In the middle of it all, there’s an open trailer, set up like a stage, and a few guys with guitars are strumming chords and checking speakers there.
It’s early, but there are already plenty of people out, greeting each other in the street and filling paper plates with food. Agnes and me ain’t got much money, but we spend a little of the cash on some barbecue chicken that we split with Utah.
By the time we finish eating, the band’s done started. They’re playing covers of country songs. Upbeat stuff all about honky-tonks and good-looking girls. And there’s a crowd around the stage, people singing along and dancing.
“We should dance,” Agnes says.
I laugh, thinking she’s kidding at first.
“I’m serious,” she says. “You said we were gonna have fun. Dancing is fun.”
“I don’t dance,” I tell her.
“But you will,” she says. “You know how I know? Because you’re Bo Dickinson, and you’ll do anything for me. And all I’m asking for is to dance.”
I sigh.
“Come on,” she whines. “These people don’t know us. Who cares if we embarrass ourselves? We’ll be gone tomorrow.”
She’s smiling at me. Grinning, really. And I remind myself again that this might be our last shot at a good time. And I want Agnes to remember me at my best. As the kind of friend who gave her her first beer, who shared secrets in her dark bedroom, who danced with her at a street fair in a town we didn’t even know the name of.
“Fine,” I say, standing up from the picnic table we’ve been sitting at for the past hour. I tether Utah’s leash to the table leg and take Agnes by the arm as she folds up her cane and drops it on the bench.
“Guard it, Utah,” she tells the dog, who’s too busy looking for scraps on the ground to even look up.
I guide her out toward the stage, into the crowd. The minute I let go of her arm, she grabs my hand and spins me around like a ballerina in a music box. And I can’t help laughing.
“Told you dancing was fun.” She only sounds a little smug.
I try to spin her back, but I can’t get my arm over her head, so Agnes has to duck as she turns, which sets us both into fits.
We dance like this for a while, neither of us leading or following. Sometimes we just keep turning each other. Sometimes we try and do moves we learned in elementary school, when they made us square dance. We hook elbows and trot in a circle, our feet in rhythm with the banjo that’s playing onstage.
And for a second it’s so perfect that I forget where we are and what’s happened over the last few days. I forget where we’re going and everything that I know’s about to come.
It’s just me and Agnes and her laugh and this song and nothing else.
At least until the song stops.
Then I remember again.
“You okay?” Agnes asks, a little breathless.
“Yeah … just … told you I don’t dance.”
“All right, all right. Let’s go sit down. I’m sure Utah’s wondering what the heck we’re doing anyway.”
A smile. “Poor dog thinks we’ve gone crazy.”
“Oh, I’m thinking that bridge was burned a while ago, Bo.”
“That dog had to live with my mama. I doubt much fazes her at this point.” We get to the table, and I hand Agnes her folded cane. “Wanna walk around some? I’m thinking we oughta spare a buck for some lemonade.”
“Sure.”
I’m bent down, untying Utah from the table, when I hear him. Or maybe I smell him first. It’s the smell of beer and sweat. And it’s right behind us.
“You looked sexy out there.”
I stand up and turn to see a skinny, shirtless guy. He’s wearing cutoff shorts and holding an open beer bottle in his hand. I ain’t sure how old he is, but he’s too old to be looking at Agnes with that gross glint in his eye, that’s for damn sure.
Agnes just ignores him. She might not even know he’s talking to her. She unfolds her cane and looks at me.
“Hey. You hear me?” he asks, slurring his words together. “I liked watching you dance. Why don’t you come over here so I can get a better look at that ass?”
Now Agnes knows he’s talking to her. She looks at him, and right when I’m about to go for his throat, she says, “Fuck off.”
I grin at her. It’s the first time I’ve really heard her stand up for herself. Not that I’m surprised. I’ve always known that she’s tough, even if she don’t see it. I offer her my arm and she loops hers through it. We ain’t even taken two steps, though, when the prick yells after us.
“Have it your way, fat bitch.”
I spin around so fast that Agnes, holding on to my arm, stumbles.
“What the hell did you just call her?” I demand.
“I said she’s a fucking fat bitch.”
I don’t know I’m gonna hit him until we’re already toppling to the pavement and my fist has slammed into his nose. But I guess that’s how almost all my fights are. One minute I’m standing still and the next I’m throwing punches. But no matter how they start, I always win.