Paradise

by Jill S. Alexander

  Lacey shook her head. “That’s running away. Even I wouldn’t try that.”

  “I can if you cover for me. It’s just for a little more than twenty-four hours. If they start asking questions, just tell them the truth. Austin is six hours away. By the time they figure it out, we’ll have already performed.”

  “I have to cover for you my way.” Lacey took a deep breath. “Here’s the real juicy detail. I’ve already told Mother that you and I are going with a friend to her church’s youth retreat early Saturday. We won’t be back until late Sunday.” Lacey put her hands together like an innocent praying angel. She squealed, “I’m going to Austin with you.”

  I sat numb, processing every single word she said—especially the part where she said she was going to Austin. I threw her salon cape on the floor. “You’re not going with me. You’re going with Levi.” The mascara burned when my eyes began to tear. “This is the most important thing ever for me, and you’ve gone and screwed it up.” I wanted to slap her. I couldn’t believe she’d be that selfish.

  “I’ve done this for you, Paisley. Is Levi’s family going? Yes. Do I want to see him play? Yes. But I’m taking you there, not him. This way you’re not running away. You’re with me.” Lacey picked the cape off the floor. “Everyone else in that band will have family there. If I don’t go, you’ll have no one.”

  Lacey knew me better than I thought. I dabbed my eyes with a tissue. I was almost sure she was sincere.

  “You’ve gone and messed up my artwork.” She took the tissue away from me and patted more concealer under my eyes.

  I ran down a mental checklist of the details of her plan: Mother would expect us to leave early. The youth retreat gave us a reason to be gone all weekend. No running away.

  “I’m going to do your makeup,” she said. “And I’m bringing my camera.”

  She sounded like Mother.

  “A youth retreat?” I rolled my eyes. “Really, Lacey.” But the more I thought about it, the more I thought Lacey’s plan might actually work. Regardless, we were a week away from taking the stage at Texapalooza. I had no choice but to stick with her plan and focus on my drumming. Getting to Austin was just one part. Being good enough to stand out was the other. My adrenaline whirled inside me like a rapid roll on a snare drum. Everything had come down to this. The band was really taking the show to Austin. Other than Mother, nothing could get in the way. But I misjudged my own sister.

  25

  INCENTIVES

  On my way to rehearsal on Monday, I passed Uncle L. V. chugging across the pasture in his big green John Deere. The shredder buzzed low over the ground—a clear sign he was manicuring his ryegrass runway.

  I stopped the four-wheeler and waved to him. No use. From the looks of the high grass edging a narrow, short strip, L. V. was just getting started. He maintained his runway as well as he did his planes’ engines. He’d keep an intense focus on his mowing and probably stay on the tractor until close to dark, until the grass runway was as tidy and perfect as a country club fairway.

  I loved riding with him when I was younger—the constant buzz in the seat, the chugga-chugga bounce, the jolt of an unexpected thwunk into a hole.

  I hit the throttle on the four-wheeler, shooting straight for the hangar. Everything laid out. A perfect plan. My drums. The band. The thrill of playing in Austin at Texapalooza in front of me.

  And Paradise. He leaned against the outside of the hangar in the spotlight of the April sun.

  “Wow.” I turned the engine off and swung my right leg over the handlebars, sitting sideways on the seat. I counted the trucks. “The closer we get to the contest this weekend, the earlier you all seem to want to get going.”

  “Can’t start without you.” Paradise glanced across the pasture. L. V., a distant hum. Paradise leaned down, his hat casting a shadow across my face. The sun had warmed his chest, and I wasn’t sure if he’d pulled me to him or I’d gravitated there on my own. His lips were as soft as the flannel of his shirt.

  A chain swinging from the flagpole in front of L. V.’s house clanged with every steady breath of wind. A dull tink-tink, tink-tink.

  “I guess this means you’re over being mad,” I said.

  He held me tighter, so I took the hug as a yes. I could’ve stayed cuddled in his arms. But this was the last week we had to practice. Not even the dizzying possibility of being wrapped up in Paradise could fog my vision of Texapalooza. I wasn’t about to let anyone or anything slow us, the band, down.

  I let go of Paradise and pulled my sticks from my back pocket. We had a summer ahead of us to spend with each other, but less than a week to be perfect in Austin. “Get moving.” I drummed on his chest. “We can’t risk sloppy squeezebox playing.”

  Paradise stared at me long enough for me to weigh a warning in his eyes. “Speaking of risk.” He held up a set of keys. Keys with a plump silver heart chain. Lacey’s keys. “Your sister’s been here. Awhile.” He jabbed the toe of his boot at a tire on the four-wheeler. “I saw her car from the road before I ever crossed the cattle guard. Thought I’d better move it before someone else sees it.”

  I gripped my sticks in my fist.

  Paradise grabbed my upper arm, squeezing as I bolted for the hangar. “Easy,” he said. “Levi was as surprised as the rest of us.”

  “Don’t worry about moving the car.” I snatched the keys from his hand. “She’s leaving.”

  Inside the hangar, Lacey sat sideways in a lawn chair with her legs draped over one arm. The place reeked of nail polish. Waylon must’ve broken a string because his guitar lay on its back while he worked with the intensity of a surgeon. Cal sat cross-legged on the floor with his journal across his lap. Levi stood helpless with his hands on hips and his bass guitar hanging around his neck like a coach’s whistle.

  I dropped Lacey’s keys in her lap. “Leave.”

  “Chill out, Paisley.” She twisted the cap on a bottle of pink polish. “I’m just watching.”

  “You’re not just watching. You’re stealing time with Levi.” I gritted my teeth. “The band’s time.”

  Waylon and his labored breathing huffed beside me. No one wanted her here. Lacey was a weed in the garden.

  “There are lots of reasons why you are leaving. None of which I’m covering now.” I was embarrassed for her. Embarrassed for me. “Just go. We don’t have time for distractions.”

  Lacey spun around in the chair. “Then maybe you should get yourself to drumming and not make a scene.” She crossed her legs and wiggled the toes on her right foot so that her flip-flop slapped against her heel.

  Waylon threw up his hands. “If your mother sees your car and gets curious, then you’ve killed this for us.” He sucked in a deep breath that shook his entire body. “W-w-wiped out everything we’ve worked for. No Texapalooza. No band. No drummer.” Waylon was losing his grip on whatever confidence he’d gained at the campfire.

  Lacey kept swinging her foot and popping her flip-flop. Wap. Wap. Wap. More concerned about drying her toenail polish than Waylon’s drama. She knew him too well to be moved by his dismal prediction.

  Getting Lacey to leave would take more than trying to lay a guilt trip on her. This was after all my sister who never even tried to stop or slow down when innocent squirrels darted in front of her car. The best consolation after the thud was a “whooopsee” and a giggle. Sympathizing with others wasn’t her strong suit. Lacey needed incentive.

  I leaned over Lacey where only she could hear me.

  “With one word from me, you don’t go to Austin. The rest will say you can’t go. Levi will tell you to stay home.”

  Lacey blinked and looked away.

  “You can leave now and we’ll go as planned.”

  The hum from L. V.’s tractor buzzed the hangar as he rounded back down the runway. “If you don’t leave on your own, I’ll get Uncle L. V. to move you.”

  Lacey knew Uncle L. V. had zero patience for drama. She stood up, grabbed her giant purse, and mumbled something that
sounded like pissy.

  Paradise chuckled as he rolled his shoulders under the accordion straps.

  Levi tried to say good-bye to Lacey at the doorway to the hangar.

  She slipped between him and his guitar. Lacey kissed him. And kissed him. For a long time she just dangled from his lips like a ripe peach about to drop in L. V.’s orchard.

  Performance kissing was Lacey’s style, not mine. I wanted to crawl under the tarp covering my drums until she finally had both feet on the ground and disappeared from the hangar.

  “Think what y’all want to”—Levi stretched his guitar strap over his shoulder—“but that was worth it.”

  “Unless my mother shows up.” I gathered the tarp. Before I could lay it to the side, I noticed Waylon sitting in a chair with his hands cupped over his face. I wasn’t sure if he was hyperventilating or praying. “You all right, Waylon?”

  Waylon rubbed his face. He reached into a backpack sprawled at his feet and pulled out a few sheets of paper, handing us each one. The top of the page read, ITINERARY.

  “It’s our final schedule for Texapalooza,” he said. “They had some bands drop out so they’re starting later. They changed our time.”

  Paradise threw his fist in the air. “We’re at night now.”

  Levi picked a couple bass strings and sang, “Primetime.”

  Cal and I watched as Paradise and Levi performed some shoulder-bumping man ritual. Waylon sank back into the chair.

  I sorted through it all. Night meant a much bigger crowd, bright stadium lights, a big stage in one of the biggest music towns in the country. This was the dream. I was up for it. I even thought about shoulder bumping Cal. Unfortunately, I took one look at Waylon with his head buried in his hands and my throat began to ache. Choke.

  “Waylon, c’mon.” I squatted beside him. “This is the best thing that could’ve happened.”

  Waylon shoved an itinerary at me. He pointed at our time slot. “What does that say?”

  “Nothing.” I didn’t see anything wrong. “‘Six o’clock, The Waylon Slider Band.’”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing?” Waylon stood up and kicked the tarp mounded on the floor by my drums. “If we blow this, I’ll be the biggest embarrassment my family’s ever known. My dad told me not to use my name, but I did it anyway. And he told me I wasn’t ready for this and he was right.”

  “Maybe you’re not ready.” Paradise half ignored Waylon and started riffing on his accordion. “But the rest of us are. Man up. Get on your guitar.”

  “Don’t be so rude,” I snapped, feeling like I was trying to hold water in a sieve.

  Paradise pounded the heel of his boot against the concrete. “I could use a beat here.”

  I didn’t budge. I couldn’t believe Paradise would just ignore Waylon like that. But then Cal started playing, and Levi. It was like I was the only one concerned about Waylon. However, whatever methods the guys were using delivered. Waylon got his guitar and went hard at the chords.

  I hustled back to my drums. We’d lost too much rehearsal time already. But if Waylon was playing, I was too. Paradise stepped behind the drums and whispered in my ear, “Let him work it out on his guitar. Just keep drumming.”

  I settled down. Playing was the one thing I could handle. Control what I could control and feel the clock start to tick on Texapalooza.

  26

  CATCHING WIND

  By Thursday afternoon, we were just forty-eight hours shy of taking the stage at Texapalooza. It was one of those intense spring days when green pine tops and full leafy peach trees and pure white clouds contrast with the blue sky, surreal in the bright sunlight.

  The hangar doors pulled the full width open. The guys stood outside watching Uncle L. V. race Miss Molly Moonlight down the grass runway, catch the wind under her belly, and rise off the ground—her engines roaring into the blue sky.

  None of us said a word, but we all sensed it. A sweet reality that, like Miss Molly, we were reaching out and up and grabbing for our own dreams far and away from Prosper County.

  Paradise pressed his hand against his stomach.

  I jabbed him with a drumstick. “If you take a deep breath right as the wheels leave the ground, you won’t lose your lunch.”

  “Get serious, Paisley.” Waylon had his skull cap on as if this practice were a dress rehearsal. “Somebody get the doors.”

  “Oh, leave them open.” I looked out at the acres of rolling pasture and deep green thickets, and pointed a drumstick outside. “Imagine a whole bunch of folks waiting to hear the Waylon Slider Band.”

  Waylon’s face went tomato red. He still wasn’t comfortable with the notion of a bigger spotlight on us.

  “And the peach grove to the left”—Levi rolled the brim of his baseball cap between his palms—“that’s the groupies.”

  Even though Levi kidded him, none of us called Waylon on his self-doubt. Not even me. I was beginning to understand their guy-talk better. Playing out the nerves instead of talking them out. And I trusted Waylon’s guitar to give him more confidence than any encouragement I might try to prop him up with. Furthermore, his insecurities were about to be tapped. I had something new to spring on Waylon.

  The band waited on me to count them in, but I rested my sticks on the snare. “I’m going to try a different opening,” I said, knowing full well that Waylon would blow up over the very idea this close to showtime. Still, I knew deep down he trusted me with the beat. Any opposition would most likely be out of fear, and Waylon was going to need to get past fear if he planned on getting anywhere.

  Waylon put his hands on hips and stared at the rafters. “No way, Paisley.”

  “I’m counting us in with the caja.” I put the little drum between my legs and drew out the basic one, two, three, four, but with a twist. I added a skip, a saucy umph between the hard counts. I repeated it; the rhythm echoed inside the hangar. “C’mon.” I steadily drew out an umpapa-umph, umpapa-umph. “Small drum, big sound. It makes a statement, Waylon. We’re not just another copycat country band.”

  “We can’t haul off and throw down a new opening. We don’t have enough time to get it right.” Waylon fought the idea, but he didn’t say he didn’t like the sound.

  We all trusted Waylon, and it was high time he trusted us. “Leave the percussion to your drummer, Waylon.” I knew opening with the caja would be sweet, a twist with the groove.

  “Lay the count down again.” Levi readied his bass guitar.

  I did and he linked up at the right time, same as always. Cal lit up the Gibson with his signature riff.

  “The caja’s like salt.” I had Waylon’s attention. “Opening with it changes nothing. It just brings out the flavor.”

  “Dude, what she’s sayin’…” Levi put his hand on Waylon’s shoulder. “Heck, I don’t know what she’s sayin’, but it sounds good. So does that bongo thing.” He pointed at the caja.

  Paradise had been silent, probably afraid if he uttered a word, Waylon would turn on him and say the whole intro change was his idea. He might even refuse to use it just to keep from giving in to Paradise. But Waylon had already given in, he just couldn’t see it. Every rehearsal since the bonfire at Moon Lake when Paradise got Waylon to sing, Paradise had been backing off parts of songs. Waylon had continued to sing. The more Paradise backed off, the stronger Waylon’s voice held out. Waylon didn’t seem to realize it, but Paradise—always more interested in his accordion than singing—was pulling the lead vocals out of him. Paradise was giving Waylon his band.

  “What do you want to do, Waylon?” Paradise eased the issue forward. “Give it a run-through?”

  Waylon finally trusted me. “Don’t dress it up with a bunch of fills in between the count,” he said. “Keep it pure. It’s a Latin drum. It’s going to sound like a Latin drum. You don’t need to try to spell that out between the counts.”

  My heart bounced into my throat. That was as good an approval as Waylon could muster.

  Paradise took a step
toward me then stopped. I think he would’ve kissed me if the thought of messing things up hadn’t popped in his mind. I settled for a wink.

  I counted us in on the caja, and we ran through the set we’d play soon for the crowd at Texapalooza—not once, but twice. Song after song. Drumroll after drumroll. Waylon pushing his vocals. Paradise backing off. Cal breathing harmonies like a cooing dove. And Levi plunking bass.

  Then Waylon called rehearsal.

  “Let’s stop before we get bored with our own set.” Waylon rarely cut practice short.

  I could’ve played for another hour. Plus, I had that much daylight left and then some.

  “I’ll help you with the doors, Paisley,” Levi said.

  Paradise took his hat off, combed his fingers through his hair. “I can handle the doors.”

  “You good with him handling things?” Levi watched Paradise pack his accordion.

  One word from me and Levi would stay.

  “He can handle the doors, Levi,” I said.

  The guys closed up and left one by one. Behind them, Paradise pulled the giant hangar doors shut. The sun was still high enough in the sky to keep the shadows short.

  “You got some time?” Paradise clasped his fingers between mine.

  “Maybe.” We walked around the hangar, stopping by the four-wheeler. I didn’t know what he had in mind, but there wasn’t anything I was in a hurry to head home for.

  I laid my drumsticks across the seat of the four-wheeler. Paradise pulled me toward his Bronco.

  “Where are you taking me?” I joked. He wasn’t taking me anywhere. I was going on my own.

  He opened the passenger door. I climbed in.

  “Dancing,” he said with a smile.

  27

  ONE OF THESE NIGHTS

  In late spring when the days grow longer, the tall pines shade Moon Lake from the setting sun. And right about twilight, there’s a wild whisper of wind that careens through the trees, parts the reeds lining the bank, and sends the lily pads rocking on the water.