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“Really?” She tilts her head.
Her hair, golden and straight like her sister’s, flows over one slender shoulder. Peace looks exactly like Harmony, though to me they are easy to tell apart. They dress differently too. Harmony prefers bright colors and trendy clothes. Peace usually wears jeans and a T-shirt. The slogan on the one she wears today saysbooks are my happy place.
“I’m not big on reading,” I say. “But I’m glad you’ve found something you’re passionate about.”
“You prefer music.”
“Definitely. At one time, songs were my only escape from a real shitty, I mean, terrible environment.”
“So, music is like books for you.”
“I guess you’re right.”
I study Peace. Her pretty brown-and-gold-flecked eyes have that serious sheen to them that they often do. That’s another big difference between her and her twin. Harmony hardly ever takes anything seriously, except if it involves having a good time.
“I heard you tell Avery your favorite bands.”
“I like Tempest.” Her cheeks turn pink.
“It’s okay to like other groups besides your dad’s. Just not other types of music,” I tease. “Only rock. No country music. Ugh.” I make a face.
“I like booksandmusic,” she says. “Especially songs that make me feel a certain way.”
“Like how?” I lean closer. Talking about music, we’re getting into familiar territory.
She opens her mouth and then closes it, looking unsure.
“You know you can tell me anything,” I say gently, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“When one of my favorite songs is playing, I feel like I have a place to belong.”
That’s heavy, so heavy it takes me a moment to wrap my head around the ramifications. Once I do, a follow-up question must be asked.
“Where do you feel like you don’t belong?”
“School, mostly.” She bites down on her lip.
“And where else?” I press since it’s obvious she’s holding something back.
Her shoulders come up to kiss her ears. “At home some.”
That affects me deeply. It’s how I felt all the fucking time living with my mom in Southside. I hate that Peace feels that way.
“You know a little about my past,” I ask. “Right?”
“Yes,” she says. “You were poor. Your mom worked in a twenty-four-hour convenience store. You never knew your dad.”
That’s the simplified, sanitized overview. I give her some context.
“My mom regretted ever having me.” I was a big financial burden to her and far too much trouble. “My dad refused to admit I was his. Both made it very clear to me that they wished I’d never been born.”
Her eyes grow large. “That’s awful.” She blinks away tears. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not sharing because I want you to feel bad for me.” Some of the old defensiveness darkens my tone.
“I know. It’s not that. It’s just ...” She trails off, wetness seeping into her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, lightening my tone. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just wanted you to know that it was rough for me emotionally and physically when I was young.”
