Somebody Everybody Listens To (2 page)

Dolly's intonations came easily—maple syrup with a little Marilyn Monroe mixed in. The slight warbling in her silky voice reminded me of a hummingbird or bumblebee. Like me, she'd grown up surrounded by nature, and I wondered if these sounds had influenced her vocal cords somehow.

After some Loretta and Tammy, I climbed back in the car and polished off my Sundrop, although the last thing I needed was more caffeine. Singing always gets me keyed up, makes my hands shake ever so slightly, and my heart race. Brenda stood outside the Camaro and did her best to blow the cigarette smoke in the opposite direction. She'd gone quiet all of a sudden.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

Brenda didn't respond. She just stood there with her back toward me. Her shoulders looked so narrow and bony, fragile somehow, even though Brenda is one of the toughest people I know. “Everything's changing, you know that? You. Me. Wayne. Everything.”

“Well, it's not changing quick enough,” I said glumly.

“But it will. Our lives are in fast-forward now that high school's over.” Brenda took a drag and blew swirly smoke rings into the air. “I'll start nursing school in the fall, and you'll be off in Nashville by then.”

We were silent for a minute.

“Retta?”

“Yeah?”

“You've got to do it. And I know it's gonna be hard and all, but it'll be much worse being left. It's always easier to be the one leaving.” Brenda dropped her cigarette butt into the McDonald's cup, and it sizzled on impact. She put the lid on again then slid back into the driver's seat.

“In case you haven't noticed, I have no car and no money. I won't be going anywhere anytime soon,” I said.

“Why are you like this all of a sudden, Retta?”

“Like what?”

“Like
this
.” She frowned at me. “Retta, nobody else at Starling High School had a clue about what they wanted out of life, except for Desiree, of course. But you . . . well, Retta, you always knew what you were meant to do, and it used to be so much fun to talk about Nashville. You were all gung ho, Miss Positive Attitude, nothing's gonna stop me, but for weeks now you're nothing but doom and gloom about the whole thing. It's like you've just given up or something.”

“Now it's real,” I pointed out. “I'm not sitting in algebra class daydreaming.”

“Let's take the T-tops out,” Brenda said suddenly, and popped the one on her side. Brenda's car is historic, or just old, depending on your perspective, so instead of a sunroof, it has two removable glass panels. I took out the one on my side, and we slid them both into the backseat. “We could drive by Tercell's,” Brenda suggested. “I heard her daddy was setting off fireworks tonight.”

I shook my head. I wasn't in the mood for silly Tercell or her daddy's fireworks. “I had to buy a hot-water heater two weeks ago. Did you know that?”

Brenda ignored me and fumbled through her CD case.

“Last month it was the TV,” I went on. “One minute Daddy was watching
Lonesome Dove
for the hundredth time, and the next minute the stupid thing was dead. The picture tube went bad, and you can't fix that. You just have to buy a whole new television.”

“Maybe the picture tube was sick of
Lonesome Dove
,” said Brenda.

“The second I get a decent amount saved up, just enough to
maybe
buy some really crappy car, I have to help pay the electric bill or the phone bill. Daddy works hard and all, but he's never gonna make any real money at Movers and Shakers, and it's killing him. His back is in spasms every night when he gets home.”

“For one thing, that's the stupidest name I've ever heard of. I mean, you want all your stuff moved
without
the shaking, right?” said Brenda.

“Whatever. The point is Mr. Hawkins hardly pays him anything. And the little bit I contribute helps out some, but it means I can't save up enough to leave. And when, or
if
, I do leave, what'll Daddy do then?”

“Well, your
mother
could always get a job,” Brenda said, and pressed her lips together. I could tell she was trying hard to keep her strong opinions about my mother to herself.

“Yeah, well, Mama says she'll get a job the day Daddy learns to turn on the stove and/or operate the washing machine. You wanna know what's weird?”

“Nope.”

“It's like there are these two mes. There's the one me that really believes I'll go to Nashville and pursue my dream and be a singer, and then there's this other me that just laughs and shakes her head and says it'll never happen.”

“There's not anybody else in that head of yours is there?”

“And you wanna know what gets to me more than any of that other stuff?” Brenda switched on the light and checked her teeth in the rearview mirror. “That maybe I'm not good enough anyway,” I went on. “That maybe I'll somehow scrape together the money and get to Nashville only to find out—”

“Shut up, Retta!” Brenda snapped off the light. “I'll listen to you piss and moan about money because that's a serious problem, but this other stuff is stupid, and you know it. All you've heard your whole life is what a great singer you are. Most people would sell their soul for your voice. Tercell would settle for an A-cup just to sing like you—and in case you haven't noticed, she is
very
fond of her double-D's.” Brenda pushed in a CD.

“Please don't play that Shania song again.”

“Maybe you should really listen to it,” Brenda said, and advanced to track three. “She's Not Just a Pretty Face” eased out of the speakers, and Brenda cranked the volume and sang along off-key. When it was over, she lowered it again. “Shania's parents
died
, Retta. Can you imagine getting a phone call like that, finding out that both your parents are dead?”

“I don't like to talk about this,” I replied. Brenda had told Shania's tragic story a million times, and it always gave me a pit in my stomach, like something bad was about to happen.

“She was left with all those brothers and sisters to take care of, and she was still a kid herself.”

“I
know
,” I said.

“Somehow she made it, though,” Brenda went on. “She's
not
just a pretty face, which is how come I love that song so much. Shania's tough and strong. Just like you and me. It'll work out. You will get to Nashville, Retta,” she said with way more confidence than I deserved.

Brenda started the car, and we drove around for a while—all through town and past Tercell's house out on River Road. We didn't stop, though. If you ask me, graduation night is highly overrated.

Brenda cut the lights when we were almost to my house. It was late, and the last thing either of us wanted was for her to wake my parents, specifically, Mama. Mama loathed Brenda almost as much as I loved her, and the reason wasn't complicated. When I was little, Mama and I were close, but as I grew up, not so much, and my mother had somehow convinced herself Brenda was to blame. That was stupid, of course, but once my mama gets something stuck in her head, there's no getting it out again.

“So you're going out with Wayne tomorrow night, right?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. Brenda and Wayne have a standing date every Friday night.

“Yeah, there's the annual pig roast out at McClellan's farm. All the employees are invited. Bobby will be there.” Brenda gave me a teasing grin. “You could come with me and Wayne, give that boy one last memory before you leave town.”

“And do what with Tercell Blount exactly? Pry her off him with a crowbar?”

“Or maybe
beat
her with the crowbar.” Brenda laughed.

“You are such a redneck,” I said, and watched as she took a sip of her Dr Pepper. Obviously, she'd forgotten there was a cigarette butt floating inside.

“Oh my God!
Gross!
” Brenda pounded the steering wheel. “Gum, Retta! I need gum!
Quick!
”

“Now you know how Wayne probably feels every time he kisses you. Just like licking an ashtray,” I said, and dug through my purse for a stick of Juicy Fruit.

I climbed out of Brenda's car and watched her back down our steep, washed out driveway. Long ago, Daddy'd given up on refilling the crater-size holes. The minute he refilled them, it rained like crazy and washed everything away again. Brenda waved and sped off up the road, headlights turned on this time.

I tiptoed up the porch steps, avoiding the creaky spots, and sat down. Even though I had to work bright and early the next morning, I couldn't seem to drag myself to bed. There was a storm brewing, I could smell it on the air, hear it rustling in the leaves. In the few hours we'd sat out on Baker's Point, the night had gone from bright and starry to inky black. The river would be starting to whitecap right about now.

There was a storm churning inside my head, too, and it had been raging for weeks. So many thoughts, and all of them coming at once—Starling High School and the way I'd always felt there, like nobody took me seriously, which they didn't. Bluebell's Diner with its awful greasy smell and Stinky Stan, my creepy letch manager (every time he looked at me, I felt like I needed a scalding hot shower), and Mama and Daddy and the tired bitterness between them.

And I thought about all the times I'd held myself back—not studied for a test, not done my homework. More than once it had occurred to me that maybe I couldn't be trusted with a big dream.

NORMALLY, Bluebell's Diner doesn't start hopping before eight A.M., but by seven-thirty it was jam-packed. The electricity on Polk Road was working just fine, but last night's storm had left folks in other parts of town without power on this hot June morning. The counter was lined with a string of old men drinking coffee. The booths were crowded with moms and dads and their hungry kids. Scattered here and there were a few out-of-towners, the folks who breezed through Starling on their way fi shing or waterskiing. People like that just loved Bluebell's, said it was filled with country charm.

I felt like telling them about Stinky Stan and his habit of not washing his hands properly or digging in his crotch or dropping the occasional biscuit on the gritty floor and plopping it right back on a plate.
Charming, my butt,
I thought, and set down a piping-hot cup of coffee. “You want sugar with that?” Even though I was in a terrible mood, I smiled and waited for the reply I knew would come.

Just like clockwork, the harmless old man said, “I'd love a little sugar,” then he puckered up his wrinkled lips. I pretended it was the funniest joke I'd ever heard and slid the container of sweetener his way.

“Don't you just love how amused they are with theirselves?” Estelle mumbled in my ear. “Like we ain't heard that shit a million times before.” Estelle had been working at Bluebell's since the year
she
graduated high school, two decades and then some.

“Well, at least he's the first one who's said it today,” I replied, and grabbed two plates off the warmer.

“Hey, I asked you for a bottle of steak sauce ten minutes ago!” a fiftyish man in a baseball cap shouted at me.

“I'll be right with you,” I said, and plunked down two creamy chipped beef specials in front of a nice-looking couple. Clearly, they were from out of town, the owners of that shiny Volvo in the parking lot, no doubt. “Can I get y'all anything else?”

“No, thank you.” The woman smiled up at me politely.

“I'm good,” her husband replied.

“Well, just let me know if you need anything else,” I said, deliberately making the rude man wait.

“Do I have to get the steak sauce myself or what?” he yelled.

I glanced up and noticed Estelle making a beeline straight for him, a bottle of Heinz 57 raised so high it appeared she might bludgeon him to death with it.

 

During my break, I sat down on the back stoop and took a long, slow swig of sweet tea. My head was pounding, and my stomach felt like I'd had cockleburs for breakfast instead of toast and eggs. I pulled out my order pad and wrote down a number: $514.76—my life savings. Brenda's pep talk was still fresh in my mind. On the bright side, $514.76 was more than enough for a bus ticket. Way more, in fact. But once I got to Nashville, then what? I'd need a place to stay and food and more bus money. And that didn't even count the unexpected expenses.