Steering Toward Normal
Page 1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 978-1-4197-0732-2
Text copyright © 2014 Rebecca Petruck
Illustrations copyright © 2014 Sam Bosma
Photographs on pages this page, this page, and this page
copyright © 2014 Laura Seljan
Book design by Sara Corbett
Published in 2014 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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CONTENTS
FALL
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
WINTER
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
SPRING
19
20
21
22
23
24
SUMMER
25
26
27
28
29
30
THE MINNESOTA STATE FAIR
31
32
33
34
IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DIGGY LAWSON STOOD IN THE BARN AND PROMISED HIMSELF AGAIN THAT he would not name this new calf. After three years competing steers at the Minnesota State Fair, he knew what to expect. Nothing could describe the long, final walk to the packer’s truck, knowing that in only a few days his steer would be served at Hartley’s Steak House.
He was an experienced cattleman now. No names, no tears. An eighth-grader shouldn’t cry.
Diggy inspected his morning’s work one more time. The stall was tidy, wood shavings evenly raked over the ground, water trough scrubbed shiny. The steer he had chosen would settle in to his new home fast and happily.
Diggy heard the distant whoosh of tires coming up the gravel road. He grabbed the rice root brush from its peg and shoved it into his back pocket as he walked to the driveway and watched July’s truck crest the hill.
He patted his hair to be sure he hadn’t broken the shell of goop that kept his cowlicks flat, then swiped sweat from his forehead. Mid-September weather was hit or miss in Minnesota, veering through summer, fall, and almost winter on a day-by-day basis. This Saturday was summer, but Diggy wore jeans and boots anyway. Anything less around a calf jittery after his first ride in a trailer would make July think he’d forgotten everything she’d ever taught him. She had chosen him to fill her shoes and become the next Grand Champion Market Beef, and there was no way he’d let her down.
Pop came out, his orange hair bright as a glow stick, and Diggy was glad he’d used the goop because it made his own hair darker. It didn’t matter that July had seen him filthy before, covered in hay, dirt, and cow poop. He didn’t like to look messy around her when he could help it. As her truck made the turn into the long driveway, he breathed deeply to chase away the stomach swirlies.
“Do I get to say hi to her, or do I have to make myself scarce?” Pop asked.
“Har, har,” Diggy said, though Pop’s tone was so straight on, Diggy wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not. He squinted sideways at Pop.
Pop laughed and roughed up Diggy’s hair. “What the—”
“Quit it,” Diggy said. Luckily, nothing much had shifted. He pressed the shell back down.
“Is that hair gel or rubber cement?”
“Geezer. No one uses rubber cement anymore.” Diggy snickered at his own joke. At thirty-five, Pop was probably the youngest “Pop” on the planet, but calling him old never got old.
“This geezer can still ground you.”
“That would hurt you more than me.”
Pop snorted. “I’m thinking you deserve a little something special for lunch today.”
Diggy groaned. Pop was an expert prankster with a sub-specialty in food doctoring. July parked, and Diggy headed over to her truck, calling back to Pop, “As long as it’s after July’s gone.”
Pop grinned, waved at July, and made himself scarce.
Diggy’s gratitude doubled as he watched July climb out of the truck.
July Johnston.
Every time she was near, Diggy’s heart became the sun.
July, like her five sisters before her, would be homecoming queen now that she was a senior. Her hair was long and dark and shiny, pulled back into the usual ponytail. Her face was clean, no makeup, and her brown eyes sparkled. She wore jeans, a T-shirt, and boots, and was pretty much perfect.
But it wasn’t only that she was pretty. She was nice, too. Honest nice, not pretend nice like some of the popular girls. And she loved cows. Even though she didn’t have to, she liked being there when Diggy had a new calf brought home for the first time.
Diggy had gone to his first 4-H meeting because of July. She had come to his class to talk about how cool 4-H was—all the different activities they supported, the community outreach, and the friendships with people from all over the county—but he had been hooked by her smile, her enthusiasm, and the sparkle in her eyes. He pretended to himself he would have gotten involved in raising steers on his own at some point, but he knew better than to believe it. As much as he had learned to love the animals, he competed for July.
“Hey there.” She hugged him sideways, the way she usually did, this time so she could look at the fence and post they’d use for halter breaking. “Everything all set here?”
He nodded, reeling from her cut-grass smell and her bare arm over his shoulders and the little bit of sweat where her skin pressed against his.
“Of course it is,” she said. She gave his shoulders a squeeze, and he let himself press that little bit closer to her. “You’re an old pro.” She smiled down at him and ruffled his hair.
Tried to ruffle it.
Her eyes widened.
Diggy jerked away. “Sorry, I, uh …” His face felt like a thousand fires. “My hair sticks up.”
July grabbed his shoulders to make him stand still, then scratched his head like it was a steer’s rump, breaking up the goop crust. “I like your head the way it is.”
Diggy looked up into her smiling eyes, a good six inches above his, wishing he wasn’t the youngest and shortest eighth-grader in his class and hoping all his hope that four years wasn’t so big a difference.
He could have stood like that with July forever.
She patted his shoulder and turned to look up the drive. “Here he comes.”
It took a few seconds for Diggy to hear the diesel engine over the thump of blood in his ears. Rick Lenz was coming with the calf.
Lenz climbed out of the cab, walked back, and slid out the short ramp like it was one motion, proof of his having done it a thousand times. Their hellos to him were lost in the metallic clank of latches sprung and disgruntled moos, but Lenz heard Pop call out that there was fresh coffee inside. Barely a minute after Lenz’s arrival, Diggy and July were alone again.
July shook her head. “Never get a word in edgewise with that guy.”
Diggy laughed. Everyone knew Lenz talked more to his cows than to people. July’s teasing helped Diggy relax a bit. His new calf was home.
Diggy had gone out to Mr. Lenz’s last weekend to select the steer he’d compete from among the other spring-born calves, and he had felt an immediate bond with this one. But that was a week ago and in a different setting. Even though he knew all would go well with raising his chosen calf and had for the last three years, Diggy still got nervous when it came time to bring a steer home.
He walked around the back of the trailer and looked in, seeing mostly rump. The calf was in a simple rope halter tied through one of the openings in the trailer’s side. It saved time with the breaking to let the steers fight the halter during the ride.
Diggy eased into the back as quietly as he could—pretty much impossible with boots and an aluminum trailer. The calf rolled back his eyes and bawled. Diggy scratched the calf’s rump until he quieted, then pulled the brush from his back pocket and stroked it over the steer’s hide.
Diggy couldn’t help but admire what a fine calf he’d chosen. He had a long, straight top with a clean line through the throat and brisket. He was full but not too muscled, so he had room to grow in the year they’d be together, and his legs were sturdy, not too bent or too straight. What Diggy liked best was the way the calf watched him back. Calm and alert. The eyes and hair were almost equally black and absorbed light like it would help him grow. Only his nose glistened.
Diggy was so focused on his new calf, it took him a while to feel July looking in on them. He turned to her, scratching the calf’s rump again. “He already looks like a champ. And did you see how quickly he calmed for me?” It was a sign of trust that meant they’d have a good bond.
The steer twitched his tail aside and pooped. On Diggy’s boot.
“Crap,” Diggy said, laughing. “You’re a real joker, aren’t you.” It was Diggy’s fault for having his feet in the line of fire—but the laugh burst like a bubble overhead, becoming a black cloud. He had promised himself he wouldn’t name his steer!
He clattered out of the trailer, setting off fresh bawling, and dragged his boot in the grass.
July gave him the eye, clearly not happy with his behavior. “It’s not like that’s never happened before,” she pointed out.
Diggy sighed. “I wasn’t going to name him.”
“Ah.” The small sound was filled with echoes of Diggy’s own regret. July knew exactly what it was like to care for an animal and have to let him go. She hugged him to her side. “I used to tell myself that, too, but every year … So, what’s our sweet boy’s name?”
“Joker.”
July laughed. “Yeah, that’s him, all right.”
They looked in at the calf.
Joker looked back at them and winked.
Diggy chuckled despite himself. He knew the wink was really a blink, that he simply couldn’t see Joker’s other eye, but it didn’t matter. Barely ten minutes was all it had taken for Diggy to break his promise to himself and fall in love again.
It was too late now. The name was stuck.
Diggy climbed back into the trailer and brushed Joker some more to apologize for stomping off the way he had. When Joker calmed enough that he might have been asleep, Diggy nudged the calf’s rump to get him facing outward, then unknotted the rope from the trailer. He pulled until Joker took a step forward. Diggy immediately released the pressure, and Joker took three more steps before stopping. Diggy repeated the pressure, easing up as soon as Joker moved again. Joker took several more steps and was quick to catch on to the lesson. A tug meant walk.
In no time they were in the barn, with Diggy offering Joker his reward, a bit of the alfalfa-grass hay he’d eat all fall and winter.
“You’re a natural, Diggy,” July said.
He liked the sound of her saying his name more than the praise itself. He knew that her words weren’t true, though he had worked harder than he ever had at anything to make her think so. It wasn’t lying, exactly, doing stuff to make her like him, but he wanted her to really, really like him, and now she thought he was a natural.
Diggy turned her attention from himself back to Joker.
They watched the calf and talked about his assets and their plan for the coming year. July had won Grand Champion last year, taken Reserve the year before, and had always earned at least blues before then. This year she had been elected 4-H president and was one of five National Beef Ambassadors—a big deal. She was going to be so busy with programs and traveling, she had decided not to compete at the State Fair. It was Diggy’s duty to take up the purple ribbon of success that July was passing on to him.
He had to win Grand Champion at the State Fair for her sake.
After July left, Diggy stayed in the barn, petting and talking to Joker. The touch-and-talk method worked for a reason, but Diggy had been shy about rambling to the calf in front of July. He made up for it now, scratching Joker while he chattered about the calf’s new home, the great food he’d get, how much fun they’d have training, and how much he’d like Pop, but warning him there would be early mornings and late nights.
The calf listened, head cocked like a dog’s, and occasionally commented with a snuffle or a moo. Diggy felt they’d made a good start.
He sent a photo of the calf to his friends Jason and Crystal, as promised, and then Pop came out to the stall to look over the steer and deliver some lunch. Diggy took a bite of the tuna sandwich and only remembered his “geezer” comment when the tuna turned out to be spicy hot. He blinked the sting of jalapeño fumes from his eyes and took another bite.
“Okay?” Pop asked, a bit too casually.
Diggy nodded, afraid to speak. Fresh calves weren’t fans of open flames.
Pop slapped Diggy on the back, laughing. “You’re one stouthearted kid, Diggy Lawson.” He pulled a plastic-wrapped sandwich from his pocket and offered it over.
“No, this is fine,” Diggy choked out.
“I thought you’d say so.” Pop set the sandwich down and patted Joker’s rump. “He’s a good one. You two are going to have a good year.” He ruffled Diggy’s hair and headed out of the barn.
Diggy smiled at Joker, then eyed the second sandwich. He slanted a glance toward Pop’s retreating back.
“It’s the same tuna, isn’t it?” Diggy called out.
Pop whistled on his way to the house.
After dinner—an average, un-tampered-with dinner—Diggy went out to check on the calf again. The sun had taken its summerlike heat with it. A firm northeastern wind rattled fall-crisp leaves on branches that clacked and creaked. Diggy led Joker into the shivering night. A steer needed to get accustomed to all sorts of sounds so he wouldn’t be easily spooked by the time he entered the show ring.
The chill air was a double bonus, because cold stimulated hair growth. Several kids he’d compete against at the fair kept their calves in cold rooms all the time, but Pop had absolutely refused, three years running, to air-condition a cow all summer long so his hair would grow thicker. Pop could be stubborn like that.
The improved weather was a sign. This would be a good year—his year to win Grand Champ.
The calf was not wild about leaving the cozy barn and bleated a protest, crowding into Diggy’s side. Diggy hummed and patted and had Joker calm again—until a truck barreled down the gravel road and skidded to a stop at the end of their long driveway. Diggy looped Joker’s lead onto the fence rail, just in case the calf thought about bolting, and talked quietly while scratching t
he steer’s rump to soothe him.
The dust settled to reveal a man stumbling around the truck bed. He heaved a suitcase onto the ground, and it popped open like one of those 3-D party decorations. He lunged for the passenger door, jerking it so hard it squealed, then reached into the cab with two hands and hauled a boy out, tossing him onto the jumbled mound of spilled clothing. The door hung open. Momentum slammed it shut when the man gunned the truck and sped away. Gravel and dust spewed over the unmoving heap of clothes and boy.
Wind scrabbled through the grass. Clouds slashed at the moonlight.
Joker sidled into Diggy again but this time was soothed by a shaking hand.
Diggy really did not want to know what had been left on his doorstep.
DIGGY KNEW ABOUT DOORSTEPS. WHEN HE WAS A MONTH OLD, HIS MOM HAD bundled him into a laundry basket and left him on Pop’s.
He felt a deep-gut rustle like the coming of a full-body shudder. This kid wasn’t a baby, and he hadn’t been bundled up and safely deposited anywhere. He had been tossed out of a pickup truck like trash and now huddled into his sprung suitcase as if he could burrow through it to somewhere else. Diggy couldn’t leave anyone like that. No matter how much he wanted to.
He made sure Joker’s lead was tight on the fence rail, then jogged close enough to the house to call out for Pop.
As he headed up the drive toward the abandoned kid, the boy moved. He knelt, swiped an arm over his face, then pushed things back into the suitcase, trying too soon to zip it all back up.
“Wayne?” Wayne Graf and Diggy had math and science together, that was it. There were nearly a hundred kids in their grade—it wasn’t like they all hung out at each other’s houses.
When Wayne looked up, the yard light tinted his face green. Diggy knew Wayne’s hair was blond, that he was always pale pink, even in summer, and his eyes were a weird light blue. But the yard light washed those hints of color away. He stood trembling even though he was dressed for fall.
“Who was that?” Diggy asked.
Wayne stared at him like English was a foreign language.
Pop strode up to them. “You all right, son?” he asked Wayne.
“Don’t call me that,” Wayne bit out. He grabbed the suitcase, and, though he was a big kid—a lot bigger than Diggy, anyway—he stumbled under its weight. The suitcase fell and flipped open again. Wayne stood hunched over it.