My throat tightened. The air thinned. I wished the hangar had fans. “I’ve got it.” I pushed his hand away. “I’ve got it.” I squeezed the drum, holding it tight between my legs.
“You do play it bare-handed,” he said as he stood up. “Rub and stroke like the conga. But meringue, more Latin than Caribbean. You have to find the passion, feel it.”
I started softly enough. Keeping it simple in two-four time, drawing the sound out instead of beating it in. There was a physical connection. Immediate. I could feel the beat all over.
Paradise opened his murse. “Not fancy, but good.” He smiled as he opened his accordion.
“I’m not supposed to fancy it up,” I told him. “I set the pace. I’m just the timekeeper.”
“That’s like saying a heart just pumps blood.” Paradise opened his accordion. “You’re the life of the band, Paisley.” He glanced at the hangar door. The muffled rumble of Waylon’s old truck drifted in.
“You’re the heartbeat.”
17
LACEY GOES UP IN SMOKE
The blue-and-white paisley-patterned pillow on which Mother had monogrammed a large needlepoint P made the best imitation drum. I might have to hide the caja in the hangar with the rest of the drums, but Mother wouldn’t suspect a thing with pillow practicing. Sitting on the edge of my bed with the pillow between my knees, I was hard at work perfecting my slap stroke when Lacey flung the door wide.
She shut it behind her, falling against it as if someone had chased her down the hall. “That was close.” She huffed and coughed.
Whatever Lacey was up to, I wanted no part of this close to Texapalooza. “You can’t hide in here. I’m practicing.”
Lacey’s eyes darted around my bedroom. She fished her hand into her shirt and pulled a small box from her cleavage. Before I could stand, Lacey dived to the floor and slipped a pack of cigarettes under my bed. With the cigarettes safely hidden, she crawled to her hands and knees, panting and griping. “Mother never goes to the barn. She would have to pick this afternoon of all days to start planting her herb garden down there.”
I reached under the bed, grabbed the pack, and hit Lacey in the chest with it. “You get those out of my room.” Lacey and I hadn’t had a hair-pulling throw down in years, but I was up for one. If Mother found me with cigarettes, she’d lose her mind. “Get ’em out of here, Lacey.” Then it struck me. Lacey was smoking. “Wait a minute. When did you start smoking?”
Lacey fumigated herself with one of my spray bottles of perfume. “I don’t smoke,” she argued. “I mean, I’m not a regular. I’m situationally smoking. Only until my situation next week is over. See?” She held the cigarettes out. “No filters. I’m starting to sound like, um, who’s that chick with the hair that L. V. has a poster of?”
“Stevie Nicks?”
“Yeah, whoever.” Lacey fanned her hands around so that we both smelled like lavender eau de toilette. “I’ve been on the east side of the barn smoking like a hooker for three straight days.” She coughed some more. “No way will they let me in the Singing Eagles with this jacked-up voice.”
“Did Mother see you come in here?”
“Gosh no.” Lacey collapsed onto the bed, her chest heaving with every labored breath. “I heard Di-ane—rolling a wheelbarrow full of garden crap down to the barn—I stomped out my cigarette real good—hauled ass around to the west side—ran like a roadrunner to the house.”
I plopped next to her. “Lacey, you’ve lost it.” The cigarettes lay on her chest. “You’re hurting yourself.”
“Reality check, Paisley. You can’t talk. It’s not like you aren’t running your own game.” Lacey twirled a long strand of hair around her finger. “And you’re starting to sound like Levi.”
Levi and his shotgun-blast lie theory had some merit. All the convenient truths in the world weren’t worth Lacey compromising her health.
“I’m buying myself some time,” she said. “You saw how Mother flipped smooth out when Dad told her Levi and I were talking. Which we are and which we will continue to do whether she likes it or not, knows about it or not.” Lacey’s voice had a sharp edge to it that didn’t come from the cigarettes. “Paisley…” Her cheeks had cooled, but they fired back up into a throbbing scarlet. “Levi and I’ve been close since grade school, but something’s changed this spring. Levi’s taken things slow because he didn’t want to make trouble with Mother. That’s all out in the open now, but if she runs him off, I swear I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Listening to Lacey, something clicked for me. Like the chambering of a gun shell. Ka-thwump. Locked and loaded. Getting around Mother was easy and harmless enough at first, but the lies and the secrecy were fast becoming a tangled mess. “As soon as Texapalooza is over with,” I told her, “I’m laying it all out there. Everything.”
“Everything, Paisley?” She grabbed my hand, touching my purity ring as if she’d once lost something special just like it. She turned my hand over, tracing my palm like a psychic. “Levi says the band thinks something’s going on with you and that accordion-playing stud.”
“Nothing yet.”
Lacey laughed. “I know, I know. You’re all about the band. But Levi says the dude is sprung where you’re concerned. It’s written all over his face.”
My heart skipped like a single stroke roll across the toms. I could see his face—the sly-fox grin and the green eyes.
“So other than bearing gifts.” Lacey grinned. Levi must’ve told her about the caja. “Has he tried anything?”
“Oh, gosh, Lacey, no.” My neck heated up. “We just talk about music. The band.”
Lacey tucked her cigarettes back down her shirt. “One thing leads to another,” she warned. “It always does.”
CAL’S LYRIC JOURNAL
THE RIDER
Cruising the deep storm drain under dim street lights
A concrete buzz rolling under my wheels
Up the steep sides, gaining speed, taking flight
Bank a 180, land an acid drop.
Can’t stop.
I don’t shut my eyes
I train my sights
As I ride I know what’s coming up ahead of me.
The world can try to steal, you may never feel
But that won’t change the life I’m carving out for me.
I dig hard on the heel edge, lean in, cut and turn
A grinding screech of the deck against the concrete
Got no pearl snap shirt, no cash to be a confident flirt
My love’s not sketchy, kick-flip
Heart rip.
I never shut my eyes
I keep my sights
As I ride I know what’s coming up ahead of me.
The world can try to steal, you may never feel
But I see the life I’m carving out for me.
Lean
Cut
Turn
18
PASSION AND PERFORMANCE
Drumming in L. V.’s hilltop hangar alone—the door shut, the sparrows silent. Feeling the isolation of being so far away from towns, honking horns, and blinking red lights and the stop-and-go stop-and-go push-push-push-let-me-through racket—I split open a vein. Pumping out a beat, a pulse. Absorbing the rebound. The return. Six-stroke roll. Flam. Paraparadiddle. With the speed of a hummingbird’s wings.
I couldn’t remember when I first played: maybe rapping a spoon against a stainless steel pan in the kitchen or maybe riding through the pasture, standing in the bed of the pickup slapping out a tin-can tinging tune on the truck’s roof. Rhythm was as much a part of who I was as red dirt and pine trees. I could ignore my passion, turn my back. But deep down the rhythm would continue to pulse with every beat of my heart. A pine tree can’t lose the sharp smell of evergreen.
I rested my sticks, picked up the caja. The pillow practice had worked. My hand strokes drew out an earthy Latin groove that danced around the hangar. I loved the rough feel of the animal skin under my fingers and palms. The stroke a
nd the rub. The caja’s wooden sides vibrated against my legs. The rhythm rolled through my body, a soul-settling vibration. My shoulders bounced. My head nodded. Paradise was right. The caja embodies passion.
“Practicing for your solo?” Waylon—flanked by Paradise, Cal, and Levi—stood in the doorway. I never even noticed the light breaking into the hangar when they pushed open the door.
Paradise grinned and started to strap on his accordion. “Solo?” He screwed his face into a fake puzzled look. “She’s just a timekeeper.”
I knew he was kidding, but the others didn’t. They paused as if they expected a Mack truck to barrel through the hangar.
“Very funny.” I blew him off. “Just be sure you can keep up.”
Ever since Paradise showed up, Cal had taken to drinking protein shakes. He gulped down what looked to be a couple pints then switched on the amps. Waylon, clutching his ’61 Strat, loosened his fingers on a B. B. King barn burner.
Levi stood in front of my drum kit, thumping my crash cymbal. “We cool?” he asked.
“Nothing’s changed.” I was at least going to be honest with him. Make it clear that I wasn’t taking any risks of ruining my chance at Texapalooza. “I’m not saying a word to my folks until after we get back from Austin.”
He gave me a fist bump. “I’ve asked Lacey out after Texapalooza.” Levi rolled the bill of his baseball cap between his palms. “Told her I’d take her to celebrate not making the Singing Eagles.”
“She wouldn’t have made it anyway,” Waylon blurted. He handed each of us a one-page laminated playlist of our fifteen-minute set.
“Waylon”—Levi pressed his baseball cap on his head—“don’t give me a reason to bust that Strat over your head.”
Waylon defended himself. “I don’t mean because of Lacey’s singing.” He shifted his beady brown eyes toward me. “It’s their mom. The choir director for the Singing Eagles told my dad she was high maintenance. That she had all kinds of suggestions about outfits and costumes and even stage props. They’re a traditional choir,” he clarified and hopped up on his musical high horse. “Not a glee club.”
I could’ve stuck my head between the hi-hat cymbals and pounded away. Mother’s reputation didn’t embarrass me. It frustrated me. Good grief. The woman had no restraint when it came to manipulating in order to make her dreams for Lacey come true.
I pretended to read Waylon’s laminated playlist. Paradise and Cal stared at me. I could feel it. Didn’t. Even. Look. Up. I just wanted the conversation about my mother to end.
Waylon trekked on as if we needed for him to lay out the full story. “My dad said the choir director quit returning her phone calls because she…”
Levi held his hand up—cutting Waylon off in mid-sentence.
Cal carved out the intro to “Sweet Home Alabama.” Paradise faced me and clapped in time with Cal. I grabbed my sticks and set the pace. Before long, I was lost in the groove. Rolling through Waylon’s playlist, our official Texapalooza set. Filing Mother and the aggravation that came with her away in the back of my mind. Turning the volume down on the nagging irritation that she’d never stick her neck out for me and my dreams.
We were firing on all cylinders. Levi was back to looking at me when we locked in his bass. Cal colored the songs with his Gibson. Waylon led the charge with his wicked, powerful playing. Paradise drawled the lyrics when he was supposed to, pumped his accordion when he got the chance. The right chance.
We kept it up, rehearsing every afternoon while L. V. was gone to the air show. I couldn’t wait for him to get back. Play the set for him. We were close to audience ready and in a zone.
When I showed up Thursday afternoon, the band was all there, and Paradise was sitting on my stool, my throne. The chatter of guys laughing and talking shut down with a viselike silence the minute I walked in. Paradise patted his knee as if I should sit on it.
I didn’t budge. They were all up to something.
Paradise attempted a drumroll. “I’ve got us a gig,” he said, smiling, all proud of himself. “Saturday night. Don Caliente’s Taco Bar and Cantina in Jessup County.”
I’d been to the cantina a few times to eat, even made a round or two on the dance floor with Dad. But always in the early evening. They had a large back room with a wooden dance floor, and on weekends the cantina turned into a bona fide Texas dance hall and honky-tonk. Twenty-one and over.
I wondered how Paradise worked us into the gig. “We don’t meet the minimum age requirement.”
“All under control, Paisley.” He handed me my sticks. “We’re going to play early, before the bar opens in the dance hall. The equipment is all set up. You can use their drum kit.”
Waylon explained, “We’re fronting for the house band.”
I studied Waylon and Levi and Cal. They were committed. The Waylon Slider Band was playing. The road to Texapalooza was going through Don Caliente’s Cantina.
“No law breaking, Paisley. It’s all good,” Paradise urged. “If you can swing it.”
Our success at Texapalooza depended solely on our ability to perform. The only way we had to get that right was to practice on a crowd. The cantina was deep in Jessup County. The chances of someone identifying me were slim. And I was willing to take the slim chance.
“Let’s do it,” I said with no real thought of how to get there. “Let’s play the cantina.”
19
GAMES PEOPLE PLAY
A vase the size of a championship trophy overflowed with at least two dozen long-stemmed pink and yellow roses. Ribbons in every color of the rainbow and glitter-glued with GOOD LUCK, LACEY and DON’T STOP BELIEVING billowed from an enormous bow. Dad, Mother, and Lacey silently ate their dinner, barely looking up as I slid into my seat. The clinking of forks against china reminded me of the time I played the triangle in first grade.
“I’m sure your sister would’ve appreciated your being here earlier,” Mother cracked. She had black mascara clouds under her eyes. “As much time as you’ve wasted up there the last two weeks, L. V.’s hangar ought to be cleaner than a Methodist’s knees.”
I tried to come up with something to say to Lacey. Clearly she didn’t make the Singing Eagles cut, and privately she’d be jumping for joy. Still, she’d cap all that in front of Mother. “I know there’s a lot of good things in the future for you, Lacey.”
Dad stared at me as he bit into a buttery roll. As certain as I was that he knew about the band, I thought Lacey’s long-gone desire to sing had yet to register with him. However, given his slow grinding chewing, I got the vibe that he was quickly figuring it out.
“Y’all know what?” Lacey reached for Mother’s homemade macaroni and cheese and plopped a softball-size scoop on her plate. She took a deep breath and blew out what sounded like good riddance. “Paisley is right. Lots of good things in the future.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, dabbed her dry eyes with the back of her hand, then picked up her fork. “I’m just going to try my very best to put all this disappointment behind me and trust the Lord to lead me in the direction he would have me to follow.” With that, Lacey shoved a forkful of mac and cheese in her mouth—smiling while she chewed, her cheeks bulging.
Dad leaned back in his chair, raising the front legs off the floor. I actually thought he might applaud her performance. “The Lord?” He rocked his chair back and forth. “The Lord.” He nodded.
Mother sniffled. “God does have bigger and better plans for you, Lacey. He does. He really does. He’s given you a gift, Lacey. And the Lord will work it out.”
In my opinion, the Lord was going to work out that gift in a beauty parlor.
“I know.” Lacey batted her eyelashes at Mother. “I’m just going to take a few days off. Relax. Then really start thinking about next steps, you know?”
Mother nodded. Dad and I watched with fascination. Next steps for Lacey probably meant a tattoo.
“What are we doing Saturday?” Lacey asked and it cut me in two. I was counting on her to help m
e get to the cantina.
“No plans.” Mother settled back into her chair. “I really”—Mother choked back a tear. Next steps were hard on her—“I really need to work on this herb garden I’m planting down by the barn. Jack?”
Dad stared a hole through Lacey. “Pitching lessons in the morning is all. Then I’ll help you.” He was talking to Mother but never took his eyes off Lacey.
“Well, since we don’t have family plans, I think I could use a girls’ night out. Hang out with friends, eat, take in a movie.”
“A movie?” Dad all but laughed out loud. He’d figured her out. Nothing else would get by him.
Mother agreed, “A girls’ night out would be good for you. I know this has been hard. Believe me I do. I really do. And plus you’ve had the stress of that Tucker boy panting around you like a thirsty dog.”
Lacey gripped her tumbler, and I thought she would pitch her iced tea on Mother. Instead, she coolly set the glass on the place mat. “Paisley, do you have plans? Why don’t you come?”
She knew I never had plans. But that was it. Levi must’ve told her. Lacey was my ride to the cantina and my reason for being gone Saturday night.
“Sure.” I tried not to act too giddy. “I’m game.”
Dad set his chair down. The legs slammed against the floor. He was hanging on until Texapalooza, but I wasn’t sure how much more he would overlook before calling my hand.
20
DANCE-HALL DRAMA
The dance hall at Don Caliente’s Taco Bar and Cantina had a polished-wood floor primed with a fresh sprinkling of cornmeal. Slicker than an icy sidewalk. The jukebox rocked old-school Tanya Tucker singing something about her arms staying open all night. Paradise two-stepped around the dance floor, boot scooting and sliding, clutching the waist of a push-up-bra-wearing Best Piece in Town girl. The same girl from the rodeo. Her rich black hair flowed like a thoroughbred’s mane with every spin, every twirl, every swing back into his arms. I couldn’t believe it. Paradise brought a date to our gig. He brought a date.
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