Page 100 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“Thanks,” the boy mutters. “And sorry about last night.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m Joel, by the way,” he says.

“Keith Prentiss,” I answer. “And if you want to keep your face from being smashed in? You’ll listen to me.”

I expect him to laugh, to scoff even. Instead he says nothing and simply follows behind me. Throughout the first day they test him. I know all their tricks by this point, and at every opportunity I fix whatever Joel does incorrectly enough that by nightfall, the officers haven’t been able to find a single thing to punish him for. They beat the shit out of him anyway, and that evening, he goes to bed with a smile under his bloody nose.

But in the middle of the night I hear him crying, and the little I have left of my heart aches for him. I still can’t fully explain why. I’ve never cared about the others. Not like this.

After that, he joins Logan and me at meals and during study time but doesn’t say anything for the first week, other than tell us to fuck off when we try to initiate conversation, until that fades too.

One afternoon, around week three, when Logan and I are messing around with our guitars, I spot Joel watching us from the bunkhouse door.

“I heard he brought a bass guitar with him,” Logan whispers to me. “Maybe when he gets it back, he could fill out the band.”

Like the Grinch, my heart expands at this new information. A bass guitarist would really be something. Don’t get me wrong, Logan is a fairly decent guitar player, but he’s terrible at improvising. The guy doesn’t have a creative bone in his body, so all we do is play covers of our favorite songs. I never feel like I want to share my original music with him. Maybe it’s because I’m still broken, and I can’t bring myself to open up the floodgates that might come from playing the music I wrote for Dusty. Logan wouldn’t understand it—he wouldn’t understand me.

But maybe Joel would.

A few weeks pass and still, I see the aftermath of Joel’s silent tears in the mornings. The red puffy eyes and the raw nose. If only I could do something to make him feel better. Then, while we’re scrubbing the showers one day, it hits me. A radical idea that will probably prove to be something I have to suffer the consequences for, but it’s been a long time since I cared about anything.

The next afternoon, I find Joel sitting on his bed in the bunkhouse alone. I knew he would be. He always comes in here after classes to read the comic books he borrows from the library on campus.

“Hey, Joel,” I call, and I’m pleased at the way his face lights up when he sees me. “I, uh,” I stammer. Why am I nervous? “I got something for you.”

His eyebrows pull together, but when I reveal his electric bass guitar from behind my back he jumps to his feet, a look of complete disbelief on his face.

“Holy shit!” He bounds over to take it from my hands. “I—how did you—I thought for sure they chucked it,” he rushes out.

I sit on the edge of my bed and watch him pull the strap over his shoulder. I’m mesmerized by the way he so deftly handles the body of the guitar. How nimbly his fingers move, quickly and precisely. The way he slaps and plucks the strings while his other hand dances down the frets catches me off guard and for the first time in months, I smile.

“Damn, Prentiss, didn’t know you had teeth,” he says, grinning.

I shrug. “It’s been a while since I’ve smiled.”

He sits down opposite me, the guitar pulled into him as though he’s afraid at any moment it might disappear. “Where did you get this?” he asks.

“The officer’s quarters,” I admit. “Logan heard they had your guitar held hostage there and . . . well, we thought if you got yours back, you could play with us—you know, if you wanted.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning forward.

I get to my feet and lift the mattress, revealing the electric guitar I managed to score for good behavior.

“Radical,” Joel says meekly. “Hey, let’s play something.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Now?”

Joel laughs. “Well, shit, yeah now.”

Taking a deep breath, I say, “Okay . . . what were you just playing? I don’t recognize it.”

“Oh, nothing. I was just fucking around, it’s not a real song.”

I stare at him and he shrugs.

“What? Was it that bad?”

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