Paradise stepped up. “I got carried away, man.” He slapped Levi on the back. “Must’ve been your home brew.”
Levi ignored Paradise and locked eyes with Waylon.
“It won’t happen again,” Paradise added.
I liked to be able to count on things: the sun coming up, even Mother’s dependable disapproval of my heathen drum dreams. I’m a planner and I count on the constants in my life. Levi’s good-humored swagger had been a certainty for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t like him to snap, cuss, and dip in a single hot-tempered moment.
Cal Boone, God love him, started plucking a plinky-sounding kid’s tune. I swear it was the Barney song. I love you. You love me.
Levi rolled his eyes, but his jolly heart wanted to laugh. I could see it.
I took that opening to scoot across the concrete. Get behind my drums. Change the momentum.
Waylon futzed around like a kid pacing on a high board, getting ready to dive for the first time. Finally, he pulled his guitar over his shoulder and turned to me. “Count us in on four.”
Four was Waylon’s blues-rock count. I let the sticks speak the rhythm. One. Two. One, two, three, four. Waylon was testing Paradise with one of Waylon’s own signature songs.
Paradise left his accordion in his murse. If Waylon was going to test him, Paradise was committed to passing. He managed to put his pride to the side for the sake of the band. That scored points with me.
Paradise waited for Waylon to open the song, let him carve the intro with an unmistakable wailing that only his skill and his ’61 Fender Stratocaster could pull off.
I kept the beat steady, held the song together, barely hitting the snare on the backbeat. Slow and simple. That was the blues. That and locking in with the bass player.
But Levi still wouldn’t look at me.
Not that it mattered so much musically. We’d played together, played Waylon’s songs so much that we knew to simply anchor the groove. I suppose we didn’t have to look at each other. But that didn’t change the fact that we always did. That’s when I knew whatever Levi’s problem was, it had something to do with me.
Paradise must’ve practiced at home because when Waylon turned the song over to him, Paradise growled out Waylon’s lyrics in his velvety bass. The more he sang, the more his voice melted with the whining guitars, the more the deep drum tones seemed to sink like an anchor in a dark sea, the worse I felt about Levi.
We played it out, song after song, according to Waylon’s playlist, like we should’ve done at the Tucker Barn. After about the fifth song, Paradise added his accordion. He drew out the bellows, which howled through the hangar like a lonesome train whistle. No rocking Carlos Vives. Paradise proved he could fall in with the Waylon Slider Band.
I rode the blues tempo—rode it from one song to the next and into the next, as smooth and slow as the sun setting over the pasture. Feeling my heart drop on every ghost note. I had to figure out exactly what Levi’s problem was.
Uncle L. V. stepped into the hangar just as we finished. “Y’all plannin’ on depressin’ everyone in Austin?” He pointed his beer at Cal’s guitar. “Or are you gonna let him use that Gibson on some Southern rock?”
Waylon smiled for the first time. L. V. had ridden him for months about going wide-open and not playing so much in his daddy’s style. “We worked the slow stuff today. We don’t have much time left.”
Levi packed up his bass. “We practicing again this week, Waylon?” He said it like he had a thousand things to do and needed to get rehearsal on the calendar. But Levi had never been a calendar kind of guy.
Waylon glanced at me, then appealed to L. V. “We’re behind the eight ball. We’ve got to pull together a fifteen-minute set that shows our style and still gives each of us a chance to show what we can do individually. We’re going to start…”
L. V. waved him off as Waylon launched into one of his overly detailed explanations. “Use the hangar anytime, son.” L. V. turned to me. “Make it work, Paisley. But your momma ain’t ever going to believe my house needs cleaning more than once a week.”
Levi slammed the lid on his guitar case. “Call me when you figure rehearsal out, Waylon.” He stomped toward the hangar door.
I tucked my sticks in my back pocket and ran out after him. I still had daylight left to burn. “Levi, stop.”
Levi dropped his guitar in his truck bed then opened the door.
“Levi, what is wrong with you?” I stared up at him. “Please tell me what I did.”
“I ain’t lying for you anymore, Paisley. That goes for Lacey too.”
“Lying? I don’t understand.” I glanced beyond his truck. Clover had gone to seed and the blush across the pasture matched the red in Levi’s cheeks. “I’ve never asked you to lie for me.”
Levi reached into the door pocket and pulled out a can of Skoal. “Not directly.” He pinched a fresh wad and tucked it behind his bottom lip. “Paisley, I have to face your daddy every day at the batting cages. Jack Tillery taught me to pitch. He caught balls for me when no one else had the guts to get behind the plate. He’s the reason for my scholarships.” Levi spit a dart at the ground. “I’m going to college because of him. No one in my family’s ever done anything more than a few hours at community college. If it weren’t for baseball, if it weren’t for your daddy, I don’t know what I’d be doin’.”
I heard Paradise’s accordion rip through the hangar. L. V. and Waylon and Cal were taking him to task. “I’ve never asked you to lie for me, Levi. Me or the band.”
“Your daddy knows. He ain’t stupid.” Levi spit again. “He knows about the band. He knows about the parties. God, Paisley. He asked me at the cages this afternoon if I was takin’ care of you and Lacey.” When Levi wiped his cheek with his big bear paw of a hand, I thought I’d crumble. “I should’ve stepped up sooner. I let Coach Till down. I let Lacey down. I can’t stand what she’s doin’ to herself.”
I knew he meant all of it. I also knew how he felt about Lacey. He’d always wanted to date her, but he had the absolute worst of résumés in my mother’s mind: a deeply rooted East Texas country boy and a baseball player. He was everything Mother stayed hell-bent on keeping us from.
Levi took a long study of his red-dirt-stained boots. “I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I know this: A lie ain’t no rifle bullet. It’s a shotgun shell. You and Lacey think you’re lying to your momma and gettin’ around her. Truth is, there’s a whole lot of other people gettin’ hit when you pull that trigger.”
“You know how my mother is.” I half resented Levi trying to make me out to be the bad girl in this situation. “There’d be no drums, no band, no nothing for me if she knew the truth.”
Levi stepped into his truck and sat behind the wheel. “That’s what you keep sayin’, and Lacey keeps sayin’ she wouldn’t get to go to beauty school. But neither one of you have given Diane Tillery a chance to be that big of a bitch.”
My mouth fell open. Levi was serious.
He kept on, “And neither one of you have bothered to trust your own daddy to help.”
Now I was ticked. “So what do you suggest I do? March down to my house and tell my mother about the band and that we’re rehearsing every day until Texapalooza, which by the way I’m also going to play at? How about that? Is that what you think?”
“Yep.”
“You should’ve stopped with your own admission that you’re not the sharpest mind around.”
“Maybe so, Paisley.” He turned his head and stared through the truck windshield. He whispered, “But at least I’m not a liar.”
“I can’t tell my mother the truth. Not yet. But I will soon. I plan on telling everyone, after Texapalooza.” Whether Levi was right or not didn’t matter. I had my reasons. He knew that. “Don’t judge me because…”
Levi held up his hand. He didn’t care about my reasons. “It’ll be a lot worse if she finds out before you get a chance to tell her.”
Levi cranked his tr
uck and slammed the door. The window was down. “I told Coach Till I was a grown-ass man, and I wasn’t hidin’ my feelings for Lacey anymore. I told him I wanted to ask Lacey out. He said I could and that he’d talk to Diane.” Levi put the truck in gear and started down the drive. “You should try the truth sometime.”
15
MOTHER CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH
It was taco night, and Mother had decorated the table in Fiestaware—a dizzying display of blue and yellow and red and green.
I wasn’t sure which was sweating more—my glass of tea or me. I had made up my mind to tell Mother about the band. I’d weighed it and decided that maybe Levi was right and I should give her a chance. And deep down, I felt my daddy would stand behind me.
“Paisley, you look sick.” Mother set a bowl of black beans beside me. “Have you been breathing in bleach? You know you’ve got to raise the windows for ventilation when you’re cleaning.”
Lacey chimed in, “Paisley, tell us if you’re huffing mildew remover. We’re here to help.” She faked a concerned sniffle, and her gypsy bracelets jingled when she put her hand over her heart. “Cowboy Church offers a Wednesday night class on addiction, you know. The first step in getting help is admitting you have a problem.”
I knew she was joking, but I considered catapulting a spoonful of beans at her. “You’re in an awfully good humor.” I decided to get her back. “How are those tryouts for the Singing Eagles coming along?”
Lacey took that on the chin. She even smiled this evil little grin, like she had everything under control.
Mother answered for her. “Tryouts begin next week. Lacey is locked in.” Mother opened the tortilla warmer and steam plumed in the air. “She has so much more, much more performance experience than some of those wannabes. I’m sure.”
Lacey rolled a tortilla full of meat and cheese. She cut her eyes at Dad. Mother wasn’t the only one who had something cooking for dinner.
Dad took a big swig of tea; he softly set the glass down, rubbing the side with his thumb. “I talked to that youngest Tucker boy today.”
I spun my fork between my fingers. This was it. Dad was about to spring the whole Levi and Lacey situation on Mother. Lacey knew it too.
Mother cackled. “Was he sober and standing upright?”
“Diane.” Dad leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head like he didn’t have a thing to hide. “Levi’s all right. He’s not planning on staying around and working the vineyard.”
Mother interrupted, “Growing a few grapes does not turn a generational bootleg operation into a winery.”
“He’s got scholarship offers coming in from all over—even the university.”
Dad let that soak in.
“Stop that annoying thumping, Paisley.” Mother stared at my fork. I had gone from spinning it to rocking it back and forth against my plate in a ping-pong, ping-pong rhythm.
“Well, goody goody for Mr. Levi Tucker,” Mother continued. “However, I’d bet the farm that he forgets all about college when that first major-league team offers him a nickel.”
Dad scooted his plate back and took another drink of tea. Mother’s remark stung him. She measured everyone, everything against her own experiences. And she’d convinced herself that being rural was an obstacle and that a promise of money trumped academic goals any day of the week.
“Times are different now than they were back when I was—when we were making choices, Diane. Levi’s made up his mind that he’s going to school. He wants an education.”
Mother rolled her eyes and scooped herself some black beans.
Dad added, “And he’s made up his mind that he wants to take Lacey on a date.”
Sonic. Boom.
Her spoon dropped into the beans and sank to the soupy black bottom. Mother’s eyes widened, and I thought her false eyelashes would stick to her eyebrows.
Dad finished, “He had the manners to come and ask me. I told him we’d approve.”
“You had no right to tell him that. Lacey doesn’t want to go out with the likes of him.” Mother pinned her eyes on her.
Lacey’s back bowed like a cornered cat.
“No, ma’am.” Mother shot to her feet. “No. No. No.” She marched to the stove and started clearing pots and clanging pans. “No. No, sir. No, ma’am. Not having it.” Mother pounded a wooden spoon against the side of a pot, then threw it in the sink. “I bet he would like to take her out, probably try and get her drunk, knock her up.” She threw a wet dishrag at Dad. “You’d approve of that too, wouldn’t you?”
Lacey jumped straight up from her chair. The place mat slipped, and Mother’s Mexican-themed place setting crashed to the floor in colorful ceramic chunks. So much for taco-night fiesta. The pictures lining the hall wall rattled when Lacey slammed her bedroom door.
I started to leave, follow Lacey. But I was still ripe to tell Mother about the band, get it over with. Maybe it was better if we all just rained down the truth on her at once.
Dad walked to the stove and hugged Mother from the back, around her waist. He took a skillet from her hands and kissed her cheek. He simply held her as if the strength in his arms had the power to bend her will.
Mother’s voice cracked. “This is not what we’ve worked for with the girls. I can’t turn Lacey loose with Levi Tucker. I won’t do it. She’s got to stay focused on her own dreams and plans. I won’t have her toss it to the side and lose it all because of some boy.”
That comment set my teeth on edge. I could’ve bit through a saddle strap. Mother threw the “some boy” remark out more than I cared to hear. No one in the house was confused that who she was really talking about was Dad. I wanted to tell her that it took both of them to make their choices, that she should back off Dad.
Dad squeezed her tighter. Her remark had to torture him, but he always managed to push past the pain. He’d lose a battle but win a war.
“You’re going to have to trust me on this one,” he whispered to her. Dad had an impressive amount of patience and conviction. Watching him love my mother—day in and day out—almost made me believe there was really something to the whole one-life-one-love thing. They hadn’t settled for each other just to do the right thing. He loved her.
“Why the Tucker bunch, Jack?” Mother whimpered. “For crying out loud, that boy’s mother holds the county distance record for watermelon seed spitting.”
“Lacey wants to go out with Levi, not his mother.” His lips brushed her cheek as he spoke. “She’s a senior. It’s time to cut her some slack.”
I think they forgot I was even there. I slipped out. Mother had all the truth she could handle. Dad had all the bitterness he could hold.
16
RUB AND STROKE
I made it through the woods and up to L. V.’s just in time to see him lift off, over the tops of the pines. In the bright afternoon sun, Miss Molly’s heavy aluminum sides flashed like mirrors in the clear blue sky. They were off. Watching Miss Molly defy gravity, get off the ground and soar, made me believe I could do anything. Nothing could hold me down.
“Looks like you’ve got the place to yourself.”
I almost jumped straight out of my boots.
Paradise laughed and took a step back. “Whoa. Easy.”
I pressed my hand against my heart. “Stop sneaking up on me.”
Paradise kept his hands behind his back. “Last time I checked, driving up and slamming a car door, calling out your name isn’t sneaking. Maybe you should blame that sky-rattling buzz coming from that tin can your uncle’s flying off in.”
I grinned and walked into the hangar. Paradise didn’t like to fly. I could hear it in his voice whenever he mentioned L. V. and the planes. “You’re early.”
“Maybe I planned it that way.”
He was hiding something. I zipped my hoodie. I wasn’t sure what he wanted.
Or maybe I was.
The hangar was silent except for the tweeting of the sparrows nesting along the roof.
&n
bsp; “I brought you a present.” Paradise pulled a small drum not much bigger than a large coffee can from behind his back.
I reached for it, taking it from him. “It’s a caja.” I rubbed my fingertips across the drumhead.
“That’s calf skin. It’s traditional. This is real rope too. Not nylon.” Paradise drew his finger along one of the ropes running down the side of the wooden drum. “My grandfather said if the little drummer girl is going to play vallenato, she needs the real deal.”
“This is mine?” I patted the center as if it were a baby’s bottom. Poom-poom-poom. I couldn’t believe it. I used L. V.’s drum kit. I used the school’s snare. I had never had a drum of my own. “I’m just borrowing this, right?”
“Paisley.” Paradise took a deep breath. “It’s a gift. Are you afraid you can’t play it?”
The crazy tweeting of the birds reached a crescendo.
Paradise smiled, raising his eyebrows. Waiting.
“Thank you.” I paused, listening for Waylon’s or Levi’s truck. Still early. I checked the open doorway to the hangar. Not a soul in sight.
I stepped toward Paradise—breathing in, breathing out, inching closer, holding the little drum between us. “Thank you.” I leaned toward him.
He tucked his arm around my waist, drawing me into his chest. The beating of his heart pulsed strong against my cheek. Paradise slipped one hand along the base of my neck, just inside my shirt collar. He kissed the top of my head. “I like that there’s no purity-ring promise against hugging.”
“I’m not afraid to hug you.” I kicked my stool out from under the tarp. “And I’m not afraid to play this drum.” I sat down on the stool. “It’s like a conga drum?” I held it under my arm.
Paradise laughed. His green eyes lit up like the high gloss emerald on a mallard’s head. “You’re tucking it like a football.” He took the drum and knelt down beside me. “Hold it between your knees.” He placed his hand on my knee and gently pushed my legs open, placing the drum between my thighs.
Paradise Page 9
