The Singer's Bodyguard

Prologue

I remembered clearly my six-year-old self gazing outside. Snow was everywhere, coating everything white. It dazzled my eyes.

            I yawned, rubbing the sleep from my tired face and stepping outside onto my patio. My fuzzy pink slippers picked up any snow that they came in contact with, and weighed my small feet down. Being six, I hadn’t really known that it was odd when random little boys sat on your swing set. But that’s exactly why I’d gone out there at six in the morning. That strange little boy was sitting in my backyard, sitting on my swing set. If I hadn’t just gotten up and been so surprised by the snow, and the boy in the snow, I would have been more furious than curious. No one sat on my swing set, not even Wes.

            Now that I thought back to it, the little boy had been adorable. He’d had blonde curls, and amazing hazel eyes. I hadn’t noticed back then; I was just concerned that he was violating my beloved swings.

            “Hey,” my six-year-old self had said. “Who’re you?”

            The boy had looked up at me, his cheeks pink from the cold and tears frozen on his face. I’d frowned. This little boy was violating my swings and crying? The nerve of this kid...

            The boy stood up, holding out his hand, something clutched in his fist. Confused, I’d held out my own hand, and he’d dropped a necklace into it. Being six, I hadn’t realized that that shiny red stone wasn't something you simply got from a cereal box. The gem was shaped like a music note, and I’d fallen in love with it instantly, just because it was shiny.

            “What is it?” I’d asked the boy.

            “It was my mom’s.” He looked down at his snow-covered feet.

            “Where’s your mom?”

            The little boy took a step away from me, but I took another forward. I was a stubborn little girl. I still was, come to think of it.

            “She…” The boy looked at me with wide eyes, more tears falling down his cheeks. My own eyes widened in response. “My brother says that she’s dead and she’s not gonna come home ever again. He said she didn’t want to see me anymore.”

            At such a young age, I had enough brains to minimally understand the concept of death—that someone was gone for good—because my father had died before I was born. The little boy started to cry again, and I stepped forward and hugged him, despite him being a stranger (and swing stealer). I’d seen and felt my mom do it so many times before—to me, to my little brother—and my naive little self thought that it could make anyone stop crying.

            The little boy in my arms froze for a second before wrapping his arms around me. I still had his mother’s necklace in my hand.

            I pulled away from the little boy when someone shouted a name from the house beside mine. He looked at me and gave me a shaky smile.

            “Here,” I’d said, holding out his necklace. He shook his head.

            “You can keep it. You’re nice."

            I tilted my head to the side, confused. “But you don’t even know me!”

            “Yes I do,” the boy said, looking just as confused as I felt. I was sure that I’d never met this kid before. Someone called again, and the little boy looked over his shoulder.