He clears his throat carefully. “It won’t hurt her to do something more than study and ride horses this summer, Brooke. It’s just two months, and then she’ll quit to focus on her senior year at Lonestar Junction High School. It might help her make some new friends before she moves schools.”
My mom sighs in defeat. “This is ridiculous. Beaumont's don’t work at filthy places like rodeos, and I guarantee the new friends she makes there will be trash. Everyone from Lonestar Junction is trash.” She stomps off to the kitchen like a child as I run to my dad and throw my arms around his neck. Squeezing him tightly.
“Thanks, Daddy. I love you.”
“It’s just for two months, Mae. Then you focus on your studies and aim to make valedictorian at your new school, alright?”
I nod eagerly and sprint to my room, excitement bubbling as I pull on my uniform for my first day at the Lonestar Junction Revival Rodeo—a 30-minute drive away.
Last week, I’d secretly applied and interviewed after spotting an ad on Instagram for summer help. To my surprise, the boisterous manager of concessions hired me on the spot. My job? Maneuvering through rowdy crowds with trays full of snacks and mugs of beer. It’s very different from the sheltered, privileged bubble of my family’s estate in San Angelo, but something about the chaotic energy of the rodeo thrills me. This summer feels monumental—the one where I turn eighteen and finally start to carve out a life of my own.
The Texan sun beats down relentlessly as I climb into my 4x4, an early birthday gift from my parents, and hit the road toward Lonestar Junction.
For years, I’ve been a student at the prestigious, affluent public school in San Angelo. But just before my junior year ended in May, my parents blindsided me with devastating news: they’re transferring me to Lonestar Junction High School for my senior year.
Why? According to my mom, there’s “too much competition for valedictorian in San Angelo.”
Apparently, being the smartest person in the room isn’t enough unless the room is even smaller. At first, I was furious they’d made such a big decision without asking me. But as I’ve spent more time thinking about it—and about Lonestar Junction—I’ve started to see the appeal. It’s a place where no one knows me, where I’m not the wealthy Beaumont family’s daughter with all the expectations and scrutiny that entails or the power that the name carries. It’s a chance to shed the suffocating reputation that follows me everywhere back home. And maybe, just maybe, this small town will give me the freedom I’ve been craving.
As I park outside the rodeo grounds, I make a snap decision: this summer, I’ll use a different name. For once, I’ll just be me—whoever that is, but I can’t wait to find out.
I pull into the field that doubles as a parking lot, an impressively massive stadium that houses the arena where the rodeo holds a permanent position in this town looms before me. Walking through the front doors, I’m immediately transported into cowboy culture. The air is electrifying as men and women wearing cowboy hats, chaps and spurs walk quickly throughout the space, carrying food, drinks, and equipment. There’s a thick scent of hay, leather, and excitement in the air as conversation swirls around me. Soaring ceiling rafters hold banners showcasing past rodeo champions and the flag of Texas proudly waves in the air.
Along the sides of the arena, concession stands, and souvenir shops line the concourse, offering everything from Texas barbecue to cowboy hats and boots. The scent of sizzling burgers mixed with the aroma of freshly popped popcorn, causes my stomach to growl. The floor of the arena is covered in dirt, ready for the thundering hooves of bucking broncos and charging bulls. Surrounding the arena, tiered seating rises high, offering spectators a panoramic view of the action below.
The doors haven’t opened for general admission yet, but electricity surges through me as I excitedly anticipate them being filled with screaming fans instead of the loud country music that’s currently playing.
I can’t wait to get my first taste of it.
“You look lost,” a man with shaggy, dark brown hair hidden behind a white cowboy hat and wearing chaps, a vest, and spurs on his boots says as he chews on some dip and then spits it out right next to my feet.
Gross.
“I’m looking for Dolly from concessions. It’s my first day here at the arena.”
A smirk crosses his face as he takes me in again. The man looks like he’s closer to 40. I doubt he realizes that I’m only 17.
“Dolly’s office is in section 20.”
“Thanks,” I muster a smile because I want these people to like me and not think I’m stuck up like most people in San Angelo do, even if they are creeps, and then I spin on my heel and search the perimeter for section 20.
My interview with Dolly earlier in the week had been interesting. She’s intense, kind, and tough. Somewhere in her mid-50s, I’d guess, the harshness of the world that she’s worked in and the life she lives is evident on her tanned, wrinkled skin. She’s been working at the arena since she was a teenager and in all sense of the worlds is the closest thing I’ve ever met to a real cowgirl. Now, she runs all the concessions for the facility, which include managing the servers who mix with the crowd, selling drinks and food.
“Hi, darling,” she drawls when she notices me standing in the doorway to her office. “Come on in, and I’ll show you how to clock in before the other girls arrive. Tonight’s going to be a wild one, so I’ll need you to catch on quickly, you hear?”
I nod eagerly as she takes me over to a little device located on the wall where a stack of cards hangs from a string. She locates mine, the only indication of my real name, and then helps me insert it into the box that stamps the date and time on it.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my new uniform. A short, skimpy black skirt that barely covers my butt, a matching low-cut black tank top, and a pair of rhinestone cowgirl boots adorned with the Texan flag colors. My hair is teased into a high ponytail the way Dolly likes her girls to wear it, and I have a big pin on my chest that says 'Spurs, chaps, and a whole lot of asses!'
Apparently, the messages on the pin rotate each night and are decided based on whatever mood Dolly is in that day. And today, it’s a sassy one.
The arena is filling up now, and the other servers that are workinghave already arrived and are lined up in Dolly’s office as we receive instructions for each section of the stadium that we’ve been assigned to manage.
“Okay, now listen up,” Dolly says, her voice firm but tinged with humor as she eyes the circle of us. “Always take payment before you serve the food and drinks. We don’t want these bastards arguing about money, and you need to keep moving fast. And if anyone touches you or makes you uncomfortable, you call Hank.”
Hank?
I want to ask who he is, but the question dies in my throat when I glance around and see the other girls nodding like these rules are second nature. I decide to follow their lead.
