The latch won’t shut. It’s a daily struggle, right now being exacerbated by the black muzzle nuzzling my wrist. The lush grass has begun to recede in response to the cooler fall weather, and Lucky is much more interested in seeing what treats I might be concealing than grazing on the limited greenery that remains. The gate rattles as I struggle with the metal latch, wiggling it back and forth in a desperate attempt to force it back into place.
“Come on,” I mutter to the stubborn metal, well aware of the seconds ticking by. Finally, it moves, but not before I’ve had a chance to pull my hand away. I curse loudly as the pad of my pointer finger is pinched between the bolt and the fastener. I reverse course, pull my finger free, and then jam the metal back into place. It acquiesces with a loud clang.
“Lennon! Language, please,” my grandfather chastises as he appears beside me.
I roll my eyes. “Like you don’t say worse when the Jays are losing.”
“Lennie, you’re meant to be exactly like me. Minus the foul language and lackluster cooking skills.” He gives me a fond look.
“I don’t think having a couple swears in one’s vocabulary is evidence of some massive character flaw, Gramps. And the spaghetti last night was almost edible.”
He chuckles. “You were right. Stirring did work wonders. Your hand all right?”
I glance down at the injured finger. Blood has already begun to pool under the skin, forming a reddish-purple blemish below the surface of my pale flesh. It looks ugly, but the sharp throbbing has already started to ease.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m headed into town anyway to pick up Geiger’s supplements. I’ll stop at the hardware store and get a new latch as well.”
“You don’t have to do that, Gramps.”
“I see you struggling with this gate every day, Lennie. We’re getting a new latch.”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Thank goodness.”
Gramps chuckles. “You’d better get to school. It’s already five of.”
The stubborn latch’s assault entirely distracted me from the ticking clock I was hyperaware of before.
“Crap.” I’ll have to run. Literally.
“I can head into town now and drop you off. I would have already left, but I couldn’t find the keys.”
“You checked the hook in the kitchen?”
“I thought so.”
“Okay, I’ve got to grab my backpack. I’ll find them and meet you at the truck.”
I set off towards the house at an brisk walk, passing the long main barn and then the much smaller one where we house the two stallions we have left. Back when my grandfather was my age, Matthews Farm was a sight to behold, at least according to him. There’s little evidence of that ancient glory in the overgrown weeds, peeling paint, and ancient equipment scattered across the barnyard now. I dash up onto the front porch, paying no mind to the rickety boards creaking beneath my feet. There isn’t anywhere on the property that wouldn’t benefit from some tender loving care, but keeping our heads above water is already a full-time job as it is.
The kitchen’s just to the left of the front door, and I don’t bother pulling off my muddy boots before dashing over to the kitchen chair where I left my backpack earlier. My eyes wander to the hook by the fridge as I fling my arms through the straps. It’s not empty like my grandfather suggested, and I feel twin lines crinkle between my eyebrows as I swipe the keys from the hook and dart back outside. Gramps is already inside the truck, which just like everything else on this farm, has seen better days.
I clamber inside the passenger seat and hand him the keys.
“Where were they?” he asks as I drop my backpack in the footwell and yank at the frayed seatbelt.
“They were on the hook, Gramps.”
“Hmmm,” he hums. “Must have looked before I had my morning coffee.”
I don’t say anything in response as we start traversing down the pothole ridden driveway, worried there’s a less benign explanation.
It’s a short trip to Landry High. The rear of our property butts up against the boundary line of the school, meaning most mornings I sidestep my way through the manure-ridden grass of the east pasture to make my way to class. Even though the high school starts earlier than my elementary and middle schools did, the short commute has actually gained me an extra half hour of sleep in the morning.
The high school’s parking lot is filled with cars and devoid of people when the wheezing truck pulls up in front of the main doors. I’m grateful. I know Gramps is aware of what Landry is like. Has endured many a pointed question or side glance himself. But I don’t think he realizes just how nasty teenagers can be, and I don’t want him to witness it. He may be my legal guardian, but I want to protect him too.
“Thanks for the ride, Gramps.” I give his wrinkled cheek a kiss before grabbing my backpack and sliding off the worn leather bench seat onto the spotless sidewalk.
“Have a good day, Lennie!” he calls after me.
I burst through the main doors, relieved they haven’t locked yet and I’m being spared the shame of having to enter through the office to receive a tardy slip.
There are still students in the hallway, so I relax slightly, only to speed up when the warning bell rings. I rush around the corner to enter the hallway that leads to my locker, and a ricochet of pain races through my nerve endings for the second time this morning.
A word far worse than the one my grandfather chastised me for earlier slips between my lips as my hand flies up to clutch my nose. The water clears from my eyes after a couple of rapid blinks, and I’m able to see the hallway before me with stunning clarity. Not that I can see much of it beyond Caleb Winters’ horrified face.
“Shit, Lennon. I’m sorry, I—I didn’t see you there. I was trying to tell Barnes about this new pitch—he wasn’t getting it, so I was going to demonstrate, and you just came out of nowhere.” He looks to Jake Barnes, seemingly for confirmation, but Jake doesn’t offer anything to support Caleb’s story. He’s too busy silently shaking with laughter as he looks between the two of us. Caleb’s eyes narrow as he looks at his friend, but then they widen again when he turns back to me. He looks even more panicked. “Uh, Lennon, you’re bleeding.”
I hoped I was imagining the warm trickle down my face, but sure enough, when I swipe a hand underneath my nose it comes away with a smear of crimson.
“Wonderful.” I make sure my voice drips with emotion that makes it clear I mean the opposite. “Thanks a lot, Winters.”
“We should, um, you need—” Caleb’s vibrantly blue eyes dart around the hallway desperately, as if he’s hoping a medical practitioner or a box of tissues will just magically appear beside us. If I wasn’t so angry and annoyed, I’d be tempted to laugh. Caleb Winters has handled every subsequent day at Landry High the same way he acted his first: assured, confident, and aloof. I’ve never seen him flustered and unsure before, and it’s oddly endearing. I doubt we’ve exchanged more than a few dozen words since our contentious first meeting, none of them pleasant, and I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if he simply laughed and walked away after colliding with me.
“I’m going to the nurse.” I turn and start heading in the opposite direction. The halls are entirely deserted now, which I’m grateful for. I attract enough stares when my face isn’t bleeding. I can already feel the gush of blood slowing, but there’s no way I can show up for homeroom looking like I just left a cage match. And lost.
I don’t know why I’m not surprised by the sound of footsteps behind me, but I’m not.
“Go to class, Caleb.”
“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m not going to make it seem like you purposefully punched me in the face, if you’re worried I’m going to blame you.” I suspect that’s the real reason he’s following me, but it doesn’t piss me off quite as much as it otherwise would.
In all fairness, I’ve thrown him under the bus before.
“I
don’t think that you would.” I’m surprised by his answer, until he adds, “Again.”
I snort, and immediately regret it. The throbbing that had just begun to recede rapidly reappears.
“You’ve got a colorful vocabulary,” Caleb comments as we continue to walk down the hall, sounding more like his usual haughty self.
“I’d be happy to nail you in the nose and see what sort of pleasantries come out of your mouth.”
Caleb chuckles, and it echoes through the empty hallway. “Fair enough.”
We reach the door to the nurse’s office. “I’ve got it from here,” I inform him.
He nods. “I really am sorry, Lennon.” Caleb’s blue eyes burn with an earnestness I’m not expecting.
“I know,” I respond quickly.
Caleb nods again, and then heads back in the direction we just came from.
I’ve never been inside the nurse’s office before, but it’s exactly as I would have pictured it to be. Neat, austere, and clean. The nurse is younger than I expect, but she fusses over me the way I imagine a grandmother would. I never knew either of my own. Gramps is the only living family I have left.
The nurse hands me a clump of tissues to hold against my nostrils, then switches them out for an ice pack, and finally hands me a tube of ointment to slather across my nose that’s meant to impede any bruising.
When she asks what happened, I tell her I walked into a locker. It’s a spectacle I’ve witnessed before, and the school nurse accepts the explanation readily enough. It’s stupid. I know Caleb wouldn’t face any consequences for the obvious accident. But I also know the staff gossips as much as the student body. My interest in having rumors swirling about anything involving me and Caleb Winters is entirely nonexistent.
I leave the nurse’s office just as the bell signaling the end of first period rings. It’s perfect timing, allowing me to melt seamlessly into the crowded, noisy hallway. I studied my features carefully prior to leaving the nurse’s office, and my face looks entirely normal now that it’s been wiped clean of blood, although my nose is still a little pink. The ointment left a sheen the fluorescent lights will probably exacerbate, but I don’t think it will be enough for anyone to notice anything amiss, which is a welcome bright spot in what has otherwise been a spectacularly crappy morning.
A dark head of hair enters the hallway, cocooned in an air of importance that precludes him from the jostling the rest of us are enduring. Caleb’s head is cocked to the side as he listens to whatever his two baseball teammates are saying as they amble along the busy hallway, seemingly oblivious to the stares they’re garnering.
The stares Caleb is attracting.
I’m excruciatingly aware of every step that brings me closer to him, but I don’t think he can say the same. He’s listening intently to whatever Colt Adams is telling him. Until he shakes his head and looks up. Right at me. We stare at each other for a moment, and then I start to feel a smile unfurl across my face. It’s an unconscious response, one I’m not expecting. But I don’t stop the expression, even as I marvel at the fact Caleb hitting me in the nose an hour ago somehow improved our already arctic relationship, rather than chilling it further.
The half-formed greeting freezes in place as I watch Caleb deliberately glance away and say something to Colt, who looks at me and then laughs. Caleb studiously ignores my accusing gaze as the three jocks saunter past me.
And it hurts more than when his elbow collided with my face.
Junior
Year
THREE
__________________________________
The creak of the bleachers doesn’t startle me. But the butterflies in my stomach bother me. How the irksome insects know it’s him before I consciously do is bothersome. Not nearly as annoying as the fact his presence affects me at all, though.
His haughty drawl interrupts the peaceful soundtrack of spring peepers and wind soughing through the trees I was previously enjoying. “Prom’s inside, you know?”
“No shit, Winters.” I haven’t called him Caleb since the day he gave me a bloody nose. Using his surname feels less personal, as cold and arctic as the season itself.
“You’ll never blow some guy away with that ensemble all the way out here.”
“You’re hardly one to be doling out fashion advice.” I hate—absolutely hate—that I already took note of what he’s wearing out of the corner of my eye. That he somehow looks better sweaty and muddy than the procession of other Landry boys in their finery I’ve watched enter the school gym for the past half hour.
“We came straight from the playoff game. You seem to have chosen to show up in jeans and a sweatshirt from a random school on purpose.”
“It was my dad’s.” Why I feel the need to bother to explain my choice of attire to Caleb Winters is beyond me. But when he stares at me silently, I realize why I did. It’s become my defense mechanism. One mention of either of my dead parents is usually an effective means of killing a conversation. Any conversation.
Caleb missed the memo. “I take it back, then. Only a little morbid. Perfect for prom.”
“Had I known you’d make it back in time, I of course would have dressed better.” I let unmistakable sarcasm drip from each syllable. Caleb’s conceited enough to take my words seriously. Especially since most of the student body was genuinely distraught our star pitcher might miss junior prom in the baseball team’s quest for another championship.
“Careful, Matthews. I might start to think you have a crush on me.”
I don’t deign that comment with a response, just a dubious snort.
“Care to share why you’re out here throwing a pity party rather than attending prom?”
“I was enjoying some peace and quiet. Feel free to go take a shower.”
“Peace and quiet?” Caleb laughs. “It is strange to see you without all your friends and admirers for once. You must just need a break from it all, sometimes.” His voice is mocking.
“Fuck you.” I swear more than I should, but it’s usually muttered under my breath after an errant hoof lands on my foot or I’ve overslept. Unless I’m around Caleb Winters. It’s freeing, the spray of vitriol. Like I’ve just landed a punch.
Caleb doesn’t flinch from the impact. “I’ll pass, Matthews.” He says the words lazily. Languidly.
“Go to hell then,” I retort.
“You planning to kill me? As sad as this outfit is, you’d look worse in orange.”
I stand, sick of sparring with him. Gramps is probably passed out in front of a baseball game by now. If not, I’ll hide out in the barn until he is. No need for him to know his attempt to force me into some semblance of a social life only resulted in me trading more insults with Landry’s golden boy. “Feel free to never talk to me again.” I stride across the baseball field towards the lights of my home without waiting for a response. I’m surprised the angry heat radiating from my body doesn’t singe the grass as I cross the expanse.
Caleb Winters got under my skin. Again. The vast majority of Landry is filled with wealthy, privileged families who have lived here for generations. The town itself is an oasis of entitlement, where it’s not only socially acceptable, but encouraged, to look down upon anyone who can’t trace their ancestry through the bluegrass. Or, as the case may be when it comes to my family, poor and mired in scandal.
I’ve grown shockingly immune to the judgement. Except from Caleb, evidently. Maybe it’s because he’s from the most pretentious of Landry’s uppity families, which is no easy feat. Maybe it’s because in a sea of students who’ve been coached by the best camps and instructors money can buy, he’s still the most decorated athlete in the state. Or maybe it’s because even if he weren’t wealthy and talented and—fine, really good-looking—everyone knows his magnetic arrogance would still ensure he was the most popular guy at Landry High.
Unless that popularity contest was overseen by me. Which is why I only feigned attending prom, aside from the fact I didn’t have anything to wear and on
ly knew a few people I might even attempt to talk to. Setting aside the fact my parents ensured the Matthews name was a controversial one, and that I naturally prefer the company of horses to most people, I know my unveiled contempt towards Caleb Winters is what has really cemented my isolation from most of my peers.
Almost all of our elongated encounters have been in private, but the last three years have been littered with caustic jabs and biting digs that are always met with wide eyes and whispers by our peers. At first, I thought it was simply because Caleb Winters was involved, but I gradually realized it wasn’t just that. It was that he was returning fire. Answering my acerbic remarks with choice retorts of his own.
I’d consider Caleb haughty, and arrogant, but I’ve never seen him be outright rude. Except to me, of course. And what bothers me the most is that I don’t think he treats me differently because my family is in a different tax bracket, or because people still do a double take when they hear my last name. Despite Landry’s best efforts, there are a few other lower-class families who have managed to reside within the town limits, rather than settle in the less snobby surrounding towns. Some who scooped up the few reasonably priced properties, others who inherited land and have fallen on hard times, like my family has.
I may be the most notorious example, but there are other students at Landry High without a seven-digit trust fund waiting for them. I’ve never heard Caleb insult one of them.
I propel myself over the gate that separates our property with Landry High’s with more force than is necessary, and stumble when my feet meet the grassy ground again. I pull my phone out of my pocket, allowing the dim light cast by the screen to illuminate the ground so I can navigate around the heaps of manure that always mar the green expanse, no matter how frequently I clear them.
I pass the main barn, and stalk along the side of the shadowed house to peer in the living room window. My grandfather is in his usual armchair, watching a baseball game, just as I predicted. He’s still awake, though, so I quickly step back into the darkness before he sees me.
The Hard Way Home Page 2
