The rest of graduation goes as planned, and we all toss our hats into the air . . . and find them again. Because we’re twenty-three seniors, and there are only so many graduation hats. LD’s speech is a hit, and everyone congratulates Billie afterward for a job well done. We mingle for a little while in the stadium while Grams talks with Billie’s Mom. Mike Labouise and his crew hang around the refreshments, and he keeps giving me the stink eye, but I ignore him valiantly. LD invites us to her house for a graduation party, but I’m already busy.
“With what?” she says, and laughs. “A secret boyfriend?”
I stretch a smile over my face. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Billie raises an eyebrow, coming to join us. “Are you?”
“We’d know if she were,” Micah responds for me.
“Would you?” I challenge.
He gives me a strange look. I pat him on the shoulder. “I gotta take Grams home to take her medicine. I'll see you guys on Monday? Den’s for lunch?”
As I leave, I hear Micah ask the gang, “She doesn’t have a secret boyfriend, does she?”
“Maybe she has a secret girlfriend,” replies LD.
“Really?”
“No, Micah. Not really.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek so I won’t smile too much, because LD gets Micah with her dry sarcasm every time, and I turn to find Grams in the crowd. I don’t have to take her home so soon, but I do so anyway because I worry about her missing her medication. I usually bring extra in my purse, but you can only fit so much in black graduation gowns. Besides, her doctor said that missing one pill won’t mean the disease will just wash her away, but I still worry. Grams and I make pizza and watch Jeopardy again. I make sure she’s asleep before I sneak out of the house—I have the back door well oiled, so I don't wake her up.
It’s Saturday night, and I have somewhere to be.
The radio tower is by far the biggest structure for at least a hundred miles. It’s taller than the water tower in North Platte, and you can fit at least three monster trucks underneath that one. Our tower rises like a pinprick up into the clear night sky, proudly holding up a red light that blinks like the North Star.
My North Star. The only star in the sky worth seeing.
I find the key underneath the back doormat and let myself in. A drum solo from a ’70s hair band drifts down from the second floor. I dump my book bag in the office and climb the stairs to the studio.
Mick’s head-banging to the Grateful Dead three minutes until midnight. It’s the last song of the hour. He always finishes his programs with the Grateful Dead—it’s part of his charm. He slaps me on the back in greeting and howls the final guitar lick.
“I thought you wouldn’t show tonight,” he says, breathless, and hurries back over to the microphone. He flicks a button and the LIVE light above the studio blinks to life. “And that was the sweet, sweet sound of the Dead. I hope some of you are feeling awfully good right now, because after that rockin’ set, you should be. Stay tuned the next hour for our Saturday night special with our lovely host, Niteowl. Until next time, peace, and love and light to you all.”
I raise an eyebrow as he flicks the microphone off again, and the LIVE light goes dead again. “I think your hippie’s showing.”
He shrugs, wiping his sweaty forehead with his shirtsleeve. “It was a good couple of years.”
Rolling my eyes, I push up a chair and ease down into it. “So, been busy tonight?”
“Pretty quiet on the home front. What’s on the books for tonight’s show? You never wrote it down on the calendar.” He jabs his thumb back to the hot firemen calendar he has hanging on the wall where we write down all of our shows. It’s just me and Mick, but he wants to at least look semiprofessional. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the hot firemen throws the whole concept of professionalism right off a burning rooftop.
“Oh—I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it.” I begin messing with the sound levels on the board, cueing up my intro music. “Did you catch Rooney today?”
He scrunches his nose. “You’re not going to talk about One Direction, too, are you? I mean I’m all about no censorship but . . . think of the children!”
I cock my head. “I don’t know. Think of all the 1D-ers we could reel in . . .”
He gives me a level look but then shakes his head. “Fine. Fine. You’re going on in two minutes, girl.”
“Have some faith! I’ll make something up. How to Get Over Unrequited Love? Why Some People Kiss Other People You Hate? That Time in Your Life When You Just Want to Cry All the Time? In Case of Emergency: Channing Tatum?—”
“You got Channing Tatum as a guest?” he asks, perplexed.
“I wish.”
“Damn. Hey, uh, how about that thing.” Mick snaps his fingers, trying to remember. “That thing about that band.”
“Stoner got your brain?” I push my rolling chair over to the antiquated computer and wiggle the mouse. The monitor blinks awake, and I search over the Internet for something to talk about tonight. “You mean the Jason Dallas concert in Omaha?”
“That's it! Sold out in three minutes flat I hear. He any good?”
“Only the best,” I reply. “His killer licks in ‘Shotgun Heartache’ are to die for. God, I wish I could play something. Maybe if I did, someone’d like me.”
“Or like you less. I never liked musicians. They never shut up.” He shrugs and gets to his feet. “And you know, if you played music you wouldn’t be here. And I think here is where you need to be.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it tightly. “You’re a radio heart; always will be.”
I smile up at him. “Thanks, Mick.”
“Yep. Well I’m all tuckered out. You think you got the show for the next hour?”
“Don’t I always?”
“Just don’t do anything that’ll get our station sued—again.”
“That was an honest mistake.”
He mutters something under his breath and scrubs my head. “Safely into that good night, girl,” he says in good-bye and shuffles out of the recording booth.
I spin back around in my chair and begin to flip on the channels and mixers. The studio hums to life with lights and whirrs and level readers that waffle like seesaws. The digital clock over the computer monitor blinks 11:59.
One minute until show time.
Time feels like it stretches for eternity. My heart hammers in my chest, the taste of anticipation on the back of my tongue like steel and courage, waiting for the red numbers to flip to midnight.
I am Ingrid North. Shy, going-nowhere North. But I take a deep breath, and I close my eyes, and when the clock strikes midnight I can be anyone.
I flip my microphone on as the LIVE light blinks on above the studio window. I lean into the microphone, becoming who I want to be.