Chapter Three
Three
I’m elbow-deep in a broken fryer, singing “Greased Lightnin’?” to myself, when my phone buzzes against my butt for the third time.
Twice is concerning—three times is worry-about-my-mom status.
I wipe my hands free of the cold oil and fish the phone out in time to see Everly’s name across the display. I release a sigh of relief.
“What’s up? I’m at work.”
All I hear on the other line is indiscernible screaming.
It’s so loud that even Mike hears it from his perch on the counter and sets down the napkin he’s folding. He mouths, Who is it? And I mouth, Everly.
“Ev, can you use your big girl words?”
“I GOT THE JOB!”
Suddenly I’m screaming, too, and Mike is trying, unsuccessfully, to shush me. Ted and Jose, our line cooks, watch me in amused disbelief.
“That’s amazing!” I cheer.
“I know! Gabby’s having me come to Chicago and San Diego, too, and they’re letting me hire a backing band and design my own lighting and everything.”
“Holy shit, Everly, I want to see every single—” A realization dawns on me. “Wait, what about Halloran’s tour?”
She takes a breath on the other line. “That’s the other reason I’m calling.”
I wait for more, my heart still thumping for her. This opportunity is going to change her life.
“I spoke with Halloran’s tour manager, Jen. They need a replacement singer ASAP, and someone that can leave in forty-eight hours for an eight-week stint. She said if I can find someone who can sing, she’ll let me out of my contract to take the gig with Gabby.”
“Where do we start looking? Anyone from school? Didn’t you say that girl from your music theory class—”
“Clementine,” she cuts me off. “I told her you could do it.”
Everything in me rolls to a halt. “Me?”
“You what?” Mike asks, drawing nearer.
“Yes!” Everly screams from the other side of the phone. “Jen and I are close. This is the third show I’ve done with her. And it’s pretty last-minute even to find a backup of a backup. So I showed her that video of you singing ‘Something’s Coming’ the other night.”
“You did what ?!”
“She was totally blown away. I told her how you have perfect pitch, a massive range, and the quickest memory of anyone I know. You can learn his set in two days, easy. I also told her you were already a big Halloran fan…”
“I’ve only heard that one song!”
Why am I even engaging in this? I’m not qualified to join a superstar on tour. I can’t leave Cherry Grove for eight weeks. I can’t leave my mom.
Mike is still mouthing, Tell me what’s happening , but I ignore him.
“You’ll make it work,” Everly says. “Clementine, I need you to do this. If I can’t replace myself, I can’t open for Gabby. I signed a contract.”
My skin prickles at the position she’s putting me in. Mike grabs for my arm in desperation, but I swat at him with my dirty dishrag.
“Ev—”
“Wait,” she interrupts. “Have I told you what it pays?” When I don’t respond, she takes the opportunity to do so. “Three grand a show, eight weeks, twenty-seven shows.”
Quick mental math that I credit to my valedictorian title results in me screaming, “ Eighty-one thousand dollars? ”
Mike practically has a conniption. “What is going on?!”
“I’ve got to go,” Everly says. “Jen’s calling me in to discuss logistics. Please think about it, okay? Please? I need to know by tonight.”
When Everly hangs up, I stand completely still, mind reeling.
Mike sighs. “If you don’t tell me what’s happening I’m going to puke.”
“Everly got the gig opening for Gabby Robinson at her Nashville show. She needs to find someone to take her spot singing backup in Halloran’s tour, which starts the day after tomorrow in Memphis and goes for eight weeks.
She showed them a video of me from the Ladybird theater a week ago.
” I run the dish towel through my hands in thought. “Isn’t that insane?”
Mike shrugs, eyes a little wide. “I don’t know, Clementine. Whole town knows you can sing. I reckon you’d be great at it.”
It’s so supportive, I’m shaken from my daze. “Thanks.”
His smile is sincere and it kind of breaks my heart. “I didn’t know you still went to those open mic nights.”
“I didn’t really want anyone to know.” I twist the dishrag tightly in my hands, the words three grand a show playing on a loop in my head. “I should call her back and decline. I can’t abandon my mom.”
“My mom and I can watch over her. It’s only two months.” I open my mouth but he cuts me off, reading my mind. “We’ll keep an eye on Willow, too.”
“I’ve never left her—”
“She’s a grown person, Clementine. She’ll be okay without you for a little while.”
He’s not wrong, I guess. I lean against the fryer and stale oil fills my nostrils. It’s weirdly comforting. “My job—”
“I think your supervisor found some unused vacation days in your file.”
“You’re slammed, you can’t spare a single pair of hands. I’m not leaving you, or anyone else, high and dry.”
“You’re right.” He nods. “I’ll never find someone in all of eastern Texas that can wait on a table like you can.”
“Hey, now.” But I’m kind of out of excuses. “I have no experience.”
“How do you think folks get experience in the first place? You have to start somewhere.” And then Mike delivers the kill shot: “Clementine, it’s over eighty thousand dollars. Think what that could do for you and your mom.”
The clinical trial. I know he’s right. But I’ve based the last six years of my life on the thesis that I cannot leave my mom behind in Cherry Grove.
I’ve turned down college and any career that could force me to move…
I need a cabinet of old receipts to sort or a bunch of blunt eyeliner to sharpen.
Something tactile to calm me down and help me think.
“If y’all perform in Austin or Dallas or something, I’ll come out to cheer you on.”
“This is crazy. Am I really thinking about doing this?”
“Be careful, all right? No drugs, no parties, no falling for rock stars.”
I laugh at the mental image. Me, sucked into a wild life of passion and debauchery. I’ve never even smoked weed. “Can I head home early today? I need to talk to my mom.”
“Go for it,” he says easily. “This is exciting.”
I yank my red Happy Tortilla apron off and head for the swinging kitchen doors. But not before doubling back to throw my arms around Mike. He smells like the onions he was slicing earlier and nostalgic supermarket aftershave. His familiar arms wrap tightly— intimately —around the small of my back.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
In the end, I can’t wait the entire six-minute drive home to tell my mom. I call her from a red light just blocks away from the house and fill her in. She screams louder than my car speakers are equipped for.
When I walk in the door, she’s already got Halloran music blasting from all corners of the home.
It’s that one song of his I know—“If Not for My Baby.” The heart-pounding, foot-thumping, folk-rock single that went platinum, putting him on the map all those years ago.
A spine-tingling pastoral duet featuring Cara Brennan, an Irish singer-songwriter, now with her own rabid fan base of melancholy twentysomethings who love wildflowers and rain and cigarettes.
“There’s my little superstar!” my mom screams, clapping her hands to the song and wiggling her butt from the living room sofa. Willow’s tail is wagging to the music, too, excited by whatever has the rest of her family so pumped up.
I can’t help the grin that splits my face, and I sway my hips to the melody as I move toward them. When I reach her, I grab Willow’s paws and we dance to those killer drums, the gently grooving bass, and Halloran’s bellowing vocals. What an insane voice.
My mom turns the music down and pulls me into a hug. “I am going to miss you so damn much.”
The words are like a gallon of ice water down my back. “I’m not actually going to do it.”
Her face is furiously stern when she releases me. “Clementine Barbarella Clark.”
I can’t help my snort. She’s been doing that bit since I was a kid. Clementine Beetlejuice Clark. Clementine Ben & Jerry’s Clark. Sometimes I forget my real middle name is Bonnie.
“You have to go. This could be life-changing.”
“I don’t know if I want my life to change.”
Her face softens and she takes my hand in hers. “This could be good change. Opportunity.”
“What if I can’t function without you?”
It’s a joke…but it’s not really a joke. We’ve never been apart longer than a school field trip I took to the Alamo.
I was seven and only gone for two nights—I cried for my mom the whole time.
It’s not that we’re weirdo close or anything.
She’s my best friend, but also the opportunity just never really presented itself for me to leave.
I always had to work, and take care of her, and I like doing both of those things.
I like that it’s always just been the two of us. I like Cherry Grove, and my life here.
“Honey. I’ll miss you worse than you know. But this might be something worth doing. It’s not that long. We’ll be reunited before you know it.”
“Yeah.” I shift on my feet. “I did call the insurance company when I was leaving work. It would give us enough for the clinical trial.”
I expect relief, but my mom’s brows furrow a bit. “Don’t worry so much about me. Don’t you want to do this for you?”
“Sure,” I lie. But I guess it does feel good to have someone who isn’t Mike, Everly, or my mom recognize my voice as decent.
“Good. It’ll fly by. Everything will be waiting for you just the same when you get home.”
“Please don’t backslide to any exes while I’m gone. Especially not Paul.”
“Oh, God,” she says with an eye roll. “Never Paul. I’ll be fine, I swear. I’ll have Beth and Willow to keep me company.”
I look at her once more. Her sleepless eyes. Her dulled skin. This flare-up has been a rough one. And yet that Diane sparkle still pushes its way through. “Mom, are you one hundred percent sure about this?”