was grinning now. “And Sister Georgia.”
“But I want to learn from you,” Joshua said. He stood behind me now. I could feel his knees in my back. Bony and warm.
Sun broke through the stained-glass window, coloring the air. I could smell the wood oil used to polish the piano. Could hear the boys playing basketball a room over, calling to one another.
His hand rested on my shoulder and my body was flooded with unexpected happiness.
“What?” I should run, run, get away from this sin. Get away. But the bigger part of me wanted to relax into Joshua.
“You’re good. You said so yourself. Think you could teach me?”
His hand. His knees. My confused state. I wanted to turn around and hug him. Where were these thoughts coming from?
“Maybe. Maybe, I can.” I’m not sure how I got the words out. “I gotta go.” I pushed the bench back and struggled to make my legs work. Joshua and I walked across the room. His hands were shoved in his pockets.
“Now, Kyra,” he said. We were at the door getting ready to walk into what seemed to me the real world. “What will you charge for lessons?” His face was just a few inches from mine.
I couldn’t find my voice. Then I said, “I’m not sure. What do you think is fair?”
Our faces were so close I could feel his breath on my lips.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said at last.
A CHILLING BREEZE blows across the desert. All around me life has settled in for the night.
I drag an old chair, one I have used at this window, close to the trailer.
I know he sleeps in this room with three other boys. I’ve never gone to him unless we have planned it first, so he’s awake. Usually Joshua comes to my place. Or leaves me a message under a rock in my garden and we meet in the dark near the Temple.
But I have to talk to him. I have to.
“Joshua,” I say, whispering through the screen that smells of dust. “Joshua.”
My voice is so low, I’m sure he cannot hear it. And I’m shaking. All over shaking. My shin hurts.
“Joshua,” I say, his name louder this time and it sounds like thunder. Good grief! Whisper or scream? Choose one, Kyra.
Somebody in the room moves, I can hear them.
“Joshie,” someone says. Maybe it’s Bryant? The voice is young, not more than two or three. “Joshie, somebody wants you outside.” There’s a pause and then, “I’m scared.”
I should leap down from this chair and take off running, but what worse can happen to me than already has—already will? What can be worse than Uncle Hyrum as my husband? So I wait, still.
“Don’t be scared,” Joshua says and his voice fills my shaking stomach with relief. “I’m right here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. He’s said those very words to me.
THE NEXT DAY AFTER JOSHUA stood so close to me and asked for piano lessons, I found Father. He was coming in from the alfalfa fields, sweaty from the sun and hard work.
“Father,” I said before I lost my nerve, “Joshua Johnson wants to learn how to play the piano. May I teach him?” I couldn’t quite look my father in the eye. So I stared at the mark his hat left in his hair when he took it off and wiped his face dry.
He considered. “Joshua Johnson?” he said. “Where?”
“In the Fellowship Hall. On the old Kawai.”
My father, so trusting, who had no idea I had been a moment away from a kiss, nodded and said, “Take Emily with you. Make sure your own music’s done. And your chores.”
“Yes sir,” I said. Had he noticed my pink face? Did he see me blushing?
So I took Emily. She sang the simple notes Joshua played, her voice always right on key. Her voice like a butterfly, fluttering in the air above our heads.
BUT. Here is another secret. Another sin. Because I am not allowed to be with Joshua. I am not allowed to feel this way. Tingly when he looks at me. Weak when his hand is near mine. And the worst part—I couldn’t help but wonder how it would be to kiss him.
And when we did kiss, it was all my fault.
Emily in the corner with her baby doll.
Me, in the Fellowship Hall with Joshua.
On the piano bench.
Smelling the soap he uses.
Watching his hands.
Hardly thinking of music.
“This is the chord you should be playing,” I said to Joshua.
I glanced in his direction and saw him looking