Page 91 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you.” My voice is louder when I say it. Not intentionally, but because I never want to love her quietly. I never want to whisper it, unless it’s in her ear while she’s wrapped up in my arms. I never want her to think it’s not real.

* * *

I’ve stuffedas much as I possibly can inside this bag. Shirts, underwear, my church suit for job interviews—I can barely get the zipper closed. My parents are out so I know it’s the best time to leave. They’ll notice eventually that I’m gone, then find the note on my desk explaining why I had to leave; the last thing I want is for them to send out a search party.

But once they know it’s because Dusty’s pregnant, they won’t say anything. I’m sure of it. It would be too shameful. Next to the letter is the test results from Dusty’s doctor. She finally explained to me what everything meant and even though it’s just a piece of paper, I feel as if my entire future is connected to its existence. How could such an inconsequential thing like words on paper change my whole life? I stare at it again, and can’t help but imagine where I’ll be nine months from now.

Dusty will be a mother. I’ll be a father. And we’ll have a beautiful baby girl, or maybe a boy. Will they have her red hair? Her freckles? Will they get my hazel eyes or her sapphire blue ones? One thing is for sure though, I won’t raise them how Dusty and I were. We may have nothing, no money, no house, no car—but this baby will know love. Real love. Just like Dusty has always wished for.

I fold up the test paper and put it in the back pocket of my jeans. I hoist the heavy duffel over my shoulder and grab my guitar case. Opening the top drawer of my desk, I reach for Dusty’s sun necklace but it’s not there. My hand rifles through papers and old textbooks and pencils, but . . .Where is it?I drop my bag and guitar case and open the rest of the drawers. Panic starts to rise in my throat. No, I can’t have lost it. It has to be here. I put it here, making sure it was covered so no one would find it.

I check the clock on my wall—6:34. I’m running out of time; I need to make a decision. If I unpack my whole bag I’ll be late. If I don’t . . . No. I must have packed it and forgotten. Where else could it possibly be? Short of tipping the drawers upside down, I do one last sweep of the desk, and with one final look around my bedroom, I grab my things and shut the door behind me, taking each stair down slowly, careful not to make a sound.

Only, the living room isn’t quiet like I expected it to be. I stash my guitar case behind the clock in the hallway as my mother comes into view.

“Keith, good, I need help with getting those folding chairs from the basement.”

My mouth opens then shuts, as if my brain can’t compute this hiccup in my plan. I look past her at the dozen or so ladies standing around in our living room. Oh no. They were supposed to be down the street. What’s going on?

“Keith!” my mother says with thinly veiled irritation. “The chairs, Keith.” She claps her hands then pushes me along the hallway toward the basement. I glance back longingly at the door, my bags just out of sight. The basement door opens and I robotically step down into the darkness. Okay. Okay, this is fine. I’ll do this quickly, then when my mom is distracted by her friends, I’ll sneak out the front door.

Of course, though, it’s not just the chairs. She needs my help escorting Mrs. Mason to the bathroom. Needs me to serve drinks. Needs me to put the meatballs on a platter.

How can I possibly get out of here? I can’t say no or it’ll tip her off. But my mother seems to have something else for me to do before I’ve even finished the last job. And all the while, the minutes tick by on the clock by the front door. Twenty, thirty, fifty minutes.

I’m sweating. Surely Dusty will wait for me. She’ll know I’ve been held up. It’s almost eight o’clock now, and my heart is filled with so much dread. We were going to catch the seven o’clock bus but it’ll be gone now.Breathe, Key. It’s not a lost cause. We can take another bus. Any bus. Just somewhere away from here and figure it out later. I can’t stay another minute. This has to work!

“Thank you, dear,” my mother says with a smile. “You must have homework to do now, isn’t that right?”

Her friends are watching me intently. “I . . . yes, but . . . you know, I think I’m going to get some fresh air first. Just for a few minutes.”

She holds my gaze for a long moment and something sharp turns in my stomach. Does she know? How could she? But then she turns back to her friends with a grin. “Ladies, shall we get started on that fifth passage? Salvation waits for no one.”

I sigh, my shoulders dropping from my ears for the first time all night, and once I’m sure she’s occupied, I grab my bag and guitar case, and Irun. My limbs burn from the exertion the whole way there, but imagining Dusty waiting in the terminal only makes me move faster.

I drop everything by the ticket house when I arrive, my breath coming out in great white puffs on the window. “Excuse me? Hello?”

When the ticket girl approaches, she eyes me nervously. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, was there a red-haired girl here? Freckles. Long legs?”

She shrugs and pops her gum. “I’m not sure.”

Okay, Key, keep it together. You can find her. You can do this. Just stay calm. “Are you sure you can’t remember?”

“Sorry, I was printing tickets in the back. No one’s rung the bell until you showed up. Maybe she got a taxi?”

I suck in a shuddering breath. “Okay. Okay . . . thanks.”

She didn’t leave. There’s no way. Yeah, I’m late, but she must know I’d have an excuse. I’m only an hour past our meeting time. I circle the terminal, but there’s hardly anyone here. Maybe she went to get some food, or use the bathroom. But after three laps and twenty minutes have passed, I confirm she’s not here.

Where would she have gone? What if something happened? What if something’s wrong with the baby, and she went to the hospital? What if—what if she left to come find me? Part of me wants to head back home, intercept her . . . but maybe it’s better I stay here. She’ll realize I left home late and head right back here and everything will be okay.

So, I wait, glancing at the clock every few minutes, my eyes trained on the glass doors just as often, waiting for the fiery girl I love so much to appear there. An insurmountable anxiousness spreads through me with every minute that passes me by. Other buses come, the previous passengers disembarking, and I keep my eyes peeled.

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