“A former colleague, a doctor, contacted me a few months ago. He’s at a small hospital in Tennessee and it’s rebuilding. He needs someone to head up their pediatrics department. He thought of me. Maybe you remember that tornado hitting middle Tennessee last year? Blasted the town of Windemere, lots of devastation.”
Dawson stood dumbstruck and unable to move under the weight of his father’s words. And their implication.
Franklin waved his hand. “No matter. I put our house with a realtor yesterday. I told my friend we’d be there as soon as school’s out.”
Every word felt like rocks hitting Dawson. Hadn’t their lives been enough of a nightmare during the last few years? When he’d been in seventh grade, ovarian cancer had finally claimed his mother, sucking her away after five years of suffering and fruitless treatment. Her funeral on a summer day was scarred across Dawson’s memory, but he and his dad had picked up the pieces and carried on. Now he was facing another looming nightmare.
“We? What are you saying? We can’t leave! I’ll be a senior in the fall.”
“I’m sorry, but we have to go, son. I’ve promised. The opening won’t wait.”
“B-but— My senior year. And what about the track team? They’re counting on me!”
“Can’t be helped. I’m sorry. Please understand. You’ll start at Windemere High in August. It’s a decent school. You can go online—”
“I won’t go! I’ll be out of here next year. You can move then.”
“I. Can’t. Ever since Kathy—”
Dawson watched his father’s expression twist with anguish and tears fill his eyes. Was his father going to cry? Dawson had never seen the man cry, not even at the funeral. Thirteen-year-old Dawson had cried like a baby, but not his dad. Franklin Berke was a fortress, a walled city. Seeing tears in his dad’s eyes made arguments die. A wad of emotion logjammed his throat.
His dad gathered himself and said, “I see her in every corner of this house, in every piece of furniture we picked out together, in every shadow. I can’t even sleep in our bed.”
Dawson thought back to all the mornings he’d come downstairs and found his father on the sofa in the den. In the month before his mother’s death, his dad had slept on a cot in their bedroom beside their bed so she’d be more comfortable and he’d be near if she needed him. Since his mother’s death…Too many nights, too many mornings of seeing him on the den’s worn sofa, he now realized. “Y-you never said…I never thought…”
“I should have told you, been more honest.” Franklin cleared his throat. “But you were hurting too. I thought I needed to be strong for you. Well, I can’t be strong anymore. I’m falling apart. I can’t concentrate on my patients. I need a fresh start. We have to leave.”
Dawson panicked. “Wait! I can rent a room from one of my friends. Tad has a ton of space in his house! His sister’s in college. You can move and I’ll come for Christmas. I know his parents will—”
“No,” his dad said quietly. “I need you with me, Daw. You’re all that’s left of her. All that’s left of her and me—of us.”
“But it’s not fair.”
“Life rarely is. If it was, I’d still have my wife and you’d have your mother.”
And that had settled the matter. At least for Dawson’s father. No amount of pleading had changed his mind, and as soon as Baltimore’s schools let out, Dawson had found himself in Windemere, Tennessee, stranded in Nowhereville, forced into a high school he hated, doomed to finish out his senior year in a place far from the life he’d always known. As if watching his mother die hadn’t been hard enough, now he had to “die” from within, stuck in this sucky little redneck town in a part of the country his old friends called a “flyover state.”
The only bright spot had been Coach Harrison’s eager acceptance of Dawson onto Windemere’s track team as a distance runner. Back home, Dawson had shone brightly in area meets. But around here, track wasn’t football, so he doubted his track “career” would go anywhere.
Franklin had quickly bought a house to put down roots. The home was a two-story, completely refurbished and modernized in the older but most established part of the town. He bought it outright because real estate was much cheaper in Windemere than in Baltimore, where their former house in an excellent neighborhood had sold for a tidy sum. He quickly turned the basement into a large bedroom/game room for Dawson, who spent three weeks of July back home with Tad’s family while the room was under construction. Franklin also bought him a car for his seventeenth birthday. But Dawson saw his dad’s generosity for what it was—bribery. He was trying to win Dawson’s forgiveness for the move and turn this crap-hole town into instant “home.” It wasn’t working. He’d never see this place as home.
Dawson had been in classes two weeks, and track season wouldn’t begin until March, but running kept him from going stir-crazy. After graduation, he would go to the college of his choice. He already had his dad’s promise on that. Dawson vowed he would return to the northeast, where he’d start fresh, maybe pick up parts of his old life and friendships. He’d already lost the girl. She’d moved on to another.
Thinking about the girlfriend helped him remember the one girl who had caught his interest at Windemere High. She was pretty, and he often stole covert glances at her in the halls. He should ask Paulie about her. Paulie Richardson was the only guy Dawson had befriended. The dude was stoop shouldered, nerd smart, and largely ignored by others, which suited Dawson. He wanted others to leave him alone, wasn’t about to try and fit in with a bunch of backwater kids he didn’t want to know, or even like.
Paulie lived one street over from Dawson, had two game consoles, two televisions, and a gaming library that rivaled most game stores, along with an endless supply of Pop-Tarts and microwave pizzas. Paulie’s parents worked and his grandmother lived with them, but she never bothered Dawson or Paulie. Franklin worked mind-numbing hours in the new hospital—so much for father-son togetherness. Hanging with Paulie beat going into an empty house every day after school. It also led to dinner invitations that he always accepted because Paulie’s grandmother was a great cook and she fixed supper most nights.
Dawson looked at his wrist pedometer. He’d come six miles into the countryside under a flat, heat-hazed blue sky, on a road flanked on both sides by red clay dirt and fields of farmland dry from relentless heat. Hot as hell and about as inviting. God, I hate this place. He turned and started back toward his car, which was parked on a turnout that farmers used to turn tractors around. He longed for the smell of the Chesapeake Bay, not too far from his old neighborhood.
Dawson steadied his breathing, concentrated on the sound of his shoes hitting asphalt, and wondered what Paulie’s grandma was cooking for supper.
CHAPTER 4
“You want to watch the horse parade?” Paulie pointed toward the rodeo arena.
“Don’t like horses unless they’re under the hood of my car.” Dawson crossed his arms, studying the platform stage at the Windemere Fairgrounds, where crowds were gathering for the Battle of the Bands at the Labor Day picnic. They had arrived midafternoon, eaten free barbeque, and hung around waiting for the music showdown. A softball game was happening in a far field, and a small carnival with rides and games for kids under ten was spilling out happy music in another field.
Dawson watched workers set up mikes, amps, speakers, and lights, and bands started to assemble in the area behind the stage. He was especially interested in Windemere’s own Anarchy because posters hyping their performance were splashed on bulletin boards at school and on walls of buildings in the town square. He couldn’t care less about a garage band, but the girl? Well, he’d seen her in the school corridors enough to know he wanted to see more of her.
She was dressed in biker-chick black leather, the skintight pants lined with silver studs that glinted in the lights, and a form-fitting tee with a bright red heart. A black headband held back the tangle of her blond hair. He thought she looked delicious.
Dawson e
lbowed Paulie. “Tell me all you know about her.”
“Sloan Quentin? Belongs to that guy tuning his guitar, Jarred Tester. Why you asking?”
The Jarred guy had long shaggy hair and a toned, muscular body. He wore a black muscle tank, low-slung ragged jeans, and motorcycle boots. One arm sported a straight row of arrowhead tats that traveled downward from the side of his neck to his wrist. Was the guy trying to be badass? Dawson wasn’t impressed. “I like her looks. Might want to get personal with her.”
Paulie shook his head. “Forget about it. They’re joined at the hip. The whole band is just doing time until they graduate. They have a website and a Facebook page. Prowl her there.”
Dawson made a mental note to check it out. “Joined at the hip, huh?”
“As well as other body parts. Besides, Sloan ain’t your typical down-home girl.” Dawson waited for Paulie to explain. “She’s different, probably because she doesn’t seem to care what other people think. Heard her cuss out a teacher once. We were in fourth grade. Five-day suspension, but what are they gonna do? Everybody grows up together in this town, and we all pass through the system together.” He did an imitation of marching in lockstep formation.
“Joys of small-town life.” Dawson grimaced. Back home his parents had sent him to public schools because they never wanted him to feel “entitled.” Plus, in their area, the public schools were academically sound, racially diverse, and multicultural. He eyed the girl again.
Paulie followed his line of sight. “FYI, Sloan really has a set of pipes. She’s an awesome singer. Feel free to look, but I wouldn’t recommend touching.”
“Why, because her boyfriend will kick my ass?”
“Naw, you can probably outrun him.”
Dawson laughed. He slapped Paulie’s back. “You’re a funny guy.”
Paulie seemed to bask in Dawson’s approval. “Are you sure you don’t want to go watch the horses? Pretty girls over there too. Most way more available than Sloan.”
“Think I’ll just stay here and get a good place near the stage. Looking’s free.”
Paulie shrugged. “Okay. I’ll grab us some popcorn and Cokes. Back in a sec.”
Dawson continued to watch Sloan. He had a whole school year in front of him. Maybe it was time to become more social and expand his interests. The small town still sucked, but jazzing up his social life might make his time in it bearable.
Sloan bounced on the balls of her feet, loosened her arms with a good shake. She was always on edge before she sang, but once the music started, jitters vanished and there was only the music and her immersion in it.
“Shit, that last bunch shouldn’t have bothered to show up,” Jarred said in Sloan’s ear. “A bunch of losers.”
“Be nice,” Sloan said over her shoulder.
They waited while the other band cleared the stage to halfhearted applause. Sloan was ready to bolt as soon as the MC called them out. She watched the audience edging the platform in a rim of eager faces, many she recognized. The rest of the crowd visually fell off the edges and into the dark, with the upturned stage lights making it impossible to see beyond the fringe. She knew the crowd was big because she’d watched them begin to gather at dusk, jostling for a place close to the stage. The tall lanky dark-haired guy standing on the far right corner of the platform had been watching her all afternoon. The same one who’d been eyeing her at school. He always looked away, never made eye contact, but she knew he was looking. He was a person of interest.
“Crowd’s huge,” Bobby said, tuning his bass.
The band stood in a clump in the dark at the back of the platform stage, waiting for their call out. “Bigger the better,” Jarred said. “Someday we’ll fill a Super Bowl stadium. Hey, heard there’s a few reps out there. We’re going to hit it out of the park tonight. Play for keeps, guys.”
Sloan’s nerve endings tightened, wondering if the agent talk was true or just hype from Jarred. She wanted to believe it. If they performed well, if they landed an agent, if they got radio play…She pulled back from “what-ifs.” One performance at a time.
Hal trotted onstage waving his sticks and settled behind the drums. Calder jogged to his keyboard. Bobby went next. The MC called, “Now put your hands together for Anarchy!”
The stage lights flashed. Hal began a fast rhythm on his snare. Jarred yelled, “Showtime!” then ran across the stage and started a guitar riff that Bobby joined. The crowd whistled, hooted. The music hit its crescendo and Sloan ran out, grabbed the mike, and hit the words of their opening number from deep in her throat. The crowd erupted. Their noise soaked into her, fueled her, blocked out everything except the driving beat of the music.
She strutted across the stage, dropped to her knees in front of the tall boy, leaned down, and sang straight to him. The crowd went crazy. Then she sprang to her feet, crossed to the other side, and repeated the moves to another stage hugger. Behind her Jarred sent his guitar into a blistering riff and shouted, “Way to go, baby! Pour it on!”
Sloan gave herself to the music. The amps trembled and wiped away all that was wrong about her life. Singing was what she’d been born to do!
Nothing was going to stand in the way of her doing it.
“She sang right to you, man. To your face!” Paulie jumped around Dawson like an overeager puppy in the school parking lot the next morning.
Dawson shrugged as if it hadn’t mattered and said, “Showbiz. Plus, I was the tallest person at the corner of the stage.” But he couldn’t deny that he felt like a million bucks on the inside. Hundreds of people in the crowd and it had been him Sloan had singled out, returning time and again during the band’s set to flirt openly with him. She had oozed sexiness with her looks and incredible voice.
“You weren’t the only person standing there. She had her pick.”
“She probably won’t even recognize me today.”
“So what? Everyone who was there last night will.”
Dawson hoped Sloan would take notice of him, even if her performance had been all for show. He wanted a shot at the girl. “Let’s see if I’m standing in her line of vision at the end of the day.”
“What if you are?” Paulie stopped at the threshold of the school’s front doors. “You’re not going to try and snake her from Jarred, are you?” Dawson gave a noncommittal shrug. “ ’Cause that would be suicide. He’s a mean one, that Mr. Grinch.”
Dawson went through the open door knowing all he wanted from Sloan today was an acknowledgment of his existence. He’d come up with a master plan later. Kids nodded and waved to Dawson as if they were friends.
“Told you,” Paulie said out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re the Man.”
Dawson changed the subject. “Hey, you still got the second War Games?”
“Yeah.”
“After school, then?”
“Great.” Paulie beamed. “Grandma’s making lasagna tonight.”
“She makes damn fine lasagna.” Dawson tapped him on the shoulder. “See you later.”
Dawson continued down the hall to first period, hoping he’d run into Sloan, perhaps pass her. It didn’t happen, and at lunchtime, he learned from one of the guys on his track team that Sloan and Jarred were no-shows for the day. He was disappointed. She was the only thing that had excited him in this pathetic town. A wave of homesickness washed over him. He missed his old friends and familiar classrooms, even teachers at his high school. His dad should have left well enough alone and worked out some way for Dawson to finish in Baltimore. Dawson scooped up his lunch tray and shoved it through the return window. Snagging the girl would be a distraction until he could split for good.
CHAPTER 5
“Come on! Why are you guys dragging? We’ve got four days to get it together!” Sloan shouted.
The others stopped playing, Jarred and Hal well behind the tempo of Bobby’s bass and Calder’s keyboard.
“Are you sayin’ we suck?” Jarred asked in a slurry voice. “ ’Cause I don’t think so-o-
o.”
They were practicing in Bobby’s garage, the door raised to a show of oaks and maples aflame with autumn color. Coolness nipped the air. They were scheduled to perform during halftime on the football field that coming Friday night for homecoming, but today’s rehearsal was a disaster.
Sloan spun, grabbing a fistful of Jarred’s sweatshirt. “No, we’re fine. It’s you and Hal who can’t keep up. What’s wrong with you two, anyway?”
“Just feelin’ mellow,” Jarred said, drawing the word out in a slow drawl. He bobbed to one side, his eyes half closed. Hal made oinking sounds and Jarred doubled over laughing. Still holding his shirt, Sloan looked him in the face. He was beyond mellow.
He bowed elaborately. “I’m just happy, babe. You got something against being happy?”
“You’ve been smoking, haven’t you? You know how that makes me crazy. What were you thinking?” Jarred and weed were never a good match. When he smoked, he was unpredictable; sometimes he turned hateful and harmful. She pushed him, propelling him backward into shelves of sports equipment. A skateboard clattered to the floor.
Jarred scowled. “Aw, come on, baby. It was just a couple of drags. Right, Hal?”
Hal saluted and the two of them melted into giggles.
“A couple of drags” wouldn’t have affected Jarred this much. Sloan glared at him. “Why are you doing this? Four days, Jarred. That’s all we’ve got!”
A furrow dug between his eyes as he tried to focus. “Stay off my case. You don’t tell me what to do.” Jarred pushed the skateboard into her ankle.
She winced when it hit the bone. She turned to Bobby. “Get me out of here.”
Bobby put his guitar in its stand. “Yeah, better give it up for today.”
“We quit when I say we quit,” Jarred said. “I run this band, not you, Sloan. This is my band, not yours.”