The Hard Way Home

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Yeah,” Caleb says softly. “I know.”

  And then he reaches out and rests his hand on top of mine.

  I’ve never touched Caleb Winters before. It’s a random thought, but it’s suddenly all I can focus on. I’ve argued with him. I’ve admired him. Reluctantly. But I’ve never touched him. At least not skin to skin. Which I suddenly know with complete certainty, because I know I’ve never felt this strange sensation before.

  It’s as though every place where his skin is touching mine is sending small pulses of electricity into my body. The thrums of awareness don’t remain in my hand. Ribbons of heat spread throughout my entire body, making my organs quiver and my heart pound erratically.

  Sixty seconds are all I allow myself to entertain the unexpected reaction, and then I pull my hand away.

  “I should, uh, I told Cassie I’d be right back,” I lie.

  Caleb nods, his face impassive. “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you?”

  “Yeah,” he replies. “You’ll see me.”

  “Okay.” I feel a bit like I did the split-second before I dumped beer on Madison: off-kilter and confused. It shouldn’t be this difficult to have a conversation with Caleb Winters. It never has been before.

  I turn and head back into the throng of people, in search of Cassie. Leaving him standing there.

  TEN

  __________________________________

  The damp paper towel helps, but my face still feels sweaty and gross even after I’ve wiped it repeatedly. Glancing at the clock above the sink, I ball up the paper towel and throw it in the trash. Landry High requires one semester of gym each year and that the first class tests our current fitness level. I didn’t need to wheeze around the track four times to know I’m not in the best of shape. I prefer to let the horse do the running, and I don’t exactly build up much cardio endurance hauling hay bales. To make matters worse, I had to watch all the other seniors with the unfortunate fate of having gym second semester—including Madison and Caleb—jog around the football field effortlessly.

  With one last anxious glance at the clock, I leave the locker room and hurry in the direction of the newsroom. Andrew hates it when we’re late.

  But rather than the usual hustle and bustle that accompanies our biweekly meetings, I’m met with complete and utter silence when I walk inside. No one has moved from their desk to huddle in the center of the room the way we usually do.

  It doesn’t take me long to figure out why.

  “What are you doing here?” Both Caleb and Andrew turn at the sound of my voice. Andrew looks relieved; Caleb amused.

  “Did you get lost, Lennon?” he asks me, smirking. “Been waiting a while.”

  “Gym only ended ten minutes ago,” I reply. “You couldn’t have been waiting that long. And I’m guessing you spent most of that time trying to find the newsroom.”

  Caleb makes a show of glancing around the small, sparsely furnished room. “I am glad there was a sign on the door. Otherwise I might have confused this with a janitor’s closet.”

  I grit my teeth. “Feel free to suggest to the school committee they reallocate some of the athletic department’s generous funds, and we’ll redecorate.”

  Caleb grins. “Nah, on second thought, I like it. Very minimalistic.”

  “So glad you approve. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding your way out. The door is two feet from you and marked ‘Exit.’”

  I can tell from the way Andrew opens and closes his mouth twice he would love to rebuke me for directing that comment at the subject of our lead story for the next issue, but he’s wise enough not to do so.

  Caleb seems completely at ease as he strolls towards me with a small smirk on his face. While I’m painfully aware every member of the paper is tracking his movements. There’s a reason we were relegated to a room in the far corner of the school. People who are not on the paper do not just stop by the newsroom. Especially not popular people. Especially not Caleb Winters.

  “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I growl as he leans against my desk and studies the clippings from past articles I have posted above my desk. “You can’t just show up in the newsroom!”

  “You showed up at my practice.”

  “That was different!” I protest.

  “How?”

  “It just was!” It’s far from a compelling reason, but it’s all I can come up with.

  I wait for Caleb to pounce on the inadequacy of my response, but instead he changes the subject. “You’re avoiding me.”

  “No, I’m not.” It’s my automatic reaction to disagree with anything Caleb says, but in this case he’s right. I am avoiding him. The only time we’ve spoken since his grandfather’s funeral was when he asked me if it was my first time running forty minutes ago. Unfortunately, I think his own pace was brisk enough he missed seeing the rude gesture I responded with.

  He’s obviously expecting my denial, because he starts speaking before I’ve stopped. “Yes, you are.” His voice is confident. “Because of what happened at my grandfather’s funeral.”

  Julie’s desk is closest to the door—closest to us—and she loses the battle to act like she’s not listening to our conversation. Her head jerks towards us involuntarily, before she catches herself and quickly looks back at the computer screen.

  “Nothing happened,” I stress for not only his benefit, but for everyone else in the tiny room who can undoubtedly hear everything we’re saying.

  “Then why haven’t we met about the article?” Caleb crosses his arms across his chest. The move makes his biceps bulge, and I have to swallow twice before I can answer.

  “I was giving you some . . . time,” I reply, in what I hope is a tactful way.

  Caleb clearly grasps what I really mean. “You should know that’s not what I want.”

  “I should?” I raise both eyebrows. “We didn’t cover how you might respond to grief in our first interview session.” I bite my bottom lip as soon as the words leave my mouth, worried that might have been the exact wrong thing to say. That was insensitive, even for me.

  But Caleb appears unfazed. “Well, you can ask me tonight.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask, but Caleb doesn’t answer.

  He’s turned his attention to Julie. “Do you have a pen?” he inquires.

  “Uh, yeah—sure—here,” she stutters, handing a blue one to him.

  Caleb smiles at her. “Thanks . . . ”

  “Julie,” she supplies.

  His grin widens. “Nice to meet you, Julie. Any guys give you trouble, be sure to sic Matthews here on them. I can tell you from personal experience she’ll—”

  “Caleb!” I snap. “I am this close to—”

  Caleb rolls his eyes as he grabs a sticky note and jots something down on it using Julie’s pen. “Call me when you’re free tonight,” he interrupts, handing me the fluorescent square of paper. “We can meet up then to finish the interview.”

  I gape at him as he hands Julie back her pen and heads for the door. He turns back around right as he’s about to reach it, smiling at the confused, annoyed expression I can feel my face is currently contorted in. “Bring your English stuff too,” he calls. “We should tackle that as well.”

  Then, he finally disappears from the newsroom, leaving me to deal with the aftermath of his impromptu visit.

  “What the fuck was that?” Julie asks me as soon as the door swings shut behind him, not bothering to mince any words.

  “That was Caleb Winters,” I say sourly, walking over to my desk and dropping down in my swivel chair.

  Julie rolls her eyes. “I know that, what I don’t know is why—”

  “Lennon! Would it have killed you to be nicer to Caleb?” Andrew comes over to my desk, looking annoyed.

  “Yes. It actually might have,” I reply seriously.

  Andrew gives me a sharp look. “Please do not do anything to mess this up. I already told the printer to double our order for next month’s issue, before . . . If he’s still
willing to do the article, but you mess it up and we have to lead with Steve’s story about the plans for the new running track—we’re going to end up with a lot of wasted paper.”

  I sigh. “I’m not making any promises. But if it makes you feel any better, he still seems pretty set on doing the article. If nothing I’ve said to him so far has dissuaded him, I seriously doubt he’s going to change his mind.”

  “That does not make me feel any better,” Andrew replies, which is probably fair.

  “Look, I’m apparently meeting him tonight—” I grit my teeth in annoyance, “—so I’ll have a draft ready for you next week, all right?”

  “Fine.” Andrew lets out a long-suffering sigh, making it sound like he’s a beleaguered forty-year-old rather than a high school senior.

  I roll my eyes at his dramatics. “You insisted I do this, remember?” It’s an unnecessary reminder, but I can’t resist it.

  “I didn’t have a choice, Lennon,” Andrew replies. He’s right, I realize. Andrew may act like he runs a global news organization rather than just a small school paper, but he did what any reasonable editor would to ensure a good story. He didn’t have a choice, but I did. I could have gotten out of this, and I didn’t.

  There’s nothing worse than realizing the person you should really be angry with is yourself. Because I didn’t take the out when Caleb offered it. Because I have been avoiding him since his grandfather’s funeral last weekend.

  “I know, Andrew. I’m sorry.” My apology catches him by surprise, I can tell. “It will be fine, okay? Good. Great, even.”

  Andrew eyes me dubiously, but nods. “Okay.” He heads towards the center of the room, where the rest of the newspaper staff has already begun to assemble for the meeting. I hurriedly drop my belongings on my desk and grab a notebook, avoiding Julie’s curious gaze.

  “Happy Hump Day!” Andrew calls out, falling comfortably into his favorite role: overseer of everything.

  “I thought you said good reporters don’t make sexual references,” Joe Watkins replies with a cheeky grin. Out of everyone on the paper, he’s probably my favorite peer. Mostly because he seems to enjoy teasing Andrew about how seriously he takes his role almost as much as I do.

  “My mistake. I thought I was dealing with near adults, not with reporters who have the maturity level of middle schoolers,” Andrew retorts.

  “You should probably start calling me Mr. Watkins, then,” Joe informs him. “Treat people the way you want them to act, and all.” That comment draws a few guffaws from the rest of us who also find Landry High’s name policy to be ridiculous.

  Andrew sighs deeply. “Joe, why don’t you get us started on your story?”

  “Sure. I’m working on a piece detailing the two new courses they’re adding in the fall. One is a medieval history class I might actually take if I was still going to be here. The other is some super advanced chemistry for the nerds who already made it through regular and advanced. Don’t expect any details on it because I didn’t understand a word of what Mr. Johnson said when he explained what the course would cover. Should make a splash on the fourth page.”

  Andrew lets out another long sigh, but the rest of us are all grinning. “Great. Just avoid using the word ‘nerd’ in your article, all right? We’re trying to foster an inclusive atmosphere and demonstrate the academic rigor our curriculum offers.”

  I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud, and I’m not the only one. I have no idea where Andrew comes up with this stuff. He must read the school handbook for material.

  “Sure thing, boss,” Joe replies, adding a mock salute for added effect.

  “Steve, what about the running track?” Andrew asks.

  I tune out the next few article updates in favor of mulling over what the hell I’m going to do about Caleb. So, it’s fitting when Andrew reaches me.

  “We already know how Lennon’s article is going,” he states dryly.

  I roll my eyes.

  “I totally thought people were exaggerating about you and Winters,” Joe comments. “Good to know you don’t let up on a guy even after his grandfather has just died. Or was it because of ‘what happened at the funeral’?”

  I’m no longer finding Joe’s commentary amusing. “Nothing happened at his grandfather’s funeral!” Damn Caleb. “I went, and was nice to him, and he said that in front of all of you so I would regret it.”

  “Probably a side effect of the shock,” Joe supplies.

  “What shock?”

  “Of you being nice.”

  I flip him off; he grins. “That’s the spirit.”

  “Julie, what’s the running track update?” Andrew asks in a beleaguered voice.

  “On time and on budget,” she reports pertly. “It’s going to be a struggle to write a thousand words on it, to be honest.”

  “Finish the draft,” Andrew instructs. “And then let’s see if we can add a new angle to it. There’s talk of a new auditorium, maybe we can get a quote from Principal Owens on that.”

  Julie nods.

  Our meeting lasts for another twenty minutes. I rush out of the newsroom as soon as it ends, anxious to avoid any conversations about the entertainment Caleb and I provided prior to the meeting.

  The truck is missing when I finish the trek around the barn, indicating Gramps is at one of his two local haunts: the racetrack or the post office.

  Rather than start with my chores the way I ordinarily do, I decide to go for a ride first to expel some of the nervous energy fizzing inside me. After dropping my backpack in the kitchen and getting changed, I head out into the barn. Eat My Dust, better known as Dusty, whinnies when I head to her stall first.

  “Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur, rubbing the soft hair directly beneath her forelock. She nudges against me, soaking up the attention. “You ready to run?” Her warm breath saturates the fabric of the fleece jacket I just put on as she continues to nuzzle me, looking for treats. I grab her halter from its hook and slip it on, before leading her out into the shavings-strewn aisle.

  Dusty tosses her head impatiently as I clip on the cross-ties, eager to go outside. I tack her up quickly, my fingers so well-trained they move through the familiar motions without requiring any brainpower or forethought.

  I lead Dusty outside, over to the empty water bucket propped upside down for this very purpose. I balance on it, and then swing my right leg over her broad back as I settle my left foot in the stirrup. She dances beneath me as I settle in the saddle, my knees bent forward to compensate for the short stirrups. I keep a tight grip on the reins, but not to guide her. She knows the route to the training track as well as I do. She’s literally chomping at the bit, and the leather reins dig into my palms as she makes her impatience with the slow pace clear.

  “Easy, girl,” I murmur as we cross the driveway.

  The training track is nothing more than an oval stretch of dirt, but it serves its intended purpose. It used to be surrounded with fencing, but most of the rails have sagged, giving it a forlorn, tired appearance. Not that the energetic horse snorting excitedly beneath me minds. The starting marker is still standing, and I guide Dusty over to it as I rise into a crouch over her black mane, making sure I’m balanced evenly over her withers.

  I watch Dusty’s muscles tense beneath me as I tug her to a stop. I ensure the reins are taut and weave my fingers into the fine strands of her mane. Then, I let her fly.

  I lost track of how many times I’ve ridden a horse a long time ago. My mother returned to Landry while she was pregnant with me. Living on Matthews Farm is all I’ve ever known. I still remember the day Dusty was born ten years ago. I remember watching her place second in our last season as a working farm, back when we still had the money for trainers and jockeys and grooms and entrance fees. Horse racing’s an expensive business.

  No matter how many times I do this, the thrill is just as spectacular. There’s nothing in the world quite like it. My eyes tear with water. My thighs burn from the effort of holding upr
ight and still. My skin prickles as the cold wind sneaks underneath my fleece. Its cold fingers comb through my long hair. But any unpleasantness fades from my mind as I look down to see Dusty’s loping strides eat up the sandy dirt. The familiar scenery of Matthews Farm flashes by in a blur of color.

  I may not have a lot of things, but I have this.

  The rest of my chores drag. Partly because I don’t have my usual ride to look forward to after they’re finished. But mostly because I’m rife with apprehension about seeing Caleb tonight.

  I finish feeding the stallions their dinner, and then head inside. Gramps is back, and has already finished preparing dinner. I head to the kitchen sink first to wash the grime off my hands, and he gives me a kiss on the top of my head as he pokes at what I think is some form of soup on the stove.

  “Good day?” he asks as I dry my hands on the threadbare towel hanging on the stove door.

  “It was fine,” I respond. “Newspaper meeting ran long. I’ve got a new article for the next issue.”

  “Oh, really?” Gramps questions as he stirs the bubbling pot.

  “Uh-huh,” I confirm, brushing past him to grab two bowls from the kitchen cabinet.

  “What’s the article about?”

  I sigh. “Baseball. It’s an interview with Caleb Winters.”

  “They assigned that to you?” Gramps raises his grizzled eyebrows in surprise. He’s well aware of my distaste for both the sport and the boy.

  “Yes.”

  “Huh,” is all Gramps says at first. “Might be good for you, Lennie. A chance to branch out.”

  It’s exactly what I expect him to say. Gramps is a perennial optimist. Part of why I’m such a pessimist. Together, we represent some semblance of actual reality.

  “I guess. I don’t have a choice, really. I need to stay on the school paper if I want to work for the Gazette.”

  Gramps purses his lips, the same way he does every time the topic of my fall plans comes up. “Dinner is ready. You ready to eat now?”