Britt
Twenty-five years earlier
Britt Taylor had just turned seven years old when she got up in front of her first-grade class to announce what she wanted to be when she grew up. Every kid was taking their turn, saying all the usual things—doctor, astronaut, gymnast, veterinarian, scientist. Britt didn’t aspire to any of those usual things. She wanted something decidedly unusual, something that would be a grand departure from a dull childhood spent hovering just above the poverty line in Chelan County, Washington.
“Britt’s doing the potty dance,” the asshole kid, Mikey, said.
Britt was doing the thing she always did when she was nervous in front of an audience—shifting her weight from one foot to the other. As everyone laughed, she stopped, willed herself to be still.
“Mikey, stop it,” their teacher said.
Ms. Wallace was the teacher, and she was friends with Britt’s mom. Or maybefriendswasn’t the right term. They liked to go to the bar and drink together sometimes. Britt’s mom referred to Ms. Wallace as Amy, but Britt was never allowed to refer to her as Amy.
“Britt, go ahead,” Ms. Wallace said.
The class quieted, and Britt cleared her throat.
“I want to be ... famous,” she said.
There was more laughter. Britt was an easy kid to laugh at. She wore the same burgundy corduroy pants every day, paired with one of three favorite T-shirts, all of which were threadbare. Her mom would bring home clothes from the Salvation Army every now and then, but nothing was ever the right size. She seemed to think Britt was either a toddler or a teenager, could never seem to see Britt for who she actually was.
“Famous? Okay,” Ms. Wallace said. “Famous for what?”
Britt didn’t know. She had a vague idea of being some kind of performer, though she had no talent for singing or dancing. All she knew was that fame offered everything she didn’t have—a sense of belonging, adoration, an escape.
“I don’t know yet,” Britt said.
More laughter.
“Okay, well, how about you spend some time thinking about that,” Ms. Wallace said, before calling up the next student.
That school day was memorable for another reason: because it was Becky Reynolds’s first day of school, and Becky Reynolds would become Britt’s lifelong best friend.
They met in the lunch line when Britt said, “I’ve never seen you before.”
“It’s my first day,” Becky said.
“Oh,” Britt said. “That’s weird.”
It was March, just a few months from the end of the school year, not a usual time for a new student to appear.
“We just moved here, me and my mom,” Becky said.
“You don’t have a dad?” Britt asked.
Britt was always on the hunt for other kids who didn’t have dads.
Becky shook her head.
“Not anymore,” she said.
“Did he die?” Britt asked.
Becky shook her head again. “He just left.”
“Oh,” Britt said. “Mine did too.”
That was all Britt’s mom had told her about him—that he left. She did not know the color of his eyes or how tall he was or the sound of his laugh. She only knew that he was someone who had left.
