Page 17 of August Lane

“Here she is,” Patty announced. There was a short period of fumbling with the receiver and distant voices before Jojo said “Hi!” with too much enthusiasm. She answered everyone’s call with the same warmth, even telemarketers, like she’d been secretly hoping to hear from them.

“Hi,” August said, staring at her notes. Jojo was in Kansas City at a folk music festival. She’d mailed August a flyer with her name in a small font, buried in a sea of other musicians. “Excited about the show?”

Rule number three. Start with her. Always. Never you.

“Oh, I guess so. It’s a little thing, opening for someone I never heard of. The usual.” There was a muffled sound, like she was covering the receiver. “Sorry, people keep asking me questions I don’t know the answer to. What was I saying?”

“That you’re opening for someone who’s overrated.”

Jojo laughed. Pleasure pooled in August’s stomach. She was doing well.

“Yep, exactly. So, how are you? How’s school? Your friends?”

In her efforts to reassure Jojo that it was safe to call on a regular basis, August had embellished her teenage life with imagery stolen from John Hughes movies.

There were best friends who invited her to sleepovers.

There were science fairs. There were plays in which she sang in a large chorus, and that explained the lack of pictures.

The boys were nice to her but standoffish because they were intimidated by her famous mother.

She wasn’t sure what Jojo would say if she knew the truth: that August hadn’t had a real friend since fifth grade, before everyone decided it was embarrassing to have a Black mother who wore cowboy hats and used to yodel in beauty pageants.

She couldn’t tell her mother how badly she’d fumbled her chance to reinvent herself at a new school by sleeping with the first guy who offered her an Arcadia Eagles welcome pack of M&M’s.

“School is fine. It’s great. Homecoming is next month.” August was only slightly confident this was true. She’d thrown the event calendar in the trash seconds after it was handed to her.

“Oh Lord, homecoming. I remember that. Is there a dance? Are you going?”

Jojo had a habit of stringing multiple questions together, probably because it saved time. August picked the easiest one to answer. “Yes, there’s a dance. I think it’s a Motown theme. Everyone’s supposed to look like the Temptations or Supremes.”

“I like that. What are you gonna do?”

“I haven’t decided.” She wasn’t going, but she couldn’t help thinking about it. She loved Motown. “Maybe Aretha.”

“Good choice. Let me know if you need help with a costume.”

The idea of Jojo taking time out of her busy schedule to style her wig and wing her eyeliner made a lump form in August’s throat. The worst lies were those you wished were true. “I will,” August said.

There was a silent beat, a lull too long for comfort. August asked “When are you coming down?” just as Jojo said “Sounds like you’re keeping out of trouble.”

Trouble in the Lane house was shorthand for a sprawling list of sins. Failed classes. Drugs. Sex. Are your skirts too short? Are your legs too open? Are you like me in all the ways everyone hates?

August was nothing like her mother, but sometimes it was hard to remember that.

Physically, they were opposites. Jojo was all long, skinny angles, with chestnut skin and green eyes that no one could pinpoint the source of.

August was kinkier and curvier, with big dark eyes that made her look sleepy or startled, nothing in between.

In third grade, a boy once told her that staring at them felt like being pulled into a tar pit.

But the story of Jojo and August always started with how alike they were.

Jojo was born at midnight after a thunderstorm, and so was August, even though the seasons were different.

They both took exactly eight hours and thirty-five minutes to enter the world, which was always mentioned with reverence, like the number was a spell someone had cast over their lives.

To August, it felt like a curse. When she hit puberty, everyone had waited with bated breath for the trouble to start, just like it had with Jojo.

“No trouble here,” August reassured her. “I’m boring these days. Birdie’s teaching me how to knit, so be on the lookout for an ugly scarf in the mail, which you’re legally required to wear at least once where other people can see it.”

She expected Jojo to laugh. But her mother fell silent, then said, “How is she?” in a tone that had plummeted several degrees.

“Birdie? She’s fine. Busy. Good.” August bit her lip so she’d stop stringing adjectives together.

All these years, you’d think she’d be better at avoiding this source of tension.

Jojo only spoke to her mother when it couldn’t be avoided, usually about the money she sent each month.

Birdie was just as reluctant to interact with her daughter and constantly tried to manage August’s expectations regarding Jojo.

“That girl may love you, but she’ll never do it well. ”

August took a deep breath and dove into a different topic. “I’m starting a new job next week.”

“Are you?” Jojo’s question was forcefully cheerful. She was equally determined to turn the conversation around. “Where?”

“King’s. It’s part-time.”

“Silas do that for you?” Her mother’s voice changed again—the careful, crisp vowels stretching into her real accent. It happened when she was annoyed or angry.

“I don’t know. I just walked in and applied.

” August tried to make it sound nonchalant, an audible shrug.

Jojo always ate at King’s when she was home, so August thought the topic was safe.

But Silas was Theo King’s brother. Jojo could barely say either name without spitting.

“It’s the only place you can earn tips.”

“What do you need money for?” Jojo asked. “What are you doing with what I send you?”

August had to be careful. She’d been saving the money her mother sent to pay for the move to Nashville.

There was enough to cover the deposit and two months’ rent at the cheap apartment complex she’d found online.

Paying for studio time and a demo was another story.

She wasn’t sure how much it would cost, and the one person who could tell her refused to entertain the idea that her daughter would become a singer.

“You don’t want this,” Jojo had said when August hinted at being interested in music.

“This business is factory work. You’re not built for it. ”

When August questioned Jojo’s reasoning, her mother shut her down. “The only thing I’m paying for is college. You do anything else, you’re on your own.” So for the last two years, August had saved every cent she could from her monthly allowance, hoping it would be enough.

“The job is just something to do,” August said quickly. “It’ll be spending money.”

There was a soft tapping sound at her window. August looked up and saw Mavis outside, motioning for her to open it. August pointed at the phone, mouthed Jojo’s name, and lifted a finger, indicating she should wait. Mavis shook her head, eyes wide, and mouthed, “ Now. ”

“Are you listening to me?” Jojo asked.

“Sorry, I got distracted.”

“I need to go anyway.”

She felt a familiar panic. Each time Jojo left, whether it be a visit or phone call, August wondered if it would be the last time they ever spoke. “Okay. Good luck. I mean, I hope it goes well.”

“Be good, Augustina,” Jojo said, then hung up.

Mavis’s climb through August’s window was slower and clumsier than in the past. She was out of practice.

Her cousin hadn’t appeared unannounced like this since junior high.

Mavis wore AHS volleyball gear identical to what Jessica had been wearing earlier.

Her hair was even pulled back into a matching braid.

“Before you say anything, yes, this is rude of me and no, my parents don’t know I’m here. No one does.”

“Okay.” August wasn’t sure whether to keep standing or sit. She walked to her dresser and leaned against it, splitting the difference. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t interrupt me.”

“I hadn’t planned to, but fine.”

“And no jokes. Not even the kind you just did.”

“That wasn’t funny enough to be a joke.”

“August. Stop! I can’t do this if you—” She gulped down air. “I’m pregnant,” she said, then covered her face and cried.