Page 5 of August Lane

CHAPTER TWO

A nyone who passed through the center of Arcadia might assume the town was dead or dying.

The houses were old. The buildings were the color of prisons.

After a hundred years of hemorrhaging citizens, the people still living there were dismissed as aberrations.

Dead bodies twitched as the life drained out of them, didn’t they?

Nothing to write home about or stop the car for.

Only those people were wrong. The old, ugly buildings had been built by Black hands for Black businesses back when all-Black towns were havens.

That legacy made Arcadia immortal. While poverty kept some tied to the dwindling community, most stayed out of love, for each other and occasionally something else.

For August Lane, it was the town’s biggest export, something you could hear, but unless you stopped the car to catch a show, would never see.

Arcadia was an incubator for Delta music—gospel, blues, and soul—all brushed with the South in a way that shouldered up to country but was rarely identified as such.

Which was fine for the long timers, who preferred to be left alone.

But for young people like August, convinced she’d built her seventeen-year-old passions from the ground up, choosing safety had started to feel dangerous, like the quickest way to disappear.

Arcadia had two major events: the Delta Music Festival, which was coming in a few months, and the county fair, which was happening now.

August loved the fair. She loved the rides, the long lines, and the sickly sweet smell of funnel cakes layered over earth and sweat.

She loved the sudden drops from big heights and spinning in spirals that rearranged her insides.

She also loved the concerts, which, despite the flat, treeless land surrounding the stages, still felt intimate with their acoustic instruments and rowdy stomps.

All that love made August reckless, convinced her that going out on a school night to see a blues band was worth the risk of running into people she was trying to avoid.

Being ignored was a privilege most people didn’t appreciate.

August was the only child of Jojo Lane, the town’s most famous citizen, and lived under watchful eyes that had witnessed every mistake she’d made since birth.

Since the event drew fairgoers from three neighboring cities, she’d assumed she wouldn’t be recognized.

So far, she was right. Any waves or smiles had been the polite greetings of strangers.

August had taken extra care with her appearance.

Her hair was pressed into a silky black sheet that hung to the small of her back.

Her shirt was formfitting, with a lower neckline than she was brave enough to wear to school.

Her ears sparkled with tiny diamonds that glittered like stars against her skin.

She felt shamelessly pretty. Free to bask in attention without being judged for it.

She’d nearly reached the concert venue with all that confidence intact when a familiar voice shouted her name.

Richard Green (or Dicky, as he harassed girls into calling him just so he could leer when they said it) stood in the center of a group of football players waiting in line for the Ferris wheel.

He wore a white Arcadia High T-shirt, and his dark hair was damp beneath a backward baseball cap.

He poked out his bottom lip and mouthed, “ I miss you ,” while his teammates laughed.

August had only been a student at Arcadia High for two weeks.

She’d attended Eastside High until the state decided two public high schools were unnecessary for such a small town and closed it before her senior year.

Arcadia High was newer, bigger, and whiter, since it pulled from expensive subdivisions in the unincorporated areas of the county.

That summer, the school had paired the majority Black Eastside transfers with Arcadia High peer mentors hoping to, as they stated in the official welcome letter, “smooth the transition.”

August had been paired with Richard Green.

He was cute in a way only rich boys could be: carelessly confident, with an infectious playfulness that seduced you into adopting his optimistic view of the world.

From June through July, she’d been someone else, a girl who was taken on picnics and had long make-out sessions pressed against leather BMW seats.

But on the first day of school, when someone wrote slut in permanent marker on her new locker, all those romantic moments were revealed for what they were.

August had been the poorly hidden secret of a guy cheating on his girlfriend.

In twenty-four hours her loose reputation was cemented, and now Richard only looked her in the eye while making jokes about fucking a local celebrity.

Guys like Richard were the reason August never dated.

No one saw her. They saw Jojo Lane’s daughter: Jojo the Oreo, as everyone liked to joke.

Richard had tricked her into thinking he was different and didn’t consider a Black woman singing country weird at all.

“Jojo’s cool,” he’d claimed in that flippant way that made you feel silly for worrying about it. “Good music doesn’t have a color.”

August spotted the funhouse and shoved her ticket into the hand of the guy watching the door. Once inside, she stumbled when the floor started scissoring back and forth. Her heart was pounding. The memory of what she’d done with Richard was a bomb in her chest.

She took careful steps until the floor gave way to colorful platforms that were supposed to move up and down but were suspended in the air, probably broken, which explained the lack of people waiting in line.

Two pimply boys jumped on one, shaking it while they screamed like monkeys.

The hall of mirrors was next. She caught a glimpse of her reflection.

The clothes and makeup that had made her feel confident five minutes ago seemed desperate now.

She ducked into the next room and was doused in darkness.

After a bit of grasping, she found a patch of wall and leaned against it.

The speakers played music from a local country station, and August tried to focus on the lyrics.

It was the last verse of “Travelin’ Soldier,” a song she loved.

She sang softly at first but was lulled into something louder by the good acoustics.

Soon she was belting the chorus with vocal runs that made her throat hurt but also kept her from crying over Richard, which so far, she’d managed not to do.

The song ended, and she heard labored breathing. Someone stood a few feet away, but it was too dark to make them out. August pushed away from the wall and widened her eyes, as if that would infuse light into the pitch-black room. “Is someone there?”

A low voice answered “Yes,” then added “Me” between rapid huffs of too little air. She waited for his name, but he asked, “Are you okay?”

The question stumped her. He was the one who sounded like someone had a pillow pressed against his face. Then she realized he’d been there the whole time, listening to her whine about never holding another guy’s hand. “I’m fine,” she reassured him. “It’s a sad song.”

“Yeah, it is.”

She sensed him moving closer, so she folded her arms so they wouldn’t accidentally touch. They stood silently in the dark, listening to the opening lyrics of “Islands in the Stream.”

“The Bee Gees wrote this song,” she said, then instantly regretted tossing out that particular fact.

No one knew how much she loved country music.

It always led to more comparisons to her mother.

More bullying. But the guy couldn’t see her.

There was no way for him to know she was a Black girl with an encyclopedic knowledge of eighties country pop.

“The Bee Gees?” Disgust strengthened his voice. She could almost hear his mind rebelling against the thought of disco royalty having anything to do with the iconic duet. “Are you serious?”

His voice was deep and winding, the way cowboys spoke in the Westerns her uncle Silas watched. That man would put up with almost anything except her talking through an episode of Bonanza .

“Gross, right,” she said flatly. “Wasn’t disco just cocaine and the Hustle?”

He made a sound, an amused snort smothered by a grunt. “You makin’ fun of me?”

“Yes.” She listened for a moment. “It’s a good song.”

“One of the best songs,” he corrected. “Underrated. The whole thing is this big romantic gesture—”

“Like Dolly and Kenny were musical soulmates singing about finding your soulmate.”

“Exactly.” His voice echoed in the empty room, and he immediately fell silent. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “You have a nice voice.”

“I know.”

“Better than Natalie Maines.”

“Don’t get blasphemous.”

He laughed. She smiled, thrilled at prompting the sound. It was a small thing that felt big, making someone laugh.

“Do you ever sing in front of people?” he asked.

“In the choir at church.”

“Everyone sings there. I mean, do you perform?”

August pictured her mother bouncing across the stage in rhinestones and heeled boots. The word perform always made her think of something from the circus. “If you mean, do I stand onstage alone with a microphone, no.” She paused, then admitted, “But I want to. I will one day.”

“You should,” he declared, and it warmed her insides. She liked how he’d recklessly tossed it in the air like truth. A silent beat fell between them, then he cleared his throat and said, “You haven’t asked why I’m here. Lurking in the dark.”

“Do I want to? Is it gross?”

“No.”

“You have pants on, right?”

“Yes.”

“I should have asked you that sooner.”

“I’m cool, I swear.”

“Okay. I believe you,” she said. “So, why are you here?”