“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he answered. His pale skin seemed extra pale, and like me and Brant, and Josh actually, he had circles beneath his eyes.
I went to him and put my arms around his waist. “Everything’s okay now. It was crazy, but it’s worked out. Don’t stress anymore, got it?”
He pressed his lips to the top of my head. “I always worry about you.”
Head against his chest, I nodded. “Brant told me about moving to New York. Are you—”
He didn’t let me finish, cutting me off. “You know we’d go if we could.”
“Of course,” I replied. “And while it’s too late for me to transfer, I can look at other performing arts schools.” Why hadn’t that occurred to me earlier? I didn’t have to go to Juilliard.
“No!” Wes’s denial came out fast and harsh. “You’re going. It’s been your dream. You’re doing it.”
It was pointless to argue that my real dream was complicated. Wanting him, Brant, Landry, and Josh was all tied up in my dream of being a ballerina. I didn’t want one thing without the other. It was selfish but that’s what it was. “I should probably get ready to go then.”
Madame didn’t like it when our stretching time cut into class. Tonight, I was taking my bike to class so I had to leave even earlier than normal.
“Okay,” Wes said. He kissed me once more. “I’ve got to go. Do you want a ride now?”
I still had to get changed and I wanted to look over my room for a couple of minutes. “No. I have my bike.”
“That reminds me,” Josh said. “It’s next to the house. I really have to go. You’re okay?”
“Yup.” He kissed me, too, and then he and Wes were gone.
It occurred to me that he hadn’t said anything about me and Brant, and I wondered if that was on purpose. I turned to Brant. “You okay?”
“Yes.” He took his baseball cap off his head and smacked it against his thigh. “You?”
I was. And if I wasn’t totally myself yet, I was on the way.
Twelve
Landry
I hated my father. He stared at me from across his desk, smiling benignly like he hadn’t just ruined my entire life.
I glanced over at Pastor Morehouse who stood next to the bookshelf filled with books my dad had probably never read. He frowned, watching me with fake sympathy, but he had me—all of us—over a barrel, and he knew it.
“You can’t.” The voice that left my throat didn’t sound like mine.
“You know very well I can, and I will.” Dad had laid out, very calmly, exactly what he planned to do if I refused to break up with Betsy. It was insane. “I own the creamery. The feed store. I sit on the board of the Shawville Community Bank, and I own four blocks of Main Street, including the one where Brant’s parents’ cafe sits. It is so incredibly easy for me to stop buying Derry’s milk. To up the prices on feed. I can raise the rent and Brant’s family is done.”
“How can you sit by and let innocent people be hurt?” I glared at Wes’s dad. It was one thing to take out their anger on us, but to hurt my friends’ families?
“We’re trying to save you boys,” Morehouse said. “Is it worth losing a farm when the alternative is losing your soul? I think so. I can look myself in the mirror. Can you say the same?”
“You want me to lie. Break Betsy’s heart. Run to Virginia and hide, and do what? Become your clone?” I stood up. “You’re insane.” I jabbed a finger in Morehouse’s direction. “And you’re a hypocrite. I know all about you and so does Wes. If you think he’ll agree to this, you’re crazy.”
Until that moment, my father had acted like the whole thing didn’t affect him. He was somehow above it all and this was another business deal. But my words got a reaction. He slammed his palm on his desk. “Don’t push me, boy!” He stood and stalked toward me, but I wasn’t a short, skinny kid anymore. I had inches on my old man, and unlike him, I wasn’t soft from cocktails and cigars. “I won’t let my family be a joke because you’ve got some fucked-up kink about watching your girl f—”
I stepped into his space, staring down my nose at him. “Don’t say another word.”
His face flushed and eyes flashed. “Fuck other guys.”
Red washed across my vision and I shoved him. He staggered back, grabbed the desk and stood straight. “You’re my son. You have my name.” Dad glared at me. “I’m giving you the chance to have a life. If you refuse me, you’re cut off. No one in this town will hire you. Josh’s father will lose his farm and Brant’s parents their cafe. And I won’t stop there. I’ll use every connection I have to make sure you and your friends never get a job. Josh and Wes’s scholarships? Gone. It’s as easy as a phone call to a frat brother.”
At that, Pastor Morehouse’s head whipped toward my dad. His face flushed. “I deal with Westin.”
“Just letting you know where I stand, Luke.” Dad didn’t even bother looking in the pastor’s direction. “So what’s your choice?”
Heart pounding, I glared. There was no choice. “My choice is fuck you. That’s my choice.”
Dad nodded like he’d expected that. He went to his chair and sat. “Get out of here, Landry. I can’t stand your face.”
The feeling was more than mutual. Turning on my heel, I strode out of the room aware that as I did, my father picked up his phone. “Abigail? Get me Coach Randall at Samford, will you?”
I shut the door just as his secretary hung up her phone. She flashed me a sad smile as she typed what I’m certain was the name of Josh and Wes’s football coach into her computer. Behind me, Pastor Morehouse’s voice filtered through the door. “You don’t go after my son, Jay! He’s not the first person you take down.”
I couldn’t hear my father’s response. He didn’t raise his voice, and Morehouse’s response was lost on me because I was out the door and on the phone.
“Wes?” I said when the phone connected. “We have a big fucking problem.”
Wes dragged his fingers down his face before accepting the can of beer I held out to him. He drank deeply and then sighed. We sat in silence, utterly stymied by what to do.
Josh and Brant were aware of how awful our fathers were, but only Wes really understood what it was like to grow up with a controlling, abusive father.
Our mothers… I’d thought about trying to enlist my mother’s help for all of two-point-oh seconds, but it’d have been a waste of my time. Mom cared about image as much as Dad did, and she would have no problem with him pulling strings to keep me in line.
Westin’s mom had been emotionally beaten down and looked for meaning in her role as a minister’s wife. Her energy was put into whatever church activities there were, but when it came to Wes, she put on blinders.
“I feel like we need to know what we’re going to do before we go to Josh and Brant,” I said.
Wes lowered the can and put it on the ground. “What do you mean—‘what we’re going to do?’ ” he asked. “We’re going to tell our fathers to go fuck themselves. You already did.”
“Yeah, but this is their family. They had nothing to do with this. You know what Betsy will say.” I raised my eyebrows. Christ. Betsy would take a bus out of town. That’s why we had to figure this out ourselves.
“What did he threaten Betsy with?” Wes asked.
His question caught me by surprise. “Huh?” I thought back. “Nothing. He never threatened her with anything. Just us. Just the families.”
“Something’s up there.” He stood and paced in front of me, kicking one of the empty cans of beer at his feet. “Why just us? It makes me think my dad…” He paused and put his hands on his hips. “Shit. I know there’s something I’m missing. I just know it.”
Thirteen
Betsy
I leaned back, hand resting lightly on the bar. My body burned as it stretched, but God, it felt really good. I was so tense, and all I had to do was focus on stretching and breathing.
I shut my eyes and pushed myself a little more, holdi
ng my body right at the edge of pain until the muscles relaxed.
Classical music played softly in the background, but I was the only one here right now. I’d come as soon as I’d put my things away, beating out the rush of students who’d have to wait for school to be over to arrive.
In the background, traffic picked up, cars driving by more often as school dismissed. The door swung open, bringing with it a blast of warm air and a mash of voices.
I opened my eyes and turned around, ready to smile at the girls who danced with me. But they paused when they saw me and stopped talking.
“Hi,” I said, attributing their awkwardness to not knowing what to say about my grandmother, and that I’d missed more dance classes than I ever had before.
But it was weird. Not even Emerson would meet my eyes, though she dropped her bag next to mine.
Deciding to address it head on, I approached her. “Hey, Em.”
There was no locker room in this studio, so Em, like most girls, had changed into her leotard at school. She took her shoes out of her bag and began the process of putting them on. “Hey.”
I sat cross-legged next to her. “What’s going on?”
She glanced at me and then away when someone nearby giggled. It was still too quiet to be comfortable, and I’d been around enough girls and girl-fights in my life to know that something was brewing. Finally, she faced me and opened her mouth to speak.
“Elizabeth!” Madame Giroux’s voice rang through the studio. “I need to see you right now.”
Em’s face had gone white, and she swallowed before she turned to face me. “I’m sorry.”
Confused, I stood. I didn’t know what she meant, but Madame Giroux was somehow involved, and it wouldn’t be good.
Madame Giroux waited for me next to the door that led to her small office and the bathroom. She walked ahead of me, back still straight and toes turned out. At the door to her office, she gestured for me to enter, and I went inside. I hadn’t been here for a long time. Most of Madame’s dressing down happened in the studio. The only times I’d been in her office was with my grandmother when she signed me up for classes and the few times Gram forgot to mail a check on time.
I went to sit in one of the chairs, but Madame stopped me. “Don’t sit. This will only take a moment.”
And then she proceeded to crush my dreams in her hands.
“Given your absences, Emerson now has the lead role in the recital. Also, I’ve spoken with Juilliard about my concerns about you, and as your only instructor, they’ve taken my recommendations very seriously.”
“Concerns?” I interrupted her. “What concerns?”
She tsked and crossed her arms. “Really, Elizabeth? The entire town is talking about you. Even if you hadn’t been absent, I would have taken the lead from you. My studio has a reputation in this part of the state, and I will do anything to protect these girls.”
“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.” Unless…
Madame Giroux smiled like a cat who’d gotten the canary. “Yes. Do you understand now?”
I understood that my secret was out. People knew I was with all of the boys, but I didn’t understand how that impacted dance. And why it threatened my place at Juilliard. “This is the twenty-first century. Unconventional relationships are accepted. Especially in New York City.”
“Yes, they are,” she allowed. “But that isn’t what Juilliard is concerned with. They’re concerned that the dancer’s only dance instructor will not, and in fact, rescinds, any recommendation you’ve had. There are a thousand other girls like you, Elizabeth.”
I didn’t want to hear any more and rushed out of her office. I didn’t believe her. They wouldn’t have reneged on my admission. The other girls were huddled in groups, whispering, but stopped when I came inside. There was no point talking to them, they could think what they liked, but I wasn’t ashamed of my relationship.
Digging through my bag, I finally found my phone and rushed out of the studio, still wearing my leotard. Someone honked as I hurried down the street, searching for the number to the admissions office at Juilliard.
When I finally connected to a person, I had to stop. Out of breath, I explained what I’d learned and the person on the other end was quick to transfer me to an admissions officer.
Their explanation went in one ear and out the other, though later, I’d remember bits and pieces.
“…questions your dedication to dance, close-mindedness related to corrections, technique, performing skill. Concern about citizenship, in and out of studio. Overall inability to work as part of an ensemble.”
I heard myself argue and beg. But how much worse did I sound when I explained that my instructor had a personal vendetta against me? In the end, they reminded me that I could apply a second time, and with better recommendations, I had a shot at being readmitted.
I hung up the phone in a daze.
Another car drove by, but I stood where I was, my mind blank. That had really happened. New York was over.
Brant. Brant had given up his spot at college to move with me to New York, and now I’d lost that, and what was he supposed to do?
He’d put his life on hold for me, and I… I just let him do it. What kind of person was I? I should have argued more—put him before myself and what I wanted.
I walked down the street, staring at my pointe shoes getting ruined with every step. What did it matter?
I walked on and on, past the town square and the courthouse. Down Main Street and Brant’s parents’ cafe. I walked past the church and the high school and turned around, walking in the other direction.
Streetlights switched on and it started to get dark. I slapped at the bugs landing on me, my only thought, what do I do?
An engine revved behind me, and I jumped, spinning around. Westin’s truck slid to a stop. He jumped out, leaving the door open and rushed around the front. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Glancing around, I realized I stood in front of the courthouse. “I was walking.”
He put his hands on his hips and stared down at the ground. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Your bike is still parked in front of the studio.” When he lifted his gaze, his cheeks were red and his blue eyes angry. “I’ve been losing my mind.”
“I’m sorry.” I started toward him, and he took a step back.
“Did you even think to call us?” He seemed to take in what I was wearing and frowned. “Why are you in your leotard? Where are your shoes?”
The anger disappeared, replaced with concern and something close to fear. He stepped toward me now, taking the bag from my shoulder. He bent his knees, studying my face closely. “What’s going on?”
I went to touch him, but I held something in my hand. My phone. I stared at it like I’d never seen it before. I pressed the home button with my thumb, but the screen stayed black. “It’s dead.”
“Come on.” Wes put his arm around my waist and led me to his truck, when we got to the door, he opened it and lifted me inside. To my surprise, he slid in right after me and shut the door. “Betsy. What’s going on?”
“Juilliard rescinded my acceptance. Madame Giroux called them, and they took it away.” Once the words started, I couldn’t stop them. “They don’t want my excuses. They don’t believe me. They said to apply again in a year, but that’s it.”
Wes’s jaw ticked, and his face was flushed from his temples to the neck of his shirt. A few times he opened his mouth to speak, and then, seemingly at a loss for words, shut it again. With jerky, almost robotic movements, he got out of the truck and ran around to the driver’s side. The truck engine revved as he slammed the truck out of park and jerked the wheel. I glanced out the window. “Where are we going?”
Instead of answering, he pressed harder on the gas. It took me a second, but I finally got my bearings. “Why are we going to your house, Wes?”
He shook his head. In the last couple weeks, Wes had been angrier than I’d ever seen him before. I
hated that it was my problems making him this way.
We started down his driveway, arriving at the raised ranch he lived in with his mom and dad, and he slammed on the brakes and threw the truck into park so fast it rocked forward. “Stay here.”
I already had my seatbelt undone. “I’m coming with you. Whatever it is. Please.”
“Bets—” The front door opened, and Pastor Morehouse stepped outside. He crossed his arms, glaring at the truck, and Wes jumped out. “This is you, isn’t it?” he yelled.
Oh shit. I rushed out of the truck, hurrying after him, but he was too fast. In three strides he was in his dad’s face, staring him down.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The pastor’s voice was calm, but his face was flushed. He was lying. He knew exactly what Wes was talking about. “Anything that has happened is a result of your choices, Westin. I warned you. I tried and tried to help you. This is out of my hands now.”
“Out of your—you stirred up this town like you were poking a wasp’s nest. Do you even realize what you’re doing? Do you not understand?”
Wes’s father took a step back, nearly tripping on the stair behind him. “I understand more than you do. Now, if you and Betsy want to come inside, I’ll be happy to pray over you, but if you’re just here to yell, then you can take her home.”
Pray over me? Wes didn’t say a word, choosing instead to loom over his father, who seemed decidedly undisturbed by it.
“Westin.”
He peered over his shoulder at me and then faced his father. “I’m bringing Betsy home, and then I’ll be back.”
Face splotchy, he spun on his heel, storming past me to the car. He opened the door, and I hurried to jump inside.
His hand shook as he put the car in gear, and when I said his name, he didn’t appear to hear me.
I wanted to ease the pain he was in, but I didn’t know how. I was as powerless against Pastor Morehouse as I was against Madame Giroux. They were the wind, and I was a tiny sailboat at their mercy.
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