Page 68 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“That must be the new girl,” one says loud enough for me and a few others to hear. “Heard her dad’s in jail.”

“I heard that she’s been expelled from two other school districts for drugs,” the other says.

“And her mother abandoned her as a kid. I hate it when other schools send us their white trash.”

“Better keep a close eye on your boyfriend. I bet she puts out for a pack of smokes.”

Snap.

The girls swivel in their seats, their gazes latching on me, then to the broken pencil between my fingers. I look up, their sneers piercing through me as I fumble with shards of wood and mutter a quiet “sorry.”

After giving me twin looks of revulsion, they turn back around and begin whispering quietly to each other—probably about me now. My hand drops the broken pencil, and it’s shaking. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt anger like that. Not in a long time. Who do they think they are? They don’t know anything about Dusty . . . but then again, do I?

I look across at her again, and she’s watching me, her brow creased. She’s worried. I try to smile but can’t. I haven’t spoken to or seen this girl in almost three years. Maybe she’s changed. Maybe shedoesdo drugs and has been expelled for it. Maybe she—I swallow, and it feels like barbed wire—sleeps around with guys.

But one thing I know for sure. She’s still my best friend. I still love her.

There’s a clatter, and I look over where a pencil lands by her brown suede platform shoes. Dusty bends over to pick it up and begins writing on her paper, and I?—

I can see right up her skirt. Her legs are slightly parted, the mini skirt pulled higher from the movement, and . . . there are little black bows on her white cotton panties.

I’m sweating—panicking—shaking. And she seems totally clueless that I can see. I’m hard, and I’ve never been more grateful to be sitting in this wooden desk. If the teacher asked me to stand, that would be the end of me.

Nervously, I look around, wondering if anyone else is also looking where they shouldn’t be, and when I confirm they aren’t, my eyes are back and latched to that spot. I’m a pervert. What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t be doing this, but even as I convince myself it’s wrong, I can’t tear my eyes away.

“Ahem.”

Blue eyes are fixed on me when I look up, and her legs snap shut. I turn away, hitting my knee on the metal of my desk, embarrassed and horrified that she caught me looking at her underwear. She definitely knows what I was doing. There’s no way she doesn’t. I just got her back. What if she never wants to speak to me again after this? What if she tells the teacher? The principal? The school? Oh no, what if they call my parents?

The bell rings, knocking me out of my spiral, but I can’t move as she leaves the room. After all this time, she didn’t even speak to me. Why would she, after catching me looking up her skirt? I really blew it. Defeated and finally deflated, I grab my things and my broken pencil and stuff them into my bag. When I get out into the hallway, I see her red curls bouncing their way out the exit doors toward the football field.

I should apologize. Explain I hadn’t meant to look. Tell her I was simply struck stupid by seeing her again. I’ll get on my knees and beg her every day to forgive me.

I push through the doors into the morning sunlight. Squinting, I scan the area for her, finally finding her at the far end of the bleachers, a plume of smoke drifting up from where she stands.

When I’m two feet away, I clear my throat. “Uh . . . Dusty?”

She turns and looks me up and down, a cigarette held daintily between her fingers.

“Dusty, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to look—I was so surprised and—I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve thought about you nonstop for three years and I?—”

She flicks her cigarette and pushes me back against the bleachers, kissing me hard. For a moment I’m frozen. Is this a test? Is she punishing me? But how could this possibly be a punishment when it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt?

My hands reach up to grasp her face as her tongue swipes against my bottom lip. I jolt back, my hand reaching up to touch my mouth as a wide grin spreads across her cheeks.

“Hi, Key.”

The sound of her voice is like coming home. “Hi.”

“You sure grew up,” she says, her hand pushing through my hair.

“So did you,” I admit.

“No more noodle arms,” she says, gently tracing her fingers down my bicep.

“And you . . .”Oh no, don’t say her boobs are bigger. Don’t say it.“. . . you’re taller.”

As if she knew exactly what I was trying not to say, she steps closer to me—she could always read my mind that way. “Did you like what you saw?”

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