Dolly grins and starts handing out the large, round black trays we’ll be using tonight. Before I can process anything else, she shoos us out the door with a wave of her hand and a “Go get ‘em!”
The noise in the arena hits me like a wall the moment I step out. The sound system crackles to life, blasting upbeat country songs—Hank Williams, Kenny Chesney, and Tim McGraw—while the crowd’s chatter grows louder, layering over the music in a chaotic symphony. Overhead, the massive scoreboard flashes brightly with competitor names and the evening’s lineup, its neon lights adding to the electric energy in the air.
The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, his drawl dripping with enthusiasm as he hypes up the crowd. The stands erupt in cheers, a mix of hoots, hollers, and stomping boots shaking the very ground beneath my feet. The rodeo is about to begin.
Clutching my tray, I sprint toward Section 15 and make my way to the front row, where I begin the slow climb up the bleachers. Balancing the tray isn’t as easy as I’d imagined, and I’m immediately hyper-aware of the dozens of eyes trailing my movements.
Just as I’m finding my rhythm, a roar erupts behind me. I whip around to see the gates burst open. Two cowboys charge into the arena, one riding a brown horse, the other on a sleek black stallion.The steer bolts ahead of them, its hooves kicking up dirt as the riders expertly sling their lassos. With perfect timing and precision, they rope the animal from both ends, bringing it to a halt in a flawless maneuver.
My jaw drops, the scene more mesmerizing than I’d expected. The skill, the power, the control—it’s nothing short of art in motion. The crowd explodes into deafening cheers, their excitement infectious as I feel myself swept up in the moment.
Despite living in Texas my entire life, I’ve never experienced anything like this. The energy is raucous and raw, and for the first time, I understand why people flock to events like this. It’s not just a rodeo; it’s a full-blown spectacle.
I pick up my speed, walking up the stadium faster and waving my arms, calling out to the crowd to take their orders. My first night at the rodeo passes in a wild blur of spilling drinks, sore ankles and shouting. Two hours later, I’m exhausted and sweaty as I sprint back and forth, taking orders, collecting payments, and dashing to the concession kitchen to fill my tray. The final event is now underway and when I round the corner back to my section, wiping the sweat from my brow, I nearly collide with Dolly as she emerges from behind the concession stand.
“Whoa there, Mae. Slow down, or you’ll spill those drinks.”
I glance down at the tray full of teetering plastic mugs of beer. No one seems to care that I’m only seventeen years old and serving alcohol and I don’t intend on pointing that out to them anytime soon.
“Sorry.”
She smiles. “Drop those off, then call it a night. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. We typically tell the girls to end orders during the last event so that we don’t have stragglers finishing their drinks too close to drive home.”
I nod and head back out to my section, dropping off the final drinks. Then I join the other servers who are gathering, stripping off their aprons and stacking their trays on Dolly's desk.
“That was a rush,” I say, a smile that I can’t contain stretches across my face. I wonder if every job I'll have will be this exciting.
A pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes smiles at me as she tosses her apron into the bin in Dolly’s office. “It’s your first night, right?”
I nod. “Yes, I’m Mae Bea—” I cleared my throat and glance at the corner where the heater is situated. “Mae Boater,” I improvise which sounds ridiculous coming from my lips.
“Georgia Cameron. I just started working here too. How old are you?"
Unsure whether I should lie, I decide to tell the truth. Dolly knows I’m only seventeen years old, and it hasn’t been an issue so far. Plus, this girl looks as young as I do.
"Seventeen, but I'm turning eighteen next week."
She grins. "I'm seventeen, too. Did you just move here? I don’t recognize you from our high school."
"I’m transferring there in August."
“Oh, yay!” Georgia exclaims, her enthusiasm contagious. “Let me just warn you: I’m not sure where you came from, but this is one of the smallest public schools in the state. There are tons of cliques, and the girls there? Not exactly the friendliest. But lucky for you, I am.” She flashes me a genuine smile, one that I can tell isn’t laced with malice or some hidden agenda to cozy up to me because of my family name or power.
“Want to walk to the parking lot together?” she asks as we step outside. “A lot of the patrons here are gross and will totally hit on you. But sometimes, I just shout that I’m only seventeen, and they back off really quick. Jailbait and all that.”
I burst out laughing, the kind of laugh I haven’t had in a while—one that’s real, full, and not carefully restrained for the sake of appearances. Georgia grins, and we fall into step, leaving the noise of the arena behind us.
She chatters the whole way about her summer plans and a boynamed Ted, who apparently works at the rodeo too. She’s completely into him, but he’s oblivious, which she’s quick to describe in exaggerated, hilarious detail. Then, without missing a beat, she shifts to filling me in on what to expect at my new school: the classes, the clubs, the drama, and the things she thinks I’ll hate most.
Her openness and friendliness catch me off guard in the best way. I’m so used to spending my summers holed up in my family’s San Angelo estate, my world confined to occasional, carefully curated outings with my parents' approved circle of friends—the ones with equally wealthy or connected parents. Those conversations are always the same: expensive vacations, new designer bags, or the latest political chess moves their families are making. I’ve never been into them, but they are all I know so I play the part well.
But this? Walking beside Georgia, listening to her unfiltered commentary and refreshing honesty? It feels freeing. Exhilarating. Like I’ve stumbled into a world where I can breathe without worrying about expectations or appearances.
I glance at her as she rambles on, gesturing about how Ted once got kicked by a horse and didn’t notice, his pecs were that strong. There’s a warmth to her that I didn’t realize I’d been missing in a friendship and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not so alone. I smile, hoping she can see just how much I already appreciate her kindness and this unexpected, much-needed encounter.
"I’m so rude," she says, finally taking a deep breath in as we reach the parking lot and stop in front of a beat-up red truck. "I haven’t asked anything about you. My dad always tells me I get my nonstop talking from my mom." She laughs and smiles. "Why are you starting at Lonestar High in August? Did you just move here?"
"No, I live in San Angelo. Grew up there my whole life."
