Under the Dusty Sky (Holloway Farms)

pulls her knees up, setting the book on her lap.
    “ Is that a journal?” I ask, watching her eyes flick back and forth. She looks up at me and laughs a short curt laugh.
    “ I have three older brothers. Do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep a journal?”
    I lay back on the old dusty mattress and put my hands behind my head. She looks down at me and her eyes travel me quickly before her bronze cheeks flush so slightly I would have missed it if I wasn’t so damn hyper aware of her.
    “ I’d never read my sister’s journal.”
    “ Well then, you’re a good brother. The twins wouldn’t just read it, they’d photocopy it and hand it out to their football team.”
    I think back to my run in with Archer in the kitchen. I don’t think she realizes just how much her brothers would do for her. I think about arguing, but she’s not really the type to be argued with.
    “ So what is it then?”
    She’s silent for a while, just watching me, thinking about something with zero emotion on her face. She’s almost as good as me.
    “ It’s my mom’s. She wrote poetry and songs. I keep it and come up here to read it.”
    Now it’s my turn to be silent. I don’t really know what to say so I say this, “Do you write songs?”
    She nods lightly. My body shifts on its own with discomfort. This is too familiar. Too much like all the others. I sit up, suddenly itching to run. It figures that I come this far from home and still I end up in the same place.
    “ Something wrong?” Her voice sounds uncharacteristically concerned, and I shake my head, struggling to keep my expression calm. Moments ago, I’d have spilled everything if she asked, but now this is the last place I want to be.
    “ I’m fine. But I’m gunna take off. Let you finish doing…whatever you’re doing.”
    I don’t look at her as I move to the ladder and climb down. She doesn’t make any sounds. The air is suddenly sticky and hot. I need to take a shower.
    Once outside, I do what I do best. I run.

CHAPTER 9
    Graceland
    I haven’t seen Bentley since he went all lockdown on me in the barn, but as I run my hands down the soft, silky, white fabric of my dress, I easily push him from my mind. I get a new dress every year but, Dad gave me extra money this year because of my 16th birthday. This dress is even better than the blue sundress. I fluff the thin material that reaches mid-thigh and know Dad’s going to give me the look. One of the benefits of not having a mom is that I get to buy what I want because Dad doesn’t want to check to see if it fits properly. I’ve been with Lacy as her mom pokes and prods her, tugging on everything to make sure it fits.
    My brothers think everything looks ‘slutty’ on me, but they’re perfectly okay with the girls in their class showing it all.
    “ Yeah, but you’re a sister.” Archer would say. To which I’d reply, “She’s a sister,” and get a smirk with the retort, “She ain’t my sister.”
    Boys. Nothing but double standards.
    There’s a knock at my door, and Asher sticks his head in not half a second later.
    “ Dammit, Ash. What if I was naked?”
    He wrinkles his nose and looks me up and down.
    “ You practically are naked in that thing. Anyway. We’re going in ten minutes. Ten minutes, Bug. I don’t give a shit if it’s your birthday. Be ready.”
    I flip him off, and he leaves.
    Running my fingers through my hair once more, I let it fall down my back and head out the door. I pause and look back at mom’s journal. My birthdate.
    When happy is sad/and fear swallows joy/when life is thrust upon us/the imperfect glares/it’s all around, all around/it never leaves, it’s always there/the only time it ever fades/is when I’m alone/with the air/under the dusty sky
    She wrote it the day I was born. I move quickly to my bed and toss the book into my closet, slamming the door. Technically, it’s not my birthday yet, but I still shouldn’t be thinking about the poem.
    “ Graceland Marie!” Archer yells from downstairs, but I can’t stop staring at my closet door. I read that poem every year on my birthday. That poem is about me. About how she didn’t want me. How I’m her imperfect.
    But it’s been another year. More changes. I’m not alone. I’m never alone. And everything is always perfect.
    ***
    Dad glares at me as I try to climb into his huge truck with my dress. I glare right back at him. He looks different. His hair has a little bit of product in it and looks like the