Steering Toward Normal

by Rebecca Petruck

  But the conversation bothered Diggy all the way back to Joker’s stall. Was that what he really thought about love, that it was simple? Ever since Wayne had moved in, absolutely nothing had felt simple. But Diggy also knew deep down that he was right about Crystal and Jason. All she had to do was say yes.

  Apparently she did, because they walked out of the bathroom holding hands. Diggy wanted to be glad, but something in his chest heaved. If they were a couple, where did that leave Diggy? All he could think was, Out.

  They came over to talk to him, and it was almost like normal except that Crystal was bubbly, and the only time Diggy had ever seen Jason smile the way he did was at the State Fair when he won every single sheep shearing contest there was to win. They talked a little about 4-H stuff before the two of them left to tend their sheep, still holding hands. Diggy didn’t want to be nervous about how their friendship would change, so he decided to just be grateful he wouldn’t get dragged into the girls’ bathroom anymore.

  Besides, he had to get his head back in the barn and focus. Joker was counting on him.

  Weigh-in got Diggy’s hopes up. He had been only nine pounds off in judging Joker’s weight, which meant that all of his feed mixes and calculations were right on target for where he wanted Joker by the time the State Fair came around. His bubble deflated a bit after he saw Fang’s weigh-in numbers. Diggy couldn’t help doing the math to figure out that, even though Fang was still a little underweight, he had the better rate of gain since his first official weigh-in in January.

  With weigh-in out of the way, the boys didn’t have anything they had to do until the next morning, when they’d prep for the afternoon show. Not that it mattered. July had plenty of stuff for them to do, recruiting them to help with some of the younger 4-H’ers and ordering them to support the kids whose shows were that afternoon, which they would have done anyway.

  The arena wasn’t big enough and there weren’t enough competitors to truly hide from July, but soon everyone was trying to stay out of her way. Maybe it was because this was the first year she wasn’t competing. Diggy had never seen her this nervous. Ever. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Johnston finally saw what was going on and pulled his daughter aside. Diggy watched them and for a second got scared—July looked like she might cry. But then she took a big, long breath and hugged her dad. He said something that made her laugh, and suddenly she was normal again. The mood in the arena shifted back to serious but fun, and kids started laughing about stuff that wasn’t even that funny. Relief and nerves. Everyone felt it and pretended they didn’t.

  Diggy never did much of the fair stuff—no rides or games or concerts—no one much did. All the kids hung out with one another in the 4-H building and the show arena. There were only five steers this time but a ton of sheep and swine entries. As long as they didn’t totally crap out at showing, Diggy knew he and Wayne would make it to the State Fair. It was Jason, Crystal, and the others with sheep and swine that would have a tougher go, and he talked with all of them, feeling guilty that he not only didn’t have much to worry about but also that he’d be able to get his show over pretty fast, while they had to wait until the day after.

  The one fair thing Diggy always did was food—as much fair food as he could stand. Name any single thing, and someone had put it on a stick and fried it.

  Mrs. Vogl tried to talk them into eating the packed lunch she’d brought, but Pop knew how Diggy felt about fair food. Graf grabbed Wayne, and they all were on the hunt. Diggy insisted they make a first pass to check out the offerings before deciding what to get. The giant turkey drumsticks were easy to ignore, since that’s what he got for Thanksgiving.

  Wayne made a face at the chicken-fried bacon. “That should have a warning sign.”

  “Huh. Didn’t think a county fair would go all out like this,” Graf said. “That bacon won Best Taste at the Texas State Fair.”

  Everyone stopped to look at him.

  “I think that year the Most Creative was a fried banana split,” he added, turning redder the longer they stared at him. “What?”

  “Why do you even know that?” Diggy burst out.

  “I started looking up stuff when Wayne got his steer,” Graf admitted.

  He seemed embarrassed, but Pop clapped him on the shoulder. “Knowledge is a wonderful thing.”

  Graf rolled his eyes but hung around.

  Diggy pointed at the fried spaghetti-and-meatball on a stick. “What about that one?”

  “Homegrown,” Graf announced. “Minnesota State Fair original.”

  They wandered around, with Graf piling on the tidbits of info about whatever new thing they found to eat—“How do you fry Coke?”—and the boys giving him crap about why he knew so much about stuff like that and Pop buying samples of every other thing, because how could they not try a Scotch egg? A hard-boiled egg, wrapped in seasoned sausage, rolled in bread crumbs, fried, and served with ranch dressing had to be heaven on a stick, and it was.

  The endless noise and diesel fumes from the rides eventually drove everyone back to the barns, and they sat around awhile to visit and digest. It was that weird kind of normal again.

  July came around and insisted on taking more pictures. Thinking of those photos in the camera, of the four of them together, made Diggy’s stomach twist, but he told himself it was the fair food. He was only mildly nauseated by the time they headed home for the night. County fairs wouldn’t let competitors stay with their animals all night like at State.

  But everyone who had a show the next day was back at first light.

  Wayne and Diggy lined up for the hoses and scrubbers and used the backs of their Scotch combs like squeegees to get excess water off before leading the calves to their stalls to blow-dry them. July coached Wayne on his clipping and blocking touch-ups, though he’d actually developed a pretty good eye for what looked best. Diggy ducked next to Joker’s legs and dry-rubbed soap on the hair. Then he pulled up the hair with the Scotch comb, checked the results, rubbed on more soap, and combed again until it was right. He teased the tail and sprayed a cloud of lacquer onto it.

  Graf got there and thumped Wayne’s shoulder, saying how good Fang looked, and asked if he was nervous and didn’t let him answer, telling Wayne about the first time he had raced barrels and how he’d puked. Wayne paled at the story, but Graf didn’t seem to notice and kept talking until Diggy realized that Graf was nervous and every too-loud word he spoke ratcheted up Wayne’s nerves until Fang decided to lie down, presumably to sleep.

  Diggy saw it coming, but the shock and horror froze him. It was July, from all the way across the barn, who tried to stave off disaster and yelled, “Stop!”

  Every single person in the place stopped. Except Fang. He went all the way down to his side.

  July dashed around wheelbarrows, cow patties, 4-H’ers, and parents and grabbed Wayne’s shoulders. “It’s okay. We can fix it.”

  Her words released everyone to get back to whatever they were doing, though they did it while trying to watch the events at Wayne’s stall. His bewilderment was clear, so Diggy quickly tied up Joker and rushed to get Fang back to his feet. When Pop came over, he grabbed some of Fang’s grooming stuff.

  “What?” Wayne and Graf asked at the same time.

  July pointed. “Once they’re groomed, you can’t let them lie down.”

  The hair on the one side had pressed flat and stayed flat because of the lacquer, and wood chips clung to Fang’s legs.

  “Oh, no,” Wayne groaned.

  “It’s okay,” July said again. “We can fix it.”

  Fortunately, everyone prepped for the show early, because they couldn’t handle the nerves of waiting and not doing anything. July thought for about two seconds and decided they had time to shampoo and blow-dry Fang’s lower half again, being careful about not messing up the top half too much. The other three steer showers all pitched in, holding Fang steady and carefully scrubbing the water only where it was needed, lending blowers so that three were
going at the same time. Fair rules meant only Wayne, Diggy, Pop, and Graf could do the actual grooming. Pop and Graf didn’t quite know what needed doing, but every little bit helped. The urgency seemed to have calmed Wayne down. He was focused, and they got Fang ready to go with enough minutes to spare to fix themselves up again, too.

  And for Wayne to puke.

  Diggy didn’t witness it. Wayne had walked away, but when he came back, he had that distinctive greenish face that everyone recognized.

  “Did you puke?”

  “I feel better.”

  He started to look better, too. He even smiled a little. No reason why, and it was kind of creepy-looking, but a smile was better than more puke, so Diggy was all for it. July started in with a few last-minute tips, then stopped herself mid-sentence. She gave them both big hugs and wished them luck, then made her way to the bleachers and the crowd of Vogls there to cheer on Wayne.

  Diggy felt that kind of shaky calm he got every year. Inside, he was wobbly, but it was like it was someone else’s insides. On the outside, he was calm and doing exactly what needed doing. That person wasn’t him, either, just someone playing him, and that was fine.

  The judge called them in, and the five of them lined up head to toe; walked a loop; stopped when asked to, automatically setting up staggered; walked some more; lined up side by side, four square setups this time. The judge patted the steers and asked lots of questions, having competitors turn their animals and watching how they set them up again.

  Wayne was the only first-timer, and though he didn’t remember to smile at the judge and turned Fang toward him rather than away, his setups were good, and he answered the questions like he knew what he was talking about. Plus, Fang looked perfect, especially considering that it was second-time-around perfect. He ended up winning the rate-of-gain ribbon. Both boys got blues, and Diggy got a showmanship. Then, as the judge lined them up, with Diggy at the head, he knew—he just knew! He got the purple ribbon. Joker was the county Grand Champion!

  Everyone congratulated one another, relieved to have this part over, even if they were disappointed with their results. Of course, Diggy was thrilled with his. And Wayne was happy, too. Both of them had won their trips to State. July, Pop, Graf, and every Vogl on the planet surrounded them, hugging and thumping shoulders and taking enough photos to paper the entire fairgrounds.

  Winning didn’t mean there wasn’t work to do, however. Besides the packing up and cleaning, there were the other shows to support, especially Crystal’s and Jason’s. The paperwork for accepting their trips to the State Fair. The ribbon auction that raised money for their 4-H clubs. Writing thank-you notes to the auction donors.

  By the time they got home and back to some kind of routine, Diggy felt like he had been on another planet that was all steers and all fair all the time. It was a relief to turn on a sci-fi movie about people actually on another planet.

  But Diggy’s brain couldn’t quit the county fair that easily. He kept thinking about the rule about grooming, how only the exhibitor or members of the immediate family could groom a show steer, and how that had included Wayne, Diggy, Pop, and Graf.

  THE TRUCE UNOFFICIALLY CALLED DURING THE COUNTY FAIR HELD WHEN THEY got home. Though they weren’t making a point of hanging out together, Wayne wasn’t avoiding Diggy, either. But Diggy couldn’t stop thinking about Pop and Graf and all the Vogls together like it was no big deal.

  After a few days, he couldn’t stand it anymore and cornered Wayne in the barn. “So what really happened that everyone’s okay with you still being here?” It was about more than Wayne’s not running from problems.

  Wayne’s expression reminded Diggy of the yeti from that movie, digging out hearts and tearing off legs. For fun.

  “You know what I mean,” Diggy huffed. “You were all packed to leave, remember?” He had no trouble recalling the pile of Wayne’s stuff, ready to go.

  “And you wished I had.”

  “Whatever, Wayne.” Diggy was sorry he’d asked. He pulled over a blower to start Joker’s grooming routine. The noise might not hide his burning cheeks, but at least it would cover up the loud silence.

  “They acted like they were more worried about you,” Wayne grumbled. “They said our ‘relationship’ was too important, and we needed time to work out our problems.”

  “I’m not the one with a problem,” Diggy argued.

  Wayne scowled. “And they said I need to follow through on my commitments.”

  “Duh. Fang deserves that.”

  Wayne’s face got all hard. “I know what commitments I need to keep.”

  There wasn’t anything to the sentence that was a threat, but it made Diggy nervous, nonetheless. He turned on the blower and told himself he had plenty to worry about without making up new stuff to add to the list.

  On August 3 Diggy turned fourteen. Though it wouldn’t last long, he was finally the same age as Wayne.

  The morning arrived earlier than usual with a bullhorn Pop had borrowed off his cop friend Brandon, and Pop thinking it was funny as heck to wake up Diggy with a test of the emergency broadcast system. Breakfast included cake, as always, though this year it had a file baked into it—“for breaking out of jail”—and a T-shirt that read Alcatraz Triathlon: Dig, Dash, and Dive.

  July, Crystal, Jason, their parents, and Graf came over. While Pop got the grill going, Diggy got out July’s birthday rocket to much dismay. Pop played along, acting like he didn’t want Diggy to launch the rocket but was too distracted by his job as grill master to stop him. Crystal and Jason caught on to the prank pretty quickly, but July and all the parents tried to talk Diggy out of the launch without actually disciplining him, since that was for Pop to do. Pop had already helped Diggy figure out that he’d used the wrong glue—the more powerful engines created much more drag, and so the glue had to be a lot stronger than the kind he usually used. Diggy had a blast drawing out the tension while the others worried, and the moment was capped off with a flawless launch.

  Later, Diggy had finished brushing his teeth, ready for bed after a good long day, when Wayne gave him a card. The card was funny, but Wayne hadn’t signed it or anything. The only words written in it were The Flamingo.

  Diggy looked up.

  “It’s in Vegas,” Wayne said.

  Diggy’s skin tingled. A noise made him look down and see that he had bent the card in his fist. “Why do I care what’s in Vegas?”

  Wayne gritted his teeth. “Your mom worked there. Maybe still does.”

  Diggy became hyperaware of being in his room, standing in the middle. The walls dusty blue. The navy quilt hanging off the end of the bed. Dresser drawers pushed in unevenly, one squeezing off the toe of a sock. A pile of somewhat-folded laundry on his chair. A rocket lying across the desk. The hall table shoved in a corner, overflowing with rocket supplies. The supplies he had moved so Wayne could have the other bedroom.

  “How do you know where she worked?”

  “The yearbooks. I called a couple of people who looked like her friends, and one of them said the last time she’d heard from Sarah Douglas, she was in Las Vegas.”

  Diggy closed his eyes. He had to. The world was too big to look at now, and it was only his old room. Wayne had called all over town.

  “You’re crazy,” Wayne fumed. “I barely had to do anything to find her, and you still want to wait?”

  “I’m not waiting,” Diggy retaliated. “I’m not looking.”

  “Are you that much of a scaredy-cat?” Wayne sneered.

  “Wayne,” Diggy said, sighing. “My mom won’t replace your mom.”

  Wayne went wide-eyed white, then slammed out of the room.

  Diggy hated feeling so … so … angry, betrayed, scared. He couldn’t even think what he was feeling. There was too much. How many times had he told Wayne to let it go?

  What did it help Diggy to know his mom might be in Vegas? He couldn’t go there. Didn’t want to go. And Wayne had said she’d worked there, only maybe still did. If s
he wasn’t at the hotel or club or whatever it was anymore, maybe she wasn’t even in Las Vegas.

  But what if she was at The Flamingo? What was he supposed to do with that information? Especially with the little more he knew about her now?

  Diggy fell back onto the bed, wishing with all his fried-hot heart that it was January so he could throw himself into a bank of snow.

  Pop walked through a field of flamingos grown tall in pink, cornlike rows. Every now and then he lifted a wing or pried open a beak to check for pests and ensure the birds were growing on schedule. The flamingos all had their eyes closed, but only until Pop passed. Then they opened an eye, followed his progress, let the other eye open, leaned toward his back. Leg stalks pulled out of the ground, and flamingos gathered in a swelling wave behind Pop, Pop never once looking back. From above, Diggy could see the mass begin to engulf Pop, who still methodically checked the crop, and Diggy shouted, but he was a cloud, and only faint hisses and air emerged.

  Diggy woke up like that—mouth open in a soundless shout from the memory of his dream.

  He pulled on shorts and climbed out the window.

  Easily making the short leap to the tree, Diggy climbed up and up until he could see over the house.

  A ton of birds congregated in one of the bigger trees on the far side of the field. They were black dots in the dawn-green shadows. Diggy never would have seen them except that none of them could stay still. They landed on a branch, considered the location for a few seconds, then flew maybe a foot away to another branch and tried that spot out. Over and over and over. All of them did it, like it was a dance and if someone missed a step, there would be trouble.

  Diggy breathed deeply, feeling the bark press into his bare back and the soles of his feet. He imagined the oxygen the tree breathed out, feeling it in his lungs before he blew it out again, transformed into the carbon dioxide the tree needed to live. The breath circled through him like the branches circled around him.