Page 8 of Perfect Pitch

“There isn’t anything I won’t do for family—give them a nest to burrow in or the wings to fly.” He jerks his head at each of us as he speaks sagely about what we both need in that moment.

I open my mouth to protest, but then Trevor lifts his head from his hands. His eyes are sparkling with tears along with something I’d never imagine seeing right now.

Hope.

Cautiously, I give in. “Let’s see how it goes for a few weeks.”

Charlie grins, slaps Trevor on his back, and announces, “In the long run, it’s going to work out exactly as it’s supposed to. You’ll see, Mitch.”

I guess I will. But in my present, the future—even tomorrow—seems way too far away for me to contemplate.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

THREE YEARS AGO—KENSINGTON, TEXAS

American singer-songwriter Garth Brooks receives the Library of Congress Gershwin Prize at the DAR Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C.

—Nashville Nights

I struggle to fight the tears that threaten to leak out of my eyes. It’s a stupid father-daughter dance. What’s the big deal?

I rub my hand against my chest to fight against the constant heartburn I suffer with. Or is it just heartbreak that I wasn’t enough for my father to stick around?

To the uptight community of Kensington, Texas, traditions matter. They mean everything. The annual father/daughter dance is just another opportunity for my peers to openly deride me because they would never dare besmirch my mother—the princess of Kensington—for daring to have a child out of wedlock.

I try to ignore their chatter over mundane matters like Beckett Miller’s latest heartthrob and whether their matching shoes will be ready on time. Instead, I double down working on advance work for my AP French class. Va te faire foutre, I think. But openly declaring to my hoity-toity classmates that they should go screw themselves would be tantamount to war with this clique of high school elite. After all, they are more used to people kissing their asses to be a part of their tribe than someone telling them to kiss their asses out of anger and frustration.

And the very last thing I need when I’ve so little time left here is to make what I’ve endured for so many years worse.

“What do you plan on wearing, Austyn?” Sybil coos. All eyes swivel in my direction, causing my l’accent aigu to scratch across the page.

There’s a titter of laughter among the perfectly coiffed girls around me—all except one, who frowns from the fringes. I meet Fallon’s eyes and give a quick shake of my head. I’m too used to this.

Especially after all these years.

Mercedes jumps in before I can address Sybil’s question. She’s on the committee for this year’s father/daughter dance and goes on and on about everything from the theme to the food to the photographers.

Sybil slashes her hand across the air. “That’s fine, Mercy, but what is she wearing?”

Trying to distract the group with humor, I rake my eyes down my torn jeans and Doc Martens. “Probably something close to this.”

The crew giggles—God, that sound drives me insane. Sybil waits until the attention is back on her before she declares, “You are too adorable, Austyn. Did your father—oops, I mean grandfather—get your gown at Niemies?”

“No.”

That sets off another wave of whispers. Fallon’s the only one not engaging in it. She’s more concerned about what happens when everyone realizes I’m not kidding about not attending.

I feel the rush of anger that’s been boiling up in me every time thoughts of my father come to mind as of late. Maybe it’s because I’m the same age as my mother was when she had to decide whether to keep me. After all, the bastard who left my mother high and dry, alone and pregnant at barely seventeen, hasn’t ever returned.

And it’s a good thing he hasn’t. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’d do. My anger has me clutching my pen so tightly that ink pops out and explodes all over my hand.

The girls shriek and scatter. Sybil, not one to let things lie, says hotly, “If your family got you a dress from somewhere else, then it’s no big deal, Austyn,” before she scampers down the stairs next to the bleachers.

I don’t acknowledge her final zing, instead reaching in my bag for a packet of wipes to mop up the worst of the mess.

Fallon climbs up a few steps. “What a damn bitch.”

---