Page 27 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

I dip my chin and take the seat in the pew next to her. She’s wearing a blue dress today, and it makes her eyes shine brighter than I remember. I think of what my mom said on the ride home the day I met her. How her hair was unruly and wild. That she was glad Dusty wasn’t enrolled at my school, because she’d probably give lice to all the kids. But that’s not what I see at all.

I see an angel. But . . . something’s wrong.

“Hey,” I say pointing to her face. “What happened to you?”

She pulls her hair forward to cover the side of her face and the bruise on her temple. “Oh, nothing. I just . . . I tripped and hit my head on the edge of the counter. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? That looks bad?—”

“I’m fine, Keith.” Her voice is hard, but she doesn’t yell.

I nod, swallowing down what I was going to say next. “I missed you the last few weeks. I thought maybe you were never coming back.”

She shrugs. “Mama left that night. After church that day.”

“I . . . what?”

“I-I think she knew she was leaving and wanted to talk to god or . . . ask forgiveness, maybe. But she’s gone,” she says, staring through the floor.

“Well, when is she coming back?” I ask, outraged.

She scoffs and shakes her head. “She’s not coming back.”

We’re quiet for a really long time. The truth is I have no idea what to say. There have been times when I’ve wished with all my heart my parents would disappear, but I can’t imagine them actually leaving me. Finally, Dusty sighs and blinks quickly.

“He feels guilty today. My dad,” she adds at my confusion. “He’s the reason she left. He’s the one who . . .” She almost touches her temple but stops herself. I understand enough, though. That her dad did that to her. That he hurt her. I could kill him. “Anyway,” she continues, “hemustfeel guilty because how else could I have gotten him to agree to church when he hates it so much?”

“Yeah,” I offer. What else can I possibly say?

“I heard you sing today,” she says suddenly, and I sit up in surprise. “You’re really a very good singer.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Yeah?”

She nods and smiles, the first real smile she’s given me since I sat down. “It was my favorite part of today, listening to you sing.”

I rub the back on my neck at the compliment. “I write music sometimes. In my head, or on the piano at home. It’s not church music though, so they’d never let me sing it here.”

Her eyebrows lift and I catch the flinch as her bruise contorts. “Really? What kind of music?”

I shrug. “I don’t really know. Just melodies and some lyrics. My parents won’t let me practice anything that isn’t a hymn in the house.”

At this her eyes seem to light up. “Oh, is it a secret?”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I say, smiling at her enthusiasm.

“I love secrets. Will you sing something you wrote for me?” she asks.

Those fluttering butterflies in my stomach turn into a full-blown tornado. “Oh, I uh . . . I don’t know?—”

“Come on, please?” She pouts and bats her long eyelashes. “For me?”

I don’t think I could deny her anything—even if she asked for the cross on the top of the roof, I’d find a way to get it for her. And if it’ll help keep that smile on her face after all she’s gone through . . . “Okay,” I say, grabbing the notebook from my back pocket and flipping it open. “But remember, these are just rough ideas.”

She turns and crosses her legs under her skirt on the pew next to me as her finger twists in the gold chain around her neck. Her hands come up under her chin, giving me her full attention, and I take a deep breath. My hands shake as I try to hold the paper still, but after two attempts to sing, my voice finally works. I have to be quiet. The congregation echoes below us for the after service social and the ceilings are too vaulted and might carry the sound. So I half sing, half whisper the melody that’s been churning in my head for months.

The words that seemed like poetry when I wrote them down suddenly feel juvenile and stupid on my tongue, but I push on anyway because Dusty is watching me, waiting. I wish I had my piano. It would be so much better if I could play the notes at the same time. When I finish, I let the notepad fall into my lap and my face scrunches as I wait for her verdict.

“Wow,” she says breathlessly. “You wrote that?”

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