Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel

by Ginger Scott

  Duty calling, I roll my shoulders and flick my neck once to the right so it pops. Hands pushing deep into my front jean pockets and my body swathed in a state championship sweatshirt from the previous season, I catch the gleam in my father’s eye that I’m wearing something that shows off what I’ve accomplished.

  “There he is,” Dad says, moving close to me and reaching around my shoulders for the most awkward sideways hug of my life. He only does this in front of people. It’s part of his deal-making toolkit. Proud-dad-hug-son—grrrr.

  “Here I am.” I raise my brows and survey the room to tally up our guests. Two men whom I’m sure my dad envies because of their expensive watches are sipping wine on the opposite side of the counter. A woman nearly my height stands closer to my dad, her hair pulled up in a knot on top of her head, a black jacket that I can only assume is hers slung over the back of one of the dining chairs in the background. Her white shirt hugs her body, and her tits are fucking unreal. There’s no way my dad hasn’t noticed. He’ll use those to sell me on whatever school she’s from, I’m sure of it.

  “I’ve heard so much about you. Your father tells me you’re quite the football player.” She stretches her hand out for me to shake, and as I do I gradually process everything about this situation, including the incredible ignorance she seems to have about the game of football. She is not a recruiter.

  “Yeah,” I say with a cocked brow. My dad takes a sip from his tumbler, probably bourbon, and makes eye contact with me long enough to raise his brows. He’s making sure I notice the tits.

  “I’m sorry, what is your role . . . with the team?” If she is a recruiter, I just lost my offer by insulting her. My dad chuckles while she shakes her head, and the two men on the other side of the counter join in on the laughter.

  “Son, no. They’re not from a university.” My dad turns to the woman. “I’m sorry; I sprung this on him. We’ve been taking so many meetings with recruiters lately, he’s sort of programmed, you know?”

  She smiles softly with polite laughter. “What an interesting choice of words,” she says.

  My dad’s face appears puzzled and he shakes his head, his chuckles continue to cover up the fact he doesn’t get her meaning. I do, though. Programmed—it’s precisely the right word.

  “Yes, sorry. No football for me, I’m afraid,” she says, slipping a business card from a black clutch purse on the counter near her abandoned drink. “Here’s my card. I’m in the final phases of my PhD work and am working with a handful of students at your school on what I hope you’ll agree is a pretty amazing project.”

  I put the pieces together before I read her card. Megan Esher must be part of that study tutor girl was so stressed out about. She doesn’t look nearly as whack-a-doo as I pictured.

  The men in suits stand one at a time and shake my hand, taking turns sharing their names and titles. One’s a doctor and one’s a lawyer, and they’re both named Chris.

  “Tate Reinke is the one who put me in touch with Megan here,” my dad starts. My mind spins as the bigger picture comes into view. Tate Reinke’s son Porter went to Alabama, and my father has basically done everything Tate did, or said to do, with me, hoping maybe the paths will align. “Porter was part of their beta testing. Am I saying that right?”

  “Early trials,” Megan corrects.

  “Right,” my dad continues. “Anyhow, he did some work with Megan’s group and his passing yards blew up. Blew up, son! He’s expected to go top-three quarterbacks in the draft.” My dad’s mouth hangs open in this half-smile he gets when he waits for me to join in the enthusiasm.

  “Wow.” His mouth shuts because I’m bad at faking it.

  “I can’t share specifics about other participants in our trials, but they are welcome to talk with you about their experiences. I can answer the details about where we’re at now. We would love to talk to you a little bit more about our program, if you want?” She asks as if I have a choice. I’m seventeen. If there is something to be signed, my dad’s already cast it in stone. If there is a bribe to pay to get me in, the check’s already been written.

  “Sure. I guess,” I say, playing the role I’ve been programmed for. I take the last open stool at the breakfast bar and flip through the pages of some fancy booklet Megan gave my dad. A swarm of buzz words fly out from the headlines—Better You, Best Self, Remove the Worry.

  None of that appeals to me, but one word on the last page catches my eye.

  FREEDOM.

  “What do you mean, freedom?” I spin the slick magazine-style book around and slide it toward Megan, the bold golden word centered for her view.

  “What does that word mean for you?” She doesn’t smirk at her question, which is what I instantly expect. It takes me a breath to drop my defenses and sit back to ponder what she means. I focus on the printed word so hard that my eyes burn a little and the sharp lines of the font blur.

  “Choices . . . I guess?” I blink up to meet her stare. She nods slightly enough that only I notice.

  “Amazing,” my dad says, thinking something epic happened just now. He thinks I’m connecting with her, liking this idea or buying into it. That’s not what’s happening, though. At all. I see this for what it really is—a place where maybe someone will listen to what I want. A person who will listen to me. A way to work out how to not go down the same path as Tate Reinke’s son.

  “I can take one more person in this final testing group, and I think you might be a great fit. We could benefit from learning about your experience with the program . . . as an athlete.” Her eyes are lined with a thin but deep black shadow that somehow extends out onto her lashes. Her blinks are almost robotic, and maybe a bit hypnotic. I don’t think she gives a rat’s ass about my athletic ability.

  “I’m not sure how I feel about swallowing a camera,” I admit. Really, it’s fucking weird.

  She chuckles, and the men drinking wine flash smirks and make eyes at each other mid sip.

  “We hear that a lot, but I assure you, it passes through like any capsule of this size, and we have a full medical staff at our disposal twenty-four-seven. You will never be without medical care only minutes away. Minutes.”

  It’s weird how she repeats that word, like a warning.

  “Son, from what Tate says, this basically helps with the mental game. It’s a way to help you clear out the noise, focus on the field, the play, execution.”

  “So, this basically mutes my father?” My dad pats me on the back with his laugh, but it’s extra hard. He didn’t appreciate the joke. Justified, since I was only partly kidding.

  “I like to tell everyone they get out of this what they put in. It’s a lot like traditional therapy in that way. If you come in with an open mind and are hungry to make a change, you are more likely to notice a difference when the six weeks are done.”

  Six weeks. Doesn’t feel especially binding, and I actually like the idea of therapy more than honing my QB skills. Maybe in six weeks I’ll know how to be honest with my parents; I’ll know how to tell my dad no, and how to beg my mom to do anything other than sit in that room.

  “Seems like a no-brainer.” I choose these words for my dad mostly. The tightness in his chest visibly eases and he sits back down on the stool at the counter as he claps his hands together.

  “Well, alright,” he says. His grin is beaming, and his eyes are literally trying to dance with mine they’re so proud of me for “doing what it takes.”

  My dad likes to say that phrase a lot. A shoulder surgery I maybe didn’t need but built me up to be stronger—“that’s what it takes sometimes, son.” The protein shakes made of kale and some powder substance that tastes like actual dirt—“drink up; do what it takes.” And my least favorite memory of all, ever: “Son, now’s your chance to see what your competition is made of. Don’t take it easy; make it hurt. That knee of his can’t hold this team together, and you were always meant to wear the crown on this team. Leave Coach no other choice; show him who the tougher QB is. Hard
hits are part of practice. It’s doing what it takes.”

  I swept Jonah’s legs, which tore his ACL and broke his kneecap. Most people don’t realize how fragile that bone is. Fragile, but pivotal. Jonah and I played Pee Wee football together for years, but after that practice, we quit speaking—for good. I took him out of the game—for good. I secured the crown. I became captain. I made Dad proud.

  I hear the sound of Jonah’s tendons tearing and bones cracking in my dreams every single night.

  After another hour of the sales pitch by Ms. Esher and her team, I sign a consent form that gets swept into a briefcase before I can take it back. I don’t want to, necessarily, but I also hold on to a little tinge of worry that this experiment will change me somehow. But I suppose that’s the point. It’s just that I want to see a different change than my father does, and I’m willing to do what it takes to make that happen.

  10

  Damsel

  We got the call to come in for my full physical on Monday. I took home the package on Tuesday and returned the signed agreement within the hour. I ingest the pill tonight, and meet with Megan Esher before school tomorrow, Thursday, in the counselling office to start the documentation process.

  It’s all moving so quickly.

  This is what I want.

  Why can’t I take this pill?

  “Make sure you drink the solution with it.” Mom passes the bathroom with my youngest sister on her hip and reminds me of the only bit of instruction I think she remembers.

  “Yes, I know.” She’s already in my sisters’ room, tucking them both in. I’ve joined the ranks of my two older sisters, Lana and Regina. We’re self-sufficient, one less task on my mom’s full list of things to worry about.

  This is probably a good time for girlfriends. Only, I don’t have any of those. I have girls I know, sorta, who do student-council-ish things with me. There are people I tolerate on the debate team. I hate all of the girls on the tennis team because they’re partiers who are only there because they like to watch the baseball team practice in the spring. Naomi Gasden, the girl who is in five of my six classes and has been my vice president on council every single grade because she’s lost to me in votes, should be my bestie. Only, she’s my sworn enemy. Naomi is literally point-zero-zero-five percentage points behind me for valedictorian. One slip in front of her will expose my weakness and allow her take me down.

  I laugh at the thought of that conversation while I sit on the edge of the bathtub and hold the small black and gray capsule in my palms, passing it from hand to hand.

  “Why yes, Naomi. I’m so insecure about everything that I decided to swallow a robot under the delusion that maybe it will give me super powers and make me invincible to hurt feelings and stress.”

  It would take her mere seconds to violate HIPAA and share my medical secrets on every social media platform that exists.

  I can barely hear the chatter of my mom and sisters down the hallway. It’s the usual negotiation over bedtime. Bea and Angelica always drag things out, needing water or softer pajamas. It’s the same every night, and it always stresses my mom out. Each day for her is like one giant marathon to her own bedtime when she can hide under the covers and get five minutes of peace before sleep takes over and then she wakes up to start running again. I’ve told her she enables them, but she says she doesn’t have time to disable and retrain. The rare occasion when my dad is home at night isn’t much different. My mother’s life is not the life I want; it’s why I can never let Naomi get an edge.

  I have to be number one.

  With the pill tucked in my right hand, I leave the cool porcelain of the tub’s edge and cross the hallway to the bedroom I share with my two older sisters. I’m the top bunk because I’m the youngest of us three. Lana is the oldest, so she gets the twin bed tucked in the corner. Regina takes night classes at the university; she gets the bottom bunk so she doesn’t wake Lana when she comes in. I’m always awake for everyone’s comings and goings; it’s part of my cycle. I don’t sleep until all of my sisters are accounted for.

  I step on the bottom bunk and reach up to the center of my mattress, feeling with my free hand for my phone. I grasp it and fall back to the floor, stumbling toward the door before heading back into the bathroom.

  There’s only one person who understands what I’m facing. He’s the only person who has messaged me in the last month, other than my mom and Principal Lee. I open up the message he sent, U R in. I never replied, not even a thank you. I’m shitty at having friends. Is that what he is? A friend?

  I slide up on the counter and scoot back until my shoulder blades rest against the glass of the mirror. I set the pill on my bare thigh and type a message out, sending it without allowing myself time to doubt or consider that this is anything other than normal.

  Have you taken yours yet?

  My message sits there lonely and unread for a good five minutes before I quit staring at it and open the Megan Esher profile page I have saved and practically memorized. I researched her the second I left detention. I researched Project Morpheus too. It didn’t have much of a digital footprint, not by name anyhow. Endophotogenesis isn’t even a real word, but I guess sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia wasn’t a real word either until someone felt the need to medically label brain freeze.

  When my phone vibrates with a message, I force myself to not rush to it instantly so I don’t seem desperate. I literally watch the time at the top of the screen until the number changes twice. His answer is short.

  No. You?

  I guess it’s unfair to expect him to send me back a full report on what to expect. Even with two words, though, I somehow no longer feel alone.

  I’ve been trying to take it for almost thirty minutes.

  Really, it’s been an hour. Like my baby sisters, I’m excellent at coming up with excuses to put things off. I’ve flossed—twice.

  Want to FaceTime and do it together?

  A strange rush of heat flashes up my spine and my eyes zip from the phone screen to my bare legs. I always sleep in one of my dad’s extra-large university shirts. I’ve never thought about anyone other than my mom and siblings seeing me like this. And the lack of girlfriends thing hasn’t led to many sleepovers. Before I can think it through, my phone buzzes with an incoming call—a video call.

  Crap.

  On first instinct, I kick my right foot forward to shut the bathroom door. In a panic, I scan the bathroom for anything that will work for pants, settling on the still-damp towel I left on the edge of the tub after shower this morning. I wrap it around my legs and shiver at the cold, damp terrycloth. I scoot up onto the counter and, with my bottom half now wrapped like a burrito in a wet towel, I swipe to answer.

  My first visual is of the top of his head, random strands of hair curlicued and barely lit from some red light. I shift my phone so his view is only of the side of my face, instantly feeling juvenile for framing myself perfectly on the screen.

  “What’s up?” His voice is deeper than normal, either from our connection or the time of night. It’s only nine, but maybe that’s late to him.

  “Not much,” I say, shifting the screen completely from my face for a moment so I can squeeze my eyes closed over how lame I sound.

  His raspy laughter eases the tightness in my chest, so I move my phone back to the half-face view like before.

  “Just doing some weird-ass drug trial, hoping to solve all your problems? Yeah, me, too.” More laughter. I pull my towel-wrapped knees in and hug my legs to my body.

  “Pretty much.” His phone shifts enough to bring his shadowed eyes into view. I see half his face now. A steady thump drones in the background, and I wonder what the song is he’s listening to. It’s rap, but I can’t make out the words.

  “You in the bathroom?” he asks.

  I tuck my legs in tighter, thinking somehow, he sees more than I realize.

  “Why?”

  His full face comes into view, his lips lit with the red glow that traces the rest
of him. The light showcases his smirk. “I can tell there’s a mirror.”

  “Oh,” I say, peering to my right to catch my reflection. “Yeah. I have sisters, and this felt like a good place for privacy.”

  Not that anyone is interested in what I’m doing or why. I’m the hands-off child, the one my parents never have to worry about. My baby sisters are high-maintenance and full of energy. My second oldest sister decided to skip college at first to move in with her boyfriend in California. She came back home last month and started night school. And Lana, the oldest, is just like my dad—closed off and driven. Maybe I’m a little like them, too. Only, because Lana came first, she and my mom have a special bond that I can’t seem to break into.

  “Yeah, I just put my sister to bed. Gia—that’s her name—pretty much hangs out with me every second we’re home.”

  “What about when you’re making deals?” I squeeze my knees tightly in reaction to my slip. Sometimes I can be so direct. Too direct.

  “Oh, I let her count the cash.” His response hangs out there for a few seconds before he lets me off the hook with a short, easy laugh. “I’m kidding. She goes to an in-home daycare after school and it’s on our block. I’m always done before she needs to be picked up.”

  I nod, acting as if his answer makes everything clear, but really, my perception of him is only muddier. He’s so opposite of what his box says he is.

  “I have to watch my sisters a lot, too. Well, the younger ones. Though I feel like I have to watch my older ones sometimes.” I laugh nervously, rambling on in some desperate effort to find something in common.

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Nineteen,” I joke. For a split second, he believes me. I can tell by the flinch in his expression. “I’m kidding. Four, two older and two younger.”