Before we got to the bottom step, Lacey appeared on the walkway. The hat was gone and her hair blew back from her face as she stomped toward Mother.
“I’m NEVER doing that again!” Lacey screamed. At our mother. At the bottom of the bleachers. In front of everyone.
A couple of the Best Piece in Town girls snickered, and it ticked me off. “What?” I flared up. “And you think your momma’s proud?”
Dad squeezed my neck and turned me around. I scooted tightly against him, trying to block Lacey from the view of the crowd.
“NEVER!” Lacey’s mascara dripped down her cheeks. “I’m never singing again.”
One of the Best Piece in Town girls clapped.
Mother looked mad all over. Her French-manicured toes, peeking out from under the yellow strap, curled as if she were hanging on to the floor beneath her. “Lacey Diane Tillery,” Mother hissed in a low voice, through her teeth. “Things go wrong in a performance. That’s the music business. You want me to get you a straw so you can suck it up?”
Dad put his arm around Lacey and pulled her to his chest. “That’s enough,” he said. Dad held her to him and all but carried her out of the arena.
Mother clopped behind them in her fancy shoes and painted-on jeans.
I stood frozen at the bottom of the bleachers. My heart broke for Lacey. Not because she messed up, but because she had to be embarrassed and mad for not being true to herself.
When Mother handed her a microphone, Lacey should’ve grabbed a curling iron and stood her ground. If Lacey’s disaster of a performance did anything good, it sure made me even more convinced that I had to drum. I was born to do it. Come hell or high water I was drumming at Texapalooza. I’d find out if I could hang with the best; then I’d set my course to be the best. Whatever and wherever it took me.
I held on to the railing a minute longer. The youth amateur bull riding was about to begin, and some boy in a black cowboy hat was easing onto a snorting, nasty white bull in the chute.
I watched it bang against the sides of the small chute, just itching for that gate to open. I knew the feeling of wanting to bust out. Let it fly with nothing to lose.
The announcer called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got some local boys ready to ride.”
I watched the bull chute. Bull riding was flat-out dangerous, and I’d known classmates who had more testosterone than sense to get their arms broken or teeth knocked out trying to beat eight seconds. But at the moment, I was pulling for the bull.
“Folks, you’re in for a real treat,” the announcer said. “Strapping on to White Lightning is a grandson of Colombian cowboy country. New to the area, hailing from the Granados Ranch in Paradise, Texas. Give it up for Gabriela Cordova Granados.”
I ran down the walkway toward the chute end of the arena. No way, I thought. It can’t be him.
The chute flew open and the bull sailed out in midair, spinning its tail end, then stomping its hind legs into the red dirt. Paradise held the rope with one hand, his other in the air. The bull threw him forward and back.
I grabbed the railing, jerking with every slinging move White Lightning had, willing Paradise a safe ride. Then the bull went into a death spin—turning like a crank.
The eight-second buzzer sounded just as Paradise began to slide off, his left wrist caught in the rope. But the buzzer meant nothing to White Lightning. He continued to swing his back end, violently twisting, as Paradise dangled by one arm at the end of the rope. The bull reared and stomped and dragged Paradise halfway across the arena, banging him around like a chew toy.
By the time the rope fell and freed his arm, Paradise lay still as death, facedown in the arena in a dusty fog of red dirt.
I grabbed my stomach. My jaws tingled and I thought I might puke. If Paradise hurt himself, he hurt the band.
A rodeo clown in patched-up overalls and a polka-dot blouse distracted White Lightning, luring him out of the arena. Two wranglers knelt down by Paradise.
The crowd, so loud and impressed with his ride, stood in prayerful silence. A few cowboys removed their hats.
Finally, Paradise rolled to his back. The wranglers helped him to his feet. Whistles and relieved clapping erupted as Paradise stood.
The idiot actually got up smiling, that little dimple teasingly creased. With his one good arm, he picked up his hat and waved it in big circles to the crowd.
I wanted to take the hat and smack him with it. The nut. He could’ve killed himself or broken an arm. Furthermore, if he did mess up his arm he probably messed up my chance at Texapalooza right along with it.
I made a beeline for the parking area behind the arena, forgetting about Lacey and my ride to the Tucker Barn. All I could think about was giving Paradise a piece of my mind.
6
THE PIECE-OF-MY-MIND GIRL
Behind the rodeo arena, rows of cars and trucks—some pulling horse trailers—turned the usually wildflower-covered field into a parking lot. I spotted Paradise’s baby blue Bronco, the red-tipped petals of an Indian paintbrush barely escaping his front tire.
Paradise faced his Bronco. His one good hand pressed onto the hood. His legs were spread as one of the Best Piece in Town girls slapped the dust off the backside of his jeans.
She was the only thing keeping me from planting my boot square on his butt.
“Nice ride, Paradise.” I stared at the rusty red rope burn on his right wrist, fighting the urge to kick him. “Unless you’re in a band. Then it would be stupid ride, right?”
The girl looked back at me. Her black hair swirled in the wind like one of those shampoo models on TV. She was older, probably a student at the community college and probably thinking I was his little sister or something. She took one look at my minidress and boots and backed away from him as if to remove herself from a family squabble.
Paradise turned around. His hat was on. His shirt was off. His pants hung on his hips just below his chiseled waist. He leaned against the Bronco’s grill stretching both arms across the hood.
“It’s all good, Paisley.” He made a fist and flexed his right wrist. “And it was a nice ride.” He lay back on the hood, and hollered some ridiculous man howl. “OU-OOOOO!”
The Best Piece in Town girl twisted her long, silky hair into a rope and clutched it against her chest with both hands. “We’ll talk later, Gabriela.” She rolled her eyes at him then smiled as she passed me on her way back toward the rodeo arena.
Paradise seemed as unconcerned with her leaving as he was with the bull riding. His lackadaisical attitude toward life was just not going to fly with me.
“You need to understand a couple of things.” I wanted to point at him, but the wind had really kicked up. I had to hold my dress down to keep it from flying above my head. “I risk a lot of family drama to be in the Waylon Slider Band. Playing at Texapalooza is it for me.”
“That’s a shame.” Paradise rose up off the hood and hung the heel of his boot on the Bronco’s bumper. “Can’t you dream bigger than that?”
“This isn’t about what I can do. It’s about what you can do.” I moved to the side of his Bronco. At least the bottom half of me would be out of the wind, and I wouldn’t have to look at him anymore—the flirty little way his hair curled at the base of his neck, his washboard abs. I stood still for a moment, clearing my mind with the woooooosh of the wind rushing through the tops of the pines edging the pasture. “You’ve agreed to be part of the band, so don’t take any more stupid chances. Don’t screw this up for the rest of us.”
“Speaking of screwing up”—Paradise opened the passenger door and pulled out a neatly folded black T-shirt—“shouldn’t you be at the Tucker Barn?” He pushed one arm through a sleeve and squeezed into the T-shirt, tight as bark on a tree.
“Are you just going to dress in front of me?”
“You don’t have to watch.” He tucked the front part of the shirt behind his belt buckle.
I spotted his murse in the backseat. A clean shirt and the accordio
n, Paradise was definitely headed to the Tucker Barn.
“Just you don’t be late,” I told him.
I gripped the bottom of my dress around my thighs and followed the tire tracks through the pasture parking lot, around the arena, almost to the entrance gate at the highway. I had ridden to the rodeo with Dad, but his truck was nowhere in sight. I scanned the lines of parked vehicles. Lacey’s yellow Volkswagen Bug was gone too. And she definitely would not be inside with all those eyewitnesses to her meltdown.
Near the arched metal gate by the entrance, I climbed into the bed, then onto the cab of a jacked-up Dually. I had wasted too much time on Paradise. Now it was getting dark. The lights had come on around the arena. The wind and humidity in the spring air signaled a coming rain.
I sat down on top of the cab, trying to figure out what to do. Mother and Dad surely thought I was with Lacey. If I called home, they’d come and get me. But I’d miss the gig at the Tucker Barn. I tried texting Lacey on my cell. “Where r u?” No response. I texted Lacey three more times. No response. Unless I could find a ride, the Waylon Slider Band would be minus its drummer. Waylon would replace me. No doubt about it.
The headlights from a truck coming up the trail blinded me. I shielded my eyes with my forearm and waited for the truck and its thumping music to pass by. But the truck stopped. When I looked down, I saw the top of Paradise’s baby blue Bronco.
I hopped off the cab and jumped off the side of the Dually. I jerked open the door to the Bronco and slid in.
“Don’t say anything,” I yelled over his music as I slammed the door. “I need a ride.”
With the last of the sunshine gone and the spring storm clouds pressing in, Paradise drove onto the highway with me riding shotgun. He shifted into high gear then rested his arm on the back of the bench seat. His fingertips brushed my shoulder.
I straightened my dress, trying to cover my knees. There was something about Paradise that kept me in a constant state of agitation. It didn’t help that he smelled sweet like boot leather and earthy musk, that everything about him—his perfect teeth, the jewel-toned emerald of his eyes, the little gold earrings—shimmered in the dark. It certainly didn’t help that if I turned my head my cheek would press against his hand. As if my going to the Tucker Barn wasn’t risky enough, I now had to contend with Paradise by the dashboard lights.
There were only two ways to get to the Tucker Barn. The back way, an old bootlegger road that crossed the Jessup County line, no one ever used. I turned his stereo down. “You know how to get there?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Paradise moved his hand and turned the stereo back up.
Spanish music bounced from his speakers. But not like the music at Don Caliente’s Taco Bar and Cantina. This was different.
I held my hand against one of the mounted speakers. A man’s voice rapped Spanish lyrics. It was like pop or rock or both. Then I picked up, as identifiable as a steel guitar on a country song, the sound of an accordion driving the melody. And one other thing: a dull thumping I could feel through the speaker.
“Carlos Vives.” Paradise smiled as he turned down the volume. “Hard not to like, right?”
“It’s danceable. Kind of familiar.” I kept my hand on the speaker and looked away from him, to the lightning flashes in the distance. “Like country rock.”
“It is country rock. Colombian pop music with vallenato.”
The headlights shined ahead spotlighting a huge oak tree to the right of the highway. A large sign with a red arrow came into view: TUCKER FAMILY VINEYARDS. Paradise shifted the Bronco into low, following the arrow and veering off the highway onto an old blacktop road.
Paradise slowed down and eased the Bronco over the rough, potholed road. I let go of the speaker. We were getting close to the Tucker Barn, deep in the woods where there are no streetlights, only the occasional glimpse of moonlight peeking through the treetops and the strobe-light flashes of lightning.
“What the heck is va-ye-whatever?”
“Vallenato. From Columbian cowboys. Think American country music. Story songs about love and loss and passion.” He came to a stop at an old railroad crossing and looked down at my hands, my purity ring, and my fingers tapping away on my knees. “You do that a lot.”
I stopped instantly, stupid nervous drumming, and moved to fidgeting with my hair. I tucked what I could behind my ears, pulling out a few little wispy pieces. I stared through the window at a distant radio tower with its red blinking lights.
“The barn’s just ahead.”
Paradise crossed the tracks. His vallenato played on.
I pressed my hand against the speaker again. I had to ask about the percussion. I couldn’t stop myself. A drum of some kind I’d never heard before.
“What’s that scraping sound? That beat?” I nodded my head as the speaker pulsed against my palm.
“The beat is a caja, a little drum.” Paradise spread his fingers out above the steering wheel as if the drumhead were the same size as his hand. “The scraping sound is from a notched stick called a guacharaca.” He whispered the Spanish word as if he just wanted to breathe it.
“A what?”
“A gua-cha-ra-ca.” He wrestled with the steering wheel as he drove down the bumpy road. “Say it, gua—”
I tried my best, pursing my lips and blowing air to get the right sound. “Wa—wa…”
Paradise laughed and sped up. “Paisley, you look like a guppy fish.”
I wanted to crawl onto the floorboard. Slink right out of the seat, out of his sight. Guppy fish. I let him reel me in when I should’ve been thinking about our gig. I should’ve been thinking about the drum setup. Would there be floor toms and hi-hat cymbals? I should’ve been thinking about that, or how in the heck I was going to get home. I shouldn’t have been so caught up in Paradise or his music.
In a huff, I folded my arms at my waist. No more distractions.
We topped the hill about a mile away from the Tucker Barn. An orange glow, probably from a bonfire, hovered between the rolling hills. A twinge of nerves gripped me. I’d only been to the barn during the Tucker Winery’s Annual Grape Stomp. I’d never come close to sneaking out to one of Levi’s parties, and now I’d be there. Center stage. Bonfire, booze, and the band. I took a deep breath.
“You’re good at drums, Paisley.” Paradise seemed to get that he’d ticked me off. He put both hands on the wheel and served up some flattery. “My grandfather says that a good drummer is the heartbeat of vallenato.” Paradise kept talking as if the way to this girl was through a percussion discussion. “The beat of the caja is the passion in the love story. The scraping of the guacharaca is the loss, the heartbreak. My grandfather says you can’t play them until you’ve lived them.”
“So,” I started talking to him again. “Are you Colombian or something?”
“My mother is, and my grandfather.” Paradise nodded at the murse that held his accordion in the backseat. “My grandfather is a vallenato king. A Colombian accordion king.”
“Let me guess, that makes you the accordion prince?”
Paradise put one hand across his heart. “No, I’m more the accordion Prince Charming.”
I could feel him catching glances at me as he drove, waiting for my reaction to his joke. But I didn’t budge or say a word. Waiting and wondering would probably do the smart-ass some good.
Paradise tried sweetening my mood with drum talk again. “You play drums for your school band?”
“Yep.” Tree branches clasped above the road making a cave-like tunnel through the wooded bottom. Paradise switched his lights to bright. I wondered about his school. “What about you? Can you play the accordion at school?”
Paradise turned his music down. “I used to. Anytime, any day.”
“They kick you out for that?”
“They would be my grandfather and a tutor.” Paradise sat up straighter when he mentioned his grandfather. “My parents traveled a lot. My dad didn’t want me left in Colombia. My mother didn’t want
me left in Texas.”
I shifted in my seat. “So you’re homeschooled?” The thought of it terrified me. School was my solo venture out of the house and out of the Dripping Springs community.
“More like travel-schooled,” Paradise started to explain but a loud rumble surrounded us.
I glanced at the side mirror. A car raced behind us, tailgating with the lights on bright. Paradise swerved to the side of the one-lane road, sending us into the brush and tall weeds that crowded the blacktop. A jeep full of kids zoomed past as Paradise stomped the brakes.
The sudden swerve slammed me into the side door. Before I could blink, Paradise reached across the seat.
“You all right, Paisley?” He gently squeezed the top of my leg, his fingertips pressing against the inside of my thigh.
“Yeah.” I moved his hand off my leg and felt a sudden prickling of goose bumps. “I hope we … I just hope we get out of the Tucker Barn alive.”
Paradise eased back onto the road.
Maybe it was the moment, the talk of homeschooling, or my hand on his and the purity ring reflecting the moonlight, but I thought about my mother—at home, filling my and Lacey’s Easter baskets with little-girl trinkets. Lacey would have hair ribbons; I’d have barrettes. We’d both have some new lip gloss and summer pajamas. She’d give Lacey a collection of samples from the gift-with-purchase promos run by the makeup counters at the mall. And even though it pained her, she’d place in my basket new drumsticks for me to use at school. She couldn’t possibly imagine that I was out roaming backcountry roads with a boy, an older boy at that, on my way to drum for the Waylon Slider Band’s first gig.
“You sure you’re all right?”
I nodded.
We sped through an S curve, coming out of the woods into wide-open river bottom. Cars and trucks parked along the road and in the pasture. On a rise about two hundred yards inside a barbed-wire fence, the Tucker Barn—with its roof painted like the Texas flag and outlined in Christmas-tree lights—twinkled like Barbie’s Redneck Playhouse.
Paradise Page 4
