by Jeff Zentner
“Yeah, how could we forget because they make your face so butt-ass ugly,” Matt sputtered.
“You could forget because you lack the ability to form semantic memories, which is why Tullahoma High humiliated you guys by running the same play twice in a row last time they beat you in the fourth quarter,” Lydia said, without looking up from her book.
“What do you know about football, bitch?” Hunter said.
“Well, that you’re supposed to score more points than the other team, and that’s hard to do when you—and specifically you—fumble in your own end zone like you did against Manchester last year, allowing a game-losing safety.”
Hunter turned red.
“Leave it, bro,” DeJuan said. “She ain’t worth it. She’s trying to make you do something stupid.”
“I never have to try very hard,” Lydia said.
Hunter slapped Lydia’s book out of her hands, onto the floor, before the three stomped away.
Dill popped out his earbuds, picked up Lydia’s book, and handed it to her. “I didn’t know you were a football fan.”
Lydia leafed through her book to mark her place. “I’m not. I only keep track of our team’s losses and individual humiliations and shortcomings. I put them in my mental file on every player who gives us shit. It’s really more fun than actual football. Anyway, I gotta run to class. Give me your computer; I’ll take it home tonight and upload your videos.”
Chloe & I have been scoping apartments for fun. What’s your budget? We found a cute place for 3K/month, Dahlia texted.
I can swing 1K/month, no prob, Lydia texted.
LOL I wish. 3K each.
Well, she thought, looks like I’m about to become the Dill of my new group of friends—financially at least. Forrestville dentist and real estate agent money wasn’t much of a match for Chic editor-in-chief money and actress money. She’d have to start thinking of ways to make being the “poor girl” part of her charm and appeal. The way Dolly did, in fact.
Oof. Maybe out of my budget, Lydia texted. Plus haven’t gotten accepted to NYU yet, so.
You’ll get in.
As we say in TN, don’t count chickens, etc.
Lydia felt anxious for no specific reason. Not just about the rent situation, although that contributed. Her head ached from filling out college and scholarship applications, revising her admission essay, and working on a lengthy blog post critiquing the designs shown at Paris Fashion Week. Time for something different.
She pulled out Dill’s computer, went to YouTube, and set up an account for him. Password: LydiaisaBenevolentGoddess666. She found the folder with Dill’s videos and opened one.
What she heard stopped her short. Whoa. That’s Dill? He had so much confidence and poise. He was mesmerizing. Singing transformed him. She realized that she had never seen Dill play and sing one of his own songs. And it was an exquisite song. She started uploading the video and opened another. Again. Mesmerizing. Haunting. Soaring. And another. Until she’d watched all of them. Her anxiety melted away completely.
Whatever else he had inherited from his father, he had inherited a dark charisma. The sort that makes people want to follow and confess. The sort that makes people feel saved. The sort that makes people want to pick up venomous snakes and drink poison to be nearer to their God. He sang like a river of fire flowed in him, like music was the only beautiful thing he owned. His songs made her heart ache. Watching him, in fact, she felt a little…she took a deep breath and shook her head. Okay, that’s quite enough of that sort of thinking.
While she was visiting colleges with her mom, during the time she and Dill weren’t speaking, he’d weighed heavily on her mind. She imagined him stuck in Forrestville, unhappy, unfulfilled. This changes things. I can use this. I can work with this. She began to formulate a plan.
“Lydia?”
Lydia jumped and turned in her chair. Her mother stood in the doorway.
“Sorry to startle you. What were you listening to? It’s beautiful.”
“Oh…this guy I came across.”
“It’s nice.” Lydia’s mom began to go on her way.
Lydia was horrified to find herself calling after her, “Hey, Mom. I’m…working on a blog post. Did you ever have a friend who you were sure would always just be a friend, but then you started developing feelings for said friend?”
Her mom came back, set down the laundry basket she was carrying, leaned against the doorjamb, and folded her arms with a sly smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I have some experience with that.”
“What happened?”
“One night, we were hanging out at this burger place near the college, and we were eating ice cream cones and sitting on one of the picnic tables outside, and the moonlight caught his face in just the right way and he was the most beautiful thing in the world. And I wasn’t ever able to go back to seeing him as anything but.”
“Who was he?”
“Denton Blankenship.”
“Oh. Right. This would’ve been a pretty awkward moment otherwise, I guess.”
“Yep.” Her mom picked up her laundry basket and left.
Once her mom was out of earshot, Lydia watched Dill’s videos again.
“No, I’m not playing the Forrestville High School talent competition. Are you high?”
“Hear me out,” Lydia said.
“Talent competitions are dumb.”
“Yes, they are. But listen.”
“Class is about to start.” Dill stood up from where he sat on Lydia’s bumper. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together. “Plus, it’s freezing out here.”
“Stop. Hear me out. What would be the sweetest feeling in the world? What would be the biggest middle finger in the faces of people who have done their best to make your life miserable? To stand in front of them and sing. That would be so badass, because you’re so good. And what if you won? Fifty bucks. That’s like a million dollars in adjusted Dill dollars.”
“Why should I do it?” Dill sat back down.
“Besides every reason I just gave? Because we should do things we’re afraid of. It makes it easier every time we do it.” And if I can get you to do this, maybe I’ll be able to get you to do other stuff you’re afraid to do, like leave this town and go to college. Maybe we just need to break through your comfort zone this once.
“I don’t want to get laughed at.”
Trump card time. “Even if you get laughed at, I happen to know for a fact that you aren’t laughable in general. And I have proof.” Lydia opened her laptop. She pulled up one of Dill’s videos. It had 9,227 views and forty-nine comments. All positive.
Chills.
This song is amazing.
OMG loved this, thank you. And so on.
Dill looked stunned. “How—Didn’t you barely post this? Maybe last night?”
Lydia closed her laptop and gave him a smug pat on the head. “I tweeted it out last night. I didn’t say you were my friend. If I had, it would have looked nepotistic. So I didn’t use your name. I called you Dearly. Get it? D. Early?”
“People really liked it.”
“Do this for me,” Lydia said. “For all the times I’ve stuck up for you.”
They heard the bell ring. They were late.
“I’ve never performed one of my nonhymn songs in public before. Much less at the high school Christmas talent competition in front of six hundred people, most of whom hate me.”
“You’ve performed plenty of times in front of venomous creatures. You’ll be right at home.”
Practicing for the talent show gave him focus. It took his mind off Lydia leaving. It took his mind off his upcoming visit with his father. Still, in the intervening month or so between promising Lydia he’d do it and the show’s date, he’d had plenty of time to lose his nerve. Every time he waffled, though, Lydia would whip out her phone or her laptop and show him the steadily increasing number of views, comments, and likes “Dearly” had. She bought him a new set of guitar strings. She called it an
early Christmas present.
But then, in the final days before the competition, Dill stopped being afraid and started being excited. He kept thinking about the fifty dollars and how much he wanted it. He was going to spend it on Lydia. Take her to dinner. Buy her something. Anything but throw it down the black hole of the Early family debt.
The day came slowly, but it came.
Dill was nauseated that morning. He couldn’t eat breakfast. He and Lydia didn’t speak at all on the way to school. He couldn’t pay attention in class. The talent show assembly was after lunch. He trembled as he filed into the auditorium, guitar case in hand, Lydia and Travis flanking him—a gladiator heading to a fight for his life.
“Hey,” Lydia said. “Breathe. You’ll do great. Remember: you have fans and you have friends. Nobody here can do anything to you or take anything from you.”
“Why did I let you talk me into this?”
“Because I’m awesome and you’re awesome and you’re going to do something brave.”
“It’s cool you’re doing this,” Travis said. “I watched your videos again the other night, and they really are amazing.”
Dill said nothing but nodded and gripped his armrest. Every nerve in his body hummed as he sat through the introduction of the three judges (all teachers—not fellow students, fortunately), interminable lip-syncing and dance routines, corny comedy sketches, duck and turkey calls, and awful karaoke. Until finally his turn came.
“All right,” Principal Lawrence said, stepping to the microphone, paper in hand. “Next up we have”—he squinted at the list—“Dillard Early.”
A mumble swept through the crowd. Hushed giggling. Whispers. Shifting of feet. Cell phones surreptitiously removed from pockets to film the spectacle.
Dill drew a deep, shaky breath. “Here goes.” He stood on unsteady legs.
Lydia grabbed his arm and pulled him close to her. She put her lips to his ear. “Dill, keep your eyes on us. Don’t look anywhere else. We’re standing with you.”
She had never whispered to him so intimately before. Her breath on his cheek felt like the caress of a lover. A different electricity coursed through his body. And for a moment, he forgot his fear.
It rushed back, though, as he made his way to the front, head down. He hit his guitar case on one of the seats. Bwongggg. The crowd tittered. “Sorry,” he mumbled to nobody in particular.
Please God. Attend me this hour. Do not forsake me. He carefully ascended the steps to the stage and walked the seeming half mile to the middle, where two microphones stood.
He pulled his battered and scarred acoustic guitar from its case. He slung it around his neck and walked the last few feet to where Principal Lawrence stood. He kept his head down. The lights on the stage blinded him.
Principal Lawrence gestured for Dill to take his place and stepped aside. Dill stepped up to the microphones. He adjusted the vocal mic for his height and then the guitar mic. A screech of feedback. Laughter. “Ow,” someone said loudly. Dill’s head pounded. Black-red began to creep into the margins of his field of vision. He held his breath and felt his heart palpitating. Can they hear it? Is the microphone picking it up? Please God. Stand with me now. He closed his eyes. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.
Someone faked a cough. “Dildo!” Giggling. Someone else faked a cough. “Dildo!” More giggling. Angry shushes from teachers scattered through the crowd and from Lydia and Travis. Dill’s heart sank.
Principal Lawrence nudged Dill aside and spoke into the microphone. “Okay, I hear another outburst, we cancel the rest of the assembly, and everyone writes a ten-page paper about manners, understood? Okay, Mr. Early.”
Dill took his place again at the microphones. “Here’s a song I wrote.” His voice echoed in the auditorium. He didn’t recognize it. It was too loud. He waited for the laughter. For someone to yell out “Dildo” again. But there was quiet, which was almost worse.
He couldn’t remember how to play the guitar. He couldn’t remember where to put his hands on the strings. He couldn’t remember the words to his song.
He looked up, straight into Lydia’s eyes. Her eyes were filled with…what? A new something he had never seen before in her. He couldn’t name it, but it made him strong. It swept the black-red from the margins of his eyes and turned the contemptuous crowd beneath him into a faceless blob. It made his heart beat a different rhythm.
For a fleeting moment, he’s standing once more at the front of the praise band. He’s wearing his guitar and they’re playing, playing. And the congregation begins to pass around the deadly serpents. His father approaches him with a copperhead. He stops playing. His father smiles and gently hands it to him. He reaches out and accepts his father’s offering. It is cool and dry and sleek. It pulses in his hands. His faith is strong. It binds the serpent’s jaws. It cannot hurt him. He stares into its face.
Dill took a breath and began to play and sing. He sang like the Holy Spirit had descended on him with a cleansing fire. He heard his voice and guitar echoing through the auditorium. He opened his eyes only once during the performance—to make sure Lydia was still watching him. She was, with even more of the something. The room melted away below him.
He finished, and his last notes decayed into silence. He got a smattering of polite applause, but a standing ovation from Lydia and Travis. Probably not the reaction the winner would get, but at least no one is yelling insults at me. And it’s over. He put his guitar back in its case and left the stage, barely hearing Principal Lawrence taking the microphone and saying, “All right, that was a very nice song from Dillard. Thank you, Dillard. Next up we have…”
Dill collapsed into his seat. Travis glowed and was nearly bouncing. “That was so cool! You’re like a professional singer!” he whispered, grabbing Dill’s hand in a vigorous handshake.
Lydia clutched his arm and pulled him close again. Probably closer than she needed to. “That was amazing,” she whispered, letting her lips brush his ear. “I knew you could do this. Remember how you feel.”
Dill basked in his relief, like he was swimming in a warm, starlit lake. He listened with his eyes closed as five of the football players lip-synced to a rap song, to thunderous applause that dwarfed his own. Thank you, God. You have not always given me the things I wanted or needed, but you gave me this, and I’m grateful.
The competition ended, and Principal Lawrence took the stage again, holding three envelopes. “All right folks, the results are in from the judges. In third place, for her karaoke version of a Taylor Swift song, we have Lauren Ramsey. Congratulations, Lauren. You win a coupon for twenty-five percent off a tanning session at Tropical Glo tanning salon.” Lauren, a cheerleader, accepted her prize, beaming, to riotous applause and whistling.
“Okay, in second place, for his fantastic duck and turkey calls, we have Austin Parham. Austin, you let me know if you’re available come spring turkey season. Austin wins a ten-dollar Applebee’s gift certificate.” Austin, a baseball player, accepted his prize. Again, an enthusiastic response.
It’s going to really suck losing to duck and turkey calls. Let’s just get this over with.
“Now, for the grand prize winner of fifty dollars cash money. I want to remind y’all that our judges considered many factors in their decision, including originality and creativity. I also want to remind y’all to be respectful if the person you thought should win didn’t win. And now, our grand prize winner is…drumroll please…”
Dill stomach flipped. It was then that he stopped being completely aware of what was happening. He knew that he heard his name called. He knew that he sat, paralyzed, while Lydia and Travis stood, whooped, and tugged him out of his chair, pushing him toward the stage. He was vaguely cognizant of the tepid applause and rush of grumbling that met the announcement. He was standing on stage again, accepting the envelope and a handshake from Principal Lawrence. And then he was sitting by Lydia and Travis again, clutching his envelope.
The assembly let out and the students strea
med into the hall. Travis still buzzed with excitement. “Dude,” he said, strutting alongside Dill. “I would totally buy all your albums if you made albums!”
Dill grinned. “You don’t even like music.”
“Yours is different.”
“Hey, Dill.” Alexis Robbins approached. She was pretty and popular. She never talked to him or his friends, but was never unkind to them either. They existed in separate worlds.
“Congratulations on winning,” she said. “I didn’t know you did music.”
Dill blushed. “Oh…thanks. Yeah. I do. Thanks.”
“Anyway, good job. Bye.”
Lydia poked Dill in the ribs. “Look at you go. Girls love musicians.” He laughed and squirmed away. “I’m serious, Dill,” she said. “That was hot. Talent is hot. Bravery is hot.”
Dill thought he could not be more filled with triumph. But the moment Lydia said that, he realized that he contained yet undiscovered spaces being flooded with it.
He didn’t get a chance to revel. “Dill!” Hippie Joe walked quickly toward them. Hippie Joe was a guidance counselor in his fifties. His name was Joseph Bryant, but everyone secretly called him Hippie Joe. He had a bushy mustache; shaggy gray hair; and wore round, wire-rimmed glasses. He favored joke ties and Converse with his khakis and button-down shirts. “That was fantastic! I’ve never seen a student perform like that! You had the ghosts of Bob Dylan and Neil Young in you! Well, they’re both still alive, but you know what I mean. Great job! I think you’ve got a future in music!”
“Thank you, Mr. Bryant.”
“Tell me when you have a gig somewhere. I’ll come watch you.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Nobody else said anything. They got outside to the parking lot. “I propose we go get something to eat. Specifically, I propose that I buy Dill some late lunch/early dinner, since he hasn’t eaten a thing today,” Lydia said.
“I’m down,” Travis said. “And I’m helping buy.”
Lydia beamed as they drove, as though she knew some great secret. She appeared as joyous as Dill felt. He couldn’t stop his legs from bouncing up and down. He kept peeking in his envelope, at the crisp fifty-dollar bill inside. He felt carved from something beautiful and indestructible. Light. Air. He wondered how long he could ride the wave of that feeling before it crashed again onshore.