Prologue

Summer, 1954

"Tell me something," I ask her, my eyelids half closed in a relaxed state only she can bring on. My hand is snaked underneath the lace of her top and she is breathing steadily, but her skin prickles in goosebumps that tells me my touch is wanted. I meet her here after work on Fridays, out on the hill right outside of town. Far enough away from people that we can exist without others eyes, but close enough to get back in a rush. Our love is reserved for Friday nights. Every other day it is hidden away like a diamond, stuffed deep down in some stuffy box we try and pretend does not exist.

Our families do not know each other.

Our friends do not know each other.

We should not know each other.

"What do you want to know?" She asks me, with lips painted pink from the pressure of my lips against hers. She is so beautiful. Her large brown eyes stare at me like I have the secrets to life. Like I am the secret. She has no idea how she is the secret. What we have is the secret. What we have is a secret. I count her freckles before I answer, taking in the sights of beauty as I do every Friday. It is the memorization of her features that gets me through the next week.

"Hmm, tell me something you've never told me before." I say finally and I watch as her cheeks pull up, creating the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. She takes a minute and I notice the line in her forehead form that only comes about when she is thinking hard. I think for a moment of taking my fingers and tracing it, but I do not interrupt her.

"Okay, I have it." She sits up and I nearly protest at the loss of comfort. Grass prickles at my arms and I think later how I will dismiss the scratches they will leave on my skin. My mother will notice. She always notices.

"Rosalie, are you listening?" She asks and I snap back to attention.

"Yes, I am sorry. What were you going to say?" She pouts but it is not serious. We are both often dropped away into our minds. Sometimes we meet and all we do is stare at the sky, and dream of something different. But there is nothing different for us here. Only Friday nights underneath this tree, on the hill outside of town.

"I was saying," her tone is light and happy, "That the first time I saw you I loved you." I laugh and shake my head at her.

"No you did not," is all I can manage through my giggles and now she pouts for real. A blush raises on her almond skin and I tamper down the desire to kiss her once more.

"It is true," She protests. "I was in town with my Auntie and I saw you helping that boy that had fallen on the street."

I do not remember the day she is talking about. Instead, I remember a day at school when my dress had blown up into the breeze. She was the only one kind enough to help tug it down. It is my turn to think.

"His name is Morgan," She prompts, trying to strike something in my memory, and it works. That was years ago. I flinch when I think on the person I was then. I do not tell her that I did not help him. I was the reason that he had fallen. Only once he was bloody did I feel enough regret to help him up. That part of the story does not seem important now.

"You're different now," She says and I look at her. She has read my discomfort and I want to cry. She knows me more than any person in this world. This beautiful woman sitting here under this tree, with her lace top and black pants, saw through me as though I wore no clothes at all. "You helped him, even though he was black and you are white. You are not the person you were before that moment."

I want to sink into the earth at her words. I pushed him. I do not bother with the words of my mother once she found out, and how bad the whipping had been. I only allow the grass to sink into my clothing. After a moment she lays against me, her cheek on my shoulder. It is starting to get dark and I do not want this moment to end.

"I love you, Ida." I tell her, as though the fact washes away the sins of my skin. She moves to face me and lifts my chin to press a kiss against my lips. It is as innocent as she is, and my soul weeps.

"You aren't scared?" She asks me and I know what she means. Of course I am scared. I am terrified of my mother finding me here, wrapped up in the arms of a woman. I am terrified of someone finding Ida in my arms and burning her home to the ground. Every component outside of this hill was terrifying.

"Of loving you? Never." She does not question me.