Shift by Ginger Scott

1

Iknow the very moment I fell in love with Dustin Bridges. It wasn’t the first time my brother’s best friend and I were alone together on a dusty track under the assault of the cruel Arizona sun. It would be far from the last, too. So many weekends of my life were spent in the infield of some endless loop, inhaling gassy fumes while I sheltered in my parents’ truck camper shell. It was always the three of us—me, Dustin, and my brother, Tommy. They were two rowdy boys, hell-bent on making me miserable and reminding me that no matter how hard I fought back, there would always be two of them and one of me. They would always be older, bigger, and capable of far more devious pranks—like the time they filled my duffel bag with slugs they dug up at the creek’s edge during one of our overnight trips.

We were the ultimate love-hate triangle. I’ve never blamed Dustin for taking up for Tommy all those times. It was his best-friend duty, in all honesty, and I was the annoying baby sister. I lived up to my moniker, too, busting in on their private conversations, tattling every time they lit things on fire out in the desert, and pretending to cry just to get them busted when they play-punched me in the arm. It never actually hurt.

When it came to race time, though, I was one-hundred percent on their crew. Team Eat My Dust—that’s what they were called—always crossed the finish lines first. And if they didn’t, my loud mouth was the first one shouting about the cheaters who stole first place. I was a part of their squad on the weekends, and even though I never touched a tool to the kart in my family’s garage, I still somehow had a stake in their race. I don’t think a person can spend that many hours riding in cars and traveling together without feeling that kind of kinship. The three of us fought like hell sometimes, but we were also friends. Best friends. Family.

But something changed that March morning when I just turned thirteen. Dustin dropped his invisible armor, and I saw straight into his defenseless and wounded insides. It was the first time I felt desperate to soothe his pain and help fight his demons, both real and imagined. Maybe it was the first time I fully understood. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my thirteenth birthday and how hot Dustin’s tears were when they landed on my bare, sunburnt shoulder as I held his quaking body tight.

Even now, four years later, on the verge of my seventeenth birthday, those few moments haunt me. I’m surrounded by dozens of friends and family and more gifts than any girl truly deserves, yet all I feel inside is emptiness and ache. Because while my eyes scan the crowd gathered around the outdoor picnic table to serenade me with the happy birthday song, I keep coming up short. The only person I want to celebrate anything with . . . ever . . . at all . . . didn’t bother to come.

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