Page 55 of The Serpent King

“You’ve performed plenty of times in front of venomous creatures. You’ll be right at home.”

Practicing for the talent show gave him focus. It took his mind off Lydia leaving. It took his mind off his upcoming visit with his father. Still, in the intervening month or so between promising Lydia he’d do it and the show’s date, he’d had plenty of time to lose his nerve. Every time he waffled, though, Lydia would whip out her phone or her laptop and show him the steadily increasing number of views, comments, and likes “Dearly” had. She bought him a new set of guitar strings. She called it an early Christmas present.

But then, in the final days before the competition, Dill stopped being afraid and started being excited. He kept thinking about the fifty dollars and how much he wanted it. He was going to spend it on Lydia. Take her to dinner. Buy her something. Anything but throw it down the black hole of the Early family debt.

The day came slowly, but it came.

Dill was nauseated that morning. He couldn’t eat breakfast. He and Lydia didn’t speak at all on the way to school. He couldn’t pay attention in class. The talent show assembly was after lunch. He trembled as he filed into the auditorium, guitar case in hand, Lydia and Travis flanking him—a gladiator heading to a fight for his life.

“Hey,” Lydia said. “Breathe. You’ll do great. Remember: you have fans and you have friends. Nobody here can do anything to you or take anything from you.”

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because I’m awesome and you’re awesome and you’re going to do something brave.”

“It’s cool you’re doing this,” Travis said. “I watched your videos again the other night, and they really are amazing.”

Dill said nothing but nodded and gripped his armrest. Every nerve in his body hummed as he sat through the introduction of the three judges (all teachers—not fellow students, fortunately), interminable lip-syncing and dance routines, corny comedy sketches, duck and turkey calls, and awful karaoke. Until finally his turn came.

“All right,” Principal Lawrence said, stepping to the microphone, paper in hand. “Next up we have”—he squinted at the list—“Dillard Early.”

A mumble swept through the crowd. Hushed giggling. Whispers. Shifting of feet. Cell phones surreptitiously removed from pockets to film the spectacle.

Dill drew a deep, shaky breath. “Here goes.” He stood on unsteady legs.

Lydia grabbed his arm and pulled him close to her. She put her lips to his ear. “Dill, keep your eyes on us. Don’t look anywhere else. We’re standing with you.”

She had never whispered to him so intimately before. Her breath on his cheek felt like the caress of a lover. A different electricity coursed through his body. And for a moment, he forgot his fear.

It rushed back, though, as he made his way to the front, head down. He hit his guitar case on one of the seats. Bwongggg. The crowd tittered. “Sorry,” he mumbled to nobody in particular.

Please God. Attend me this hour. Do not forsake me. He carefully ascended the steps to the stage and walked the seeming half mile to the middle, where two microphones stood.

He pulled his battered and scarred acoustic guitar from its case. He slung it around his neck and walked the last few feet to where Principal Lawrence stood. He kept his head down. The lights on the stage blinded him.

Principal Lawrence gestured for Dill to take his place and stepped aside. Dill stepped up to the microphones. He adjusted the vocal mic for his height and then the guitar mic. A screech of feedback. Laughter. “Ow,” someone said loudly. Dill’s head pounded. Black-red began to creep into the margins of his field of vision. He held his breath and felt his heart palpitating. Can they hear it? Is the microphone picking it up? Please God. Stand with me now. He closed his eyes. His heartbeat drummed in his ears.

Someone faked a cough. “Dildo!” Giggling. Someone else faked a cough. “Dildo!” More giggling. Angry shushes from teachers scattered through the crowd and from Lydia and Travis. Dill’s heart sank.

Principal Lawrence nudged Dill aside and spoke into the microphone. “Okay, I hear another outburst, we cancel the rest of the assembly, and everyone writes a ten-page paper about manners, understood? Okay, Mr. Early.”

Dill took his place again at the microphones. “Here’s a song I wrote.” His voice echoed in the auditorium. He didn’t recognize it. It was too loud. He waited for the laughter. For someone to yell out “Dildo” again. But there was quiet, which was almost worse.

He couldn’t remember how to play the guitar. He couldn’t remember where to put his hands on the strings. He couldn’t remember the words to his song.

He looked up, straight into Lydia’s eyes. Her eyes were filled with…what? A new something he had never seen before in her. He couldn’t name it, but it made him strong. It swept the black-red from the margins of his eyes and turned the contemptuous crowd beneath him into a faceless blob. It made his heart beat a different rhythm.

For a fleeting moment, he’s standing once more at the front of the praise band. He’s wearing his guitar and they’re playing, playing. And the congregation begins to pass around the deadly serpents. His father approaches him with a copperhead. He stops playing. His father smiles and gently hands it to him. He reaches out and accepts his father’s offering. It is cool and dry and sleek. It pulses in his hands. His faith is strong. It binds the serpent’s jaws. It cannot hurt him. He stares into its face.

Dill took a breath and began to play and sing. He sang like the Holy Spirit had descended on him with a cleansing fire. He heard his voice and guitar echoing through the auditorium. He opened his eyes only once during the performance—to make sure Lydia was still watching him. She was, with even more of the something. The room melted away below him.

He finished, and his last notes decayed into silence. He got a smattering of polite applause, but a standing ovation from Lydia and Travis. Probably not the reaction the winner would get, but at least no one is yelling insults at me. And it’s over. He put his guitar back in its case and left the stage, barely hearing Principal Lawrence taking the microphone and saying, “All right, that was a very nice song from Dillard. Thank you, Dillard. Next up we have…”

Dill collapsed into his seat. Travis glowed and was nearly bouncing. “That was so cool! You’re like a professional singer!” he whispered, grabbing Dill’s hand in a vigorous handshake.

Lydia clutched his arm and pulled him close again. Probably closer than she needed to. “That was amazing,” she whispered, letting her lips brush his ear. “I knew you could do this. Remember how you feel.”

Dill basked in his relief, like he was swimming in a warm, starlit lake. He listened with his eyes closed as five of the football players lip-synced to a rap song, to thunderous applause that dwarfed his own. Thank you, God. You have not always given me the things I wanted or needed, but you gave me this, and I’m grateful.