Page 50 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

With a shake of her head, she rests her hand on my knee. “It’s never hard to read the things you write.”

If only everyone thought that way. If only everyone didn’t think I was stupid because I struggle to read and write. If only someone had an explanation for why my brain works the way it does. But she’s always understood me. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

“It’s the craziest thing, but I just can’t stop writing,” I admit. “The songs just roll out of me.”

“It’s this place,” she says reverently, looking around. “This is where we can be the real us. We don’t have to hide.”

I look around and realize just how true that is. The past six weeks here with her have been some of the greatest of my life. And while I’ve had to get more creative in telling my parents where I’m spending my time, every lie I’ve told to be with her has been worth it.

Handing her the papers, I place the guitar across my lap and adjust the pitch of the strings until they’re perfect. My stomach does somersaults while she looks through them, wondering if she’ll think what I’ve written is lame. But at least I know for sure she won’t laugh at me. She would never do that.

“Sing me this one,” she says, holding up a page with a water stain on it.

My cheeks heat when I see the title on the page.

“Uh . . . maybe not that one.”

“Why not?” she asks, reading through the lyrics. “‘Neon Crush’ . . . ooh, does Key have a crush on someone?”

“I—no! I don’t have a?—”

“Is she a girl from school?” she teases.

My collar tightens around my neck. “No, she’s not?—”

“Oh, so there is a girl!” She punches her fist into the air.

I snatch for the page but she holds it out of reach. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Does she know you like her?” she asks. “Why haven’t you told me about her?”

I shake my head. “No! She’s not—I haven’t—I . . .” I let out a shuddering breath and bury my face behind the body of the guitar to calm myself down. I can hardly breathe, my blood pulsing in my ears. Just breathe . . . in and out.

I flinch as I feel the subtle pressure of her hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” she says softly, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just teasing.”

I nod against the guitar, not daring to look up yet. “I know.”

“It’s cool if you like someone,” she continues. “It’s also cool if you don’t. I’ll still be your friend.”

With one eye open, I look up under my arm to where she peers over at me. If only I could tell her that the reason songs have been pouring out of me lately is because of her. How she’s all I can think about when we’re apart. How, since she kissed me all those weeks ago, I’ve hoped every day she might do it again.

“Dusty, I . . .” But the words won’t come, and suddenly there’s a clamor in my head of every awful thing that my parents have said about Dusty and her family. And that I’m lying to them just so I can spend time with her. How I shouldn’t be kissing any girl without her parents’ permission. Bile rises in my throat. God is watching everything I’m doing and knows everything I’m thinking, and I’m abruptly overcome with such shame that my throat tightens. “There’s no girl,” I mutter.

“Oh,” she says, eyes widening. “Oh!” At my lack of understanding she waves her hand. “I’m sorry, I thought you were . . . but if you’re into boys, that’s cool. I won’t tell.”

My mouth drops open. “Wait, what?”

“I mean, I can understand why you’re so panicked about it. I doubt your parents would let you live if you ever told them you’re gay.”

Horror strikes me through the chest. “I’m not gay!”

“It’s okay if you are,” she continues.

My fists clench. “Dusty, I’m definitely not gay.”

“You’re very good at hiding it. I never would have guessed.” She frowns. “Oh god, and I kissed you. I’m so sorry, if I had known it would make you uncomfortable?—”

“Dusty?” I interrupt.

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