Under the Dusty Sky (Holloway Farms)

reality only know money. Not all of my dad’s clients are like that, but most of them are.
    This is music. These guys. Middle-aged teachers and lawyers and mechanics who come together through love of music to play together. Sure they don’t write their own stuff, but neither do I. I just play when the studio needs me to, just like I’m in cover shoots when ‘piercing eyes’ are needed or abs for a music video. What I do is fake. Pandering to people who have forgotten what it means to hold an instrument in their hands and to create something from it.
    Les holds up his thumb to me, asking if I’m ready. I nod. He steps up to the mic and everyone turns to watch. The first couple songs are the hardest because no one dances, but the first Johnny Cash song brings almost the whole town out. I smile as my hands slide effortlessly over the frets, and my fingers pluck the strings perfectly. There’s nothing like some old country to bring a country crowd. I watch the arena as I play and feel envious. The small community with wives dancing with their best friends’ husbands, Grandpa’s teaching grandsons to two step, a crowd of young girls moving to the tune, unconcerned with how they look or who’s watching.
    I see Emma holding Hunter’s hands, swaying offbeat as he shakes his head, refusing to dance. Archer sits on the bleachers with three or four girls sitting with him. It doesn’t take much to be hot shit in a small town. In L.A. there is a game, a hierarchy, a method to getting noticed. Here, Archer and Asher play football, which automatically makes them top before anyone notices anything else.
    Sweet Lacy is leaning against a wall by herself, watching me and smiling that kind smile. There’s a girl that’s real. Asher sneaks up behind her, taking her around the waist, and she jumps, looking around. He whispers something in her ear, and I can see her face go red from here. I smile as she shakes her hand from his and looks around again. My guess: Gracie.
    Gracie. I’ve never in my life met someone like her.
    After we are done with the first set, Les calls her on stage, and she looks down, pretending to be embarrassed, but I know better. I barely know her, and I guarantee she loves the attention. She steps up onto the stage and holds my gaze. Her white dress makes her look like an angel or Greek goddess or whatever other cliché and ridiculous description my brain can conjure. She beams at the attention, but she’s not surprised by it. This happens every year I assume.
    “ As per tradition, everyone usually sings our Graceland Holloway a birthday tune, but this year is a special year.” Les holds the mic and reaches for Gracie’s hand. She smiles a grateful and shy looking smile. She would be so great in L.A. That smile is perfect. Perfectly and meticulously crafted.
    “ This year, Gracie turns sixteen so we should all sing extra loud for her.”
    Les starts singing, and soon there’s a big chorus of happy birthday, and Gracie looks over her shoulder at me. I’m not singing. I don’t sing.
    Gracie says thank you and winks at me on her way down the stage. I can feel my resolve fading, my ability to say no wanes with every sultry look, with every slip of that accent. She may not be experienced in the way she wants to be, but she sure does know how to wear a guy out. Especially in that dress.
    I watch her make her way through the crowd. She knows exactly how to work people, how much to give, how much contact, how to smile, how to act. Her persona changes so fluidly, so effortlessly. She would fit perfectly in my world.
    My heart hammers, and I almost miss a chord in the chorus of the song we’re playing. I don’t want someone to fit into my world. I want someone who is real.
    I can’t stop watching her as she dances to every single song. Les wasn’t kidding when he said she likes to dance, and she can definitely dance. It makes me want to dance with her. To show her I can dance. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to prove something to anyone before.
    ***
    We finish the set, and I unplug the guitar. The last song was particularly fast, and I struggled to remember it. It’s weird how I can remember the chords to a song I played years ago but can’t remember what I learned in school only last month. I make my way outside for air and suck in long deep breath. I still can’t get over how clean the air is. Dusty, yes but clean. I walk the grounds until I find a small stable and duck inside. I don’t