Page 1 of Heartland

One

Chastity

“Please be careful,Chastity. Don’t drink anything that doesn’t come from a sealed bottle—unless Dylan is the one who pours it for you.”

“I’ll be careful, Leah,” I reply. But at the same time I roll my eyes in the mirror where I’m giving myself a last-minute once-over before I leave for my first college party.

The dormitory phone has a long curly cord that stretchesjustfar enough into the bathroom. So I can listen to all Leah’s worries and check my look at the same time.

Squinting at my reflection, I button the second button on my blouse. But then I unbutton it again. I want to look attractive, but I don’t need my top to shout: HERE ARE MY BOOBS FOR YOUR PERUSAL.

It’s a fine line.

“Don’t go into the basement,” Leah says. “That’s where all the bad ideas happen.”

“What kind of bad ideas?” I ask, perking up. I don’t remember Dylan’s house on Spruce Street even having a finished basement. But if it did, I’d probably go into it, in spite of Leah’s warning. I’m more interested in bad ideas than anyone seems to understand. And I always have been. It’s just that my life hasn’t afforded much opportunity to try them out.

“Just be careful. Trust your gut. There are men who would get you drunk or high just to take advantage of you.”

“I’ll be very careful,” I promise, just because it’s the fastest way to end this conversation.

Leah means well. She’s only nine years older than I am, but she considers herself my guardian. Two years ago—when I was nineteen—I ran away from the cult where we both grew up.

I owe her a lot. She took me in, no questions asked, even though we’re only distant cousins. Leah cares about me and my future, which is a lot more than I can say about my actual parents. If I’d stayed on the Paradise Ranch I’d be married by now to a fifty-year-old man with four other wives.

Sometimes when people hear this story they say we have a “colorful history.” But it’s just the opposite. It wasn’t colorful at all; it was really drab. And that’s why I’m standing here in a burgundy silk blouse I bought secondhand and a pair of tight jeans that would have earned me a beating at the compound.

Leah bought me my first pair of jeans two years ago. I’d put them on immediately, feeling very defiant. Then I’d looked in the mirror and thought:whore. Because that’s what they used to call me.

I still hear their voices in my head sometimes. I was a whore to them. And all because I kissed a boy.

“Are you coming home this weekend?” Leah asks. Byhomeshe means her farm in Tuxbury, which is about an hour’s drive from the university in Burlington.

“I think so?” I uncap my only tube of tinted lip gloss and touch up my lips in the mirror.

“Did you tell Dylan your idea?”

“Not yet.” And that’s one of the reasons I’m going to this party at his house.

It’s Wednesday, when we have a standing tutoring date. But today he didn’t show. I don’t have a cell phone, which is probably why I didn’t hear from him. He must have called the land line while I was out.

Dylan is a little flighty, but he’s a good friend. He hasn’t missed a Wednesday yet. That hour of the week is a double-edged sword for me. I love spending time with Dylan. But algebra.Oof. It’s not my forte. I spend the whole time trying not to look either stupid or heartsick, with varying degrees of success.

I’m probably failing at the first thing, but Dylan has no idea how I feel about him, and I plan to keep it that way.

“I hope Dylan likes your idea,” Leah says. “It’s got a lot of potential. And the kitchen is wide open on Friday and Saturday nights. Nobody ever wants to claim those hours.” Leah makes fancy cheeses, but it’s a seasonal business. So she rents out the commercial kitchen in her creamery to other businesses during the winter months.

“If Dylan wants in, he’ll pick Saturday,” I tell her. “Fridays are reserved for his awful girlfriend.”

“Shhh!” Leah hisses. “Won’t she hear you?”

“No. She’s not here.” The biggest mistake of my college career—all four weeks of it—was asking Dylan to help me carry my things into the dormitory on move-in day.

I hadn’t even asked, come to think of it. He’d volunteered. He’d driven me to school in his old truck and brought me to the housing office to pick up my keys.

And I’d been so, so grateful. Right up until Dylan carried my one box into the dormitory. I’d been so nervous I’d felt like throwing up, but Dylan had whistled a happy tune as he led me down the hallway to suite 302.

“Open ’er up,” he’d said kindly. “Let’s see if the housing gods were kind.”