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Fort Stockton, Texas – 1970s

Caleb Canton arrived in Fort Stockton with a duffel bag of clothes, a box of books, and an accent that drew double takes. His father’s new post at the Proving Grounds plucked the family from somewhere vaguely referred to as “Michigan,” which might as well have been Iceland for all the kids at Jim Bowie High knew. Caleb spoke with that unmistakable Midwest twang—flat vowels, clipped consonants, and an infuriating habit of saying “you guys” instead of “y’all.”

He also didn’t say “sir” or “ma’am,” which around those parts was the verbal equivalent of skipping the pledge of allegiance. His wardrobe leaned hard into L.L. Bean: waffle-knit thermals, corduroy pants, duck boots. Half the football team thought he was trying to be funny. The other half just assumed he was broken.

By the second week of school, Caleb had claimed a spot beneath a crooked mesquite tree near the auto shop to eat lunch alone. Nobody sat with him. That was fine. They wouldn’t have understood his bologna sandwich and copy of Catch-22 anyway. Fort Stockton was a town of cattle, carburetors, and kin. And Caleb, bless his heart, had none of the three.

But he did have one thing nobody expected: range.

Drama class wasn’t even on his schedule at first. It was a scheduling mistake—he was supposed to be in Typing II—but by the time the bell rang and Miss Rushing passed out Our Town, he’d figured what the hell. Pretending to be someone else beat sitting in alphabetical rows hammering out home-row keys.

Turned out, he was pretty good at pretending.

At first, they laughed when he read lines. His voice sounded like a news anchor from the Canadian border. But when he threw himself into character—earnest, emotive, unafraid—people started leaning in. Miss Rushing called it “natural stage presence.” Liz Longstreet just called it interesting.

Liz was a senior with a 1970 Chevrolet Nova SS and a reputation for being both kind and quick-witted. She was the kind of girl who could speak fluent twang one minute and quote Hemingway the next. Her parents were older, the kind who still sent Christmas cards with cursive signatures and referred to the Beatles as “noise.” Liz was their miracle baby after a decade of trying, which explained the Nova. Gobi Beige, black vinyl roof, just enough rumble to remind you she was serious.

Nobody had seen her pay attention to a junior before. Especially not a new one who didn’t understand the unspoken rules of Southwest Texas high school life. But something about Caleb—maybe the way he stepped into someone else’s skin so easily on stage—made her curious.

One Thursday, after rehearsal, she leaned against her car and asked, “You doing anything tomorrow night?”

Caleb blinked. “Uh. Homework?”

“Cancel it. You’re going out with me.”

His face flushed. “I—I don’t have my license yet.”

She grinned. “That’s fine. I’ve got a license and a car. Just give me your address. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

The next evening, Caleb stood outside the Cantons’ rented ranch home in RoadRunner Estates, hair combed, collared shirt buttoned all the way up, a nervous stomach bouncing like the Nova’s coil springs as it rumbled to a stop.

The passenger door creaked when he pulled it open. Inside smelled like vinyl, gum wrappers, and teenage freedom. He tried not to stare too long at Liz, who was wearing a striped top and a pair of jeans that made him forget what nervous even meant.

She drove fast but not reckless, shifting the Nova like she’d been born doing it. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a crowded lot beside a low building with a flickering neon sign: The Front Room. Caleb had never heard of it. That made sense. He barely knew anything outside of his address and the miles of desert that stretched past the school bus windows.

A man at the door took five bucks each. Caleb paid with the ten his dad had given him “for emergencies and fun.” This counted as both.

Inside was a sensory overload: mismatched furniture, glowing string lights, concert posters thumbtacked to the walls, and a smell of pepper, popcorn, and perfume. The music was something between country and folk with a little funk sprinkled in. Nothing he’d heard on the radio back in Michigan.

Liz found her friends already at a booth—older teens, probably community college students, the kind of folks who used phrases like “geopolitical landscape” without irony. A girl with a frizzy bun slid over to make room.

“This is Caleb,” Liz said, like he came pre-approved.

Everyone nodded like they’d been expecting him. Caleb sat, careful not to knock over the ketchup bottle, and tried to disappear. That plan didn’t last.

Conversation turned political. One guy—long hair, wire rims—asked if Gerald Ford had just sunk his own ship with the Nixon pardon.

“Depends,” Caleb said before realizing he was speaking out loud. “If you think healing the country matters more than retribution, maybe it was the right call. But yeah—probably cost him the election.”

The table quieted. Liz smiled.

“You read All the President’s Men?” someone asked.

Caleb nodded. “Twice.”

They moved on to movies. Someone named Bonnie declared The Last Picture Show a masterpiece. Another girl, chewing on a nacho, called it “a sad, dusty fever dream.” Caleb didn’t even know what that meant, but he chimed in about the camera work and ended up in a spirited debate about framing.

Later, books came up. When he mentioned The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, Liz leaned over and said, “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

He was. And it felt damn good.

At some point, a basket of nachos was pushed toward him. He hesitated.

“What’s this green stuff?”

Liz looked scandalized. “You’ve never had guac?”

“I thought it was wasabi.”

The entire table exploded with laughter, and Caleb didn’t even mind. He scooped some up and took a bite. Then another. It tasted like something he could get used to.

The night moved like a song you didn’t realize was your favorite until the final verse. Eventually, Liz said it was time to go. They waved goodbye, climbed into the Nova, and drove in comfortable silence through the Texas night.

When she pulled into his driveway and cut the engine, the quiet felt louder.

“Well,” he said, unsure of the script.

Liz turned in her seat and kissed him. Sweet. Soft. Surprising.

He pulled back out of reflex.

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She kissed him again before he could finish.

This time, he didn’t flinch.

When he stepped inside the house, the TV was off and the lights were low. His parents were probably asleep, their clocks still set to Midwest time.

He sat on the edge of his twin bed, listening to the ticking of the wall clock and the fading echo of lyrics he couldn’t name.

He didn’t feel like the new kid anymore. Or the kid from Michigan. Or even just the drama nerd with no license.

He felt seen.

Caleb lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling fan, letting it spin above him like everything in his life was starting to move.

Down the hall, his dad snored. Somewhere in town, Liz was probably changing out of her jeans and brushing her teeth. And somewhere deep inside Caleb, something had changed.

He wasn’t entirely sure what.

But he knew this much: He missed Michigan a whole lot less.

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