The Boy I Love Read Online Free Page A

of instruments, including the piano, a twelve-string guitar, and a Dobro. Plus he could sing, plus he recited poetry in this voice that was calm and excited at the exact same time. He would do it to make a point, like a poem could actually clarify something, a thought or an idea. I know this must sound completely corny, but when Ry does it, it’s not corny at all. It’s just totally cool.
    Ry closed the door to the lesson room behind us, which may sound promising, but unfortunately, one wall was a huge soundproof window so everyone in the store could look in and see us having our lesson. Ry and I took out our guitars and started tuning. At least he did. I always just pretended to be tuning my guitar until he finally took it away from me and did it himself. “Have you been working on ‘John Barleycorn’?” Ry asked, tightening up my C string.
    â€œYes,” I lied. I almost never practiced between lessons. Ry pretended not to know this, but then he would make some comment that should sound like a compliment—about my natural ability—that clearly implied I didn’t put in any effort whatsoever.
    He handed me back my guitar. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my first week of tenth grade?” I said.
    â€œAre you in tenth grade already?” Ry said. “I forgot you’d got so old.”
    â€œShut up,” I said. I hated to be reminded of how young I looked, especially by Ry. We played the song through once, with him shouting out the chord progressions, and me making all kinds of mistakes. I hoped he would come sit by me and show me the chords by putting his hands over my fingers, the way he used to, but he just kept to his own bench on the opposite side of the small space. After a little while we quit and worked on easier songs, but at the end of the lesson we went back to “John Barleycorn.” After the first verse I gave up trying to play and just sang with Ry, keeping up the melody while he came in with all kinds of cool harmonies.
    â€œDang,” Ry said, when we finished singing. “You sure do have a pretty voice, Wren.”
    And that compliment was enough to keep me smiling all the rest of the day.
    *   *   *
    Here was the deal we made so Allie and I could go to the party. It took about five phone conversations between our parents to work it out. My parents and Aunt Holly and I would drive into Williamsport and pick up Allie. Then the three of them would drop us off, and while we were at the party, they’d eat dinner at this beach restaurant my mother loved but never got to go to.
    â€œA long dinner,” I said. “A really, really long dinner.”
    â€œA pretty long dinner,” my mom said.
    â€œLong enough,” my dad added.
    After dinner they’d go listen to music at the tiki bar and then come get us. They would call when they got to the beach entry. I made them swear up and down that they would not set foot anywhere near the actual party.
    â€œAnd I’m borrowing a Breathalyzer from Ken Pories,” Dad said on Saturday morning. Ken Pories was one of the police officers who worked with the forest service. “You and Allie are both going to blow into it the minute you get in my car.”
    â€œYou are not serious,” I groaned. We were standing in front of our house. I had just gotten back from a horseback ride in the horrible heat with Mom. Sweat and dirt rolled down my face, and the back of my neck itched.
    â€œYou’ll find out after the party, won’t you?” he asked.
    Grrrr.
    *   *   *
    Allie and I had been checking in all day long about what we were going to wear and how we were going to act. Allie was ecstatic—she’d found out that Tim Greenlaw used to go out with a girl named Caroline Jones, but they had broken up, so he was officially available. But I was just psyched about being invited to a cool party so soon. It made me feel like my life