I sit up. It takes me a moment for my vision to adjust. “Are we selling the house?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. This place is paid off in a few years. I think I can make things work until then. I don’t want you worrying about that.”
“Okay . . .”
“But I can’t afford to get your car fixed.”
There it is. My heart sinks. I know it’s stupid to worry about something like a car when there are obviously other things like food and utilities to think about. Especially when we don’t technically need that car. But that little red thing is my freedom in physical form. Clover City feels even smaller and more removed without my Jolene.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
“How much is it going to cost?”
“About three thousand dollars.”
I nod. That’s at least a year of working at the Chili Bowl.
“Maybe we can start a little jar? Like, throw the day’s pocket change in.”
I lie back down, and hit play on the TV. If I were a better daughter, I would tell her it’s fine and that I understand. I may not be the daughter she expected, but she never lets me go without.
The cousins are back on. Audience members laugh quietly as they so obviously get question after question wrong.
My mom stands and pulls the apron back over her neck.
Before heading to bed, I sit down at my desk in my room with Riot curled into a pile in my lap. My emails are mostly junk mail, but buried beneath that is one from Lucy’s address.
My stomach twists like a corkscrew. I open the email.
But it’s spam. Some piece of junk about interest rates.
I sit back in my chair and let my body exhale. If I’m getting junk mail from my dead aunt, then maybe other people are, too.
I log out of my account. It takes a few tries, but I finally guess her password. DUMBBLONDE9. One of her favorite Dolly songs and her favorite number. I’m about to shut down her account, but I find myself distracted by the months of messages just sitting here. This in-box full of unopened messages is the truest reminder that we are temporary fixtures in a permanent world.
I click through a few. There’s nothing that really catches my eye until the fifth page. The subject line reads: DOLLY PARTON NIGHT.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Cardboard stars and crepe streamers hang from the rafters, but they’re not enough to make me ignore the lingering body odor and forget that we’re in the gymnasium. The music reflects off the walls, reminding everyone that this place was not built for the acoustics.
“This is cool,” yells Mitch into my ear.
“Yeah.” Except it’s not. There are maybe fifteen people dancing, while everyone else spreads out on the bleachers. There’s this weird hormonal energy in the air that I’ve never noticed before. Maybe because students are getting away with an insane amount of PDA that would never be tolerated during normal school hours.
Ellen sits perched on the bleachers with Callie and her boyfriend. Tim’s got one arm draped over El’s shoulder and his head is leaning so far back I think he might be asleep. Callie’s boyfriend is overattentive and rubs his hand up and down her thigh in a weird way that makes me shiver while she and El whisper back and forth, sharing secrets, I’m sure.
I catch Callie pointing at me, and turn away. “Hey, I’m going to run to the bathroom.”
Mitch’s lips form a question, but he just nods.
In the bathroom, I turn the faucet on high and let the hot water rush over my hands until they’re red. I hate that I can’t just go in there and tell El about what a fool I made of myself when I asked Mitch to this thing. This distance between us started months ago. I know that. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe you only ever notice the distance when it’s you who’s being left behind. I should’ve shut my big mouth and not said anything about the pageant, but Ellen signing up somehow felt like scoring points for the other team. I don’t know.
“Can I give you some advice?”