“He’s not technically my boyfriend again,” Willowdean tells us. “And I’m still upset that he couldn’t just come out and tell me what was going on.”
“He was probably scared of going after it and not making the team,” Millie says. “It feels like you fall twice as far when there’s an audience.”
“Would going to Europe interrupt any big plans you have?” I ask.
Willowdean frowns. “Honestly, the only thing I had planned for next year was going full time at work and taking classes at Clover City Community College. I thought maybe I could transfer somewhere else and learn about working on the business side of the music industry... but no, I guess I don’t have any big immediate plans.”
“So what’s holding you back?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I’m scared that he’ll be busy all the time and I’ll be alone a lot—”
“But that might be good for you!” Ellen says gently. “Getting out there and exploring on your own.”
“And I picture everyone in Sweden looking like living, breathing Barbie dolls,” she says.
“Sounds like some beauty pageants I know,” Callie says with a smile.
Ellen leans forward. “I don’t know what the right answer is, but it’s usually the thing that scares you most.”
“So all of you at least have a sort of plan set in place?” I ask everyone else.
“I wouldn’t call my life planned,” says Callie.
“I haven’t decided which school I’m going to yet,” Amanda says with a shrug.
“I thought you settled on San Antonio,” says Millie. “They have a great physical therapy program.”
“Yousettled on San Antonio,” Amanda reminds her.
And even though the thought of life after high school makes me ill at the moment, it’s nice to see that other people are total codependent messes.
“So, are you going to Sweden or not?” I ask Willowdean.
She shakes her head. “Oh, Lord, I don’t know. I love him a lot. I’m scared to go and I’m scared to stay.” She sighs. “Can we please talk about someone else’s mess of a life?” Willowdean asks.
“Not it,” I mumble.
At the Hideaway, all seven of us file in with big black Xs on the tops of our hands. Tonight’s event is more of an open mic, which means I’m not actually competing for anything. It’s one of the only things keeping my nerves at bay.
“This is where we leave you,” Hannah says, after making a quick run to the bar to sign me up.
Behind her, Alex and Kyle wave at me, flashing me their thumbs-ups.
I must look helpless to Hannah, because she touches my arm and says, “She’ll be here.”
“I know.” Clem hasn’t texted or called yet, but I don’t want to nag her. I want to show her that I can be totally chill and that she can trust me not to freak out every time she does something without me. I’m a whole new Waylon. Sort of.
“Thanks,” I tell Hannah. “Text me if you hear from her.”
Behind me, I step through a parted curtain into a smallopen-air backstage that has been set up for anyone who needs to prep their hair and makeup. There are a few folding chairs and a table with a mirror tilted against the wall and a few floor lamps without shades. I plop my bag down on the table and unravel my headphones to plug into my phone, so I can listen to my song over and over and over again.
I brought Clementine’s Merle Norman makeup kit, which I plan on replacing with much better products the moment I have actual money that belongs to me.
As I’m plastering my eyebrows to my forehead with a stick of glue, an older man with a potbelly and olive-toned skin sits down beside me with a dress bag in one hand and a makeup-stained lavender Caboodle in the other.
He smiles at me in our reflection, and I yank the headphones from my ears.
“First time onstage?” he asks over the tempo of the music.
