Boys and Burlesque Page 2

  I wasn’t the only one who forgot how to talk. None of my friends replied to her, and finally, she got nervous, dropping her gaze and kicking at the dirt. “Can I play with y’all?”

  “No,” Brant answered, and I wanted to push his face in the dirt. “We’re building a city. With trucks.”

  “I like trucks.” Her voice had gotten quiet and shy, and I’d balled up my fists. In that moment, I had thoroughly fallen for Betsy Bartlett. I would have done anything for the girl who peered at each of us.

  But Brant had said no, and we were five, so I shook my head, too. “Sorry,” I’d told her, and she just nodded like she’d expected it.

  The rest of recess was miserable.

  Betsy sat herself in the dirt and watched us while we played. My stomach hurt, and I kicked sand at Brant when the teacher called us in.

  My stomach hurt again now as I pulled my truck to a stop next to my dad’s. “I’m getting old, Josh, and I can’t do this forever. If you don’t take this farm, I’m going to have to sell it.”

  “Sell it!” I’d yelled at my dad. “Because I don’t want it!”

  My dad was tough. He was an inch shorter than me, but he’d always been this big, strong guy who drove tractors with one hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the other. He could rope cattle and throw hay, and he’d been my hero my entire damn life.

  But I didn’t want his life.

  I didn’t want to be dependent on the whim of some overseas company deciding what my grain was worth. I didn’t want to watch the sky and worry about too much rain, or not enough rain.

  I wanted something else.

  The door squeaked when I opened it. The truck was old, and I’d bumped into my share of farm equipment. The driver’s side door had a dent in it, and it needed an extra push to close right.

  I eyed the lights on in the kitchen. Dad had waited up. Sighing, I shut the door and started toward the house. He met me at the door, looking older and more tired than I thought I’d ever seen him.

  I could look in my dad’s face and see my future. The lines next to his eyes from squinting in the sun. The dark hair shot through with white—messy and flattened by the hat he wore all day.

  When my mom was alive, she didn’t want the house to smell like a barn so she’d had Dad build a mudroom with a shower and laundry. He went from the barn to the shower, and even though she’d been dead ten years, he still did it.

  “Joshua.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside so I could pass by.

  He’d been sipping coffee, probably trying to stay awake until I came home because by three in the morning, my old man had been up twenty-three hours.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  I sat in the seat I always sat in and rubbed my thumb against my chin, scraping the stubble. I wondered if I’d hurt Betsy’s skin with my beard. Shit. It had been too dark to tell.

  “Joshua?”

  “I needed to think,” I told him, letting my hand drop to the tabletop.

  “You with Betsy?” he asked, and for some reason the lines around his eyes got tighter.

  “She’s my girlfriend,” I answered. I could hear the sarcasm in my voice and wished I could take it back. It wouldn’t help anything and would only put Dad on edge.

  “Is she?” he asked in a tone that was exactly what I’d expected.

  I took a breath, trying to give myself a minute to get my shit together. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I applied to Samford,” I said. “I wanted to talk about it with you before, but—”

  “I told you in the fall that you needed to look at the Tech Colleges if you were doing anything. And I also told you that it would have to wait until you were full-time with the farm for a few years. We need to get ahead.”

  “There’s no getting ahead with this place, Dad.” I didn’t need him reminding me of the conversation we’d had. He’d brushed aside all my dreams with one off-hand remark. “There’s barely being able to pay to keep it running, and then there’s crushing debt. That’s what this place is.”

  Shaking his head, Dad rapped the table with his knuckles. “This farm is your legacy.”

  “Legacy?” I scoffed. “Big words from a guy who barely graduated high school.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wanted to reel them in.

  My dad. The proud man who raised me all by himself not knowing what the hell he was doing, paled. He stood and for a second, wobbled. “I didn’t raise no snob.” His voice cracked and he rapped the table once more before pointing a shaking finger at me. “I don’t even know who you fucking are.”

  He turned his back on me, striding toward the back stairs that would take him to his bedroom and paused in the doorway. “And your girlfriend is messing around behind your back. I saw her with some guy behind the feed store when I picked up the milk money. So if you’re going to Samford because Miss Fancy Dancer is, then you’re a goddamned fool.”

  Fuck. I didn’t reply, but watched him move tiredly up the stairs. I knew in an hour, he’d be up to milk.

  I’d get up, too, and then we’d go about our morning, passing each other in the milking barn. But that was all I knew, because this fight was uncharted territory. This wasn’t the way my dad and I talked to each other. We didn’t spit venom and disgust.

  Everything is ruined. I waited until Dad’s tread had crossed the ceiling above me to his room before I stood up, stomach churning and hands shaking. I’d fucked something up tonight, and I couldn’t help feeling it was going to change everything.

  Three

  Betsy

  “You look different,” Madame Giroux announced to my advanced ballet class.

  I was stretching—a process that took at least forty-five minutes—and was lost in my own world. Immediately, I wiped off the smile I knew was on my face.

  “Ma’am?” I asked and winced.

  Madame Giroux didn’t like to be called ma’am. The very first thing she told me—and the other six-year-olds when we began—was to address her as Madame Giroux. Not ma’am. Not Mrs. Giroux. Not Anita. Madame.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry, Madame.”

  She narrowed her eyes, reminding me that she’d never liked me. My position as lead ballerina was given grudgingly. She’d have much rather given it to Emerson Roy, but each of my movements were sharper, and executed with more confidence than Em’s.

  I was under no illusion that I’d hold this position for long, but I’d work my ass off to keep it.

  “Have you gained weight?” she asked.

  It took every bit of self-control I had not to glance down at my body. This was an old trick of hers, meant to throw girls off their game. It was mean-hearted and cruel, but that was Madame Giroux. Dancers didn’t come to her because she was kind. They came to her because she was the best dance mistress in this part of the state.

  “No, Madame,” I answered.

  She looked down her thin nose at me and sniffed. “You look heavier. Try to pirouette lightly, Elizabeth, and not like a hippo in a tutu.”

  Finished with my floor stretches, I stood and approached the barre. I studied myself in the mirror as I went through another series of stretches. While I didn’t have the typical ballerina’s body—thin to the point of starvation—I could move just as well as them.

  And ballet was changing, despite what Madame Giroux said. American Ballet Theatre’s Misty Copeland had a strong, muscular body.

  There was nothing I could do about my hips or shoulders, or the fact that I had boobs that refused to disappear. But I’d shaped and trained my body to dance. I made it move gracefully through shin splints and blisters. I spent hours working on extensions. I made sure to hold myself just right, chin high, back straight.

  I folded over, pressed my forehead against my shins, and wrapped my arms around my calves. Behind me, Madame Giroux was laying into another student about her weight and her sloppy appearance. Nine times out of ten, what came out of her mouth was bullshit, but it didn’t sting any less.
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br />   As I stood and twisted from one side to the other, my hips twinged, and I smiled to myself.

  Those sore muscles weren’t from dancing.

  I nearly burst out laughing, but instead made a mental note to tell Josh later on.

  It was Thursday night. Dance went late, nearly to nine, but I’d see him and the other boys at the Dairy Queen later. Landry had baseball and would come right from practice.

  A shot of nerves clenched my stomach. Would they be able to tell what Josh and I had done? Would they be mad?

  I shook my head. What happened between me and Josh didn’t make me love the other boys any less. If anything, I was looking forward to sharing the experience with them.

  “What are you smiling about?” Em asked me. “You look like you’re plotting.”

  “Nothing,” I whispered back as I turned to face her and lifted my arm over my head. “I was just thinking.”

  “Are you going to Dairy Queen later?” she asked.

  “Yes, you?” She nodded. “Landry said he’s going after practice. I cannot get that boy to ask me out. I’ve sent him about five different shots of my cleavage.”

  I paused in my stretch and let out a breath. He hadn’t told me that. Landry was nice to Em, and, maybe this was less nice, used her for those big events when going alone looked weird.

  It wasn’t something that went unnoticed—the boys not having girlfriends.

  Two of them were football stars and could have had their pick of cheerleaders. The only way around it was to fake interest. Landry, Josh, Wes, and Brant were masters of deflection and innuendo. They could hint at being with a girl in a way that kept the gossips off their backs.

  There were definitely whispers for a while, but we learned to hang out in larger groups and eventually those whispers died down.

  It wasn’t easy. Part of the way we kept this secret was by the boys going on dates. Landry and Em at Homecoming. Brant and Violet Harris at the Snow Ball.

  Wes had a pepette. Every Friday night during football season, Leah Cartwell brought him treats before the game, and once, she’d followed up her cupcakes with a peep show.

  One more month. I reminded myself that the end was in sight.

  Soon we’d be out and on our own, and we wouldn’t have to hide anymore. Or if we did, it’d be a million times easier.

  Class seemed to take forever. Madame was in a mood, and by the end, I was drenched in sweat and holding my side.

  “You were adequate, Elizabeth,” she told me as I guzzled water. “But you need to lose ten pounds.”

  “Thank you, Madame.” Her compliments followed by an insult were another trademark. I had just thanked her for telling me I needed to lose weight.

  I hurried out of the studio and down the street, filled with energy at the thought of seeing the boys. Other girls packed into cars and drove the two blocks, but I was car-less and used to making my way around town myself. If I needed it, I had an old beachcomber bike that got me from place to place in a pinch.

  The Dairy Queen was overrun with kids by the time I got there. Landry’s silver Audi was in the parking lot, but I didn’t see Josh or Wes’s truck, or Brant’s motorcycle.

  The tables outside the restaurant were filled, so I made my way inside, searching the crowd for Landry’s bright gold hair.

  “Hi, Bets!” a girl from my English class called.

  I waved back, but I didn’t stop when she gestured I should sit with her. Standing on my tiptoes, I strained to find Landry. It wasn’t until his hand shot up in the air that I located him.

  He sat with the other members of the Shawville Raider’s baseball team, but seemed somehow apart.

  It hit me. He’d been searching for me, too. When our eyes met, he stood quickly, a huge smile lighting up his face. As he walked around the table, he clapped his teammates on the shoulder. I caught a few of them glancing toward me, but they waved, like it was no big deal, and went back to their conversations.

  My breath caught as it always did when Landry came my way. Tall and broad-shouldered. Twinkling blue eyes. Landry Shaw walked like he ruled the world. If someone called his name, he’d wave, but otherwise, he didn’t deviate from his course.

  Toward me.

  By the time we stood toe-to-toe, my hands were clasped together to keep from reaching for him. More than anything, I wanted to slide them over his strong shoulders and along his back. I wanted to lean into him and feel his arms wrap around my waist, so he could lift me up until our mouths were lined up and I could kiss him.

  Instead, I had to fold my hands and take a step back.

  But Landry took a step forward. Always pushing it.

  His fingers grazed the back of my hand before he put his hands on his hips and glanced around the restaurant. “The other guys aren’t here yet,” he said. When he met my eyes, he was smiling so widely his dimples were evident. Sometimes, I stuck my fingers in them when I kissed him, just to make him laugh. He lowered his voice. “So, we get to have a date.” He lifted his eyebrows, daring me.

  But time with him was always something I wanted. “Lucky me.”

  He grabbed my hand, and I should have pulled it away, but I didn’t. I let him drag me toward a table in a corner near the kitchen. The AC didn’t reach this far, and it stunk like old french fries, but it was relatively private.

  Landry slid into the bench on one side of the table, and I sat across from him. “Your hair is curling,” he said. “Madame Giroux must’ve worked you hard tonight.”

  Beneath the table, his hand found mine. I’d brought my other hand to my head. Sure enough, my hair had curled into wisps all around my face.

  His thumb stroked my wrist, and I wondered if he could feel how my pulse was racing. This was risky, holding hands in public. I leaned my head on my hand, pretending like I wasn’t dying to sit next to him and rest my head on his shoulder.

  “It was tough,” I admitted. “My feet are killing me.”

  “Put them on my lap,” he said, and I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Lan…” I breathed his name. Someone would notice that.

  “Bets,” he replied, “don’t argue with me.” And then he smiled. Cocky bastard. He knew he had me. His hands—as I’d learned not so long ago—were magic.

  Pushing back in my chair, I placed my hands on the table at the same time as I put my feet in his lap. He held them on his thighs for a moment before sliding my flip-flops off.

  “You look beautiful,” he said as his thumb pressed into the arch of my foot. I bit my lip, holding back a groan. God. He was good at this. It was like he knew where I hurt and how much pressure to use to turn me into a puddle of goo. “I can’t wait to see you dance in the summer review.”

  “It might be Em,” I told him and sucked in a breath when he moved from my arch toward my calf. “Madame threatens me with that each class.”

  “You’re the best dancer she has,” Lan said. “And she’ll never let second-best reflect on her. You’ll be the lead, and then in the fall, you’ll start at Juilliard and then we’ll throw roses at your feet when you lead ABT.”

  He wrapped his hands around my ankles and tugged. My chair squeaked across the linoleum as he pulled me toward him. I whipped my head around to see if anyone had noticed, but most people were too busy stuffing their faces with fries and shakes to pay us any attention.

  Lan was hard, and I pointed my feet until I could rub against his erection. Just like that, his smile disappeared and that twinkling blue-eyed gaze lasered in on me.

  “Girl,” he warned. “You’re going to make me do something in front of these here people that you won’t like.”

  I leaned forward as I continued to stroke him. “You know I’d like it.” I loved his body. Kissing him. Holding him. Putting my mouth on him.

  He jumped suddenly and let go of my feet. I slid them to the ground and into my flip-flops automatically as his gaze went over my head. “Hi, Em.”

  “Hey,” she replied breathlessly and looked at the bench seat next
to him. There was room for someone to sit, and she opened her eyes wide, silently asking permission.

  “Do you want to join us?” he asked. Only someone who knew him as well as I did would catch the hint of coolness. He didn’t want her to sit, but good manners—and the need to deflect attention away from us—dictated that he should ask.

  “Sure!” She slid next to him and gathered her red hair over her shoulder.

  I had to admit, Emerson Roy and Landry Shaw made a beautiful couple. She looked like she belonged with him, from her willowy figure that was the perfect height for her head to land on his shoulder, to her dimpled smile and rich family. Jay and Natalie Shaw would love for their son to fall for a girl like Em Roy. For goodness sake, her mother and Natalie had brunch at the country club together after tennis every week. How easy would it be for them to plan a wedding over mimosas?

  I stopped those thoughts before I could go too far. Bitterness wasn’t a good look on me, and it made my stomach hurt.

  “Madame Giroux was a beast tonight, wasn’t she?” Em began. “Did Betsy tell you about our class, Landry? The old bat keeps teasing me with the lead ballerina role.”

  “No,” Landry answered. “She didn’t tell me.”

  Emerson waved her hand. “Phew! It stinks back here. Don’t you want to sit with the team?” she asked, talking a mile a minute. “Anyway, I know I’m not going to get it, and I’m happy with corps. It’s going to take someone way better than me to steal Betsy’s spot. No one touches her. Are you coming to the summer review?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Cecily’s in it.” Landry’s cousin was in the review as well. So he had an excuse. Josh, Brant, and Wes, though… they still hadn’t figured out a way to come to my dance recitals without it looking weird.

  Landry’s phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Hey.” He glanced up at me and then out the window. I followed his gaze and made out Wes in the front seat of his truck. When he saw us watching, he waved.

  “Why doesn’t he come in?” Em asked, and I shrugged.

  “Yeah,” Landry said. “I can help with that. Give me a minute. Yeah, I’m with Betsy.” He sounded surprised. “I don’t know.” He lowered the phone a tad. “Your grandmother is at prayer circle,” he told me. “Wes’s dad told him to pick you up. Bring you over.”