Chapter 2
Dahlia
Ten years old
“One day, we’ll be at the top of the world,” Carter announced with a huge smile as he stepped on an old, empty wooden crate at the back of his garage, holding his guitar above his head like some sort of trophy.
His garage was our rehearsing space. His daddy had cleaned out a corner for us to practice after school, on weekends, and during the summer.
With Jeff’s help—because he knew how to use the big stapler and the stepladder—I had hung fairy lights across the ceiling.
We used old furniture some neighbors were getting rid of to furnish our corner.
Carter had pinned a Johnny Cash poster on one wall, and I’d brought my glittery pink blanket to cover the ugly-brown-stained sofa Mrs. Canterbury, our seventy-six-year-old neighbor, had gifted us.
Mrs. Canterbury loved our music and often asked Carter and me to play for her in exchange for cookies and homemade lemonade.
Who could ever refuse such a deal? Not us.
We loved cookies way too much. So, mostly on hot summer days, we played for our neighbor—which meant an endless supply of snacks and drinks.
Sweet deal because Tennessee summers were hot as hell, as Mama often said.
“We’ll have people cheering for us,” I said. “Imagine if we could have twenty people coming over to listen to us. It would be huge. We could make flyers and ask the postman to pass them around the neighborhood. Or maybe we could give them out at the grocery store ourselves.”
Carter shook his head. “No, Dah, we’ll fill a stadium. Like the one where we went to see the monster truck competition the other day with your daddy.”
“A stadium?” My heart made a funny flip inside my chest. “I don’t know, Carter.
Won’t you be nervous if strangers come to see you sing?
A stadium means a lot of people. Like a lot.
At least a thousand. I’m not sure I want that.
It’ll be scary. Twenty people are already one too many.
Don’t you think it’s a big enough crowd? ”
“My daddy always says to dream big. I think twenty people are not enough, Dah.” Carter shook his head, still standing on that wooden crate. “We need to aim bigger. How about a hundred people? It would be huge if we could play for that many people.”
My breath got stuck in my lungs, and I coughed.
I rubbed my hands together. Carter’s head needed to be checked.
Could he be suffering from heatstroke? I should go inside and get his mama.
One hundred people? My best friend looked at me with big, rounded eyes.
Was he serious? “A hundred people? Carter, I’m not sure even Johnny Cash had that many people coming to see him in concert.
If we can get fifty people to pay for tickets to hear us, we’ll be rich and famous. ”
He pondered my words for a couple of beats. “You’re right. If we get fifty people to buy ten-buck tickets, we’ll be superstars.”
I emptied my lungs. Okay, fifty was better than one hundred. I could do fifty. Or I hoped I could. The flip-flops behind my ribs returned.