The Hard Way Home

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “You do all this every day?” Caleb asks as we walk along.

  “I guess,” I hedge. “Gramps helps out how he can, but he injured his hip last year, and horses tend to move at the pace they want to, not how fast you want to go.”

  “Couldn’t you get someone else to help?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure someone would help. If we could afford to pay them.”

  “Oh,” Caleb realizes.

  He doesn’t make any more comments about my long chore list as we put the rest of the horses out to pasture and then start the smelly process of mucking out the stalls. I keep waiting for Caleb to leave, especially once manure becomes involved, but he scoops up the soiled shavings quickly and efficiently. He contributes enough I realize I probably wouldn’t have had time to finish all the chores before having to leave for school.

  “I’ve just got to grab my backpack, and then we can go,” I say as soon as the last stall has been cleaned. “Do you, uh, want to come inside for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Caleb seems to recognize the olive branch I’m extending.

  I can see Gramps bustling around in the kitchen through the front-facing window as we approach the house. “Ignore anything my grandfather says,” I warn Caleb. “I don’t have many—” more like any “—people over, so he’ll probably try to embarrass me somehow.”

  Caleb’s smile makes me think the prospect of Gramps embarrassing me in front of him is not an unwelcome one. It only falters when we reach the rickety front porch. Caleb glances down at the wooden boards nervously. Under our combined weigh, they do sound like they’re about to give out any minute.

  “I’ve yet to fall through,” I tell him.

  “Comforting,” Caleb remarks.

  Gramps is standing at the stove frying an egg when we enter the kitchen.

  “I’m just going to run upstairs to grab my stuff,” I tell Caleb. “Feel free to help yourself to whatever.” I gesture vaguely around the kitchen, and then give Gramps a quick glance that I hope conveys he better behave himself.

  I rush up the stairs and into my room. My backpack’s sitting on the floor next to my desk, in the same spot I dropped it this morning. I pick it up and head back towards the door, only to hesitate. Letting the bag drop back down to the floor, I unzip my fleece and fling it on the back of my desk chair. I pull my favorite sweatshirt out of my dresser. It’s a soft crewneck style that’s a vibrant shade of dark green. Then, I pull the elastic out of my hair, releasing the long strands from the knot. I swipe the brush through it a couple more times, then pick up my backpack again and head back downstairs.

  Gramps is chuckling when I enter the kitchen. “You’re definitely right about Roberts,” he tells Caleb. “I know the Jays can find better.”

  They’re discussing baseball. Of course.

  “We’d better get going,” I announce. “Or we’ll be late.”

  Caleb looks over from his spot next to the kitchen sink. Nothing in his face indicates he notices the changes to my appearance, but he keeps his eyes fixed on me as he takes a long sip from the mug of coffee he’s now holding. “Good thing we’re so close with the school secretary,” he comments once he’s drained the cup.

  I try to keep the amusement off my face, but I’m not sure I succeed. Gramps hands me my lunchbox and a thermos of hot coffee, and I give him a grateful glance. “Thanks, Gramps.” I snag a couple of cereal bars from the cabinet, and then head towards the front door. “See you later.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Matthews,” Caleb adds. “Nice to meet you.”

  “It’s Earl,” Gramps corrects. “And you, too.”

  We creak along the porch and down the front steps. I hold out a cereal bar to Caleb in a silent offer. He takes it. “Thanks.”

  “I should be thanking you,” I admit. “I never would have gotten everything done this morning without you.”

  Caleb doesn’t say anything at first. Then, “I like your grandfather.”

  “Me too,” I agree, taking a bite of my breakfast bar.

  “He’s your mom’s dad, right?”

  I’m surprised he’s asking about my familial ancestry, but I don’t express it. “Right.”

  “What happened to your grandmother?” This time I express it, shooting him a confused glance.

  Caleb quickly backtracks. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine. I just . . . ” don’t know why you care. “She died right after my mom was born. I never knew her.”

  We reach the truck and climb inside.

  “I’m sorry,” Caleb says quietly.

  “Not your fault,” I say dryly, trying to navigate us back into less personal waters. “It was a long time ago. And we actually are going to be late.” I nod to the dashboard, which is displaying we only have four minutes to get to school.

  I think we’ll be late enough to avoid seeing more than a couple people. Unfortunately, my usual rushed route across our field and through the rear entrance works against me. The rare times I have driven I always arrive early, so I incorrectly assumed most of the student body will already be inside the school. Instead, the vast majority of our peers, at least those old enough to drive themselves, are still outside socializing on the cement. The parking lot is packed and swarming with familiar faces, most of who turn in our direction when Caleb’s truck appears. There are only a few spots left, all in the furthest row from the entrance.

  But Caleb rolls right past them.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “You just passed the only spots.”

  He just grins as we approach the front row, which I’m dismayed to see is where the majority of people seem to be gathered. I spot some of Caleb’s baseball teammates, Madison, Julie, and . . . Cassie. There’s one spot open in the very center. Based on how full the lot is, I know this was left for him on purpose.

  “How convenient,” I drawl. The many stares I can feel on us is putting me on edge, and I can feel my usual snark rising. “A late slip would have been better than this.”

  Caleb seems overly amused by my obvious irritation with the attention. “Most girls aren’t quite so horrified to be seen with me.”

  “Oh my god, you do this a lot, don’t you?” Caleb opens his mouth. “Actually, don’t answer that. And now everyone’s going to think . . . ” I bang my head against the soft headrest once. “Don’t say a single word to anyone about this if they ask. Aside from saying nothing happened, okay?”

  “Nothing did happen, Matthews. I’m well aware if I’d so much as tried to cop a feel last night you would have stabbed me.”

  I try not to think too hard about his words. Because I’m not sure that I would have. And that’s highly concerning. But not something I have time to analyze right now.

  “You’re missing the point, Winters. No way am I ending high school being considered one of your groupies. Anyone asks, shut it down.”

  “I got the point, Lennon.” Caleb looks to be on the cusp of laughter.

  “Good.” I grab my bag and swing the passenger door open, preparing to leap down onto the asphalt. “Uh—thanks again.”

  “For the sex?”

  I slam the door on his grinning face. Hard. Forcefully enough that if we’d been in the farm’s old jalopy the spotless blacktop would be littered with flecks of rust. I stride towards the front doors. My irritated steps eat up the pavement quickly. Footsteps hurry after me, and I know without turning around they belong to Cassie. I slow my strides slightly so she can catch up.

  “Beautiful morning, huh?” she asks, drawing even with me.

  I grunt, eyeing her sunny smile suspiciously.

  “Anything interesting happen?” she continues.

  “Nope,” I insist. Cassie lets out a maddening humming sound. “I’m not a groupie.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “We were working on . . . ” Damn it, I still haven’t told her about the article. “Our English project before school,” I improvise. Hopefully Caleb keeps his mouth shut like I told him to.
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br />   “Hmmmmm,” Cassie hums again, eyes glinting mischievously. “How interesting.”

  “Cassie,” I warn. “It was a . . . logistical decision. That’s all, okay?”

  “A logistical decision?” Cassie laughs. “What does that even mean?”

  “Meaning we had already met up to work on the assignment, and then we were headed to the same place. It made the most sense to drive together.”

  “You didn’t factor how everyone would see you arrive together into your logistics?”

  “I thought we were late enough no one would. How the hell was I supposed to know everyone loiters around the parking lot?”

  “I guess you wouldn’t,” Cassie acquiesces. “But Caleb would.”

  I break eye contact to open the door that serves as the entrance to the front of the school. “Yeah, I guess he would,” I reply quietly. “He’s delusional if he thinks people are going to believe we were together for any reason besides school.” I hope.

  Cassie laughs. “Oh. That’s what you meant about groupies.” She gives me a sly glance. “I’ve actually never seen Caleb drive anyone to school before.”

  “Huh,” I reply, surprised. “You probably just didn’t notice.”

  “Maybe,” Cassie responds, and I notice her cheeks look a little flushed. She has a crush on Caleb, I realize. Along with all the other girls at this school. Except for me. I think.

  I attract a lot more stares than usual when I enter homeroom after Cassie, and they continue throughout the rest of the day. I didn’t appreciate how little attention most people paid me until now, when I’m confronted with stares everywhere I go. And unlike the ones that plagued me most of freshman year, these ones aren’t contemptuous. They’re intrigued, maybe a little awed.

  It’s obvious some of our peers do believe something might have changed between Caleb and me. I hope a little time will ensure everyone realizes that’s not actually the case.

  Including me.

  TWELVE

  __________________________________

  “Matthews! Choke up on the bat! We’re not fishing here, straighten up!”

  I would love to give whoever came up with Landry High’s requirement you have to score a run to pass the baseball unit of twelfth grade gym class a piece of my mind right now. I would bet Matthews Farm it was a man.

  “I’m holding the grippy part of the stick,” I reply grumpily.

  Our physical education teacher, Mr. Evans, gives me an encouraging look before tossing the worn baseball at me once more. I miss, again.

  “Okay, give someone else a turn, Matthews. We’ll try again next week.”

  “Wait a minute.” I freeze when I hear his voice. Tense when I hear the whispers.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hiss at Caleb as he appears beside me next to home plate.

  “Helping you pass gym. I’ve gotten the sense grades are kind of important to you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I inform him. Or the scrutiny. Caleb Winters is not the type of guy who offers his help freely. As evidenced by the undivided attention from our previously disinterested classmates that feels like a spotlight. I’ve avoided him ever since the accidental sleepover, and was finally making some headway in fading back to normalcy. With three words, Caleb took care of that progress.

  “I’ve got about thirty witnesses who would say differently,” Caleb replies. “Stop being stubborn. I’m actually good at baseball, okay?”

  I can’t help the small smile that forms in response to his massive understatement. “Fine,” I acquiesce. Aside from the unwelcome attention, it’s not like I have anything to lose.

  At least I didn’t think I did until the warm weight of his body settles behind me. Until he grasps my elbows and readjusts my stance. I’m glad my long sleeves hide the goosebumps I can feel appearing along my skin.

  I’m struggling to keep my breathing even, but Caleb doesn’t seem the least bit affected by my proximity.

  “You’re holding the bat all wrong,” he informs me. “Move your hand a little more here.” His instructions are unnecessary, since he shuffles my grip himself. Prompting the same flash of heat I experienced the last time he touched my bare skin at his grandfather’s funeral. “Okay, angle it a bit more, lean forward, and . . . right there. Just swing at the ball, okay?”

  “Jesus, Winters. I know that much.”

  “I wasn’t sure after your eleven strikes,” Caleb retorts.

  I’d love to roll my eyes at him, but I can’t turn to look at him without messing up what I hope is a gym-passing posture.

  “Okay, one last try, Matthews,” Mr. Evans states. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at Caleb, seemingly just as confused by him helping me as the rest of the class undoubtedly is.

  Mr. Evans tosses the baseball again, a slow, easy toss that I would knock out of the park if this were a Hallmark movie about a plucky tomboy with untapped talent. But I’m me, so I only manage to just graze the edge of the ball, sending it skittering harmlessly in the direction of the dugout. A far cry from the home run I was hoping for.

  “Progress,” Mr. Evans congratulates. The bar was low. “We can try again Monday. We’ll get you there by the end of the unit, Matthews.”

  I nod, distracted by the unfamiliar emotion overshadowing my annoyance with the stupid requirement and whoever implemented it. I didn’t think there was anyone in Landry whose opinion I cared about. Turns out there might be. And he tried to help me, which makes it worse. I feel like I let Caleb down somehow, which is a ridiculous, inconvenient thing to feel. I know it is. But that knowledge doesn’t help me shake it.

  Two more of my peers take their turns at bat, and then class ends. “Let’s head in, folks!” Mr. Evans calls out after Lucy Adams manages a single. “Only five minutes before the bell. Halloway, Josephs, grab the equipment, please.”

  I scrape my light brown hair together in a bunch, twist it, and snap an elastic around it in a lazy attempt to keep the strands from blowing around in my face as I trudge back towards the brick building to change.

  “You swung too late.”

  I’m still dealing with the aftermath of the uncomfortable feeling of shame, and in no mood to talk to the boy who incited the emotion. “Really? I thought it was my grip on the bat,” I tell Caleb sardonically.

  “At least you’ve learned it’s called a bat, not a stick.”

  “I always knew that,” I grumble. “Gramps watches a lot of baseball.”

  “You’re not going to magically improve by Monday, you know.”

  “Obviously I know that, or else I would have already passed the stupid requirement.”

  “You’re right,” Caleb agrees easily. “It is a stupid requirement.”

  I eye him suspiciously, curious as to why he’s agreeing with me so readily when ordinarily he’s willing to spar over anything. “You agree with me? Having everyone forced to play the sport you worship seems like it would be your first choice for a gym requirement.”

  “I thought so too. Until I had to watch you butcher a simple swing for twenty minutes.”

  And . . . there’s the catch. “It was not twenty minutes.”

  “Ten at least.”

  I scoff, but that’s probably accurate.

  “There’s not much I could do for one swing, but regardless of how uncoordinated you are anyone can hit the ball once,” his voice is teasing. “Especially if they’ve got a good teacher.”

  “I’ll let Mr. Evans know,” I state dryly.

  Caleb sniggers. “I’m offering to help you hit a baseball, Lennon.”

  “You’re what?” We’ve almost reached the gym entrance, but I stop too soon, completely caught off guard.

  “I’m offering to help you,” Caleb repeats, pausing as well.

  “But—why?” Disbelief drips from my voice.

  “Because you need it.” There’s a mocking note to his.

  I scowl. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

&n
bsp; “Why would you be?”

  “Well, it’s simple really. You suck at baseball, and I’m good at baseball.” Caleb over enunciates each word, as though I’m unaware of the reality of our respective skills when it comes to the sport.

  “I know both of those things. It doesn’t explain why you’d take the time to help me, and as far as I can tell, get absolutely nothing in exchange.”

  “Wow, you really don’t think much of me, do you Matthews? What did I get out of mucking out stalls with you?”

  What he doesn’t seem to realize is that’s exactly why I’m so surprised by his offer. I figured that was a solitary event. I don’t want to feel indebted to him.

  When I don’t answer, he keeps talking. “I won’t have to watch you make a mockery of the sport of baseball. That’s enough payment for me.”

  “How come you’re not offering to help anyone else? I admit I’m the worst in the class, but not by much.”

  Caleb lets out an exasperated sigh. “Could you make this any more difficult, Lennon? Do you want my help? Yes or no.”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Okay. I’ll text you later.” And then he heads inside the gym, leaving me standing there. Wondering what the hell I’ve just agreed to. And why.

  I finally head inside, taking my time changing out of my gym clothes and back into my usual ones. Having gym last period is the only upside to having gym at all. I leave the locker room and head back towards the main building. I forgot to grab my History book earlier, and I need it to complete a worksheet due tomorrow. The halls are bustling with activity, everyone buoyed by the sense of freedom that final bell always provides. I’m surprised to see Caleb is part of a group at the end of the hall, talking with some of his baseball teammates, along with Madison and a couple of her friends. Ryan James is with them as well, and he leers at me as I pass by. He hasn’t made any attempt to talk to me since the bizarre conversation at my locker after Marcus’ party. I hoped it meant he forgot about me, but it appears not.

  I spin the dial of my lock quickly, eager to leave school for the day. I grab my History book and shove a couple of notebooks I don’t need back inside the metal frame to lighten my bag a bit.