Dirty Little Secret by Jennifer Echols Read Free Book Online Page A

face.
    Mr. Hardiman said slowly, clearly, loud enough for the crowd to hear, “Don’t you ever do that again.”
    Quite a few people in the audience deduced that if the band was arguing, the good times were over. They exchanged a few words with each other and moved off. But those who’d never seen the likes of a Johnny Cash impersonator get in an argument with his son at the mall sidled into the front spaces the departing crowd had vacated, eager for more.
    Sam seemed to realize this was not the time or place for the discussion his father wanted to have. He glanced up at the crowd, then over at me, making my heart jump. He whispered to Mr. Hardiman, “I didn’t co-opt your song. You went with me.”
    “I only went with you because she was going with you”—Mr. Hardiman shot me a mean look, then glared at Sam again—“and I wasn’t going to fight two of you in the middle of a performance. You know it and I know it, so cut the shit.”
    Sam blushed. His eyes never left his dad’s. He was embarrassed at the scene his dad was causing, but he wasn’t going to give in.
    “Quitting time,” I sang with a glance at my watch, which of course neither of them saw because they still glared at each other, even now that I’d spoken up. “Maybe we’ll have this much fun the next time we play together.” As I whirled around to get out of there, my skirt spun in a wide circle. The material whacked Mr. Hardiman on the leg of his loose suit pants. I had to elbow my way out of the persistent crowd, protecting my fiddle and bow in front of me.

3

    As I hurried out of the food court, toward the shell of a Borders, shoppers followed me with their eyes. I didn’t blame the small children or the adults. My clothes were obviously a costume because of their anachronism as well as their thick durability. They had a peculiar odor, like Ms. Lottie had sent them back in time for authenticity and they’d returned with a scent of Brylcreem and tomato aspic. Seeing me roaming the mall alone was like running into Snow White buying a pack of crackers and a fountain drink in an Orlando gas station.
    I did, however, blame the teenagers who snickered behind their hands and didn’t bother to keep quiet. I had never fit in with them, not in this costume, not in my everyday one, not before I’d started wearing one. I was an anachronism no matter what I wore, an expert on a sixteenth-century instrument nobody wanted. I’d thought I could enjoy this job. Instead I’d been sexually harassed by one dead rockabilly, and I’d developed a hopeless crush on the son of another.
    I wasn’t supposed to have a crush at age eighteen. Crushes were for little girls without the maturity and confidence to ask for whatthey wanted, and without the strength to pursue it anyway if they were denied. Yet here I was, eleven all over again, quaking in my cowgirl boots when a fresh-faced, blond Sam smiled at me. For the rest of the summer I would be on edge every moment at the mall, hoping for another glimpse of him. If Ms. Lottie was right about the randomness of the schedule, I might never play with him again.
    I could ask to be assigned to Johnny Cash permanently, unless he or his son objected to being saddled with a saucy fiddle player. But I didn’t want to feel this way, did I? Staring at Sam with my mouth open because he was so handsome, hanging on his every word, shivering when I brushed past him? I’d be better off following Dolly Parton around from now on. Maybe I could make it to August without seeing Sam again.
    Yeah, right, that’s exactly what I wanted. I caught myself looking around the mostly empty Borders on the slim chance Sam had miraculously beaten me there.
    Dolly Parton gave me a hard squeeze instead. I didn’t recognize her at first without her blond wig and boobs. I actually had a split second of panic that I was being attacked by a mall groupie with a fetish for impersonators. Then she said in my ear, “Bye, hon! Have a great weekend!”