by Ryan Gebhart
“What’s your point?” he says with an edge.
“I could do it.”
“Talk to me again when you’ve got a five-hundred-pound animal lying in front of you.”
“So can we still go?”
Mom shakes her head. “No, no, no. I don’t want you going.”
“But it’s the last weekend before the season ends.”
“I don’t want either of you getting eaten. One guy lost his arm.”
“You’re overreacting to one little bear story.” I’m banking on Mom having missed the article about the sixteen-year-old girl.
Dad says, “Do you even know how to ride a horse? You know everything has to be done on horseback out there — they don’t allow vehicles.”
“Whatever. We rode horses during our fifth-grade camping trip.”
“Have you already forgotten where we just came from? Your grandfather is in a nursing home.”
“Well, yeah, but he’s not, like, super old. He just needs dialysis. Everything else about him is fine.”
“A sick old man and a kid who hasn’t hunted a day in his life going into the wilderness? All by themselves? That sounds like a smart idea.”
“What if we found another guide?”
“Do you understand what your grandfather’s going through?”
“I also understand that you promised me we’d go. Remember my birthday?”
Every year, Mom and Dad get me a bunch of small presents and one big present. They didn’t have money to get me anything except for some new school clothes this year, so they said my big present would be the elk hunt.
“Things have changed,” he says.
“So you’re breaking your promise.”
“Tyson . . .”
“No, just say it. You told me that we could go hunting, and now you’re saying we can’t.”
“Enough! This conversation is over.”
It doesn’t matter that Gene isn’t family or that his kidneys don’t work. And it doesn’t matter what Dad says or how loud he says it. I still want to be able to hang with Karen. I still want to get in better shape. I still want to know what it means to be a hunter. And I need to show everyone that I’m a man, because I’m tired of being treated like a kid.
Despite my best intentions to study when we get back home, I google other hunting guides instead. They all charge way more than Brendan Rien.
And then I google Taylor Swift.
Then I google dialysis. One page leads to another, and I end up at a site that talks about these machines you can have at home that do all the same things the ones at a clinic do.
Gene moving three hours away isn’t his only option. He could still live at home. Why didn’t anyone else think of this?
I probably should exercise and get in shape for the trip.
I do twelve push-ups until my arms are on fire and I fall face-first on the carpet. Then I do about ten sit-ups and the burning feeling in my stomach sucks, so I turn on Great American Hunter 5.
Dad opens my door. Without knocking, of course. He’s holding the house phone. “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Brighton.”
My heart races a little. I haven’t talked to him since he shoved me against a locker.
Dad looks at the TV and says, “This game is so horrible. Going around shooting animals like a . . . like a barrel of monkeys.”
“Huh?”
“Turn it off. You need to be studying for your makeup test.”
I take the phone, then shoo Dad away. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey, Tyson,” Bright says. “I tried messaging you on your phone.”
“Battery’s dead.” But the truth is, I just didn’t want to talk to him.
“I’m, uh — things have been good. I was just, uh, seeing what you were up to tonight.” Bright clears his throat with a cough. “And, you know, to see how you’ve been doing. Haven’t talked to you in a while.”
“You want to hang out? You’re not partying with the ladies?”
“Heh, no.”
“What about Nico and Timmy?”
“I don’t know. I kinda just want to hang with you.”
My chest inflates. Maybe Brighton’s coming to his senses and remembering that we’re best friends and that’s not a title you just throw away.
I should stop doubting myself. I’m cooler than Mika or the football kids. Who else would sing karaoke with him? Not Nico or Timmy. They take themselves too seriously. Who else would play Mario Kart with him for six hours? Definitely not Mika. She’d be bored after three.
But can we still be friends after what happened?
“Are you serious?” I say.
“You have the latest Great American Hunter, right?”
“It’s so much fun.”
“Bring it over. And if you haven’t had dinner, I ordered pizza.”
“Party.”
Maybe I can get the old Brighton back. Well, more like the younger Brighton. Before he started football conditioning. Before he started texting Mika every fifteen minutes. Before he buzzed off his hair and put on body spray and got an attitude.
I hurry downstairs. “Mom, can you give me a ride to Brighton’s? I’m going to spend the night.”
Dad comes out of the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn. It’s Saturday night, which is movie night for my folks.
“You have to study for your makeup test,” he says.
Oh, right.
I come up with “That’s what we’re doing. Bright got an A on our last test and he said he’d help me.”
Dad sits next to Mom on the couch. She lays her legs across his lap and takes a handful of popcorn. She has this smirk on her face, like she knows better.
So it surprises me when she says, “You got your things?”
“In my backpack.”
Mom gets up and hunts for her coat in the hallway closet. The whole time, Dad is looking at me, then at her. He chews his popcorn really slow, like he’s totally confused. I kinda am, too. There’s no way she’s falling for this.
“You ready?” she says from the front door.
“Uh . . . yeah?”
So we get in her minivan and like always, she keeps the radio off. She pulls out of the driveway and doesn’t say a word until we reach the first stoplight. It’s kind of unsettling, so I hug my backpack.
Finally, she says, “Tyson, your real grandfather wasn’t . . . very nice with your grandmother and your dad. He doesn’t like talking about him.”
“What did he do?”
“Your father won’t even tell me.”
“Really?”
“He died a year before you were born, and your dad didn’t even go to the funeral. When your dad and I first started dating, he talked about Gene like he was a superhero. He went on and on about their adventures growing up. Gene had this beautiful Chevy Impala and during the summers they traveled all around the country. Your grandfather, or Gene, or whatever you want to call him, they don’t make them like him anymore.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He is pretty cool.” But I really hope Mom’s done with this conversation. It just hurts thinking about anything Gramps-related. I mean Gene-related.
Mom pats my leg. “Now, look, I know you and Bright aren’t studying tonight, but —”
“What? Yes, we are.”
“Can I see what’s in your backpack?”
I hold it tighter to my chest. There isn’t anything in there but a video game and a box of Fruit Roll-Ups.
She says, “Have fun tonight, but promise me that tomorrow you will study for your test.”
“I bear swear.”
“Huh?”
So at the last stop sign before Brighton’s house, I show her how to make her hands into claws. We interlock them and I growl.
“Bear swear,” she says, and laughs a little. “I like that.”
“Ain’t it great?”
She pulls up to Brighton’s driveway. I get out and close the door. And inside my head, I th
ank her for being somewhat awesome.
I ring the doorbell and Bright answers with Chloe by his side like some confused and nugget-shaped bodyguard. We’re both wearing our Bubba Gump Shrimp Company shirts that we got when he joined us on our California trip two summers ago. His shirt is too small, but mine still fits me fine.
“Nice shirt,” he says. “Want some pizza?”
“Well, you know, I am a hungry bear.” I smile.
He nods, unimpressed, and closes the door. Hungry bear? Guh, I’m so stupid.
Beneath the hallway chandelier, I see something on the bridge of his nose — a zit that has been covered with a layer of concealer. It’s cracked, and the color doesn’t match his skin. I pretend not to notice.
We go into the living room. There’s a sound of kids laughing and an air-hockey puck clacking against mallets coming from the basement.
“Is someone else here?” I say. I thought it was just going to be us tonight.
“Oh, uh, yeah. I invited over a couple of friends.”
“Who?”
Downstairs in Bright’s Hang Zone, Timmy and Nico are playing air hockey. They look like high-schoolers. Mika is watching them play, and . . .
Oh, my God. Karen’s here. Her palms are against the table and her hair’s down and she’s so . . . hot.
Timmy and Nico stop playing and they all look at me. Their smiles make me uneasy, and something about this doesn’t feel right.
“What’s up, Ty?” Nico says. “You two look like twinsies. Did you guys, like, plan that out?”
“No,” Bright and I say.
“This is Karen,” Mika says.
“Hey, I’m Karen.” She gives me a little wave. Her voice sounds more mature than I imagined.
“Karen just moved here from Texas,” Mika says. “She sits next to me in English.”
“Oh, Texas?” I say, my throat in a knot. After an awkward silence, I blurt, “So, Karen, do you like beards?”
Now I officially hate myself.
“No?”
“I thought everyone in Texas wears beards.”
Everyone busts up laughing. They’re laughing at me. And Bright just stands there, not helping at all.
Karen says, “Mika tells me you’re going elk hunting with your grandpa.”
Oh, man, I love her Texas twang.
“Uh-huh” is all I can manage. I must look like the biggest idiot.
“I hunt with my brothers at our uncle’s ranch. I’ve shot wild boars, whitetail deer . . . One time I went to this place, Five-J Hunting Ranch. They keep exotics there, and I shot myself a scimitar-horned oryx.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She cocks her head back. “How’d you know?”
Oh, crap. I gotta think of an excuse.
Timmy says, “Because he checks your status every day. Total stalker.” He puts the puck on the table with the most infuriating smile. “Five to three.”
My skin gets cold. Did Brighton tell him? He’s the only one who knows I have a crush on Karen, and he promised to keep it secret.
“Really?” Karen says.
“Shut up, Timmy. I do not.”
“That’s not what Bright said.”
Bright stands there, sipping a can of Dr Pepper, acting like he didn’t do anything wrong. Why am I a topic of discussion with his new group? What else do they know?
This is why I’m here. He brought me over to embarrass me, not in front of his new friends but in front of Karen.
“You know, I should get going,” I finally say. “I got to study for Ms. Hoole.”
“You’re leaving?” Nico says. “You got here like two minutes ago.”
“I just came over to say hello. My mom’s waiting out front.”
Bright follows me up the staircase and closes the basement door behind him. I march to the front door.
“Tyson.”
“Thanks for punking me.”
“Dude, I’m sorry. Timmy shouldn’t have said that. He’s such a butthead.”
“You’re the butthead.” Guh, my eyes are getting all wet, but I refuse to cry just because Brighton sucks now. With my back turned I say, “Is this what you guys do all day? Sit around and make fun of me?”
“Dude, it’s not like that.”
“Why did you tell them about Karen? Now she thinks I’m a psycho.”
“I don’t know. We were at the field after practice and we were just talking. And they asked about you.”
“Because they think I’m a joke.”
“It’s not that.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Dude, okay, you wore a Taylor Swift T-shirt last week to school. You bought tickets to her concert the day they went on sale. I mean, come on. You were asking for it.”
“What? You don’t like her? Did we not sing ‘Mean’ at Party Fiesta Karaoke for your birthday?”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t go broadcasting it,” he says, almost whispering.
“What’s so wrong about liking Taylor Swift?”
“Are you serious? We’re in eighth grade. Next year we’ll be in high school. Only girls like Taylor Swift.” He points at my belt and says, “And that rattlesnake belt buckle is just the ugliest thing.”
Okay, don’t punch him in the gonads. He knows Gene got me that belt last Christmas. And I mean, yeah, the buckle is practically the size of a salad plate, but it means a lot to me.
I say, “So did you tell them all my secrets?”
“Not all your secrets. But these guys have known each other since last year, and I had nothing to say. And they wanted to know everything about you. I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus — honest — but they just wouldn’t stop asking. It was Timmy’s plan to bring you over here and do this.”
“You’re such a butt. How would you feel if I told them all your secrets? Like the time you wet the bed in the fourth grade. Or I’ll tell them you have all the Gossip Girl episodes on your computer.”
His eyes sharpen. “Dude. Don’t.”
“And it’s so obvious you put makeup over that zit.”
Bright immediately faces the floor, his face shadowed. In a small voice, he says, “It’s tinted acne cream.”
I open the front door. “Thanks for ruining my only chance with Karen.”
With his hand covering his nose, he says, “You know, you wouldn’t have even talked to her if it weren’t for us.”
“Yeah-huh.”
“You’re too scared to talk to girls.”
I close the door. But then I open it again and slam it.
That’s so not true. I’d planned this for weeks — I was going to talk to Karen after I went hunting, because I wanted to have something interesting to say to her. Instead, I blathered on about beards.
I walk. It ain’t bad — maybe two miles, all on lit roads with little traffic. We live in a pretty nice town and I don’t know of any creepers. No sketchy white vans. It just sucks how quickly the temperature drops when the sun goes down.
My phone moos. A call from Bright. I hit IGNORE.
That’s it. I’m asking Karen out, and I don’t care if she turns me down or laughs in my face. I have to do this.
When I get home forty-five minutes later, I go into the living room and the TV’s on — a Country Music Channel presentation on Taylor Swift. Ashley’s asleep on the couch with her hands tucked beneath her head. She looks cute, like a little kid all tuckered out after some intense frolicking.
It still smells like popcorn in here, but like always, Mom and Dad went to bed way before the movie ended.
I sit in Gramps’s reclining chair and turn the volume up. They’re talking about the making of the video for “You Belong with Me.” I haven’t seen this one yet.
Ashley looks up, her hair messy. “Hey.”
“Yo.”
“Dad said you were spending the night at Brighton’s.”
“Change of plans.”
She looks at the TV and then back at me, confused. “You can change the channel if you
want.”
“Are you kidding? I love Taylor Swift.”
“Really?”
Ashley and I don’t talk often. Come to think of it, we don’t talk to each other at all anymore.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s a musical genius.”
“Now you’re messing with me.”
Bright might be embarrassed by the things he likes, but I refuse to be ashamed of loving Taylor Swift. She writes all her own music, her first album came out when she was only sixteen, her songs are super catchy . . . and she’s hot.
My phone beeps. A message from Bright, or, as he’s saved in my phone, B-Right-On. That was my nickname for him. I thought of it in the first grade. Now everyone uses it, so I don’t anymore.
I put my phone back in my pocket. “I know everything about her,” I say. “Did you know she did magazine ads telling girls to drink low-fat milk?”
“Of course I know that. Wow, but I can’t believe you know that.”
“Yeah, well, I tend to surprise people.”
She sits up a little. “Did you know she won a national poetry contest when she was a kid?”
I roll my eyes. “It was called ‘Monster in My Closet,’ and she won the contest when she was in the fourth grade. She also wrote a three-hundred-and-fifty-page novel.”
“Yeah, right. How come I never heard about it?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re not the Taylor Swift fan that I am.”
Her confusion turns into joy. “How come you never told me? Ooh, we could go to the concert in Denver!”
“Tickets already sold out.” I don’t tell her I have a pair. I was originally supposed to go with Bright — he even asked me to get him a ticket. But I can’t go with Ashley. I mean, she’s my sister.
She goes, “Well, if I can find tickets, do you want to go?”
“Only if you can keep up with me, ’cause I was planning on going all out. I’m talking face paint, matching shirts, glow sticks . . .”
“Okay, now you’re starting to freak me out.”
I take the remote and crank the volume. I jump on the couch one cushion away from her and jam out to the bridge of “You Belong With Me” on my air microphone with a death-metal voice.
“Tyson!” she cries out in a whisper. “Mom and Dad are upstairs!”
