I headed to the biggest studio, where Clarice and I had set up a folding table and chairs the night before. We’d been planning this event for so long, even before Preacher had arrived. Once he laid out his whole big neighborhood revitalization plan, the scope of the whole street fair had doubled or even tripled in size.
Everyone loved the idea. They wanted to help. They wanted to be part of his plan.
Preacher just does that to people, I guess. He’s charismatic. But it’s more than that. He cares.
Vendors were already signing in and getting their row assignments. Preacher and his crew passed by the bank of windows, each wearing gloves and holding an industrial garbage bag. The kids loved him. He was good for them in a different way than Paul, I realized, feeling slightly guilty for thinking so. Not better or worse. Just different.
I smiled happily, suddenly feeling that all was well in the world.
We would raise enough money to help the neighborhood. Preacher and I would be married. And Paul would come back, at least part-time. He would survive this. We had to be overdue for a miracle or two, I decided.
Five hours and three more cups of coffee later, I wasn’t so sure. The fair was going well enough, or it had been, until around noon when the drinking started. A gang of rowdy teenagers were strutting around like peacocks with their chests puffed out and knocking over displays, even overturning an ice cream machine. I apologized to the vendors, running this way and that to put things to rights. Preacher and Clarice were doing the same, with the help of our volunteers.
I stepped away, heading to the bandstand where live musical acts had been playing all day. But it was nearly time for my kids to strut their stuff.
The dance crew huddled around me for a last-minute pep talk. Then they were on. They were on point today, I observed with a proud smile as they danced their little hearts out. They were definitely getting good enough for competition. I’d speak to Preacher about it and see if it was in the budget.
There would be travel expenses, like renting a bus and hotels and costumes. But it might be just what these kids needed. It was a lot of extra work and responsibility for me, but it was doable.
I knew all about the competition circuit after Clarice and I had binge-watched a show on Netflix about a guy who ran a dance studio and was a famous drag queen on top of it. Then I’d watched all of Dance Moms.
I already felt like I was almost a mama to some of these kids. Would it be different if I were a mama for real?
They ran off the stage, high-fiving me as they passed. I even got a couple of hugs. I handed out food and drink tickets and told them to enjoy the rest of the fair, no trash duty or anything else unless they wanted to after the fair shut down. That was met with whoops and hollers. I watched as they took off, trying to decide what treats to try.
I shook my head, heading back to the church to see what needed doing. My feet were hurting and my back was tired. But the day wasn’t done yet, though we were getting close to the time Preacher and Clarice had chosen to meet for a drink.
Come to think of it, a cold beer did sound mighty good right about now. Would a beer hurt a baby at this phase? I did a quick Google search. Apparently, even if I were pregnant, it was unlikely that it had even attached. And as long as you and the baby are healthy, normal activity is fine, other than super-hot baths. It wasn’t like I was going skydiving or anything.
It was all ridiculous because it was unlikely I was even pregnant. It’s not like you got knocked up every time you had sex. But we had been having an awful lot of sex . . .
Just in case I was pregnant, I decided to skip it. Maybe I’d have a sip of Preacher’s, just to get that summer feeling.
I sighed. The man had been giving me puppy dog eyes all day. I had forgiven him already, even though he clearly didn’t know it. How could I not?
That’s when I heard it. Gunshots. Close.
I did the stupidest thing you can do it that situation. The thing I would tell my dance kids to never, ever do. I ran toward the sound, not away.
A feeling of dread was pulsing in my veins. Something was wrong, I knew it. It hadn’t been a car exhaust or someone shooting into the air. Someone was shot. Someone I cared about.
So I ran.
“Freak! Fucking freak!”