He crossed his eyes and made me snort. I shouldn’t laugh. Nothing about this was funny. Why was I laughing? Ty both horrified and intrigued me. The devil angel sharing my roof.
“Has anyone asked you that, Sis? Seriously?”
I blushed.
“See? No. If the mood is right, you both get it and you go for it. So no I didn’t have her written consent, but I’m not Bill Fucking Cosby. I didn’t drug her, and I didn’t get her drunk in order to have sex with her. We had just met, we were partying, and we hooked up. The end.”
His body tensed as he roared his animated self through the Arctic, blasting everything that got in his way. I stayed quiet so he’d keep talking.
“And as far as Elena goes, I guess she figured without Harvard, without her carefully parentally planned micro future?” He glanced over at me to make an impact. “Game over,” he said, just as Ty’s alter ego skidded out and exploded into orange flames.
I didn’t talk to Ty much after that, but it was pretty obvious the dog-eared and highlighted paperback of The Virgin Suicides I found on my bed was a twisted sort of gift from him. After tossing it aside, thoroughly creeped out for a week or so, I picked it up and stayed up all night reading the engrossing story of five teenaged sisters growing up in the suburbs with absurdly religious, overprotective parents who won’t give them an ounce of freedom they crave. One girl goes through a period of rebellion, sleeping with the hot boy at school, but when he abandons her, the sisters all kill themselves in grotesque ways (oven, hanging, carbon monoxide, pills).
The story is narrated by their neighbor boys, now grown men, who remain in awe of the beautiful trapped girls.
Beautiful and trapped teens.
Like the train kids.
Like us.
The boys in the story are confused by their group suicide, but as I read the lovely prose, I understood it. Death was the ultimate fuck you to the parents, especially the mother. Death was their ultimate freedom.
It was the most disturbingly brilliant and scary book I’d ever read.
“Now do you understand Elena a bit more?” A scribbled note from my stepbrother splayed out in his bold writing on the last page.
I did.
And I was horrified that I did.
Chapter Nineteen
Now
After Mom admitted she knew about Dad, everything went to hell. I yelled, she yelled, then she was crying, and then we were both crying. I ended up hanging up on her and feeling like absolute crap for doing so. I hated that she was right. I hated that the person I was at home wouldn’t have come to see Dad if I knew how sick he was, how bad it was. How close to death—especially after everything else that happened. I couldn’t have done it. I’d rather have gone anywhere than face him sick like this.
Dad and Anna eventually find me sitting next to the van, pretending to be talking to a friend when they return.
“Everything okay, Paige?” Anna asks.
“Yeah,” I say, avoiding her eyes.
On the long drive back to the ranch, we listen to cowboys bemoaning the fact that they lost their girls to liquor and other men, to women threatening their guys—if they should cheat again—that they’d find their tires slit and their heads dented with crowbars. Maybe the whole theory about cowboys’ reticence was that they got their feelings out in their songs and that’s why they didn’t have to talk everything to death in real time.
Jake’s Jeep is in the driveway when we get back, and I cling to the sight like a life raft. But I’m surprised to find another vehicle parked in front of the ranch, and even more surprised to see, standing beside the opulent, gold, high-end pickup truck, an overweight white guy with an oversized belt buckle leering at the ranch house like a lion outside a canary cage.
“Who is that?” I ask, instantly repulsed.
Anna frowns. “I forgot he was coming today.” She glances back at Dad, an apologetic look crossing her face. “He’s here to look at the property.”
A creepy feeling builds in the pit of my gut. “Why?”
“He’s interested in buying it.”
“Buying it! The ranch isn’t for sale. Is it?” I touch her arm. “Wait, is the ranch for sale?”
She doesn’t answer me. Instead she goes about her routine of pressing the button, waiting for the metal ramp to lower Dad onto his property. I jump out of the car, lightning-fast like Jake, and follow the two of them to greet this slimy guy.
Instead of getting out a rifle and demanding he leave the property like I wish she would, Anna offers her hand. He shakes it, and they start talking about the ranch: the acreage, the cattle, the horses—the barn.
“Dad,” I say, “the ranch isn’t for sale.” I squat down next to him, pressing my palm into his knee. “We aren’t selling the ranch, right?”
“May have to.” Jake appears, virtually out of nowhere, as if he hasn’t been AWOL for two days.
“Why? You said we just had to fix it up. I know we’re running out of money, but…selling the ranch?”
We follow my father up the ramp into the house. Jake talks to my father who wheels himself down the hall toward his office, then pulls me aside by my elbow.
“This isn’t the time to make a scene,” Jake says in a low, harsh voice.
I pull my elbow loose from his grip. “I wasn’t making a scene. Where have you been all weekend anyway?”
“Why do you care?”
“I care.”
Oh God, did I just admit I cared about Jake?
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
We have no time to argue.
Jake shuts the door, spins on his heels, and says to me, “That man out there might be the one to get us out of the red here, Paige. He is an investor. You asking all kinds of questions and causing problems is going to make him roll that fancy truck of his right on down the drive.” He points to further express his point, which makes me want to slug him.
“I thought he was here to buy it.”
Jake shakes his head. “You don’t need to assume things here. If you want to know, ask.”
“If he’s an investor, why didn’t he greet my father? Why is he dealing directly with Anna?”
“Has it dawned on you how hard this is for Gus? Not only is he trapped in that wheelchair all day, drinking from a straw like a baby, but this place that he loves, that his family has owned for generations, is in jeopardy”—he glances down the hall, where we have a partial view of Dad’s wheels at the office desk—“because of his health bills. His life was a train wreck, Paige, way before—”
“I showed up, right? Showed up to make everything worse?”
He avoids my eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. And I’m adjusting to all of this as fast as I can. It’s not exactly easy.” My throat catches around the words. He clears his before speaking again.
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out, but look—come two weeks you’ll be packing up that fancy suitcase of yours and catching a plane outta here.” He gestures the other way this time, pointing in the direction of the window to the sky. “Leaving us with all of this.” His voice is a rough whisper as he closes the distance between us, and I suck in a breath. “Stuck with piles of medical bills we can’t pay and a man we’re not always sure we’re doing right by. We’re doing our best here, but please, from now on, leave the business side of things to me and Anna, and keep those sorts of opinions to yourself.”
He is so hotheaded. He makes me crazy. “A) My suitcase isn’t fancy, and B) I know it probably looks like I don’t care because I haven’t been here in years, but this is my family’s ranch. And I do care. I care that it’s falling apart, and I care that we can’t afford it. My daddy inherited it from his daddy who inherited from his and even during the depression they figured out a way to keep it from going under water. My point is, I’m not going to sit by and let you sell it to that creeper out there without a fight.”
His hands rest on the front of his hips,
fingers pointing straight down. “How do you know he’s a creeper? What does that mean anyhow?”
“Just a vibe I get. Were you listening to what I was saying?”
“A vibe?” He shakes his head again. “Yes, I heard you, but this is business, Paige, and last I heard you’re off to college in August and once you go, you’re out of this ‘fight’ no matter how well and good your intentions are. You’ll be off and we could be here, stuck without any potential buyers if you chase this guy off before knowing the whole story.”
I wasn’t going to let that happen to Eight Hands Ranch. Or to Jake. To Anna. Especially not to Dad. “I’m not leaving until we have a plan to save the ranch.”
“Great. If you got any bright ideas, let’s hear them.” Hands on hips, he stands there. “Because outside of investors like Reverend Hal out there, I’m fresh outta ideas.”
“I—I don’t have anything right now, but I’ll think of something.”
“Well, while you’re thinking of something, I’m going to go ahead and save our ranch, if that’s okay with you?”
He flings the door open, forcing in bright, brutal sun. I grab his forearm and yank him back through, kicking the door shut and snuffing the light until we’re, once again, alone in the hallway’s shadows. He’s startled—by my strength or tenacity, I’m not sure which. I stand on my tiptoes, and his face is inches from mine. “Wait, Jake. Don’t do it. Please don’t sell him the ranch. It’s all…it’s all I have left.”
“Hey, hey, now.”
I hope he doesn’t notice the tears that spring into my eyes. His comforting tone makes me uneasy. “Why do you keep saying ‘our,’ anyway? Last time I checked, you aren’t family, Jake.”
My words were quiet but I can see they sting like his stung me.
He glances down at my fingers wrapped tightly around his flesh before looking back into my eyes, and his are round with surprise. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost guilty, but he’s still mad, and he has something to say. “Day you arrived in that pink spangled Cowgirl shirt of yours, you asked me about the Eight Hands in the name of our ranch. How they changed from six? Well. Guess who the other two hands are?”
“I have no idea.”
He cocks his head, blue eyes piercing into mine.
Now I do.
You, I think. You and Anna.
I don’t even have to say it.
I don’t need to ask why.
They care about this place. Mom sure didn’t and before I got here, I didn’t give a shit about it either, so Dad gave parts he loved to people who did.
“Yeah, that’s right.” He nods. “We’re equal owners. All this?” He sticks out his thumb, gesturing toward the beautiful acres of golden fields tucked between grand mountains. Then I feel it land on my forearm. “If I ask that guy to take off, the ranch is all our problem. You get that, Paige?”
“I know about your dad, Jake, what happened to him? Anna told me.”
Frowning, he avoids my eyes. Clenches his jaw.
I swallow, clutching hold of his belt loop, and I don’t even look away when his eyes go wide. I lean into him. I can’t help it. I can’t fight it. “I get it.”
Chapter Twenty
Then
After Elena, everything at school was sort of quiet—zombie teens at school, going through our zombie motions, until another boy jumped in front of the train.
This time at twilight, a sophomore, on his way home from volunteering at a soup kitchen downtown (another volunteer item for future college applications!), who, rumor had it, was mid-mental breakdown over SATs studying and extra-curriculars.
Then a week later, there was another one. Another Asian boy, a junior, very well-liked. Apparently he thought he shamed his parents about something school-related and decided to jump in front of a train instead of face their disappointment.
This was the fourth death by suicide.
The fourth death by train.
Parents were flipping out. Cornell was a fluke. Elena was a sad copycat. But the third and the fourth—both Asian boys—and the school was in chaos, drenched in fear that someone they knew, or worse, them, would be next.
Officially, the worry was the taboo of suicide had been lifted and now my peers were choosing the physical pain of trains and razor blades over dealing with the emotional pain of disappointment and heartache. We were being trained to be perfect. We didn’t know how to handle disappointment. Or failure. We weren’t taught resilience. So on the tracks waiting for the commuter train to barrel into him at fifty miles an hour, instead of sucking it up and being resilient like my dad was being with his horrendous ALS, this other kid jumped in front of the train.
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH read the local headlines.
Parents raised a “ coalition of the willing”—willing to sit from dusk till long after dark along the tracks, lined up on either side, stuffed into REI chairs, wiggling uncomfortably in metal frames, as they dug deeper and deeper into the bloodstained dirt.
Cradling carafes of customized and made-to-order free trade coffee, their anxious eyes skimmed back and forth from the path behind the tracks, back to their Arts & Leisure sections of the New York Times, back to the tracks. They waited. Watched and waited under the intense fluorescent spotlight the police put up, their artificial moon.
The farther I was away from that home, the clearer I understood how insane it all was. We were teenagers. Why were we taking college classes in high school? Why were we spending endless hours studying at home and in the library instead of attending football games and rallies and dances?
Our reality was nothing like theirs.
After the first, after the hoopla surrounding Cornell and then Elena, they tried the minimalist approach. Less is more. Or, in this case, less is less. It was a bit like my mother’s “If I don’t believe it, it didn’t happen” approach to life. All the while my fellow mice continued their studies, dancing on their glass stages. The teachers focused on keeping us alive instead of wondering why the others were dead, lest they be partially to blame.
I learned later this was the first stage of grief: Denial.
Tick tick tick tick.
My English teacher, Mr. T, pulled me aside after class. All the teachers acted as therapists now. Checking in with us about our grief, our stress levels. Today was my turn.
“My mother went back to school after she had me, business school, and she paid her own way. My dad is a cowboy. He lives in Wyoming. I don’t really care that much which college I get accepted to as long as it’s….”
Far Away from Here. He looked at me weird so I took it a step further.
“I got accepted to Wesleyan. They have a decent creative writing program and that’s what I want to do, so…”
Still he stared. Listening.
“Look, even if I hadn’t gotten in, my mother threw out all of our disposable razors—much to my stepfather’s chagrin—so you don’t have to worry about that, either.”
Mr. T looked uncomfortable, but then, after taking another sip of his water, smiled as if he could feel his pay raise. Above and Beyond his job responsibilities. Like he’d achieved the highly esteemed position of Mentor. Truth was, I did want him to be my mentor. Just not an emotional one.
“That’s wonderful about Wesleyan. It’s a fine liberal arts education. How is your creative writing project going?” he asked.
“Good. I mean. Okay. I’m having a hard time getting started. I feel so…distracted all the time.”
“There’s a lot going on here. Sometimes I find that’s the best time to write. When there’s so much going on around you that only words on a page can help you find order in the chaos.”
“That makes sense.”
“Glad something does,” he said, looking like his dog just died.
Chapter Twenty-One
Now
After almost three weeks together, we’ve all fallen into a quiet routine that seems to work for us. We have this old green Ford pick-up that I drive around the p
roperty, stopping at feed barns while Jake jumps out, loads the alfalfa, then tosses it over into the feed tanks for the horses. The cows mostly feed on grass, but sometimes we stop and feed them, too. We talk and joke and Jake points out things here and there as we drive along.
The other half of my day revolves around feeding and taking care of Dad. I’ve started to do a little bit of it, mostly giving him blended meals from a spoon or a straw during supper time. He isn’t comfortable with me doing the more private details, like taking him to the bathroom or cleaning him—those fall to Anna—but I’m fine with the meals.
I used to do this with you, he typed to me, later, referencing baby food. It looks like we’ve come full circle, kid.
I faked a smile, but when biting my lip didn’t work, I excused myself and cried in the bathroom. When I got back, Jake patted my hand under the table, and I didn’t pull away. He’s still pretty much a stranger on paper—other than fishing with him when we were kids, we’ve only known each other a few weeks. But we had an immediate connection that first day when he picked me up in his Jeep, and it’s starting to flesh out into a quiet, enthralled understanding I’m beginning to count on more than I want to admit.
I’m still feeling the connection as Jake and I sway gently on the porch swing, watching lightning tear across the sky. Thick streams of relentless rain pound the dirt. Thunder strikes so loudly it vibrates the porch, the swing, our spines. I jump and spill the tea I’m drinking all over my shirt.
Wordlessly, Jake hands me a red throw blanket to mop it up.
“Clearly, we’ve angered the gods,” he says, and it both terrifies and delights me that he says we.
“This is amazing. We don’t have storms like this in California.”
“I hear it doesn’t rain at all in California.”
“True. The drought is bad. All our pretty green lawns have turned to desert plants. It’s sort of depressing.”
The crisp air feels like a cool shower, without the biting discomfort. We watch the grey streaks of rain bring up the scent of wet hay. I drink Anna’s iced tea. Jake drinks his Diet Dr. Pepper. He drinks it all day long—can after can—which is likely why he has so much damn energy all the time, and I tell him so.
Paint My Body Red Page 9
