“You will not stay,” Iris said. She glared at me. “You’ll go to wherever. You’ll follow your dreams. Even if I have to drive you to your destination of choice myself. And that’s that.”
“She’s right,” Miranda said with a nod. “You can’t stay here. And I’ll help Iris drive since she’s the one with the car.”
I snorted at that. Miranda had a car, but it had been dad-poed after she broke curfew during prom. Her only means of transportation was her sister’s old moped. Miranda wasn’t about to be caught dead driving that thing.
“I hate the idea of leaving, but I hate the idea of not leaving more.” I dropped my fork into the bowl of uneaten lettuce and glanced around the diner. Iris’s dad owned it and her mom was head cook. It was old and in need of repairs, but it was loved by the locals. And it was ignored by the tourists. Her dad had made a mint in selling real estate around Table Rock Lake, enough to buy the diner and never earn a profit. It was their home away from home, and the kind of place I was going to miss. “I can’t sing here without being Cami Harris. Out there,” I motioned toward the parking lot and beyond, “I can be anybody else but me.”
Iris took my hand. “No, Cam, you can be you and not the person people want to see.”
The person with a crippled dad. Iris didn’t say that, but it was what she thought. It was what everyone thought.
I didn’t want to be ‘poor Cami Harris’ anymore.
Monday was nerve wracking. I could barely focus on my classes. It had been two days since my audition and my first rehearsal started at six. Just enough time to get out of school, do chores, and eat before hustling across town to the theater.
I made it home in record time, thanks to Iris’s stellar driving. How she managed to hit every green light on Manchester never ceased to amaze me.
“That you, Cam?” Dad said from his recliner as I opened the front door of our small house. His chair faced the TV and didn’t have a view of the front door.
“Yeah,” I said, even though I wondered who else it could be. “Can I get you anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He waved me toward his chair.
I let my backpack drop to the floor with a thump and came around to stand in front of him. Dad looked better than he did when I left. His coloring was more natural and not the pallid white from this morning. His stroke had ended everything for him. He couldn’t play his guitar, so he had to quit the cover band he’d started in high school. Worse, he had to quit his job at the plastic company. Technically, he’d went back once the doctor cleared him and they laid him off. Being partially paralyzed made it hard to run his lines. Now we lived off his disability and the money Mom made as an assistant manager at one of the local restaurant chains.
“How was school?” he asked like he had asked me every single day for thirteen years.
I smiled. This was a reason not to leave. “It was slow.”
Dad laughed, a deep chuckle in his chest until he coughed. “You excited about tonight?”
“Not excited really, but totally terrified.” I sat on the edge of the coffee table which put me eye to eye with him. “What if I’m not cut out for this?”
“What if you are?” he said gently. “Cami, I know you don’t want to leave me or your mother, but we’ve had this conversation a million times before my stroke. And that’s where some of this fear comes from. You’re going to New York or Nashville. Hell, even L.A. if that’s what you want. But you’re leaving Branson. This show will give you some experience. It will help you get where you need to go. You just have to want to get there.”
My heart broke every time he talked like this. Dad wanted me to have the dream he never had. His band was the closest to following his dreams of playing arenas and even that was gone now. “And if I go to one of those places and fail, then what?”
“Then you go to the next. And the next.” He tapped the worn arm of his recliner. “You go until you succeed. Never quit. Promise me?”
I nodded. I’d made the promise before.
“Good. He smiled, but only one side of his mouth lifted. It was creepy and it killed me to see him like this. My father was not the weakling who could hardly lift his fork. He was strong and amazing. Even if his body refused to show it. “Can you get me some water? I’m feeling dry.”
“Of course,” I said, kissing his forehead as my little brother stormed into the house. Jake threw his duffel bag on the floor and kicked his shoes off into the middle of the living room. “What’s your problem?”
“Tony Reacher, that’s my problem. He kicked the crap out of Mike Lawson and blamed me. Stupid Lawson didn’t even tell the truth and I got suspended.” Jake plopped on the couch and crossed his arms. He was in full pout mode. “A week left and I can’t take finals. That’s bullshit.”
“Watch your language, young man,” Dad chided. He glanced at me and I shrugged. Jake might have beaten up Mike Lawson or he might have told the truth. It was hard to tell. “I’ll call the school.”
“Won’t do any good,” Jake mumbled.
I
