Paradise (23 page)

“I know that playing on that stage was a really big deal to you.” Mother tapped the toe of her high heel. “Even though I don’t think you and that Slider boy have a clue that there is a process. You have to work up to doing something like playing in Austin.”

I hugged the pillow. “That’s the problem. You think there’s some hierarchy because of how folks around here treated you. And you think because we’re rural we’re somehow automatically at the bottom of the ladder. That’s not how I see the world. I’m not looking up or looking down. I’m looking forward.”

“If I’d known about this band showcase sooner, if you’d given me a chance, I would’ve given you a chance. But I can’t sprout wings and take you there.”

I sat straight up. She might not have wings, but we could still get to Austin. Mother’s heels clicked down the hallway.
CLICK. Click. click.

I ran after her. “Do you mean that? If you had a chance you’d take me?”

Her eyes were swollen from all that Lacey and I had done. “I’d make sure you got to live your dream.”

34

A DREAM TAKES FLIGHT

Uncle L. V. backed his tractor up to the hangar. Dad hooked a bar behind
Miss Molly Moonlight
’s nosewheel. When L. V. slowly tugged her out,
Miss Molly
rolled into the sunlight with a promising smile. Guaranteed to please. The Prosper County countryside shined on her aluminum sides. L. V. parked her at one end of the grass runway.

He climbed down from the tractor. His shirt was missing its sleeves, and he had a do-rag and sunglasses on. He stared up at the sun. “We better set out for Austin,” he said. “She ain’t the Concorde.”

Mother, in her stilettos, carefully stepped through the grass. Her purse, which was the size of a large shopping bag, threw her balance off and she teetered. “Gosh, L. V. As much as you fly, you’d think you’d concrete a runway.”

“If you don’t hush, I’m going to put you in the gun turret.” He pointed at the clear globe on
Miss Molly
’s roof. “After what you did to my pasture, I’m a hair away from dropping both you and Paisley over Jessup County anyway.”

Dad smiled. He and Lacey stood by the runway as Mother, L. V., and I got ready to leave.

I hugged Dad. “I wish you could come.”

“Someone’s got to be the kitchen goddess and deliver that catering.” He grabbed Lacey and cuddled us both in a bear hug. “And Lacey is going to help me figure out what I need to do to get her school paid for.”

I stepped toward the plane.

Lacey reached up and tidied my hair. “Put on some lip gloss before you go on,” she said. “Mother’s got a purse full of product. If you get a chance, put some gel in Levi’s hair. Just a dab. He doesn’t like it goopy.”

“I will.”

“And give him a good-luck kiss, but tell him it’s from me.”

“OK, I will,” I said. Mother was going to love that.

“And Paisley”—Lacey grabbed both my hands—“don’t you let those boys outshine you.” She squeezed so hard my fingers throbbed. “You own that stage.”

I climbed into the plane and sat in the copilot seat next to L. V. I hadn’t ridden with him in a long time, but I put on the headphones and belted in as if I’d done it yesterday. It was time to fly.

Dad helped boost Mother in, and she landed on the hull where in wartime the bombs were loaded and dropped.

Uncle L. V.’s voice came through headphones. “The drop bay works, Diane.”

He flipped the master switch and the panel in front of him lit up.

The green runway stretched before us. It always seemed longer from inside the plane.

With the tip of his finger, Uncle L. V. flicked switches. When he pressed
Miss Molly
’s starter buttons, the propellers spun and the engines fired up. A loud
BOOM
and a puff of black smoke, and
Miss Molly
turned on with the deep, rumbling growl of a pack of Harleys.

I turned around to make sure Mother was still with us. She was buckled in and praying.

We bumped and rolled down the runway. Faster and faster. The trees in the thicket turned into one gray blur. Then I felt it. The lift.
Miss Molly
with the rush of wind under her belly defying gravity and soaring higher and higher.

Uncle L. V. tilted her wings and circled Dripping Springs—our little rural patch of Prosper County. Up this high and in the distance, I could see the Tucker Barn with its Texas flag roof. L. V. dipped
Miss Molly
low toward his pasture. The rings of tire tracks from Mother’s and Waylon’s chase scarred L. V.’s otherwise perfectly groomed clover patch. He rounded the pasture again.

“I’ll get right on that when we get back.” I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He nodded and leaned into the throttle, pushing
Miss Molly
to the southwest toward Austin.

Mother sat on the bomb hatch and sipped on a Diet Sprite when L. V. wasn’t looking. Flying to Austin so that I could play Texapalooza wasn’t easy on her. But she was hanging in like a champ, just like Dad said she would.

Below us, yellow patches of wildflowers cut between lush green groves and pools of water. From this high, Moon Lake curved in a perfect crescent. The day was full and bright—the perfect setting to live out a dream.
Miss Molly
’s engines hummed and puttered. She had her own voice. I took it all in, wanting to remember every single sound, every single vibration as we cruised in the blue sky.

I watched the landscape change through the side window and the windshield until a couple hours passed and the dome on the Texas state capitol rose out of the hill country. When we flew around the outskirts of downtown Austin, I took in the crowds of folks gathered around the convention center.

Uncle L. V.’s voice cracked in the headphones. “Stubb’s Bar-B-Que.” He pointed to a row of old brick buildings. Everybody from Willie Nelson to George Clinton played that joint.

“No bar playing.” Mother’s voice came through loud and clear.

I’d probably wait for another day to go wide-open with her about our gig at Don Caliente’s Taco Bar and Cantina.

The Texapalooza outdoor stages, three, maybe four, where the bands played—where I’d play—dotted downtown.

Uncle L. V. radioed the airport tower. “November One-Nine-Four-One Prosper County Home requesting to land.”

I played out a slap stroke on the tops of my thighs. Making sure I could still do it. I mean, I knew how to do it. I knew that. I just needed to remind myself, feel the rub and stroke.
Miss Molly
settled on the runway, and it was my time to take off and soar.

35

GRAVITY

The shuttle let us out next to a mime—some dude and his stringless guitar both painted chalk white. My Texapalooza welcome was a clown. A fake guitar-playing, weirdo mime. A pretender. Maybe that’s why I hated clowns. They were just madeup people trying to be something they’re not and putting on a show.

Standing on the downtown curb by the park, the hum of the festival crowd and the smell of grilled onions from a hot dog stand overloaded my senses.

For May, the air turned thick with humidity. I took off my hoodie and tied it around my waist. I cupped my hands over my mouth.
Huff. Huff. Huff.
Deep breaths. But the mime and the onions and my nerves knotted in my gut. What if we were all just a bunch of clowns? Including Paradise and his squeezebox.

“That tank top cannot be your performance outfit.” Mother seemed oblivious to the fact that I was close to passing out.

No way could I hold a costume conversation with her.

Mother reached in her purse and pulled out her bottle of Diet Sprite. “Drink this.” She had her black, bug-eyed sunglasses on. I was so dizzy I thought I saw two of her. Like giant bouffant-haired horseflies buzzing around me and the mime.

“We didn’t come all this way for you to be too puny to play,” she said.

I took a small sip. This day had been like trying to get a drink of water from a fire hydrant.

“Paisley.” Uncle L. V. pulled my drumsticks from my back pocket. “Hold on to these.”

The sun had warmed the wood. The sticks stuck to my sweaty hand. I dried them on my cutoffs and turned my back on the mime. When those sticks hit my palm, I remembered all I could do. All I was in Austin to do. And the boys’ guitars had real strings. And nothing about Paradise was fake. We were the real deal.

I pulled myself together. “This way.”

Uncle L. V. and Mother followed me to a roped-off area behind an outdoor stage. I knew it had to be the one. KICK FM radio sponsored the Texapalooza youth showcase. Their signs were plastered all around. The morning personalities and band showcase judges—Colt Collins and his sidekick, Jaybird—were broadcasting live.

A young guy in a neon yellow vest that read
STAFF
guarded the backstage. He had earphones in and was playing air guitar.

“I’m with one of the bands.” I pointed at Mother and L. V. I spoke loud and slow as if that would help him hear me. “They’re. With. Me.”

“You. Don’t. Have. A. Wristband.” He mimicked me, never missed a chord in his air solo.

“I’m late.” I shuddered. He might not let us through. “C’mon.”

“No can do, babe.”

Mother bumped him with her big purse. “Listen here, Junior.” She motioned for me to duck under the rope. “She’s the drummer for the band, the Waylon Slider Band.” Mother waved her arms. The jingle-clinking of her bracelets distracted the guard long enough that I ducked under the rope and headed for the stage. Afraid to look back, I could hear Mother carrying on. “Slider? Doesn’t that name ring a bell with you, Mr. Guitar Player?”

She’d weasel her way in. I was sure of it. If not, Uncle L. V. would flex some muscle.

I worked my way through the bands behind the stage. The
twang
and
plunk
of guitars tuning. A fiddle, maybe two, dancing in the thick air. A splitting screech from an electric guitar. Cymbals crashing. The cacophony of sounds bounced around me until my heart settled on one sizzling whine—drawn-out lonesome and hanging high pitch above the rest.

My heart leapt three steps ahead of my feet.

Paradise and his smokin’ squeezebox.

I searched the crowd of kids—some dressed up like Sunday church, some wearing Spandex pop-tart outfits. A tall girl in platform pumps and a shiny dress lost her balance and fell into me.

I took a few steps sideways. Tried to look around her. As if lifted by the wind, my feet left the ground. But I knew the strength in the arms that wrapped around me, and I lost myself to the moment—the damp curls of his hair, the salty taste of sweat glistening on his neck, the sandpaper scruffiness of a shadow beard, and a kiss as sweet and succulent as a summer peach.

Paradise.

“You’re late.” He clutched me to him as if putting me down meant letting me go.

“I took a detour when I went wide-open,” I said.

“Paisley!” Mother had her sunglasses off. She’d made it through security. “I suppose you’re going to tell me this is not what I think it is?”

Paradise loosened his hold.

“No.” I slid to the ground. No point in hiding the obvious truth. “This is what you think.”

“I’m Gabe.” He stuck his hand out.

Mother stared at Paradise. She had it in her to slap him if the notion struck her. But she checked her temper. Mother reached to shake his hand with a polite and icy smile. She inventoried the Colombian cowboy hat with the black-and-white rings. “L. V., is that your hat?”

Uncle L. V. slapped Paradise on the back. “Not anymore.”

The late afternoon grew warm and muggy as a ceiling of clouds began to block the sun. Waylon and Cal marched toward us. Cal’s long blond hair blew away from his face the faster he walked, and he had a blue bandana tied around his forehead.

Mother squinched her eyes at Cal, then whispered to me, “Tell me that boy is not wearing guyliner.”

Waylon stopped way short of arm’s length from my mother. “I need you, us, all by the stage.” Waylon glanced at the stage. Colt Collins and Jaybird were standing on it doing an interview. An interview with Waylon’s father. “As soon as they finish, the competition starts. We’ve got to be ready to go on quickly.”

“Sorry I’m late,” I told him.

Waylon dripped with sweat. “I really want to open with that
caja
.” That was his way of saying he was glad I made it.

One of Waylon’s uncles, the drummer, chimed in with his years of experience. “She hasn’t been here to rehearse. It’s better to get disqualified because of the drummer’s age than risk a reputation with a sloppy timekeeper.”

I could’ve nailed him in the crotch with the toe of my boot. That Slider bunch worried too much about protecting their precious family reputation. I felt Paradise slip a finger in a belt loop. But nothing held my mother back.