Somebody Everybody Listens To by Suzanne Supplee

possibility in nitty-gritty detail. If my music career didn’t work out, maybe I’d go to Hollywood and write slasher movie scripts.
    On that rainy Sunday morning (turns out tow truck drivers work seven days a week), I woke up determined to realign the stars over my head, but by lunchtime (or no-lunchtime since Ricky was out on a call), I felt defeated again. Just trying to eat and wash and not look like I was living in my car took up all my energy, and even though I was right smack in Nashville, the Grand Ole Opry and the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Mockingbird Cafe had never seemed so far away.
    That same evening I was sitting on a side street, half asleep in my car and waiting for Ricky to head home when some woman appeared out of nowhere and banged on the hood. “Are you a drug dealer or a cop?” she asked, scaring me so bad I jumped and hit my head on the roof.
    â€œNeither,” I replied, and rubbed the lump that was forming.
    â€œWell, you been sitting here three days, and I been saying to myself, ‘That girl’s up to no good.’ You get on out of here. This is a private street. If you’re a drug dealer, you don’t belong. If you’re an undercover cop, you’re not undercover no more.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “And if you’re homeless , you can find someplace else,” she said, like this was the worst evil of the three.
    I didn’t bother replying. I started Goggy’s car and gunned it down the street. When I was far enough away, I flung her a bird out the window, and I could see in the rearview mirror she flipped two right back at me.
    I drove for a long while with the windows rolled all the way down. Secretly, I was hoping my bad luck would fly right out, find its way back to those juvenile delinquents who’d stolen my money. Maybe they’d get hit by a car! Or a bus! The wind tangled my hair, made my eyes burn, but I didn’t care. Ready to confess every hardship, I dialed Mama and Daddy’s number, but there was no answer. Prepared to ask Brenda for a loan, I tried her, too, but she didn’t pick up. The gas gauge hovered just below a quarter of a tank, but I kept on going. FRANKLIN CITY LIMITS the sign read. Strip malls and gas stations and restaurants lined the double-wide highway. “Help me!” I shouted at the sky. “Come on! Give me a sign or something!” All at once I saw it, a run-down hotel with an enormous marquee out front—SINGER WANTED. I slammed on the brakes. It was a sign, after all.
    I looked tired and pale, especially for summer, and my dark roots were beginning to show, an unfortunate thing since there was no money in the budget for Miss Clairol no. 9 golden blonde. Right before graduation, Brenda talked me into letting her color my hair, said it would give me a hint of Kellie Pickler sexy, but it was a decision I now regretted since there was no way I could maintain the look. I rummaged through my bag for a clean T-shirt then crouched down in the seat and changed quickly.
    Just as I was about to get out of the car, I thought of Mama. Even with no money, she always manages to look nice—fresh lipstick, a hint of blush, hair perfectly fixed. She’s the prettiest woman in Starling, Tennessee, no doubt about it.
    I grabbed my makeup bag off the backseat. It was the first time I’d unzipped it in I don’t know how long (unlike Brenda and Mama, I hardly ever wear anything other than ChapStick). Right on top was a small white box with my name on it. Inside was pair of earrings. They were made of clear white stones, and they sparkled, like real diamonds almost. No note. No card. Just the earrings. And no telling where Mama got the money for them either, but I appreciated the gesture all the same. There was also a new tube of lipstick—Vertigo, it was called. I twisted up the wedge of color and decided if I worked at Maybelline in the lipstick-naming department, I’d