16. She’s Like the Wind
CHAPTER 16
She’s Like the Wind
KEY
Nine Years Ago
S pring 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 word hi to 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.
“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 she does do 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?”
I blink. “Huh?”
She glances around, then with a smirk, she lifts one side of her skirt to show me the little black bows again.
Blood rushes south for the second time this morning. Charmed by my panic, she leans closer. “Any requests for which ones I should wear tomorrow?”
My eyes nearly bulge from my head. “Wh-what?”
“My panties,” she whispers. “You enjoyed looking at them, so I thought I’d ask if you had any requests.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Look, I—that was a mistake. I didn’t mean to?—”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re not?”
“Guys look at me all the time, and I hate it, but you?” She smirks. “I like you looking.”
With that, she pushes me back against the bleachers again. She fists the collar of my shirt and presses up onto her toes as her lips nearly touch mine.
“I’ve always liked you looking,” she whispers, then kisses me again. This time I can’t contain it. My hands are all over her, because she’s here, and I can’t get enough. She likes me looking at her and she’s kissing me. Her tongue begs for entrance and I give in, forgetting for a few moments everything I’ve been told in church. She tastes like smoke and butterscotch candy and it’s the best drug I could ever hope to try.
When the bell rings in the distance, I’m breathless and floating, unsure whether it’s been five minutes or an hour. Pulling back, we look at each other, her lips swollen and her hair a little messy from where my hands have been, but she smiles so brightly it’s as if I’m looking at the sun itself.
“I promised I’d come back for you.”