Page 97 of A Boy Called Lovesong

“You’re angry. I get it. I understand. And what I’m about to tell you might make you even madder. But you deserve to know the truth. You need to know everything.”

“So, talk.”

I didn’t start by talking at all. I started by grabbing his hand and placing his cassette tape in his palm.

He shook his head, confused. “What’s this?”

“It’s yours. It’s your audition tape for Juilliard.”

Confusion turned to disbelief. “What are you doing with it? How do you know about that?”

“I know about it because my partner was the one you sent it to. He heard your audition, and he wrote back to you, saying he wanted you to go to New York for a proper audition.”

“No, he didn’t,” Lovesong said, stumbling back a step, completely disoriented by what I was telling him. “He never wrote back at all. How do you know he did?”

“Because this is the letter,” I said, shoving it into his hand. “You never got it, because your father opened it and hid it from you. Lovesong, you need to leave here. Your father’s been lying to you all this time. He’s been lying to you since you were born.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your mother. When she left you at the crossroads, the note she supposedly wrote wasn’t written by her at all. It was written by Reverend Jim.”

Lovesong was reeling. He was beside himself, his emotions erupting. “How… how do you know all this? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to know the truth.”

“Andyouneed to tell me why you’re here! Why did you come to Clara’s Crossing, Noah?”

I took a sharp breath. “I came because Joel, my partner, died mailing this letter to you. I came to blame you for his death, to try and unload all the hurt in my heart and make you carry it for the rest of your life. But I was wrong. I know that now. I know—”

Lovesong suddenly stopped and held up his hand. “Shhh! Stop!”

“No. I won’t stop.”

He thumped his hand against my chest. “Stop! Listen!” He pointed to the still air, like he could hear something I couldn’t.

“What? Listen to what?”

I turned my head and saw Cybil driving down the road in our direction, having taken a load of cotton to the Landry factory.

“It’s Cybil’s pickup,” I said. “Cybil’s coming down the—” I narrowed my eyes. “Oh God, something’s wrong.”

I watched as Cybil suddenly slumped onto the wheel.

I watched as her truck suddenly picked up speed.

“Cybil,” I gasped.

But Lovesong couldn’t see what I could.

He was sensing something else entirely.

“No, it’s not Cybil I can hear.” Lovesong pointed quickly across the road. “It’s Chet!”

I turned.

Through the cotton field across the road, Chet came bolting out.

He dashed straight onto the road.

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