The Hard Way Home

by C. W. Farnsworth

  A snarky response is perched on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t voice it. I clear my throat and then move on to the next question on the list. I’ve read all of Simon’s past sports articles. Almost every one of the athlete interviews he’s done have been verbatim retellings of the conversation, printed in question and answer format. That’s not going to work for my conversation with Caleb, for obvious reasons. Not to mention I’m not even recording what he’s saying. My best bet is to keep Caleb talking and hope he gives me enough information I can cobble together a decent story. Commenting about how of course throwing a baseball seems simple and straightforward probably won’t help.

  I ask Caleb about his first baseball game (he won), his pregame rituals (according to him, he has none), and his favorite game he’s played in (quarterfinal junior year.) That last answer has me shifting uncomfortably on the metal, hitting a little too close to home, no pun intended. Seeing as we’re sitting in the very same spot as we did the night following that particular game.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I ask quickly, eager to move on from his last response.

  “I don’t know,” Caleb replies. There’s an odd note in his voice, but I don’t press him for an actual answer.

  I sigh. “I’m out of questions,” I admit.

  Rather than look irritated, Caleb appears entertained. “I’m flattered you over-prepared.”

  My eyes narrow. “This was kind of short notice. I’ve never covered sports, and Simon and Julie didn’t exactly have helpful suggestions.”

  Caleb leans back against the bleachers again, looking intrigued. “What were their suggestions?”

  “Simon sent me some bullet points with a lot of abbreviations in them. Julie wants to know if you’re single.”

  “Did you look up the abbreviations?” Caleb asks, disregarding my second sentence.

  “Of course. His questions still didn’t make any sense,” I sniff. Although I did research them while trying to both tie my sneakers and eat breakfast.

  “To you,” Caleb surmises with a smirk.

  “To me,” I concede. “Plus, I figured anyone who actually cares about an RBI or a WHIP would know where to look that up.”

  Caleb actually laughs, and the husky warmth of it somehow manages to infiltrate the three layers I’m wearing. “Probably true.” He stands and pulls on his backpack. “You coming?”

  “What? Where?”

  “To the library. I can’t sit on these bleachers anymore. It’s a miracle anyone watches our entire games.”

  I stand and stretch. “Yeah, I guess,” I reply. It’s exactly where I was planning to head myself, but I’m wary of spending any more time with Caleb alone. I doubt anyone but Mr. Gibbs will be in there this early. I don’t have much of a choice, though, so I climb down after him.

  We walk side by side along the deserted sidewalk, and it’s incredibly bizarre. I’m hyperaware of everything: the thump of my heavy backpack, the slap of my sneakers against the pavement, the rapid pounding of my heart.

  “I am, by the way,” Caleb says casually as we near the front entrance of the school.

  “What?” I look over at him, but he’s staring ahead at the brick building we’re approaching. It’s an imposing facade better suited for a university than a public high school, complete with columns and framed windows.

  “Single.” He glances over at me, smirking at the confused expression I can feel wrinkling my brow. “You said someone asked.”

  “Someone?” For whatever reason, that’s the word I focus on. “I just told you her name is Julie.”

  Caleb looks bemused by my burst of indignation. “Fine, Julie.”

  “You only bother to learn girls’ names if they’re popular?” I snap.

  Caleb reaches out and pulls open one of the four front doors, gesturing for me to walk in first. I stalk through the opening, annoyed at him for being nice to me when I’m not being nice to him for essentially no reason.

  A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I know your name. And popular isn’t exactly the first adjective that comes to mind.”

  I should probably be affronted, but I know he’s right. I doubt a single person in Landry would consider me popular. I’m more annoyed that he’s making sense. And confused about why I care whether he knows Julie’s name. Or mine.

  “Wow, I’m so honored,” I make sure the words drip with sarcasm as I march into the front office to sign the early arrival sheet.

  The school secretary blinks sleepily as she looks up from her steaming mug of coffee.

  “Good morning,” she greets us automatically. Then, recognition dawns on her face. “Haven’t seen either of you in a while.”

  “Morning,” I respond, smiling tightly. I lean over the desk to sign my name on the early arrival sheet, and then step back so Caleb can do the same. The secretary’s wide eyes bounce back and forth between the two of us as the only sound in the small office is the pen scratching against paper as Caleb signs his name.

  As soon as I hear the scratching sound stop, I head towards the door that leads into the school hallway, pushing the metal bar to fling the glass door open. Unlike the last time I left this room with Caleb Winters in tow, I don’t drop the door on him. But as soon as I feel him start to hold the weight I lower my hand.

  “She’s going to think we both have anger issues,” Caleb comments.

  I glance over at him, surprised to realize he’s also thinking back to our first meeting. It’s not a memory I thought would rank in his recollection. “Speak for yourself,” I retort, but I can’t help a small smile from forming.

  He mirrors it as we head in the direction of the library. And he doesn’t make a crack about getting lost as we walk along, which I appreciate more than I realized I would. We’re both silent as we walk down the empty hallway, and for some reason it bothers me. I’m not used to feeling guilty for snapping at him, and it’s not a feeling I particularly enjoy. “I don’t think I’ll need to include your relationship status in the article,” I finally say.

  “That’s fine,” Caleb replies.

  “Seems like girls should have to find out you’re single for themselves.”

  I have no idea what makes me say those words, but I’m derailed from trying to figure it out when Caleb replies. “Even what’s-her-name?”

  I don’t need to look over at him to know he’s grinning. I can hear the humor in his voice. I sigh so I don’t laugh. “Even her.”

  We enter the library, and Mr. Gibbs is the only person in sight. Unsurprisingly. He gives me his usual nod before turning back to whatever book he’s reading.

  I head straight towards my usual table, and Caleb follows, taking a seat across from me as I pull out the study guide I made for my Oceanography test. I’m a little surprised he’s sitting with me. It’s not like there aren’t other seats available. But I don’t comment on his choice as I skim my notes. Rustling across the table draws my attention back to Caleb. I watch him pull a binder out of his backpack and begin flipping through the pages.

  My gaze drops back down to my own papers, but I’m annoyed to find myself glancing up again just a few minutes later.

  Caleb is attractive. I’ve always known that. But I don’t ordinarily have much time to think about the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead or the strong line of his jaw when we’re arguing. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to distract me from either of those things in the silent, empty library. Except the blaze of embarrassment when he glances up and catches me staring at him. “What?” he whispers, looking at me curiously.

  “Nothing,” I reply hastily. “Just trying to test my memory for this test.” I nod to the study guide in front of me.

  Caleb nods, and looks back down at his own work. I drop my gaze as well, and don’t let my eyes so much as wander to the wooden table the papers are spread out on until the first bell rings, signaling the start of homeroom is in five minutes. I continue to avoid looking at Caleb as I pack up my belonging
s and stand.

  Based on the shuffling sounds coming from the opposite side of the table, he’s doing the same.

  “I’ll do the interview with Simon, if you want.”

  “What?” I finally let myself look at him. It’s not what I expected to hear him say. And, I’m surprised to realize, not something I’m thrilled to hear.

  “I’ll do the interview with Simon. If you want me to,” he repeats.

  “Is that what you want?” I ask.

  “After everything it took to get you to agree to do it in the first place?” Caleb scoffs. “You didn’t exactly agree with a grin and a can-do attitude.”

  “I don’t think anyone has agreed to do anything with a ‘grin and a can-do attitude’ since the 50s,” I retort.

  Caleb simply raises a brow as he looks at me expectantly. And I have a stroke. Or a brain freeze. Or some other impediment that causes me not to tell him there’s nothing else I’d love more than not having to write an article about him.

  “I’ll talk to Simon . . . and get some better questions for a follow-up interview,” I tell Caleb as we walk towards the doors that lead out of the library. I’m not a quitter.

  “Okay,” is all Caleb says as we emerge out into the hallway. It’s far from crowded, but other students are beginning to trickle in, and we attract more than a few double takes as people pass us by.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in English,” I say as we linger just outside the library doors. Something between us suddenly feels tenuous. Off-kilter. The easy annoyance that’s always hovered between us has vanished again, leaving me to confront a myriad of other emotions. I don’t know if they’re new, or if they’ve always been there. I don’t think I want to know. I never had time to think about it when we were bickering. I don’t want to think about it now.

  Caleb opens his mouth to reply.

  “Lennon!” I turn to the right to see Will walking down the hallway towards us. “Morning,” he greets cheerfully, smiling broadly at me.

  “Hi, Will,” I offer him a small smile in exchange, and I can feel eyes on my face. Eyes other than his.

  Will seems to notice who I’m standing with for the first time. “Hey, Winters,” he greets, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  “Masterson,” Caleb replies, sounding bored. “I’ll see you later, Lennon.”

  I give him a quick, jerky nod. “Bye, Caleb.”

  It seems like something shifts in his expression, but he turns and heads in the opposite direction before I have enough time to study it.

  “I didn’t think you and Caleb got along,” Will remarks, studying Caleb’s retreating back with a look of confusion.

  “We don’t,” I rush to assure him. “I have to write an article on him for the paper.”

  “Oh,” Will says. After a moment he adds, “I didn’t know you covered sports.”

  “I don’t,” I state, with a fair bit of irritation in my voice.

  “Okay . . . “ Will replies, obviously looking for more of an explanation.

  “It’s a long story,” I tell him. That I could have just ended and didn’t for a reason that still eludes me.

  “Your article isn’t due tomorrow, is it?”

  “No. Why?” I ask.

  “Marcus is having a party tonight to celebrate our win yesterday. I was hoping you might want to go, since you were one of the few people who bothered to actually come to the game.”

  “Oh.” I start to automatically form a refusal, but then stop to reconsider. Maybe Cassie’s right. What could the harm be? “Yeah, sure,” I say instead. “Just as friends though, right?”

  Will’s smile dims slightly, but I can tell his enthusiasm is still genuine when he responds. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Is it all right if Cassie comes too?”

  “Definitely. Do you want me to pick you up or meet you there?”

  I smile, grateful he’s making it so easy on me. “We’ll meet you there. I know where he lives.”

  “Cool. See you then,” Will says, before continuing down the hallway.

  I start in the opposite direction, quickening my pace when the warning bell echoes around me. Thankfully, my homeroom is a quick trip down the hall and to the right. I drop down into my usual seat next to Cassie just as the final bell rings. The morning announcements begin to boom overhead, but I don’t bother to listen to what is being said. I lean over as far as the small desk will allow.

  “I need you to go to a party with me tonight,” I whisper to Cassie.

  She turns to me, her brown eyes full of surprise. “What?”

  “I saw Will on my way here. He invited me to a party tonight, and I need you to come with me. Please.”

  Excitement eradicates surprise. “Of course I’ll go with you,” Cassie whispers, eagerness filling her voice. “Oh my god, this is so exciting!”

  *****

  The rest of the day isn’t anywhere near as surprising as my morning was. Mr. Tanner’s class is filled with a lecture on literary devices for our upcoming papers, but absent of any partner discussions that require interaction. I caught Caleb’s eye when I dropped our outline on Mr. Tanner’s desk, and he gave me a nod. That was it.

  I head home straight after school ends, glad I don’t have any obligations at the paper. I shirked on chores this morning so I didn’t have to get up quite so outrageously early, and I rushed off to ensure I’d beat Caleb to the field. A wasted effort, in retrospect.

  Cassie made me promise I would come over after dinner to “prepare for the party.” I have no idea what she means; the last party I attended with my peers was a birthday party in middle school that certainly didn’t require two hours of preparation. Cassie insisted a couple of hours was necessary, though, and she was so enthused I couldn’t bring myself to tell her no. I also have a feeling this will be my first and last high school party. Might as well make the most of it.

  Despite the chill in the January air, Gramps is sitting out on the front porch in one of the rocking chairs when I finish my daily trek through the east pasture. He looks up from the magazine he’s reading when the creaky steps announce my arrival.

  “How was school, Lennie?” he asks, taking a sip from the mug set beside him.

  “It was fine,” I reply. It’s my standard answer.

  “You left awfully early this morning,” Gramps remarks.

  “I had to work on something for the paper,” I tell him. “I’m heading back out to the barn to finish things up now.”

  “Don’t worry about the feed bags. They were already moved.”

  I shoot Gramps a hard look. “You didn’t.” Disapproval is heavy in my tone.

  “No,” he responds, sounding disgruntled. “Tom stopped by earlier for a visit. He moved them.”

  “Good.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Did he happen to say anything about those articles I sent him?” I ask hesitantly.

  Tom Stradwell owns the Landy Gazette, along with a host of other local papers, and is one of my grandfather’s oldest friends. He’s also my best chance of having anything to do besides muck out stalls and clean tack in the fall.

  “He liked them,” Gramps tells me, still sounding disgruntled. And disapproving. “Said to come see him in May if you’re still interested in some work.”

  “Of course I’ll still be interested,” I stress. “I hope you made that clear.”

  “Some schools are still taking applications, Lennie.”

  “Gramps, we’re not going through this again. You can’t take care of the farm yourself.”

  “Then we need to sel—”

  “We’re not selling the farm,” I state firmly. “This is your home. My home.”

  “I just wish . . . ” Gramps lets his voice trail off.

  “I know,” I say softly. Sometimes, I really hate my parents for the respective messes they left behind. “Look, lots of people take gap years. I’ll have more time to do things around the farm when I’m not in school. I can make some repairs, market the stallions better. We’ll hav
e Stormy’s foal to sell. Maybe that’ll be enough for me to take some online classes, at least.”

  Gramps opens his mouth with what I can already tell will be an argument, so I take immediate evasive action. “I really need to get started on the chores. I’m headed to a party after dinner,” I inform him.

  Sure enough, that tidbit derails him completely. “What?” Gramps looks stunned. Saying I don’t get out much is akin to suggesting Landry’s residents have a mild interest in horse racing.

  “I’m going to a party tonight,” I repeat. “I mean, as long as that’s okay?”

  “I—yeah, of course,” Gramps fumbles. In addition to the surprise of a flicker of activity in my largely absent social life, I’m guessing he’s also a bit thrown by me asking permission. More often than not, our relationship is defined by me taking care of him.

  “All right, then.” I take advantage of his lingering shock to slip inside the empty house. Rather than dump my backpack in the kitchen like usual, I carry it upstairs with me so I can change out of my jeans and sweatshirt into rattier jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. I typically don’t bother changing on Fridays, since Saturday is the designated laundry day, but I don’t really want to show up tonight smelling like manure and covered with horse hair.

  By the time I finish all the barn chores and exercise Gallie it’s pitch black out and I’m starving. I finish brushing down the massive, black stallion and head inside, happy to see dinner is already waiting on the table. Whispers of steam rise up from the freshly cooked burgers, and I eagerly lather plenty of ketchup and mustard on the warm bun before delving into my food.

  Gramps surveys me curiously. “You’re hungry tonight.”

  “It was Gallie’s day,” I explain. The youngest of our remaining seven horses, Sir Galahad is feisty on a good day. Like all of them, he should really be ridden more than twice a week, but my schedule is already stretched trying to accommodate two rides a day. Every time I mount him is like trying to stay aboard a rocket ship. He was born when I was in fifth grade, and won every race he was entered in, just before everything really fell apart. Gallie’s stud fees are our main source of income these days.