I take the roll, lift the top off the wax paper, and pop one in my mouth. They taste so good. Smooth and buttery. Just the right amount of chewy versus crunchiness. Familiar. Perfect.
I glance at the woman, watching me with this satisfied look on her face. “So where you going, anyway?” I ask. “Home to see your kids?”
“I’m on my way home all right,” she says. “But no kids. Just me and my truck these days.” She taps her dashboard, kind of loudly. I think it’s going to rouse George, but he just grumbles and repositions his head against the window.
She sticks the corner of her thumb in her mouth and begins working a hangnail out of her dirty hand. “I live outside of Portland, but I need to drop off some new condo plans in the city, so you kids lucked out.”
I pop a third Life Saver into my mouth. Then I stare out George’s window. The sky is darker than it was ten minutes ago, which means the daily drizzle is going to start—and not stop—soon. I smooth my hair, so very thankful that I remembered my hairbrush. Coastal weather has the potential to frizz my locks in mere minutes, which I don’t want to happen today, and especially not on national television. If I even make it that far.
The woman abandons her thumb and fiddles with the FM dial on her radio. She passes two country stations and one gospel but doesn’t stop turning until the dial rests on some pretty hard-core hip-hop station. The artist hollers about lovin’ “the big booty tang.” I cover my mouth with my hand.
She chuckles. “I know. I never thought I’d get into this stuff, either, but after fifteen years on the road with limited options, I gotta admit, now I kind of like it.” The woman taps her steering wheel in time to the music. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Magnolia.”
“Like the flower.” She shakes her head. “Don’t grow in this kind of weather, do they?”
“No. I guess they don’t. Roses like rain though. I have a sister. Her name’s Rose.” I rub my forehead. “At least I think they do. My mom told me that once. I’m not sure if it’s true.”
“Magnolia and Rose. Two flowers. Boy, your momma must have really liked growing pretty things.”
“She used to say that there must be something magic about flowers, the way they make everybody feel better about stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
I glance at George. His eyes are still shut tight, sleeping like he’s snuggled in his own bed, not in some rap-blasting pickup. It’s full-on pouring out now. Thankfully, it mutes the sound of the music and our words. “You know. Like, if someone dies, you send flowers. If they’re sick, you bring flowers to the hospital. New baby? Flowers. Birthdays? Flowers. I guess maybe she was hoping that if her daughters were flowers that we would fix things for her, too.”
“That’s some deep stuff, kid. All I know is that if God had it in his plan to give me a daughter, I’d never let my flower girl hitchhike out here on this highway. Like I said, no telling what could happen.”
I shift in my seat, thinking about this woman’s words about God and his so-called plan. I never really think about God—don’t even know if I believe in one or not. But I remember what I overheard George’s mom say once after one of Mom’s earlier disappearances. Rose was still in school back then and neither of us had jobs other than paper routes and the occasional ice cream delivery from Mrs. Moutsous. We hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and Rose got worried and called Mrs. M. She came right over with bags and bags of groceries. Shooed us out to the beach while she stocked our fridge, but we knew she was crying anyway.
“Thank goodness we have your mom.” That’s what Rose said to George as we plodded down our steps. And that’s when I heard Mrs. M. say it, even though she didn’t know we could hear her and didn’t know, I guess, that I’d think of those words every time anyone ever mentioned God again. That if there was a God, he’d given up when he came to my family.
The woman rifles around by her feet for a box of tissues. “So what’s in Portland for you two, anyway? You got somewhere to stay when you get there?”
I pop Life Saver number four in my mouth and shake my head. “We’re not really staying. There’s this dance show thing. We’re on our way to try out. It’s no big deal.”
The woman turns the music down just as the singer belts out something about bitches and hos and gin and juice.
“Your momma must be so proud. Hey, how come she didn’t drive you kids to Portland herself? She have to work or something?”
“Or something.”
She nods her head, just as George opens both his eyes, catching the tail end of our little chat. He gives me a weary little smile, like he feels bad for leaving me alone with this stranger when it was his idea to ride with her in the first place. I smile back. I’m fine. She’s not so bad.
The woman leans over and whistles. “Well, look at you. Damn. Just when I thought a face couldn’t get any prettier, you went and got yourself some beauty rest. Would you look at those lips? Honey, are you wearing lipstick or are your lips really that pretty?”
“No.” George grins. “It’s all me.”
“Good for you, son.” She winks. “Gotta look your best for those TV cameras, right, honey?”
George rubs the sleep out of his eyes and grins at the woman. I turn my head toward the window. I mean, why does George have to do that all the time? Although, it’s kind of nice to know that he’s a whore for all compliments, even ones from friendly strangers and not just ones from freshman brats and girls named Mary.
George points to a sign on the side of the highway. “Hey, we’re almost in Portland. Do you know how to get to the Heritage Building? I think I wrote down the directions here somewhere.” George leans down to grab his backpack, but the woman waves a hand at him.
“You bet I do. Used to drive truck for the Dairy Queen all over the place. So there ain’t a lick of this state that I don’t know.” Without signaling, the woman takes the next exit off the highway.
Within fifteen minutes and two remaining Life Savers, we’re in front of the Heritage Building. She drives up slowly. My heart starts beating really fast. Next to me, George and the woman’s mouths are gaping.
Already lined up, there’re at least three hundred people, long and lean and gorgeous, all around my and George’s age. Some are stretching, some are tumbling down the grassy area next to the spots in line. Some of the larger groups have signs pitched around them, showing their home states’ names. And there are cameras everywhere. Tall ones and short ones and ones on wheels and ones on the shoulders of official-looking people who jog up and down the line, filming faces and feet. I’ve never seen anything like it. The only kind of cameras I’ve ever been on are the ones from George’s phone and Mom’s old Sony. I watch one photographer smooshing a group of kids together so he can get them all in the shot. Then another comes over and takes the same picture, his shutter snapping twenty times.
My heart races. There is so much happening and everyone seems like they’re part of it except us. “We should have got here earlier,” I say.
“I wanted to get here earlier,” George says.
I scan the line but I can’t even see the front. “There must be five thousand people here.”
“It won’t matter where we are in line once they see us.”
The woman drives past the line, then doubles back to get a better look. Most of the kids at the front have rolled-up sleeping bags with them. And even the ones near the back of the line seem sleepy, like they traveled days and nights just to be here early. Everyone has umbrellas to shield themselves from the drizzling rain.
“So what do you kids want to do?” The woman’s forehead wrinkles. “I can drop you off at the bus station so you can get back to Summerland, if you want.”
“No way,” George says. He grabs his bag from the floor and my bag from the seat between us. “You can let us out here, Dolores. We better get in line before another hundred get in front of us.”
I blink. I have no idea how Ge
orge knows this woman’s name. I mean, I’m pretty sure she never told it to us. Positive she never told it to us, actually.
“All right, doll. You two go get ’em. But take this with you.” She reaches behind her seat, fumbling in the junk until she finds what she’s looking for. She tosses us a weathered maroon umbrella. “It ain’t pretty, but it works.”
“You sure?” I point to the sky. “It’s not going to let up anytime soon.”
“Won’t need it. I’m going home, remember?”
I nod and climb out the truck after George. “Thanks for the ride and for the Life Savers.” I want to say more, but my throat catches.
Dolores grins. “You bet, honey.”
I survey the mass of people drinking piping hot whatever from thermoses and turning pirouettes. The crowd has this vibe about it. This combined stench of excitement and nerves and terror that’s pungent, and awesome. I feel my limbs soaking up the energy. I wonder if George is feeling it, too.
Maybe they think I’m out of earshot, or maybe they just don’t care that I can hear every word of what they’re saying. “You take care of this girl now, you hear?” Dolores is saying. “She’s a keeper. Don’t let her out of your sight for a second.”
I peek at George, sure as shit he’s gonna laugh out loud at her sage words of wisdom but instead his gaze locks on hers. “You know I won’t,” he says. “Couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”
NINE
The second the woman’s truck is out of sight, I eyeball George. Sometimes he’s so mysterious, and I know it’s on purpose. Sometimes I think he’s gotten so good at hiding things from me, he doesn’t even know he’s hiding anymore. “How did you know her name?” I ask him. “Have you met her before or something?”
George pushes us through a circle of break dancers, all styled out in wristbands and high-tops in every array of neon colors. He shrugs. “Simple. I asked her.”
“When? You practically slept the whole trip.”
“When she first pulled up.” He raises one eyebrow. “You don’t really think I’m stupid enough to climb into the car with someone without even finding out their name, do you?”
George places his hands on my shoulders and spins me around to face some dancer, now taking center circle. A camera pushes past us, zooming in on the guy who’s shaking his thing to the beats blasting from an eighties-style boom box. George bobs his left knee up and down and shimmies his shoulders forward in perfect rhythm with the breaker’s and the camera swivels around to film him, too. I scoot out of the way. If I did that, I’d look like a total fool. But George looks normal. Like he’s one of them.
I watch a B-boy standing next to us wearing and totally owning an acid-washed bomber jacket and a half-shaved head, the rest of his hair flipped over to one side. He’s not dancing, just smiling at George and eyeing him up and down while George shakes his shoulders and pops his knee. At first George seems oblivious to the boy’s stare, but it doesn’t take him long to notice that someone’s watching him, which doesn’t surprise me at all. Their eyes find each other and hold each other for three whole seconds. The B-boy bites his bottom lip and I can’t help but bite mine. It feels weird to be standing so close to them when it’s obvious there’s some kind of heat exchange happening between the two of them, but I can’t help it so I stand closer to George. This guy’s a stranger. And George is mine.
The B-boy takes one small step toward us. He pulls a mangled cigarette out of his high-tops and lights it, inhales, and blows a cloud of smoke toward George. George breathes deep, like that smoke isn’t filled with addictive carcinogenic chemicals and tar but the freshest air he’s ever smelled. It makes my stomach turn.
And then George turns around. Literally puts his back to the guy as if none of it has even happened. He grabs my hand and drags me away. From over my shoulder, I see the boy still watching us as we walk away.
When we’re definitely out of earshot, I drop George’s hand. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” George blinks, his face totally blank.
“What just happened with you and that guy back there?” I fold my arms across my hoodie. “Seriously. I’m not going anywhere till you tell me what’s going on with you acting like you know all these people when I know you don’t.”
“You’re right. I don’t know who that guy is.” His face turns to the crowd, searching, but the boy is gone. “Yet.”
“And what about the woman? Dolores.”
George shoves his hands in his pocket. “Not everything is as complicated as you like making it. That guy was hot. And when I walked up to Dolores’s truck, I could just tell she was okay. I don’t know, maybe she just seemed like she needed the company.” He tilts his head back toward the clearing sky. “Maybe she was an old soul. You know, put back on earth for the sole purpose of getting us here.”
I’ve heard people say that George is an old soul about a billion times before. There was even this one time, at the state fair, when the two of us went into a psychic booth to have our fortunes told. Within five seconds this withered woman was marveling at George’s old soul. The psychic then turned to me and said that I was brand new. Fresh as a baby’s bottom.
So now George shrugs it off like it’s all totally copacetic. Like he can just tell me “he feels her” or whatever and that I should get it. But I can’t help but feel ripped off. Because when I meet someone new, it takes me for forever to decide if they like me or not.
I let the conversation drop because I know this isn’t one I’m going to win. Instead, I scan the line we’ve joined, twisting around the building and the whole block like a maze of human dominoes. “We’re way at the back,” I say.
“I know.”
My eyes dart left, right. There are kids still lining up behind us, but there are at least two hundred in front. “What if there are so many good dancers here, the judges don’t even get to us today?”
“Then we’ll try out tomorrow.”
“What if there isn’t a tomorrow?”
“The sign said tryouts were for two days. There’ll be a tomorrow.”
I know George thinks I’m being all negative because he says I’m like that sometimes, when really I don’t think I’m like that at all. I just like to know the facts and the fact is we’re at the back of this really huge line. During clam season in Summerland, we’re only allowed to pull a maximum of sixteen clams per day. That’s a fact too, plus it’s the law, and everyone knows about the hefty fines that go with breaking it. So when we’ve pulled our quotas for the day, there’s nothing to do but go home.
George starts to say something else. Something about embracing blah blah blah and how I project blah blah blah, but I’m barely listening. My hand goes up to my pillowcase piece, still tucked under my bra strap. I feel its thin cotton between my thumb and index finger. Being here. Doing this today. It’s my only shot. I grab the sleeve of George’s hoodie. “We need to get to the front of that line. We need the judges to see us. Today.”
I pull us out of place and drag him toward the front of the building where there are like fifty cameras instead of ten. George waves at one as we pass, and the cameraman swivels around and zooms in on George’s face while I keep my head turned and away. We inspect the other dancers, passing two tappers doing some mean a cappella stuff for a camera on wheels alongside a third guy who’s holding their place in line. They’re incredible; I’m not kidding. Their feet shuffle faster than razor clams digging themselves to safety, and I wonder what Katina will think when she sees them on TV—if this stuff will even make it to TV. Her only tap teacher left Summerland last year and she never found a replacement, so most of the kids in Summerland have given up tap. In front of those two, a boy who’s made of muscles practices back tucks. Standing. Back. Tucks.
My heart beats fast because every single dancer around us is awesome and they’re all being filmed, like all the time, and they’re smiling like they’re fine with it. Happy about it. George’s eyes lock on every one of the dancers and c
ameras but he trails behind me for once, silent. We keep walking. Searching for what, I’m not totally sure, but the deep pounding from inside tells me to keep going. Keep going, if I want this to work. And then, like a magical oasis appearing from a never-ending walk to nowhere, there it is. Or rather, she is. I stop. Behind me, so does George, bumping into my back because his head’s down and he doesn’t seem to see what I do. This skinny blonde girl with impossibly long legs is blabbing loud enough for the whole damn line to hear. She’s about number twenty-five in line and alone, and by the looks of it, annoying pretty much everyone around her. The girl in front of her turns around and folds her arms across her toned, petite frame. Her teased-out afro bobs around her heart-shaped face. She flicks it away from her forehead, revealing the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I take a step back. Next to me, so does George.
“And you know what else I heard?” Legs says.
“No. What?” Eyes says. Her voice is flat and her body language just screams serious loathing for the leggy girl.
“I heard that they’re not looking for any small people this season. They want tall dancers. Womanly dancers. Not little girls. And I heard they said tall girls just look better on camera.” The second she says it, a girl with a camera spins around to film her. “But who knows? You might get in. Depending on how good you are.”
Wow. Legs does not seem like a good person. Eyes must think so too because she says, “What did they say about girls with really big mouths? Because if they’re looking for girls with super big mouths this season, you’re a shoo-in.”
Legs ignores her and does this grand plié down to her dance bag to retrieve a tube of pink sparkly gloss to smother her super-big mouth with. Eyes flutters her eyelashes. When the two of them suddenly notice George and me just standing there, horning in on their femme fatale conference, George nudges my side. Whispers, “Mags, what are we doing here?”
The thing is, I don’t know. Don’t know why my body chose these two girls to stop next to when, really, getting between them seems like a very bad idea. I look up at the sky, the sun peeking between two skyscrapers. Behind me I hear noises. Not town chatter but city noises. Cars beeping. Music blasting. Garbage trucks and delivery trucks moving and moving and moving. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Until, suddenly, I do. This isn’t Summerland. These girls don’t know me, know who I am or what I’ve done or what I’m capable of doing. I’m not a no-good Woodson girl. Not here I’m not.
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