Painted Boots

by Mechelle Morrison

  This week in class I read that during World War II, when London was being bombed to dust, Winston Churchill said if you find yourself in hell, get through it. So I will. Come June, I’ll go off to college. Em’ll probably marry her precious Kyle and settle down, popping out three or four kids before she’s thirty.

  But that’s not what I want. Swallowing at the tear-fed knot in my throat, I sit on the edge of my bed. Why is he with that girl? I can’t figure it out. He’s so thoughtful in class. So sweet! She’s not only mean and rude. She’s a liar.

  No way does she recognize every skirt, sweater, shirt and piece of jewelry I wear. Gillette is small, yeah, but not that small. Either way though, I guess it doesn’t matter. Yesterday, just before first bell, she yelled across the crowded hall: “Hey Retro, my cousin Becca lost her virginity in that sweater.” Everybody turned to stare.

  If there’s a core to my clothes problem it’s that I’m not my mother. I try, but my efforts to make my clothes my own are meager compared to what she used to do. When I was a kid she’d spend weeks turning three old pair of jeans into a jacket, the left-overs of five shirts into a skirt. People would compliment my outfits and Mom’d say, Aspen is lovely, isn’t she? while tucking my hair behind one of my ears.

  I felt so proud, then.

  But after Mom’s funeral I couldn’t bring myself to wear the beautiful things she had made for me. It was like I no longer saw dresses in my closet. I saw Mom, bent over her sewing machine as she’d stitched them together. I’d take a jacket from my drawer and there she’d be, busy with her seam ripper, deconstructing skirts and sweaters while she watched TV. My clothes haunted me, like custom-made ghosts. So I boxed everything up.

  And I don’t know why, but right before Dad announced we were moving to Gillette, I completely lost it. I deleted my email accounts. I demanded a new cell number. I abandoned my friends for fear someone would mention my loss, because someone always did. I piled everything Mom had ever made for me into our Jeep. Dad just shook his head when I told him I’d driven to Goodwill and given my wardrobe away.

  It’s tough, now, to think that had I known where he’d hidden Mom’s necklace I might have tossed that, too. But I was lost in Portland, without her. Emotional pulp. Back then I couldn’t explain my feelings, even to myself. I still can’t explain things to Dad.

  Then we left Portland, on the second of July, and something in me started to change. It was the strangest thing. By the time we hit Idaho, Portland no longer felt like home. We drove through an endless patchwork of farms, sage-covered range land and towns. We detoured through Yellowstone and into the Tetons. Somewhere along the way I abandoned my former world as willingly as snakes shed their skin, because when we rolled into Gillette, Portland was history. It had become my past: the place where I grew up, with Mom.

  And I’ll never go back.

  A part of me needs to believe she’s still there, nestled in her favorite chair and reading while she sips her afternoon tea. It’s a dream, I know, but I cling to it. Dreams are the only place I have left from where Mom glances up, every day, to say, There’s my girl. Love you, sweet.

  5

  I’M EATING BREAKFAST when Dad wanders downstairs in his polar bear boxers and a plain white tee. I roll my eyes, say, “Oh, hello,” then turn back to my Chex with bananas. The local news has just started a story on Devil’s Tower, which lies about an hour northeast of here, and I want to watch. I’ve never seen the tower but I’d like to, mostly because Mom loved the place. She loved it so much that as a kid I thought it was weird we never defied Dad’s Wyoming taboo and went there.

  Mom’s love for the tower was pure Hollywood—a by-product of her obsession with the movie “Close Encounters.” I’d come home from a night out with friends and there she’d be, waiting for me with little tears sparkling in her eyes, chewing her thumbnail as she watched Richard Dryfuss build his mashed-potato Devil’s Tower for the fiftieth time.

  “I’m not going to work today,” Dad announces, stretching.

  “Hmm.” I don’t really know what to say and anyway, I’m trying to listen. The news story begins with a reporter, the tower positioned behind her like an upturned pail of sand. I open my laptop, pull up Google Maps and type in: Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

  From the satellite shot all I see is the tower’s top and the twisting rock that flanks it like the rugged handles of a sugar bowl. I’m trying to determine how big the thing is when I realize the black abyss to one side of it is its shadow, lying like a silhouette across the land. I stare at the shadow, wondering if it’s as dark in real life as it is on Google. The TV flickers. A series of old photos flash across the screen as a voice-over tells the story from when, a long time ago, some guy parachuted on a fifty dollar bet to the top of the tower and then couldn’t get down.

  “Why don’t you take the day off school?” Dad asks.

  They didn’t even have helicopters back then, or good climbing gear or anything.

  “Aspen.”

  “Huh?”

  “Turn that thing off.” He nods at the TV. “Stay home from school, okay? I hardly see you these days.”

  “Can we visit the tower?”

  Dad stares at my laptop, the screen still zoomed to a close-up of the tower’s shadow. “No,” he says. “We can’t.”

  Dad’s going to work after all, and in the same khakis and white shirt he wore yesterday. I’m grumpy about the tower, but I’m also tired of being chauffeured. I want to ask Dad if he’ll get a second car, but I don’t dare—his lips are pressed into a tight, uncrossable line. He stops near the corner of the school parking lot, like he always does. As I get out of the Jeep I promise him we’ll go for coffee or something. Saturday, maybe. Or Sunday. But I don’t know.

  I used to think Dad and I were close. Now I know we were close to Mom. I mean, she was our gravity. Our family glue. Without her, it’s like Dad and I don’t know how to talk.

  Walking the lot, with the wind whipping all around me and leaves scattering at my feet, I feel better. The sky is filled with clouds, at last. The wind smells like rain and prairie as it snarls my hair into a mess. It’s a wild feeling, like at any moment I could fly, and as I pull a tangle of hair from my earring I laugh out loud for the first time in months.

  Mom loved this kind of weather! She loved strong wind and heavy clouds and the way the world smells just before a storm. Remembering how her eyes would light whenever she heard thunder makes me feel almost happy. But now I miss her.

  I push my longing for her aside and think instead on my boots: last night I painted the soles pumpkin orange. I did it to match my orange-plaid skirt, going for the darker shade that runs within the pleats. But pumpkin makes me think of Mom, too. Autumn was her favorite time of year.

  Moving between one row of trucks, I start into the next. A penny catches my eye, the copper so new it almost glows. I’ve always picked up pennies for luck, so I bend down and grab it. I’m about to walk on when I notice a girl hunched over the steering wheel of the Subaru hatchback next to me. Her head rests on the wheel and her shoulders heave. The first bell rings. Every other straggling student in the lot bursts into a run. I don’t know why, but I open her car door.

  “Just go on!” the girl says. Her arms tighten around the steering column. Wind rushes over her. The papers and empty fast-food sacks in the passenger seat sort of explode.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  The girl pushes a lock of red hair clear of her face. She looks at me through teary, hazel-brown eyes. “You can’t what?”

  I’ve seen this girl, with Em. But I say, “You’re upset,” and shrug my shoulders. “It feels wrong to leave you alone.”

  With the heels of her hands, she smears tears and mascara across her temples as she sits straight. She digs a paper napkin from the passenger seat mess and blows her nose. “Sorry, Retro,” she says. “I thought you were them.”

  “My name is Aspen. Just in case you’re interested.”

  The girl runs her finge
rs into her hair. “Everyone notices you, you know? Is that why you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “The clothes thing. Duh.” The words sound like she’s spitting them, like they’re thorns in her mouth. She swings her legs from the car and stands up, brushing at her Burberry-wannabe jacket. Her gaze fixes on my chest as her lips draw into a sudden frown. “That pin belongs to my aunt Carol,” she says.

  Without thinking I finger the ocean-colored brooch I found in the best consignment shop in Gillette, the one on Douglas. It’s a starburst pattern—a large aqua glass oval surrounded by wave after wave of ever deepening green. “I love this pin,” I say.

  “So does my aunt.” The girl scrubs the back of her hand under her nose. “She eloped with some Harley guy who’d been working oil in the Dakotas. They took off without saying a word to anybody! My mom was so angry she sold that pin, and all my aunt’s stuff, to a thrift shop. But Aunt Carol promised it to me.”

  “I bought it,” I say. “And it cost a lot.”

  The second bell rings. From habit, I look at my watch.

  The girl slams her car door. “Give it back.”

  I tell her “No,” and she grabs me, pushing me against the mud-splattered hood of her car. She whispers, “I’m not afraid to fight you for it.”

  It’s hard to believe this girl will actually punch me, but what do I know? The only clear thought in my head is that Mom used to tell me In the face of confrontation, use your words.

  So I fake a smile and say, “I’m sorry about your aunt, but I don’t see this situation your way. I bought this pin at a store.”

  The girl snorts out a laugh. She looks sideways, then drops her bag to the ground. I try to slip past her but she crashes against me, pressing so hard I gasp. “Give it back,” she says.

  A door slams somewhere as the girl yells, “I swear I’ll hit you!” I wiggle free of her and stumble, bumping against the car. Pain blossoms in my hip. My lucky penny falls from my hand and bounces off the window, landing on a cushion of leaves. The girl grabs my hair, my head jerks right and I see Kyle coming toward us, skirting between the rows of parked trucks.

  Suddenly, it’s really important that I do something.

  I push from the Subaru, flinging myself and the girl, too, into the truck behind us. She screams and wraps her arms around my waist. I try spinning free of her but trip, smashing against the truck’s side mirror. The air rushes from my lungs. My bag swings round my body, the strap digging into my neck. The girl tries to punch me in the stomach, but I shove her. She bounces against her muddy car.

  From one row over Kyle calls out, “You get on to class, Lindsey.”

  “The hell I won’t! Retro’s got my aunt Carol’s pin!”

  I wheeze, “My name is Aspen!”

  Kyle says, “She bought it somewhere, right? Makes it hers.”

  Lindsey whirls away from me—to argue with Kyle, I guess. I slump against the truck, willing myself to breathe and tugging the strap of my leather bag away from my throat. Kyle stops near the Subaru’s bumper and stuffs one hand in his pocket. “Just get on,” he says.

  “But it’s mine!” Lindsey’s fingers clench. Her hair billows in the wind, a swarm of furious gnats. Dried mascara fans from the corners of her eyes.

  Kyle kicks at something on the ground. My penny. He says, “You could stand a good washing, Linds.”

  Lindsey touches her temple, drawing her fingernail through the black residue there. A little “Wha . . . ?” gurgles up and escapes her mouth. Her eyes flare with anger, but she stoops for her bag. Without another word she walks away.

  I breathe in a deep gulp of air and hold it, feeling the tingling coolness seep into my lungs. My fingers tremble as I smooth the chocolate brown cable of my sweater then pull my hair behind one ear. The second I take my hand away the wind blows my hair into a mess again.

  “You okay?” Kyle asks.

  “I’m fine,” I say, though my voice cracks. I swallow at the annoying urge to cry. “We should go, right? We’re late to class.”

  “Won’t matter if we’re later.”

  I watch him as he watches Lindsey jerk the school’s door open. The same gusting wind that blows his hair across his forehead in thick, dark dunes catches the school’s door and slams it against the stop. Once Lindsey is gone Kyle starts walking, back the way he came. He nods for me to follow.

  I start after him because, really, I don’t know what else to do.

  “So I’m Kyle, you know?”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m Aspen.”

  “That you are, girl.”

  I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself as I trail behind him through three rows of trucks and the occasional car. He stops at the door of a black Chevy that’s been backed into a stall near the street. The truck’s old—a pick-up from the sixties, or maybe even the fifties—its cab and wheel wells trimmed in creamy off-white.

  I can’t believe I’ve never noticed this truck before. It’s flawless and beautiful, restored to mint perfection. Kyle digs in his pocket and comes up with a key. The lock makes a dull thud as he turns it, then he pulls the driver’s door wide.

  I look at him, unsure of what to do.

  He raises his eyebrows. His head tips toward the empty cab. “After you,” he says.

  6

  IT’S A DREAM to step onto the running board, take hold of the steering wheel and pull myself into the cab of Kyle’s truck. The interior is small, more like a compact car, and spotless. The cream-colored leather seat makes a scrunchy sound as I sit. I lift my bag strap over my head then set my bag in the passenger foot well.

  Kyle climbs in, closes the door then turns to face me, resting one arm along the back of the seat. I’ve never been this close to him. His hand is right there, an inch from my shoulder. I want to fix his collar and adjust the way his Levi jacket lays against his chest. I want to feel his warmth coming up through his clothes. I wish I could brush his bangs away from his two-toned blue eyes. They’re darker than usual—the colors of a winter sea—maybe because it’s cloudy.

  “Great truck,” I say.

  “Thanks. It was my granddad’s.” Kyle runs his hand along the black-stitched leather of his steering wheel then tugs his fingers through his hair. “My dad and I restored it. You likely noticed, but people around here don’t give up on their vehicles.”

  “Yeah. Private junkyards are everywhere.”

  Kyle laughs and his eyes grow brighter. “You want to play a game?” he asks.

  I’m suddenly too warm, like I’m sitting on coals, and I tug my scarf away from my throat. “I guess. I don’t know. What kind of game?”

  “A revelation game. Like I say, ‘My name is Kyle Thacker.’ Then you say your version. ‘My name is . . . .’”

  “Aspen Brand.”

  Kyle extends his left hand and I take it in mine. “Pleased to meet you, Aspen Brand. I’m from Gillette, bred and born.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, Kyle Thacker. I come from Portland, Oregon.”

  “Oregon, huh?” He glances toward the school then smiles, just enough that his dimple pops into being. His backwards handshake turns less formal. More like a hand-hold. “I live outside town, on Grand View Drive.”

  “I’m on Pinehurst,” I say.

  “Our family trains horses for a living.”

  “My dad is a geologist.”

  “I love Wyoming’s wide open spaces.”

  “Frankly, I can’t get used to so much sky.”

  Kyle laughs, again. “I play guitar,” he says. “Acoustic.”

  “I do, too!”

  He rubs his thumb along the knuckles of my hand. “I don’t tell people much, but I have stuff on YouTube, under KDT.”

  “I have one post, called ABcings. Sings is spelled with a ‘c.’”

  “I’ll look you up.”

  “I’ll look you up.”

  We stare at each other, and a few moments pass in silence. He says, “I noticed you, Aspen Brand, our first day of sc
hool.”

  “I noticed you that day too, and at lunch.”

  “I think you’re gorgeous.”

  “I think you’re hot.” I bite my lip. I can’t believe I said that out loud.

  Kyle grins, wide and genuine, and a smile spreads across my face. It feels almost foreign, a rude stretching of the muscles under my skin.

  “I’ve never seen you smile before.”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I guess I don’t smile much.”

  “Seems a shame,” he says. “You have a beautiful mouth. Truth is I study that mouth of yours, sometimes.” He glances to the school. His hand warms in mine. “You being here, sitting in my truck and smiling, makes me wish more than anything I could kiss you.”

  I smile again. I can’t help it. I’ve never kissed anyone on a first date, let alone a first meeting. Weird, how I don’t care about that now. I want to kiss him. A lot. But suddenly, my unexpected happiness feels like a betrayal. My hold on his hand relaxes. Then I let go. Mom loved my smile. She used to tell me so all the time.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Kyle asks.

  “No. Not really. I mean, I think about kissing you pretty much every time I see you.” I press my hand to my face. I’m bursting with heat. “I guess it’s okay to tell you that, since you want to kiss me, too. But if we’re talking about wishes, especially one above everything else, mine would be that my mom was still alive.” Tears sting my eyes. “Sorry I ruined our game,” I say to my hands. They lie folded in my lap, one over the other, my thumbs entwined. I don’t know why I told him. I haven’t told anyone yet. Not even Gwen. He’ll do something awkward now, like my friends in Portland did.

  Kyle moves close and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry you lost your mom,” he whispers into my hair.

  I look across the parking lot. Unwanted tears blur my view into a kaleidoscope of gray and black, red and white. I don’t want to cry over Mom. I mean, it doesn’t change anything. It won’t bring her back. But something, maybe Kyle’s closeness or the cozy silence of his truck, amplifies my feelings.