Eight. That’s how many moves we made before I entered first grade. That may not sound too traumatic for a six-year-old. Six-year-olds aren’t even responsible for packing their own toys. But I was a million years old at six, and I noticed. I remember the fear Mom lived with. How she stopped unpacking her paints so she didn’t have to pack them back up again. She seemed uncertain that this was the life for her. Uncertain that they’d brought me into the middle of something so tumultuous. Meanwhile, Dad bumped us from town to town, proselytizing his way to larger congregations, soulfully preaching his way home to Community Church. The church where his own faith journey began. He was baptized at that altar. I was dedicated and confirmed at that altar. Fair or not, I understand why he’s asking my emotions to take a backseat.
I zombie over to the worktable. My cell is ablaze with messages from Janie Lee and one from Woods. Hers are still coming in.
Woods: You okay, McCaffrey?
Janie Lee: Shit. Shit. Shit.
Janie Lee: Does he hate us?
Janie Lee: Will he tell?
Janie Lee: Will Tawny?
Janie Lee: When you get this, will you please text me back?
Janie Lee: I’m really sorry.
I send her a heart text, the old fashioned <3, not the big red annoying emoji heart. At the moment, that’s all I manage. It stops the flow of her questions.
I text Woods instead.
Billie: I need you.
Woods: On my way.
Billie: Cut your headlights. Park on the road.
Woods: Which door?
Billie: Garage.
Between texting him and Woods’s arrival, I arrange all the materials I’ve collected for Beauty and the Beast costumes. Turns out, the service projects for senior citizens were a real gold mine for LaserCon. Starburst wrappers, yellowed book pages, blue buttons, fur from Mr. Nix’s coat, fifteen pairs of fur-lined slippers (not unlike the ones worn by my dad) that can be cut, sewn, and inverted, the hundreds of newspapers I’ve collected for the Daily Sit. It’s not everything, but it’s a very good start.
My hands need this task to drop my heartrate. My heart needs Woods.
I’m going to tell him everything, and he’s going to fix this. Woods arrives, stealthily.
“I thought we’d work while we talk,” I say, because I am not ready yet.
“’Kay, what are we building this evening?”
“Costumes. Beauty and the Beast, Billie-style. Sorry it’s so late,” I apologize unnecessarily.
“Oh, I was up. Had to drop off some Save the Harvest Festival signs at Abram’s house. He always goes bowling with Martha on Friday nights.” That’s all Woods says about that. As if everyone else his age has spent their night in the same fashion. “Tell me what to do.”
I hold up the newspapers. “We make their outfits from papier-mâché. Belle’s dress and the trim on Beast’s jacket come from those”—I show him the yellowed book pages I’ve removed from their bindings—“and supplement with these.” He sees the bags of Starburst I’ve raided from every grocery and gas station in town.
“All right.”
“These blue buttons from Lois Carter’s basement can trim Beast’s coat.”
“Yep,” he says, nodding his approval.
“We’ll Photoshop a red rose to blue, and use those to cover the majority of Beast’s coat.” A computer and printer are set up opposite Guinevere for projects of this nature.
He likes the symbolism of roses. “Good, yes, love it,” he says. “Billie, what are we actually building here?”
A piece of chicken wire eats into my palm and I cuss. I wipe my hands on my jeans and grab a Band-Aid from the shelf. Woods takes the wrapper from me and peels apart the Band-Aid. Gently, he attaches the adhesive around the broken skin.
And then I start at the beginning, and leave nothing out.
He listens, brain whirling. Our technology teacher, Mr. Winnows, showed us a video once of the first computers: heavy, loud, blinking, room-sized machines. That is Woods as he puts his head in the crease of his arms. When he raises his head, flips his cap from front to back, he has a plan.
“This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to text the Hexagon. They’re going to come over and we’re going to build these costumes with you. Then, next weekend, you and Davey will win a thousand dollars and give it to the Save the Harvest Festival fund during KickFall. And then we’re going to raise two thousand dollars with KickFall tickets. That’ll be three thousand dollars, which you are going to hand the mayor as a donation. That should do it, Billie.”
“What if they think I’m trying to buy the award?” I ask.
“You let me take care of that part.”
“And Tawny?”
He hmms. “I’m not sure yet. But thank God she loves Janie Lee.”
“And my dad?”
“Let’s pray he understands.”
“Woods, I wish I’d never been nominated. This would probably still matter, but it wouldn’t matter as much.”
His hand strokes his chin. “We’ll fix this, B. You’ll win the Corn Dolly. You won’t have to move. I swear it.”
“Woods?”
“Yes?”
“How come you aren’t hurt by all this?”
“The same reason you aren’t,” he says simply. “We’d know if we were supposed to be together. I mean . . . haven’t we known everything else when it comes to each other?”
I am so relieved he understands. That he is just as uncomplicated as he’s always been.
He texts Mash, Fifty, and Davey, but not Janie Lee, just in case Dad returns to the garage. They arrive like sneaky ninjas. After a short speech that leaves out all the whys and explains the have-tos, he divides the tasks evenly among us.
Everyone nods. No questions asked.
“We are the Hexagon,” Woods says.
Fifty laughs and says, “Uh, technically, we’re a pentagram tonight.”
No one touches that comment.
Time slips away, mostly in the cutting of roses. I use a mannequin I’ve named Jim. I shape clothing molds from chicken wire that I will eventually cut away. I measure Davey and he measures me. Our waists are the same but he has six inches of height on me.
Midnight. One a.m. Two a.m. Fifty and Davey have cut seventy roses. Woods has ironed crinkles from the Starburst wrappers and stripped fur from the moccasins. Mash has run to the gas station and gotten us all caffeine and Twizzlers. I am drying layers of glue with a shop fan.
The radio is playing plucky music that keeps us annoyed, but awake.
I think about my father, who is on the other side of the garage door, probably thinking about me. I think about Janie Lee, who is on the other side of town, probably thinking about me. I think about Davey, who is on the other side of Guinevere, probably thinking about Waylan Academy. I think about Woods, who is beside me, assessing the molds. I think about Fifty and Mash, who dropped everything to be here. The garage is so full of thoughts I need to find somewhere else to put the tools.
A little after three, Davey tosses sixty, maybe seventy more roses on the desk and cusses a hand cramp. “This is starting to come together,” he announces. “In fact, this might be the best costume I’ve ever been part of. We could win. Billie, we could win.”
“Of course you will,” says Woods, who knows less about LaserCon than I do.
And because Davey has won five straight years, and Woods is never wrong, I believe them.