Page 67 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

Then it becomes so real for just a moment, and I see our future: a big house, and friends, and children, and my cat growing old . . . and the breath rushes out of my lungs so fast I need to push him away to breathe. He doesn’t let go, but I feel him take a breath as I gulp down air, trying not to panic as I let myself think of a future I haven’t dared dream of in a decade.

“You’re going to see something you don’t like,” I whisper. “Everyone always does.”

He presses his lips together then tucks back a stray curl that falls across my forehead. “Then they were blinded by the moon when there was an entire sky of stars.”

He kisses me again and as our lips dance, euphoria washes away all of the doubt.

CHAPTER16

She’s Like the Wind

KEY

Nine Years Ago

Spring break sucks. My hands still ache from the lashings my father dished out when he discovered a page of lyrics I had foolishly tried to write down. This is why I keep everything in my head. But the lyrics were about her, and for some reason, I wanted to see them on paper. Written out like maybe they might, just by existing, bring her back to me. It’s been almost three years, and every day, it grows harder to think I might never see her again.

Every time I dove into the pool at the community center I hoped I would see those red curls at the bottom waiting for me. Or when I would sneak away to sit in the abandoned cabin we used to spend so much time together. I fixed it up. After it had been trashed by her dad, I cleaned the place. It’s not the same, but at least it’s somewhere I can keep the guitar she gave me without worrying my parents will find it.

And I can play music. Anything I want. Experiment for hours with rock and roll and my new obsession: heavy metal. Maybe it’s because I’m angry at how she was taken away from me. Maybe it’s anger at myself that I couldn’t do more for her. But whatever the reason, the music comes out of me like poetry.

Something hard knocks into my shoulder as I walk toward first period.

“Watch it, spaz.” I look up to see Emory Radcliffe sneering at me over the shoulder of his letterman jacket. His football buddies all snicker and jeer, but I just roll my eyes and continue on down the hall. Juniors in high school and they still act like we’re in the third grade. It’s pathetic. And while I have to dress the part of a good little church boy at school, it’s not like I enjoy hanging out with the other kids at the Teens for Christ meetings.

I only go because if I don’t, I’ll get the strap again, and each time I do it takes days to recover before I can play the guitar again. So it’s fine. I’ll pretend. Pretend like I have friends when there’s literally no one at school who I can even imagine having anything in common with. Pretend like I’m the god-fearing boy my parents so desperately need me to be. Pretend I’m happy.

The bell rings overhead, and I hoist my bag further up on my shoulder before ducking into homeroom. I smile politely at Mr. Ward, our English teacher, then head toward my desk at the back of the room, but before I can take another step, my heart stops.

There she is.

I blink wildly, then pinch my arm, thinking maybe I fell asleep in the library listening to Cynthia or Matthew preach about finding their godly identity. But no . . . she’s really here.

Our eyes are locked on each other, and she smiles. The kind of smile that shows off the dimple in her cheek. The one that makes her freckles shine and her face glow, and if there really is a god, heaven must be made in her image.

“Mr. Prentiss, please find your seat.”

I nod and quickly head to my seat across the row from where Dusty sits. I can’t take my eyes off of her. I’m worried that if I do, she’ll disappear again, and that is not happening. It’s as if I’m having an out of body experience, sitting in this chair and staring at her. How is she here? She’s enrolled in my school? She’s in a real school? I have so many questions.

And as my mind races, her eyes never leave mine, her lips mouthing the wordhito me as though we only said goodbye yesterday.

“Dusty, I?—”

“Mr. Prentiss, are you speaking out of turn?”

Every head in the classroom swivels to me, and I realize with horror that I’m halfway out of my seat. Dusty is looking at her desk, and there is so much energy racing through my veins I might actually rocket through the ceiling.

“Uh, sorry . . . I—the desk,” I mutter, swiping my finger along the top. “It’s dusty.”

There’s a muffled snort from where she sits and, after brushing off the imaginary dust on my desk, I sit back down—my heels bouncing against the tile floor. She won’t look at me, maybe because she knows I’ll get out of my seat to try talking to her again. As my eyes trace over her, my throat goes dry.

Dusty is stunning.

Her hair is longer, curlier, the red streaked with gold and sparkling from the morning sun filtering through the window. She’s wearing a cream-colored shirt with a design on the front in different shades of brown that matches her geometric mini skirt.

Heat rushes up my spine. Her breasts have grown considerably since I last saw her, and I need to swallow hard to avoid thinking about her in a bikini all those years ago. Her chest isn’t the only thing that’s different. Her hips are wider, her stomach cinched at the waist by a brown belt, and beneath her suede skirt are mile-long freckled legs. My palms sweat at the realization that my best friend has turned into a goddess.

There’s chatter scattered throughout the room as the teacher hands out work for everyone. Grateful for some time to breathe, I can’t help but hear the conversation of two girls in front of me.

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