Dad said, “I’m sorry you didn’t make the tennis team. But it’s just junior high stuff, right? Keep at it, you’ll make it by high school.”
“It’s okay. The girls are all jerks anyway.”
“I thought you liked tennis.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not coordinated.”
Dad kicked at the tall grass. The grasshoppers jumped every which way. Kidd went crazy trying to nip at all of them, flipping back and forth, thrashing up more as he went.
I jump back from the trail. “Gross, Dad.” I used to let grasshoppers cover my legs and spit on me.
Dad nodded and kept doing it. “I’ve read they find their way by jumping into the wind. Whatever direction the wind blows, they turn to face it and then jump. It helps them find food during the dry season.”
“Really?” The wind wasn’t blowing much that day. The grasshoppers catapulted all over the place. But I liked the idea of it. Finding your way from opposition and all that inspirational stuff. “That’s cool.”
“Okay. Well, if you don’t do tennis, you’ll find something else.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the circus is having tryouts.”
Obligatory eye roll. “Has this ever happened to you? Totally losing at something?” I wasn’t the oldest thirteen-year-old.
“If it didn’t, what would I write? ‘Life is always what I expected it to be. The end.’”
We walked a little way. “It still sucks to lose.”
Dad took a slightly irritated breath. “Come on, Cass. What have you lost? You’re still smart and healthy and full of talent.” He gave me the fake dad scowl. “Like burping. You are excellent at burping.”
“No, I’m not,” I said, punching him in the arm. “That’s you.”
“Oh yeah. You’re right. Well, you have me. I’m not going anywhere. Trust me, Cassy girl, you’ll always have me.” He pulled me close to him, even though it was too warm for that. “So what have you lost, really?”
Trust isn’t motivation. It’s a promise.
And the answer is you, Dad. I lost you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
JUSTIN IS WAITING for me by Goliath’s fence, and Goliath is standing next to him. Even in the moonlight I can see Justin doesn’t have his hat on. When I get up close I see he’s shaved and he’s wearing a nice shirt. It even has sleeves. He has an apple in his hand. “You blew Coulter away today. You blew everyone away today. It’s hard to sit a trot like that, even on Highball.”
“So don’t want to talk about it.”
Goliath whinnies. It’s a friendly noise. I know he just wants to be fed, but it feels like he likes me.
Justin hands me his apple. He holds it over my hand for a second too long. On almost any other night that pause would interest me, but I’m all stretched out in the wrong places so that no thought fits and everything seems to be falling apart. I take it from him and toss it over the fence for Goliath.
“You’re making some pretty good headway. You gonna try out for the mustang challenge?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
Goliath practically swallows the apple whole, then puts his head over the fence for another. Justin rubs the horse’s muzzle affectionately. “Whoever rides this old boy is going to make some bank.”
I look at Goliath and try imagining what people would pay for him. He is a gorgeous animal. His size and muscle alone probably make him a hot horse commodity. “It feels kind of rotten to work all that time with the horse just so you can sell him.”
“It’s better than cleaning toilets,” he says.
Justin walks around me and stops at my shoulder so we’re both facing forward. He’s awkward. He puts his arm around my back and gives this uncomfortable side hug. He pulls tight on my shoulder and then lets go. His hand is startlingly strong. I brace myself not to fall into him, which is all variations of embarrassing.
As awkward as it is, the feel of him next to me shuts my brain off. He even smells good.
“What’s that’s for?”
“For calling Coulter on his bullshit. He shouldn’t have tricked you.”
“Yeah. He shouldn’t have,” I say.
I let myself lean against him. Not a big deal. I mean, we’re friends. Sort of. “It was like that thing you did with the horse, where you got it to roll over? He was using me like that horse.” I feel the blood rising in my skin just thinking about how he was saying “trust me” across the arena. What a jackass.
Justin doesn’t move away from me. “That’s about the size of it, I guess.”
I look up at Justin. Without his hat on, I can see that broken nose of his clearly in the moonlight. His deep, sunken eyes are staring right at me. He smells like . . . Nope. I step backward. Then I step backward again. I am not making the same mistake twice in one day, thanks.
I say, “I have to go.”
“Sure,” says Justin. “Yeah. Me too.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I FEEL SOMEONE shoving my shoulder. They aren’t being gentle. I stick my head out of my bag to see whom I owe the honor of yelling at. Coulter is standing over my bed.
“We have a problem,” he whispers.
Alice doesn’t move. Banner rolls over in her sleep. “Shut the hell up, Cassidy.” Banner had a restless night. Not that that matters.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper back. I’m not too happy about seeing Coulter anywhere right now, but especially in my tent after not sleeping all night.
“Chickens are out.”
I’m sorry to hear this, but this is not my problem. And I’m still mad at Coulter. In fact, I’m planning on staying that way. Then I remember I gathered the eggs last night, so I could have left the coop fence open. I get dressed. Outside the tent Coulter is already walking. “A coyote dug a hole under the back fence. The ones he couldn’t eat ran off. We lost at least three hens.”
“Three? Where’s the coyote?”
“Darius is after him. That son of a bitch can smell coyotes.”
Takes one to know one, I think.
* * *
I find a few of the hens and baby chicks in the bushes, and most of the other feather balls find their own way home. The chicks are so absurdly adorable that I almost forget I’ve only had two hours of sleep. Their little yellow bodies teeter back and forth across the ground while their heads bob up and down. A gust of wind could knock them over. I’m surprised any of them survived a coyote raid. I’d think running away would kill them.
I walk around inside the henhouse fluffing up their nests and readjusting everything to make it look like it did before. The hens peck in circles, checking the hay and making chirping noises.
Coulter runs in chasing the rooster.
“You got all those hens and chicks back in by yourself?”
“I used that bucket over there.”
“You are a real mother hen, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t say it like a compliment.
“I just lie to them and tell them they’ll be safe in here.”
“Also a bit of a grudge holder, aren’t you?” Coulter sighs. “You’d a never done that on Highball if you’d known I wasn’t there.”
“Maybe not.” I check the nest for eggs and start arranging the hay.
He says, “Sometimes you need to improvise to get things done.”
Adults are hilarious. “I’d rather not get things done.”
“Life isn’t that simple.” Coulter fluffs a little hay and walks around the house. He finds an egg and sticks it in his pocket. “But I won’t lie to you anymore. You have my word. You can ask me anything at all. Take your shot.”
“Unless you’re lying right now.” I’m so mad I feel like I might say anything. I feel like I could say all the things to Coulter that I haven’t said to everyone else. And he would deserve every word. But on
ly one question fills my head. “Why didn’t you like my grandfather?”
Coulter looks at me in surprise, then he chuckles. “I did like your grandfather. Most the time.”
“Why do you call him a thief then?”
“He took things that were precious to me.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Your grandmother.”
“Oh.” I think about this while I fluff up the coop and then sweep. My grandmother was old when I knew her. She was bad at Scrabble and had a big mole on her neck. It’s hard to imagine her as a heartbreaker. She made great strawberry-rhubarb pies, though.
Coulter pushes the rooster with his foot. The rooster crows at him but runs away. “Your grandfather was something else. He made people feel like anything was possible, even if it wasn’t.”
“That doesn’t sound criminal to me.”
“It wouldn’t.” For a second Coulter doesn’t look as tough as usual. His sunspotted cheeks flatten out, and his mouth makes a little hollow circle like he’s concentrating.
I herd an escaping chick back into its nest with a stick I pick up off the chicken coop floor. The crazed furball heads off to Coulter, who cups his hands and shoos it back into its place. He’s not always a mean old bastard.
“So that’s why you call him a thief?” I ask.
“That wasn’t the only thing he stole,” says Coulter, looking away. “Now I need coffee. All this truth crap is making me cranky.”
I stamp my foot like one of the chickens. “You can’t do that. Finish the story.”
“I said I’d tell you the truth. I didn’t say I’d tell you everything.”
I’m not going anywhere. I pat the last nest into place. One of the hens pecks her head in the straw nearby as I finish up. She hops to her spot and dusts it with her tail feathers. She clucks her four chicks to her, and all but one climb under her left wing. The loose chick chirps noisily. I cup my hand and guide the chick to the other side until it disappears under the hen’s feathers.
Coulter shakes his beard. He seems sad. “I will tell you this much. Some apples just don’t fall too far from the tree.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I look at him seriously. I don’t want a punch line or a dodge. I need to know. “You promised to tell me the truth.”
Coulter sighs heavily and opens the coop door. “The truth is you should never trust what people say, Cassidy, not by itself. Trust what they do. Anyone who promises to always tell the truth has probably already lied to you.”
This I can believe.
Chapter Twenty-Five
AT THE END of the third week we get some good news. “We’re going to the rodeo,” says Coulter. “Take a shower and brush your teeth. When we go into town we like to class up the joint. And as an added bonus we get to watch our own Kaya Tree run a clover around three barrels as fast as she and her horse, Prairie Dog, can go.” After twenty-one days of being away from civilization, this sounds like a trip to Disneyland.
We drive into town in an ancient white school bus that Coulter keeps behind the hay barn. I’m shocked it runs. I thought Coulter was keeping it around as a sort of cultural artifact, since it looks like it was built before they invented roads. It may be the only thing at the ranch older than he is.
When we all pile onto the bus I check the seats for mice. I don’t find any. But the vinyl is so brittle I’m afraid to sit on it. A bunch of kids are throwing one another’s hats around. The girls are all wearing makeup and earrings. The boys look polished up, too, or at least clean. Alice braided my hair, and I lent her a cowboy shirt with snaps that looks way better on her.
Mr. Sanchez drives, and Mrs. Sanchez tells him how to drive. Alice and I sit toward the front so she won’t get carsick. I know she doesn’t want to go, but she’s trying to power through. She puts in the earplugs Charlie brought as soon as we get on the bus. But for me the dusty, teeth-rattling ride into town just adds to the feeling that we are going back in time to a boot-stomping, butt-kicking Wild West show.
The town nearest the ranch is called The Big Empty. According to the sign at the entrance to town, 274 people live here. There’s also a hardware store, a post office, a convenience store, two bars, and a good-size mobile trailer park. Coulter says the town is named after the nearby Red Desert, which often gets called that nickname. When I ask him why people call it that he shrugs. “It’s only empty if you’re a damn fool. But there are plenty of those to go around.”
The vacant lot near the rodeo grounds is overflowing. I’ve never seen so many trucks in one place. It’s a big facility for such a puny town: two big stock pens and the covered pavilion with picnic tables. The rodeo arena including the seats must be twice as big as any building in town, including the hardware store. Coulter says they don’t even have a school here. The ranch kids all ride a bus into Big Piney. The whole county must be here tonight.
I haven’t been to many rodeos. A couple. But only indoor, citified ones, where the whole deal is more about the rodeo queens and the clowns than the bull riders. My mother complained so much about how phony these events were that we just stopped going. I’m not really sure what to expect, but it’s nice to have a change of pace. I’m excited to see Kaya ride at least.
We pile into the bleacher seats. It’s so crowded we have to fill in where we can, and there are a bunch of us. Alice and I are jammed between Ethan and Charlie. As luck would have it, I get to sit behind Justin instead of in front of him. So I get to look at his wide shoulders and the back of his sunburned-red neck. It’s funny, until this moment I never realized why people from the country get called that.
I bump him on the shoulder. “Is this a good rodeo?”
“If you like this sort of thing, yeah.”
“Don’t you?” I ask.
“No. I don’t,” he says.
“Why not?”
“My old man used to do it. Not my thing.”
“Your dad was a rodeo cowboy? Where is he now?”
“Not really sure. He shows up now and then.”
“I’m sorry.” The rodeo isn’t the place to be talking about this.
He shrugs. “Shit happens. You get over it or you get under it.”
I turn and see Alice disappearing into her jean jacket collar.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She doesn’t look at me until I put my arm around her. They must be really good earplugs.
While we wait in the heat for the rodeo to start, I check out the crowd. The men wear mostly ball caps and cowboy hats, and the women have cowboy hats, too, but not as many. The girls my age mostly wear skintight jeans or teeny tiny Daisy Dukes with big old clunky boots. I see half a dozen boys with chewing tobacco stuck under their lips. Maybe it’s the heat outside, but people seem to be throwing back their red plastic cups pretty hard, and I don’t think it’s soda. The faces at this rodeo look more worn than the faces at home, but tougher, too, which is really starting to grow on me.
The rodeo starts with the whole flag-ceremony-anthem-singing thing and girls speeding back and forth on their horses with giant flags whipping at their sides.
“Man, let’s start this thing already,” says Scotty. He’s sitting, trying to get the candy out of his giant box of licorice.
An older man in a plaid shirt says, “Stand up, kid. We have respect for the flag in this town.”
Scotty stands up. I think this is a wise move, considering the dirty looks we are attracting. I’m sure this isn’t the first time that Coulter’s brought a bunch of spoiled out-of-towners to sample the local entertainment. But I really wish that Coulter and Darius would come in and sit with us instead of getting reacquainted with half the town.
A man in a BLM shirt, not Officer Hanks but some other dude with a pie-shaped picture of trees on his arm, walks up and sits on the front row of the bleachers directly in front of us. The two men on
either side of him say, “Hello, Riker,” and make plenty of room.
He nods to them. “Henry, Tom.” This BLM officer looks twice as old as Hanks, with gray in his beard and salt-and-pepper hair. But he’s got a lean, grizzled look and pale blue eyes sunk back in his face that say no freaking nonsense. Once he gets seated he turns around and gives all of the campers the once-over. He looks up at Justin. “New greenies?”
Justin looks at the man. “Yes, sir.”
The man turns back around with no response.
The announcer booms out a speech about how this is one of the most authentic rodeos in the world—no gimmicks or fakers, just the real deal. Everybody cheers. Then three girls with tiaras on their hat brims and very shiny shirts blaze through the main gates on their long-maned horses, whipping everybody up by riding around the arena a hundred miles an hour while waving like crazy. I look over at my friends. Everybody has their mouth open except Alice, who is standing quietly with her hands folded. The announcer blares, “Let’s rodeo!”
The first event is steer wrestling, which is where two burly cowboys come flying out of the chute on their horses, chasing after a steer. Then one of them up and jumps off the horse going full speed and tries to flip the steer over on his back. I feel sorry for the steer, which has done nothing to deserve this harassment, but I can’t imagine how these guys do it. I mean, it’s like football with horns and hooves. One guy misses, overshoots the horns, gets trampled by the steer, and stands right up like it’s nothing. Cowboys are crazy.
The next event is barrel racing. Kaya’s event. Only women run the barrels, but it’s not exactly a trip to the spa. Riders come through the gate like someone has shot their horses out of a cannon, and then instead of flying into the air they find some way to bend their horse around three barrels and then fly to the finish line, legs flapping and hands up high. Of the seven riders before Kaya, three knock down barrels. One rider nearly comes out of her saddle. I can barely stand it I’m so excited.
The announcer says, “Miss Kaya Tree. A local beauty who’s been racing horses around barrels since she was old enough to hold the reins. Let ’er rip, Kaya.”
Thief of Happy Endings Page 13
