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1
Emmett
Hereās the thing about writing a good country song: Itās really fricking hard. For starters, you canāt swear. Not if you want radio play. But I donāt give a āshipā about that. For me, the bigger challenge is coming up with something original to say. Anyone can put words to music, but how do you make those words sound new? I mean, the worldās only big enough for so many songs about long dirt roads, cheating spouses, and drinking enough six-packs of cheap beer to crash your pontoon.
To be a good songwriter, you constantly have to be aware of your surroundings. You never know when inspiration is going to strike. Which is whyāas my mom stands at the top of our driveway, sniffling into a balled-up tissueāmy brain is already cycling through potential song titles:
āThe Tears in Mamaās Eyes.ā
āMama Sobbed Like a Little Baby the Day Her Little Baby Left Home.ā
āDonāt Cry, Mama, Iām Only Seventeen and Not Legally Allowed to Leave for Good.ā
Okay, so I need to keep workshopping those. The good news is I have the next nine hours to do so. I canāt wait to be on the road, where Iāll have the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair, and my favorite country singerāMiss Wanda Jean Stubbsāblaring on my stereo.
āYou can at least pretend to be sad, Emmett,ā Mom says.
āItās only for three months,ā I tell her, trying not to smile as I pack my guitar case and my laptop, which has the latest copy of my demo, into the back seat.
āItās the longest youāve been away. Donāt forget, you called asking if you could come home early from music campāand that was only two weeks.ā
I didnāt want to leave music camp because I was homesick. I wanted to leave because it was full of snobs. Classical music prodigies who were total dicks about my taste in music. Look, I didnāt deny that Bach and Beethoven were musical geniuses. Would it have killed them to pay the same respect to Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton?
āThis is different,ā I explain, making my way back up the driveway. āItās the opportunity of a lifetime.ā
āItās a job,ā Mom reminds me, ever the realist.
āNo, itās a gig. My first real one. I get to perform Wanda Jeanās greatest hits. In public. And someoneās giving me a paycheck for it.ā
āI just donāt want you to get your hopes up too much.ā
āMom. Iām replacing someone who had to drop out at the last minute because he signed a recording contract. So, yeah, this is a little different than performing at the school talent show. This could be an important step toward something bigger.ā
Mom sighs, brushing my hair out of my face. āItās so last-minute. Iām still trying to wrap my head around it.ā
āYou and Dad already said yes. If you change your mind now, youāll only be crushing my biggest dream.ā
Behind us, the front door to our house swings open. Dad comes out carrying a plastic shopping bag. āItās a long drive to Jackson Hollow,ā he says. āI bought snacks for the road. And an extra package of socks and underwear. You can never be too sure.ā
This is exactly why I have to leave home.
āIām not running off to join the circus,ā I say, taking the bag from him. āIām staying with Aunt Karen. You have nothing to worry about.ā
āThe circus might not be so bad compared to your auntās house,ā Dad mumbles, getting an immediate head snap from Mom.
āDerekĀ .Ā .Ā .ā
āWhat? The woman lets strangers live with her. Strangers she finds online.ā
āShe only rents out her spare room when money is tight.ā
āMoney wouldnāt be so tight if she got a real job instead of selling her wind chimes.ā
āTheyāre not wind chimes. Theyāre artistic sculptures.ā
āArtistic sculptures people hang on their back porch. Howās that different from wind chimes?ā
āWellĀ .Ā .Ā .ā Mom pauses. āTheyāre more expensive.ā
Dadās eyebrows skyrocket so far off his face, they practically orbit the earth. I love my parents, but I donāt know how theyāre going to survive without me. I guess this summer will be good practice. Because as soon as I finish school next year, Iām leaving Oak Park for good. No offense to Illinois, but I was born in the wrong state. If I want to be a real country singer, I need to be surrounded by rolling hills and wide-open spaces. Not Starbucks drive-throughs and suburban shopping malls.
Of course, itās not only my geography thatās holding me back. Thereās also the matter of my sexuality. There arenāt a lot of gay country singers for me to follow in the footsteps of. And there certainly arenāt many famous ones. But I donāt take that as a strike against me. I take it as a challenge.
I like who I am.
And I like who I like.
Which is why I plan on becoming country musicās biggest openly gay superstar.
Itās not going to be easy. But Iām willing to put in the work. I just wish I had gotten an earlier start. Taylor Swift was sixteen when she released her debut album. LeAnn Rimes won her first Grammy at fourteen.
Iām seventeen and my dad still buys my underwear.
But all thatās about to change. Because I get to spend my summer performing at Wanda World, the amusement park owned by Wanda Jean Stubbs.
That is, assuming I can leave my driveway before my parents bicker themselves to death.
āIf you love her sculptures so much,ā Dad says, still going on about Aunt Karen, āthen why are the ones we bought still in the garage?ā
āI havenāt found the right place to hang them yet! They have a very specificĀ .Ā .Ā . aesthetic.ā
āIām leaving now,ā I announce.
Mom takes her tissues back out; Dad pulls a wad of bills from his pocket. āHere. Weād feel better if you took this. Think of it as an emergency fund. In case you run out of gas. Or if something unexpected pops up. Like if you meet someone.Ā .Ā .Ā .ā
āIf I meet someone?ā
āYeah. LikeĀ .Ā .Ā . a guy.ā
āOh my God, Dad. What?ā
His face turns bright pink. āI donāt know what Iām saying. Just be smart. Use protection.ā
I take the money, carefully avoiding eye contact.
āYou two are a mess,ā I say, giving each of them a hug. āI canāt wait to see what this is like next year, when I leave for good.ā
āThere are plenty of great colleges in state,ā Mom says.
Country music superstars donāt have time for college. But thatās a conversation for another day. Walking back down the driveway, I try to take a mental snapshot of this moment. I need to capture everything Iām feeling so I can write about it later. ExceptĀ .Ā .Ā . if I write a song about leaving home, shouldnāt it be a sad one? Or at least bittersweet? The only tears I feel like shedding right now are tears of joy.
Itās finally time for me to spread my wings and fly! Which is a clichĆ©, I know. But itās also the lyrics to one of my favorite Wanda Jean songs. And when I climb into my car and turn the ignition, itās the song that kicks off the playlist I created for this trip.
Who am I to keep you?
Who am I to cry?
My love for you is not a cage
Itās a flame. Burning bright
One Iāll never let die
So spread your wings, my lilā darlinā
And fly, fly, fly
Before I can fly, I have to obey a twenty-five miles per hour speed limit as I drive past all the well-manicured lawns and pink fairy-tale playhouses in our cul-de-sac. But once Iām out on the freeway, with the Chicago skyline in my rearview mirror and my future before me, I floor it.
Next stop: country music stardom.
Or, at the very least, Tennessee.
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2
Luke
I like having a brother and sister. Really, I do. But thereās nothing like the first day of summer vacation to make me miss being an only child. It doesnāt matter how well behaved they are during the school year. Once classes and homework are out of the picture, their inner demons are unleashed and weāre lucky if no oneās bleeding or tied to a banister by the end of the day.
āLuke!ā Gabe shouts, running into the kitchen with a bedsheet wrapped around him, like a drunk frat boy at a toga party. āI donāt got any clean underwear.ā
āGabe, buddy. I did laundry last night.ā
āWell, my drawerās empty.ā
āCheck on top of the dryer, then.ā
Amelia enters, her long dark hair wet from the shower. āDo I even wanna know?ā she asks, looking at Gabe and using the sarc...
