, grinning widely in my bright blue shirt.
There was still a tab to the left of the screen—MEGAN WANTS TO HEAR FROM YOU!
I’d sent Megan messages often when I was a kid. It was like having a pen pal who didn’t write me back, but I wrote all the same. I hadn’t sent anything in years, but it still seemed, somehow, like a more direct line to her. Maybe no one checked these messages—maybe they never had, maybe they were just sent into the vacuum of the internet—but she didn’t even have an email form on her official site, just a place where you could sign up for her mailing list (“EXCLUSIVE content! TOUR and TICKET info! SPECIAL NEWS from Megan to YOU!”).
The Megan’s Champions site had no such sign-up. Just the same old tab, the same old form. I clicked on MEGAN WANTS TO HEAR FROM YOU!, and it popped up.
I took a breath, paused with my hands over the keys.
Dear Megan,
I am a junior (well now a senior I guess!) at Acadia High School in Illinois (Did you know there is an Acadia High School in California too?). I am writing because the Marching Pride of Acadia is going to march in the Rose Parade this coming year. That is, if we can afford it! I’m not trying to ask for money, but I am writing to ask you if you would possibly be willing to play a concert, or at least sing a song or two, at the fall festival in Acadia this year. We will be having the annual Megan Pleasant contest, and we would also be honored if you would be willing to act as a judge. We believe you could drastically help our fundraising efforts and would be so, so grateful if you were able to come. I know you must have a super busy schedule, but I really appreciate your consideration.
Thank you so much!
Sophie Kemper
It had been a long time since Megan had been back to Acadia. Maybe it was possible. Maybe she would come and play the fall festival.
I left my contact info at the bottom and pressed send.
It was worth a shot.
eight
A giant sign stood along I-70 on the way to Acadia that read, in imposing block letters, two feet tall each, WHERE WILL YOU SPEND ETERNITY?