Paradise (16 page)

Waylon’s father gestured an approving nod from the back of the room, and I thought Waylon would levitate. The family pride in the room was wall busting.

A bead of sweat trickled down my back as I put the
caja
down and returned to my drumsticks. I bowled a fifteen-stroke roll across the drumheads, barely holding the sticks as they bounced in my hand. I tossed one stick, catching it in midair as it somersaulted over my head. Never. Missed. A. Beat.

I checked to make sure Lacey saw it. Her eyes were locked on Levi.

Among the crowd and the guitars and the accordion and the dancers, I had never felt so alone.

I wanted my dad to hear me play, watch every stick spinning, bass kick, and roll. I wanted to see him circle his finger in the air like he does when his young pitchers nail their first curveball. “That’s it,” he’d say. “Bring that every time.” I wanted to look out and see L. V. leaning against the bar, telling everyone his niece was the drummer. And I wanted my mother there—complaining about Waylon and how this was all beneath her. But I wanted her there. If for no other reason than to show her that I could do this. Forever, it seemed, all I ever wanted was to play drums. That wasn’t enough anymore. Now I wanted to play drums for somebody. And somebody included my family. Without them, drumming felt as hollow as a blown bottle rocket. Nothing left after the big boom except a sour, burning smell lingering in the air.

I closed my eyes, feeling the ricochet of each beat. My arms never tired. My hands never cramped. The drumbeats circled above me, around me like machine-gun fire, like I was down in some foxhole, all the action taking place above.

Then it was over.

And when it’s over, it’s really over. Nothing left but me and the sticks.

The voices and clapping drew closer to the stage. Cal’s friends swarmed him. I tried to ignore the whoops of happy Tuckers as I sat behind my drums like a kid in a playpen.

Finally, Lacey made her way to me. Watching her glide toward me with a smile as bright as a summer afternoon lifted my spirits.

Then she tossed her keys over the drums to me. “We’re all going to hang out by Moon Lake.” She glanced back at Levi. The smile was all his. “Oh, and park my car on the back side of the Tucker Barn then just walk down. You’ll see everyone.”

Lacey left the cantina with Levi and the rest of the band. The jukebox kicked on. Couples glided across the dance floor. The neon Bud Light sign above the bar blinked on and off and on and off like a no-vacancy marquee at a cheap, roadside motel. I was the last one to leave the stage. Not that anyone noticed. Not that anyone cared.

22

ASSUMPTIONS

Moon Lake wasn’t really a lake at all. It was a crescent-shaped slough carved into the wooded bottom of the Tuckers’ land. From tip end to tip end, Moon Lake stretched across the Jessup and Prosper county borders. And on cold, clear spring nights when the dark water soaked up the real moonlight, the old slough looked as if a sliver of the moon had come to rest on earth.

I hid Lacey’s car on the back side of the barn and walked toward the hillside where everyone had gathered. I set out, trying to step around the pillowy patches of wildflowers. Not sure what I’d find at the campfire on the hill.

An unnatural light cut into the pasture, blinding me in the moment. The light dimmed and Paradise eased beside me, the hard top off his Bronco. He stopped.

“Thanks.” I rubbed my eyes. “Now I know how deer feel.”

Paradise opened his passenger door. “Get in before someone runs you over.”

I stepped in, moving a brown paper bag on the seat.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Don’t open it. Had to pick up a few things on my way out here.”

“What is it?” I started to unroll the top of the sack despite his demand. “Beer? Cigarettes?”

He shook his head like I offended him, twisted his hand around the steering wheel. “So that’s what you assume, what you expect from me?”

I said nothing and started to open the sack.

Paradise hit the brakes, reached his hand across, smashed the sack closed. “It’s weed.” His hat shaded his face from the moonlight, but I could see his eyes focus on my ring. “And condoms. Stuff you don’t need to be around.”

I let go of the sack. “Nice.” Mother’s rant about bands and pot smokers clanged in my head. “Remind me to wear a hazmat suit the next time you give me a ride.”

“Your face is red, Paisley.” He shifted the Bronco into reverse and backed between the other trucks up to the campfire. “What will they all think?”

I couldn’t have cared less what everyone thought. I did, however, care that he seemed to plan on drugs and sex as part of the post-gig after-party. Furthermore, I had to tell Waylon. The band couldn’t afford to let Paradise loose in Austin. I hopped out of the Bronco. Lacey and I were leaving whether she wanted to or not.

In the campfire light, Cal and some of his friends huddled in a small circle despite the fact that lawn chairs sat empty around the fire. I was sure I saw the hot end of a cigarette glow. Levi made use of at least one chair, and he held Lacey in his lap—both of them cozied up under a blanket.

Paradise dropped the tailgate on the Bronco and opened the sack.

“You bring something for me too?” Levi’s hands were hid under the blanket. All that talk about how he didn’t want to let Dad down was just crap.

“Lacey.” I almost panicked. “I, we need to go.”

“Paisley.” Paradise reached into the sack. He pulled out a box of chocolate bars, a bag of marshmallows, and some graham crackers. He pitched the marshmallows at me. “You gonna help?”

Lacey leaned back on Levi’s chest. She eyeballed my hand squeezing the bag of marshmallows. “Relax, sis. I texted Mother. She’s not looking for us until after midnight.” Lacey nodded at Waylon, who sat on the tailgate of his truck fingering his six-string. “And no one here bites.”

“Don’t tell her that.” Paradise pressed his thumbs along the bent corners of a metal coat hanger, straightening it into a skewer.

Lacey giggled. Waylon strummed louder.

I split the top of the marshmallow bag and laid it on his tailgate next to the chocolate bars. Paradise stood by the fire, carefully searing the end of the hanger until all the plastic coating was gone and it was safe to melt the marshmallows.

The night air chilled me to the bone. I rubbed the tops of my arms to warm them and moved closer to the flames. The fire popped and spit bits of neon orange sparks into the dark night.

I probably needed to apologize for assuming the worst in him.

“S’mores?” I asked him, watching the flames dance around the logs.

“Who said the sack was empty?”

He’d tricked me once but not again. “If you think I’m going to double-check, you’re wrong.”

Paradise held the hanger, cooling it until he could pinch the red-hot tip between his forefingers. He grabbed a marshmallow and stuffed it on the end. “Hold this in the fire.” He kept his hand on mine and moved behind me, reaching around my ribs, gently clutching me to him.

I took a deep breath and my heart skipped like a rock on a pond.

“Hey, Waylon,” Paradise called out. I felt his breath move through my hair like a warm whisper. “What’s that song? Something about the Texas moon?”

Waylon strummed a few chords on his guitar.

“How does it go?” Paradise hummed some until Waylon piped in a few words.

Levi and Lacey quit talking.

Cal peeked around the fire, watching and listening.

Waylon sang in as natural a voice as he spoke. No gooselike nasal honk. No wheezy breathing. Paradise had gotten him to sing without Waylon ever thinking about it. And it wasn’t half bad. Kind of twangy, but honest and authentic sounding. We’d all assumed Waylon couldn’t sing, but he could. He just needed for someone to believe in him and Paradise did.

Waylon continued to play his guitar and sing in the cold night. I pulled the skewer from the fire. The marshmallow smoked some, but the outside was a dark honey color. Paradise squeezed it and a square of chocolate between two graham crackers.

I took the top cracker off and pulled my finger through the gooey middle. I closed my eyes and sucked all the chocolaty, marshmallowy goodness off my fingertip. When I opened my eyes, Paradise was watching. I licked off the last bit of chocolate.

Paradise cleaned off his tailgate and slammed it shut.

“You know,” I began to explain my theory on assumptions. “Someone drowned in Moon Lake once. Mistook it for a real lake. He was wading along the water’s edge when he stepped into a hole and went under. He tried to swim out. But he drowned in three feet of water when all he had to do was stand up.”

Paradise slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys. He opened the passenger door. “Get in, Paisley.”

23

COWBOY, TAKE ME AWAY

Paradise parked on the edge of Moon Lake and spread a blanket in the back of the Bronco. The water shined like sterling and lay still, undisturbed by Waylon’s voice and his six-string drifting down from the hill. The more he pushed his vocals, the stronger his voice became. I could almost hear Waylon begin to believe in himself.

The bluebonnets flung across the pasture under the starlit night reminded me of a patchwork quilt pieced together in swatches of purple, indigo, and evergreen. I sat on the tailgate with my knees tucked against my chest. Paradise lay beside me. His long legs hanging off the tailgate. His hat resting on his chest.

“So where does an accordion prince go when he graduates from the grandfather-tutor-home-travel school?” I asked, feeling the pressure of his finger rubbing along my belt.

“I took the same SATs as everyone else. I can go most anywhere. But I’m enrolled at the University of Geneva in Switzerland for next year. It’s where my mother went.”

“Sounds fancy.” I got that awkward, less-than feeling that always happens when kids at school talk about their summer beach trips and I throw out that we went to Galveston. “And far away. And cold.”

“All of the above,” he said. “But it’s a step for me. I want to be a Rhodes scholar.”

I watched his cowboy hat rise and fall with his every breath. He wasn’t fitting my idea of scholar. “Weren’t presidents Rhodes scholars?”

Paradise patted my hip. “And Kris Kristofferson.”

The cool breeze in the night carried Waylon’s voice. “I can’t believe you got Waylon to sing.”

Paradise kept his eyes on the stars. “Waylon needs to quit worrying about what his family thinks. Do his thing. Go wide-open.” He hooked a finger in my belt loop and tugged me closer to him. “Like somebody else I know.”

Coyotes howled in the distance. I squeezed my arms around my shins, hugging my knees tight to my chest. He had the ability to move me with a single finger. I didn’t trust myself to be that close, to touch him.

I picked at the toe of my boot, trying not to look at him stretched out in the moonlight. “Since when do you care about Waylon Slider?”

“Hate seeing somebody want something and letting fear or embarrassment or circumstances hold them back. I play accordion, Paisley. And I’m bringing it back to cool.” Paradise pulled my belt loop again, inching me closer to him. He rubbed his hand across my back, lifting my shirttail. His middle finger traced the curve of my spine.

It was as if a covey of quail had burst into flight inside my chest. “Aren’t you”—I stuttered—“aren’t you afraid Waylon will drop you now that he’s singing?”

Paradise laughed, tossed his hat into the front seat. “Too close to Texapalooza to drop this boy. Besides”—he pulled me on top of him, slipping his hand into my back pocket—“his drummer would kick his ass.”

In his arms, I slowly unfolded like a love note read in secret. My face pressed against his chest. I held on to him and the feeling of being wanted. Not alone like I was at the cantina. From his black T-shirt to the hard muscle running across his shoulder up his neck to the soft curl just behind his ear, Paradise smelled and tasted like the sweet, smoky mesquite burning on the campfire.

I gave up fighting the pull to touch him and was no longer sure why I fought it in the first place. Nothing about this felt wrong.

He peeled off his shirt. I felt it slip from above my arms. Felt the smooth warmth of his bare chest.

The stars above us shined down like spotlights. Waylon’s singing stopped and Lacey’s laughter cut through the night air. The graduation picture of Mother in her cap with the black gown covering her swollen belly like a tent crept into my mind. I had the urge, the sudden need to put both feet on the ground. Grab hold of the momentum. Think it all through.

I pushed him away, scooted to the tailgate’s edge, and stood up. The grass was almost knee-high and I prayed it was still too cool for snakes.

“Let me guess.” Paradise sat on the tailgate. He picked at a hole in the knee of his jeans. “This has something to do with that one-life-one-love-ring thing.”

His legs were slightly open. Open enough for me to slip between them. I ran my index finger down the sternum of his bare chest, stopping at the button on his jeans. “This has to do with me needing to slow down. Catch my breath.”