by CJ Daly
intent. But he simply mouthed a quick goodbye to her then opened his door
and climbed in. After one last look at me, he fired up the engine and roared
out of the parking lot, kicking up a deluge of gravel in his wake.
Ashley-Leigh and I were left standing with our shadows. She attempted to
engage me in another staring contest, but I looked right through her like she
wasn’t even there. She’d disappeared altogether now . . . even less than an ant.
• 293 •
27
MY DAY IS A WORKOUT
“Hey, champ!” A voice, I was overly attuned to, called out to me
as I struggled to crack open my door. “Wanna come with us
to the gym?”
Didn’t we just come from gym?
I spared him a glance, and he nodded towards a truckload of my peers
amped up on rap music and Red Bull. Pete had accumulated an odd assortment
of friends during his short duration of stay with us. I noticed Jake, the burnout
from our P.E. class, intermingling with the senior class president. He gave me
a cheery wave, and I waved back cordially. Conspicuously absent was Ashley-
Leigh. I suppose she’d already used up her quota of tardies to cheerleading.
“No thanks,” I tossed over my shoulder, still sticking to my avoidance
game plan. Before I could take off, Pete jogged over.
“Aw come on, Kate!—live a little.”
I snorted derisively. “I can think of many more things I’d rather do with
my time than go to the gym and work out . . . and that includes stayin’ home
to wash my hair.” I busied myself digging in my backpack for the key.
“Come on . . . come work out with me.” He bit his lip, nodding his chin
back in an enticing way (which only succeeded in making me weak in the
knees, but not in changing my mind).
It took me a second to find my voice. “Can’t. I still have to pick up my
brothers—it might be your day off, but it’s not mine.” To leak some bitter out, I made a stab at a joke. “‘Sides, I’d like to think of my day as a workout.” I said this as airily as possible before closing the door on his absurdly attractive face.
I was still trying to feel proud of my powers of resistance, when I heard
the Hummer roar to life, and the squeal of tires peeling off pavement. A
dispirited sigh exited my body the same time his vehicle exited the parking lot.
• 294 •
My forehead banged steering wheel. A moment later, I was startled from my misery by the passenger door popping open. And then my eyes popped open
to see Pete, standing there in shorts, a sleeveless athletic shirt, and a smile. My heart did an instantaneous flip-flop.
“In that case, country girl, I’m going to your house to work out.” He eyed
me appreciatively. “Whatever your method is . . . it seems to be working for
you.” That said, he hoisted himself into my passenger seat and closed the door.
“Uh!” I huffed out, both secretly pleased and miffed he’d taken it upon
himself to join me without asking. “I don’t recall givin’ you an invitation.”
“It got lost in the mail,” he replied, eyes sparkling.
Gah! The way he was looking at me—it felt like I needed a daily
inoculation against his charms. Heat crept up my neck as I allowed myself a
full two seconds to drink him in. If I wasn’t careful, I’d start falling for the
enemy again.
“Listen,” I said, “as much fun as this . . . little after-school playdate
sounds”—I glanced out the windshield to gather myself—“I have actual real
work to do this afternoon. And I need to get started so . . .” My mouth didn’t
seem to want to form the words “get out” because every fiber of my being
wanted him to stay.
“What? You just gonna leave me stranded?”
I harrumphed. “First off, that’s somethin’ you might do, but I would never
do that to someone—your buddy Ranger bein’ the exception to the rule.
And I’m pretty sure that you do actually own a cell phone in workin’ order.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “So . . . just call up one of your cronies, and I’m
sure they’d be happy to turn your monster truck right around to pick you up.”
Pete smiled wryly. “Just for the record, I never left anyone stranded that
didn’t wander off on me.”
I folded my arms.
“Come on . . . please?” He put his hands together à la Mikey, amping
up the wattage of his glittering eyes. “I really, real y wanna see the famous Connelly ranch.”
“You’ll only ask for a refund.”
“I doubt it.” He smiled winningly at me.
With a turn of the key, the hatchback sputtered to life, and I threw
caution to the wind. Before we even left the parking lot, Pete started fiddling
with the knobs on the dashboard.
“Do you mind?”
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “It’s a tad warm in
here . . . blame it on the hot driver.”
• 295 •
I bit back a smile. “You can turn it on, but I can’t guarantee the air will be cool.”
“Why not? If you need more coolant we can pull over, and I can put some
in for you.”
“Ah.” I nodded sagely. “Those mechanical skills sure do come in handy
in regards to my car.”
Pete shot me a sidelong glance but didn’t make a retort. During the quiet,
I remembered all the things he had done for me, like warning me about
Ranger and leaving a hundred-dollar tip when I sure did need the money.
Gratitude swelled my throat. I’d never thanked him for either one, knowing,
somehow, not to bring it up.
I cleared my throat. “That’s, um, very nice of you, but unnecessary. The
whole unit’s been busted since, oh . . . the globe started warming or so.”
He looked at me funny for a second. I cringed, thinking he was going
to start a pity party for me, but he just smiled ruefully and rolled down the
window. “Well I guess that sucks for you!”
I laughed a little at that bold understatement. “Yes it does.”
“Well then, you better put the petal to the metal, sister and get us to The Ponderosa pronto.” He stuck his head out the window then peered back in
at me. “Come on!—let’s see what this little baby can do!” he howled out the
window like a maniac, forcing a laugh out of me, despite myself.
The warm afternoon ruffled through his golden hair. Wonderstruck, I
stared at him. Never in my wildest dream-guy could I have ever conjured up
a Pete Davenport. Lucky air . . . I’d been dying to do that with my fingers
for ages .
After picking up two very surprised and exuberant boys and some fresh
milk from Mrs. Hildebrand, we bumped and chugged our way along the
winding road with more amusement than a carnival ride. About fifty yards
from our house, an impatiently waiting Blue came bounding from the shade
of a yucca to greet us. I stopped to load our latest exuberant passenger, and he
proceeded to jump all over Pete, welcoming him with slobbery kisses. Lucky
dog . . . I’d been dying to do that for ages.
“Blue! Stop that!” I laughed while half-heartedly trying to pull him off.
“’sall good.” Pete rubbed his chin on his shoulder and Blue affectionately
behind his ears . “I always wanted a dog.”
“Yeah, but probably not all his slobber,” I said, parking the car in its usual
spot—the end of the dirt trail.
Pete helped unload our bags and backpacks and even held the still-warm
• 296 •
jug of milk for me while I helped Mikey out. He peered doubtfully into the open container at the creamy, frothing liquid inside.
“Now that’s what I call fresh squeezed,” he deadpanned. “Goat milk?”
I laughed at the expression on his face. “Nope. Just good old-fashioned
Jersey cow.”
“Ah.” He gave me a queasy mile.
But I was too busy looking at our shabby lodgings, as though for the first
time, and trying not to cringe at the thought of Pete seeing it through his eyes,
to make a response. I took a deep breath. “Come on.” I nodded him forward.
And our little band of brothers walked together to the saggy front porch.
“Why don’t you just milk your own cows?” Pete inquired while waiting
for me to work on a convoluted series of locks.
“Um . . .”—I jiggled the last one open—“we actually have what could be
considered more of a ranch than a dairy, I suppose.”
He nodded at me, staring. I blushed and bent over to straighten a pair of
sneakers sprawled haphazardly on the porch, more to give my nervous hands
something to do than the urge to straighten.
“Pete,” Mikey piped up, “you gotta take off youwer shoes before you come
in the house.”
“That’s just for us, you dope!” Andrew contradicted quickly.
Poor Mikey immediately hung his head. Pete laughed and rubbed his
hand against the grain of his buzz in the same way I did. “Thanks for the
heads-up, buddy.” Mikey beamed up at Pete, the adoration plain as the nose
on his face; he wasn’t used to such fair treatment.
I had to clear another lump from my throat. “Michael Connelly,” I
reprimanded gently, “thanks for bein’ so informative, but we don’t require
that of our guests.” I turned to Pete. “We don’t get many out here.”
“I don’t mind . . . I’m in for the whole Connelly-after-school-experience,”
he said, spreading his hands wide before gamely pulling off his sneakers.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you to be careful for what you wish for?”
He smiled into my eyes. “Oh, I always do.”
Before he could read the secrets of my soul, my eyes scrabbled away to the
bit of scrub still bravely greening up our deserted wasteland.
“Where do these go, buddy?” He held up two aerodynamic, navy sneakers.
Mikey’s face brightened. “Wight over hewer, Pete.” Grabbing Pete’s hand,
he led him to a rusty metal tray staining our porch. Lucky Mikey.
After finally managing to get up the nerve to turn the door handle, we
all stepped into our stuffy, neat-as-a-pin trailer. I immediately turned on the
ceiling fan, despite the fact it wouldn’t do much more than stir the air. As
• 297 •
if instantly on vacay-mode from the mere presence of Pete in our house, my brothers tumbled into the living room to watch some forbidden TV. I headed
to the kitchen to make snacks.
“Don’t get too comfy boys,” I called over my shoulder, instantly feeling
like a party-pooper. “We have hungry calves to feed.”
Pete trailed me into the kitchen and sat on one of our abused barstools,
then set about the business of watching me work. I tried hard not to feel
self-conscious about anything. Easier said than done, because the way he was
looking at me was akin to the way Blue did when I prepared pot roast. And
I was very sure that Cadet Davenport had never even laid eyes on the outside
of a trailer house before, much less the inside. And I was hyper aware of every crack in the floor and chip in the dishes I set out.
But you’d never know it by looking at him. As usual, Pete was completely at
ease and comfortable in his own skin, aside from the evidence of hyperthermia
he continually swiped from his brow. I grimaced and edged over to the dining
room, where a window was stuffed with the dinosaur that coughed and
wheezed out cool air. What’s one more infraction? I thought as I punched in the button for our—ahem— hot guest.
Meanwhile, our guest continued chatting me up like there wasn’t a
mechanical nightmare in the corner groaning in pain. And like he’d never
tried to undermine me. Or that we’d never had a fight that had gone viral
overnight. He was all rather blasé about being here, with me, in our dumpty
trailer. Guess it was all water under the bridge for him.
I wasn’t so forgiving.
However, it was hard not to feel the pull of his potent magnetism. He had
swiveled to see where I’d got off to, still going on in that entertaining way he
had that had us all so mesmerized. So upon my return, I was rewarded with
an eyeful of perfect profile. It was an odd juxtaposition—this immaculate
specimen, sitting on that worn-out stool, in this cheap kitchen, with its
outdated wallpaper. Talk about shabby chic. I wondered what it must be like to be so shiny and felt instantly shabby as our furnishings next to him.
Usually, I wasn’t embarrassed about being poor; there were lots of folks
here that didn’t have much more than we did. I remembered once complaining
to Mama because we couldn’t afford to buy matching necklaces with Ashley-
Leigh. They were those fourteen-carat gold, heart-shaped, BFF novelties she
thought we should buy each other for Christmas one year when we were about
nine. She’d had it in her mind to show them off at school after the break.
Mama made me tell her we couldn’t afford it. I remembered it being one
of the few times I had outright defied her. I’d really told Ashley-Leigh I didn’t
• 298 •
want to buy the necklaces because they were dumb. So, of course, she went off crying to her mom, and then her mom called mine. Well, Mama set the
record straight right away. I was mortified. And angry. I’d felt the childhood
sting of life not being as fair as it ought to.
Later, Mama had found me out crying behind the chicken coop when I’d
taken too long to fetch the eggs. She’d hugged me to her then proceeded to
set the record straight about how lucky I was to have the gifts God gave me.
She’d said that I didn’t need shiny things to show off in order to make myself
feel good, because I already had everything . . . and then some. “In fact,”
she’d gone on to say, “you’re so special I should lock you up, like a princess in a castle.” I remembered her exact words because of the way they tingled my
spine. And I’d never heard them before or again. Afterwards, she’d squeezed
me to her, telling me that people see you the way you see yourself. And that
being poor wasn’t so bad to bear if you owned up to it. It was the pretending
not to be poor that was so hard.
I never forgot that lesson and tried to keep it in mind while this paragon of
privilege and beauty watched me throw together some peanut butter crackers
and lemonade. In honor of my mother’s memory (and our steamy guest), I
decided to use real lemons and sugar. There wasn’t time to boil down the
sugar, so it’d have to be a little grainy this afternoon. Anyhow, the boys
wouldn’t mind.
“Can
I do anything to help?” Pete’s voice automatically rose to adjust to
the ebb and flow of the noise pollution. “I kind of hate to ask because I’m
kind of enjoying watching you get your Susie Homemaker on.”
I arched a brow at him and handed him the instrument we referred to
as the “lemon-squeezer,” a paring knife, and a wide-lipped glass that used to
have a jelly label on it.
“Although, I must say”—he dropped one side of his mouth and lowered
his volume again—“I’m a little disappointed there’s no pink, frilly apron.”
Ignoring his flirty banter, I swiped peanut butter onto salty squares.
“Hope you weren’t expectin’ anything fancy this afternoon.”
“Only caviar and a bottle of your finest champagne.”
“Well, you’ll have to settle for crackers and lemonade instead.” I clattered
a plate in front of him.
“My favorite!” he cheered loud enough to catch the boys’ ears.
Mikey twisted his head over his shoulder. “It’s my favewit too, Pete!”
“Katie-Kat, can we eat in here today?” Andrew called from his belly
position in front of the TV.
“Why not?” I said, stacking plates on my arm and scooping up two
• 299 •
slopped-together fresh-squeezed lemonades to bring out to the living room. I was becoming quite the rule breaker these days. Pete followed suit, carrying
his plates in one hand and the other two lemonades in the other, like me.
“Wow. I gotta say Pete: I’m impressed . . . if all else fails, you could make
it as a waiter.”
“It’s good to know I have some options in life,” he said wryly.
“Uh-oh. Looks like you forgot my plate though.” I wagged a finger at him.
“That’s gonna cost you a dollar.”
He laughed appreciatively, lassoing me around the waist as I walked by
to retrieve it. “It wasn’t a mistake—I thought it would be more fun to share. ”
This last part was imparted into my ear.
I froze, the smile sliding from my face. He was doing it again—trying
(and succeeding) at winning me over. He let me go to plop himself down in
the middle of our sunken couch.
“Come on Kate . . .”—he whapped the seat next to him—“take a load off.”
The feeling of warmth I always felt around him overcame me again. He
