Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,41
fall silent again.
“I thought . . . I thought for sure they were going to switch him out, you know? That, like everything else in this town—”
“It wouldn’t be fair,” I finish.
“Damn right,” Merry Carole says, pulling out a bottle of champagne she’s been hiding in her cooler up until now. I’m sure she thought she’d jinx Cal’s chances if she brought it out early. She pops open the bottle with ease. She kneels on the blanket and pours the bubbling contents into our plastic cups.
“To Cal,” I say, raising my glass.
“To Cal,” Merry Carole repeats, clinking her glass with mine. We drink. In that moment I realize I didn’t look to see what Whitney and Wes were doing as Cal was being named QB1. I didn’t check and see what the enemy’s faces looked like as we vanquished them. This is new. Every success was only half experienced while I searched the room for that one disapproving face. My glories were never mine, just a pie to throw in the face of my adversary. What would life be like if I was just happy? Not happy because it would drive someone crazy, but happy because I want to be happy? Celebrating Cal felt great. For once, I let happiness just live and didn’t allow the stench of North Star’s usual disapproval. As I sip my champagne, I realize I might like to try that a bit more in the future. Maybe those are my terms. And maybe that starts with taking the job at Shine Prison. It seems odd that such a grisly job could make me happy, but there’s something pulling me to it. Something I want to figure out. So, instead of inviting everyone to look down on me, why don’t I just decide what I want to do . . . and do it.
A band takes to the stage and the twang of country music floats through the town square. Couples take to the floor. Country western dancing’s roots are firmly held in the waltz and polka genres, but there’s an elegance and effortlessness to it that belies any modern take the dance could have. Couples move as one, and the older, more experienced couples barely touch the floor at all. Men in cowboy hats hold their women tightly as they guide them across the floor. Shuffling cowboy boots leave scuff marks on the wooden dance floor as the sun finally dips below the horizon and the day finally begins to cool down. The dance floor is awash in light from the red, white, and blue lanterns as the couples drift and sashay. Merry Carole and I sit, slightly buzzed off the champagne we drank too quickly because of the heat.
“I think I’m going to head home,” I say, standing.
“Well, we sure appreciated you coming out today,” Merry Carole says.
“I’m going to see what you’ve got around the house and throw together something for supper, if you’re interested,” I say, smoothing my skirt down in the back.
“Oh sure,” Merry Carole says, taking out her cell phone.
“Are you checking in with Cal?” I ask, just about to head out.
“Oh . . . no, I’m sure he’s off somewhere with the team,” Merry Carole says, covering her cell phone.
“So you’re not going to tell me who you’re texting?”
“No.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“I’m going to assume it’s a man and that you’re passionately and quite secretly in love,” I say, standing over her. Merry Carole just rolls her eyes and continues texting.
“Just go on now,” Merry Carole says, shooing me away.
I walk across the park past the food booths that have been set out on the street at the edge of the town square. I think about the day, about Cal standing up there holding that sign over his head: WAKE. I trot across the main street in a happy haze, reliving it all. I turn the corner by the post office.
Everett.
“Oh hey,” I say, caught completely off guard.
“Hey,” Everett says, just as startled.
We stand there frozen once again. The live music floats throughout the town.
“Well, good seeing you. Hey, say hi to your folks for me,” I say and continue walking down the street. I can’t be alone with him. I won’t set myself up for that. I have to get away from him or else—
“Queenie, it’s just us here. Can we—,” Everett says, turning around.
“Just how you like it, right?” I call, not looking back. My voice is breathy and desperate. The pain of being without him is fueling my anger.