Blaize of Glory Cover












Blaize of Glory


Hiram Johnson High School in mid-town Sacramento hadn’t changed, though I wished it had, wished the school, the memories, the people were all part of a dream. The grounds looked green and well cared for, but the place seemed smaller to me now that I was thirty-one and not an impressionable sixteen-year-old girl.

As I walked down the corridor toward the auditorium, I read signs advertising the musical—opening this weekend—saw Sunny Wright’s name. How the hell had I let her talk me into meeting her during the rehearsal? Our friendship had ended on less than cordial terms, but after fifteen years something made her call and beg for help. I wanted to know what.

Yanking open the side door near the orchestra pit, I felt a sense of déjà vu, like a lingering whiff of old perfume. I saw Sunny before she saw me. In her bright yellow, long-sleeved leotard and tights, a stick-thin canary surrounded by sparrows, she looked the same as in high school. On stage, she and her dance partner were singing a duet, a chorus line behind them.

An uncomfortable lump formed in my throat, memories coming up that I couldn’t swallow back. Abruptly, I realized the music had stopped.

Sunny jumped from the stage and walked toward me, the same slim-hipped, long-legged walk she’d had as a teenager. She took a deep breath, her yellow leotard drenched in sweat, beads of perspiration on her brow. Her hair was shorter now, ear-length, but still black, thick and curly.

“Andy, thanks for coming.” She opened her arms, offering a hug, but when I didn’t move, hugged herself instead.

I managed a polite smile. “Hello, Sunny. How are you?”

“The same.” Her large, dark eyes searched my face.

Still a klepto-nympho? I wanted to ask, but held my tongue. Who was I to judge? I had my own demons.


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