Famous in a Small Town(12)

Brit could walk on her own, but she leaned heavily on us anyway, swaying toward me. “Do you think Cassie knows her skirt is ugly?”

“She does now,” August said.

She snorted and then leaned toward him. “Question.”

“Yeah?”

“Who even are you anyway?”

His lips twitched. “August Shaw, so I’m told.”

“Different last name,” she said.

“Hm?”

“Conlin. Shaw.”

His expression didn’t change, but his lips pressed together slightly as he reached for the front door.

“You’re not bad-looking, you know,” Brit continued.

“Geez, Brit, come on,” I said.

“He’s not! It’s a compliment! You’re just her type,” she told August in a loud whisper, jerking her head toward me. I squeezed her wrist where it hung down around my neck, praying she wouldn’t mention Teen Zones. “And I go in for that whole kinda vibe sometimes myself, if I’m being honest.” She held up one finger. “Sometimes. Don’t get any ideas.”

Now August looked amused. “I have no ideas. I’ve never had an idea in my life.”

It was my turn to snort.

We waited for Dash out front. Inside, they cranked “Gave You My Heartland,” which means people had reached peak intoxication. A sing-along began after the opening chords.

“Hey, this is her.” Brit batted at August’s arm. “Good ol’ Megan Pleasant. Meggy P. Pride of Acadia right there.” I mentally cataloged Meggy P. for future use. I didn’t usually use drunk-Brit things against normal Brit. But Meggy P. was too good.

I watched as Brit spun around, started dancing, and then stopped suddenly, swaying a little on the spot. “You know who should sing at the Megan Pleasant contest?” She smiled, broad and pure. “Megan Pleasant.”

Then she belched.

“Except she would probably win,” she continued, “and then Chelsea Peters would cry ’cause she’s been trying to win that shit for the last hundred years.” She tossed her cup aside. “No one wants her crappy indie version of ‘Steel Highway.’” She pointed to August. “When you sing ‘Steel Highway,’ you have to put the motherfucking steel on that motherfucking highway. None of that … warbling shit. Fucking … ukulele. If Megan Pleasant heard that, she would slap Chelsea. In the face.”

“Where else would she slap her?” August murmured.

“On the ass?” I said.

“Like a Go team! kind of thing?”

I nodded. “Maybe if she was into it.”

Headlights appeared, cutting through the circle drive in front of Tegan’s house, and Dash’s pride and joy, his 1992 Cutlass Supreme, pulled up in front of us.

He had bought it from an old lady down the street with the money he made last summer, and fixed it up as best he could. I remember when he first showed it off to us. It’s an antique, he had said, because a car had to be twenty-five years old to be one, and the Cutlass just qualified. There had to be a pretty deep valley of coolness stretching between a barely antique car and a definitely antique car, but no one pointed that out, because Dash was well and truly thrilled. He had smiled that sun coming out from behind the clouds smile—an impossibly wide one where you could see his top and bottom teeth, pure joy, like a little kid.

I opened the door and ushered Brit in.

“What about my bike?” she said as I got her seat belt fastened.

“August will ride it. Flora can ride her own.”

A worried crease appeared on her forehead. “What about her shoes? She can’t pedal in those shoes.”

“She’ll be all right.”

“Here.” She fumbled against the seat belt, reaching down and pulling off one of her sneakers. “Take my shoes.”

“Brit—”

“Give Flora my shoes.” She wrangled the other one off and forced them both on me. I took them, battered and warm.

“Drive safe, okay?”

Dash nodded, and I stepped back, shutting the door.

The window was down, and Brit waved to me like we might never see each other again.

“I love you, Sophie.”

“Love you too.”

“Give Flora my shoes.”

“I will.”

They drove off, brake lights disappearing in the distance.

It was quiet.

“I was thinking of heading out too,” August said after a moment. “Should I give you my shoes? Is that like a parting thing here?”

“Yeah. Get drunk, comment on people’s appearances, talk about country music. Give away your shoes.”

“Noted.”

“You should take Brit’s bike. Flora’s was probably a bit small for you.” My eyes raked his frame for a moment, and then I tried to pretend like they hadn’t. “You can just leave it outside my house.”

His brow furrowed. “But someone might steal it.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Like. Vagrants or something.”

“This is Acadia. Most people don’t lock their front doors.”

“Most people are pretty deluded.”

“Ooh, edgy,” I said, starting around the side of the house toward the garage, where our bikes were stowed. August followed. “Are you gonna school me all about life in the big mean city?”