by Ginger Scott
“Come on,” I grunt, kicking at my horse with my heels. She begins to trot. The land dips and winds, flat plains sinking out of nowhere into pitted canyons. The walls are jet black rock. The sun is always setting, so I can never tell for sure if there’s any color other than what reflects the bits of light I’m given at dusk and dawn.
Purple is always my favorite.
The ride out seems to both pass in a blink and drag on for eternity, the landscape shifting from each glance.
I find the herd right at the post. My mind must keep them on a loop, always sure to bring them back to the place we started. I think I could find them even if that weren’t the case. Something in my gut feels this place, like a home.
Home.
I pull the satchel up to my chest and take out a cloth-wrapped slice of bread, tearing it in chunks to stuff in my cheeks. It smells like warm butter. Our kitchen hasn’t smelled like anything in years. I think I was five the last time my mom prepared a holiday meal. I eat peanut butter sandwiches, whole chickens my dad picks up on his way home from work, or protein shakes. My diet has consisted of these three things for longer than I can remember, and it’s not because I think about this while I’m here.
This is where things tend to blur. I remember more here. I feel more. I forget the other side, and I’m not sure whether or not it’s intentional. It happens regardless.
The rumbling movement again jars me to this present, and I tuck my food away, leaving the bag tethered to the saddle while I command my horse to go. The herd is moving. Something spooked them, so I swing behind them to scout.
“What’s there, Old Girl?” I should name her. Old Girl has stuck, though, so perhaps that’s what she’s called now.
I ride over the moonlit grass, the wild blades obscuring Old Girl’s hooves as she breaks into a run. The rush of flying with her hits my chest with a thrill I’ve never felt on the football field, and my grin spreads just as the sound of gunfire rings out into the quiet air.
“Whoa! Hey, there . . . whoa!” I pull the reins and attempt to calm her, but Old Girl bucks too hard and I’m thrown to the ground before she gallops away.
She’ll come back. I somehow know that too. And my body, it’s built for this. I’m not broken.
I roll to my stomach and cautiously pull in my legs , testing the bones and muscles. There’s a slight pang in my chest—a rib, I’m sure. I’ve broken that one before. A three-hundred-pound junior tackle nailed me, helmet first.
I’m in the midst of sitting up on my knees to press my bones and test how bad it is when another shot rings out. This one finds a way to stir my fears. I fall flat to the ground, grateful for the long grass that shields me.
Two cattle were found dead early this mornin’.
I feel down my side until I find the leather grip of the knife at my belt. I pull it out and bring it up where I can see it, my arm flexed and ready, my hold on the weapon strong. I may need to slash someone’s tendon to take them down. Cattle raids are a big problem up here. Too much wild and not enough civilization. This land is made for people to get away with things.
Most of the cattle have fled. It’s too dark to know for certain if any were hit. Unlike humans, cattle die quietly.
My breath comes out in stuttered pants. I try to regulate it, to breathe only through my nose, but even that sends small traces of fog out into the air. I remember what Sugar always says when we’re ditching cops busting parties.
“If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.”
That’s all well and good unless they’re behind my ass. I see right through his logic now. Probably because this has higher stakes than getting busted for underage drinking.
Out here in the wild, there is no age limit. Fair game for one and all, choose your vice and fight for your life.
I should be terrified.
A clicking sound pierces the quiet, the cold air making the echo louder than normal. It’s a rifle being disengaged. My grandpa took me hunting a few times when I was nine and ten. I never actually shot the rifle; I was too scared. But I marveled at what a great shot he was. Dad never came with us. I’m glad; he would have ruined it.
Old Girl is probably back by the post, too far for me to signal. If I could hear that sound, whoever it is that made it can probably hear me clicking my tongue to call my horse.
I pull in my elbows, tucking them under my chest to crawl along the ground for a better view. I get to a place where the grass thins out enough to glimpse the form moving around one of the downed steers. The man looks about my size—my height but thicker—and he’s not dressed for this job.
Dumbass.
Even in my heavy work boots, this ground is rough. At night, my toes are nearly frozen. This guy’s in Nikes, like he’s out for a jog. His black track suit has a white stripe that reflects the little light that remains, and when he jerks to his right at the thrashing of an owl landing nearby, the reflective strip shows me exactly where he is.
I adjust the knife in my hand, bring my legs in, and dig my toes in the dirt like starting blocks. I won’t kill him. I’ll sure as shit wound him, though. If I can make my way to Old Girl after I take him down, I have rope to at least hog-tie him, hold him in place while I alert Jim.
Blurred lines again make me feel as if I’m at the line of scrimmage, ready to count it out. No ball coming this time, though. This time, I’m on defense. My job is to spear the quarterback, to slip in undetected before he has a chance to make his play.
I calm my heart with a deep breath through my nose, and rush the asshole before I chicken out. He doesn’t hear me coming, but the distance seems to grow with every step I take. Rather than gaining ground, I’m losing it, and I scream out from the madness of it all.
“God damn it!” My feet are bricks at the end of cement legs, and somewhere along the way, I lose my shoes.
And socks.
I’m running barefoot on harsh, barren land, sharp brush and jagged rocks cutting into the tender parts of my feet. The form in front of me dissolves, and the acrid scent of burning wood chokes me. I cough, and before he’s completely gone from view, my father turns to face me, bending down to pick up his rifle so he can shoot me.
My body hits the hard floor, my side aching with a pain so fierce I cry out. I immediately stuff my fist in my mouth to muffle the sound. The burning stench is still with me. That part was from this world.
I roll to my side and bring my knees in, pressing on my gut then up my ribs until I find the one that’s causing the pain. I wince as I sit up completely, but make my way to my bedside light to flip it on. My clock reads 4 a.m. I pull my T-shirt up in the front, expecting maybe some redness or swelling, but the bruise is several inches wide and deep purple, almost black. There’s no way I can hide this from the training staff when I head to films in a few hours.
Leaning my head back on the edge of my bed, I blow up at the loose ends of my hair, tired despite having slept for six hours. If feels as if so much more should have happened. I was barely there at all.
The flicker of light breaks through my open blinds, so I lean toward the window and lift them from the bottom to see what’s happening in my back yard. My dad is sitting in one of the patio chairs, a half-empty beer mug on the arm rest. He’s staring at the fire, lost in the glow of the fire pit he’s struck up for the first time this season.
Pulling my weight up with the help of my bedside, I feel around my pillow and behind the edge of the mattress for my sweatshirt. Unable to find it, I give up and leave my room, making my way downstairs and to the back patio door. I prepare myself for the temporary blast of cold until I can get close enough to the flames.
“Strange time for a fire.” I hold my open palms out to warm them, avoiding eye contact with my dad. The strangest thing, but a few seconds later and I would have missed it completely. In the center of the pit, crimson fleece embroidered with a familiar lettered logo ignites and turns to ash. Rage eats at my belly, climbing up my throat and begging me to roar. That’
s what he wants, though, so I won’t give it to him.
“How long have you been talking to them behind my back?” My dad’s a little drunk. It’s not something he does often. Usually he’s just an asshole, but tonight he’s a drunk asshole.
“Talking to who, Dad?” I let my exasperation shine through my words. Truthfully, I haven’t talked to anyone who would qualify as a “them.” I’m guessing from my now-destroyed Dakota sweatshirt and the tone in his voice that he means the reps from the college he crossed off my list months ago.
A flurry of papers slaps against my back, pieces flying off in different directions, some into the flames. I turn and catch a small stack against my body before they spill to the ground and get lost in the wind and fire.
ASHFORD UNIVERSITY OF NORTH DAKOTA
Every page has the same logo, the same address for the same school. It’s expensive paper, too. Embossed logos on correspondence from important people—the coach, a recruiter . . . the dean!
“I have no idea what any of this is,” I say, bending to catch more of the pages before they blow away. I stand, mouth agape while I try to make sense of what I’m seeing, and come nose-to-fist with my father’s hand. It’s an ugly punch, a bit of a missed swing, really, but his hit is hard enough to break my nose. Blood rushes down my body, and I hold one arm over my face and pinch the bridge with my other hand, as if that could staunch the flow.
“What the hell!” My eyes are watering but only because that really fucking hurt. He can’t make me cry. I will never let that happen. Honestly, I’ve been waiting for years for my dad to haul off and hit me over something stupid like this. I’m shocked it took this long.
“You are wasting your future!” He’s still yelling, words sloppy and slurred as he follows me with his pointy finger and red face while I retreat toward our house. I’m covered in blood and he’s still fixated on some letters.
“You’re a dick!” I keep my back to him while I shout and stride away, sliding the patio door closed behind me only to have him shove his arm inside to catch it before it shuts completely. I bet it won’t even bruise his skin. Meanwhile, I now have a broken rib and nose.
“Do you know how much money I’ve invested in you? How many hours with quarterback coaches . . . in camps and on teams that could help you get to the next level? Do you have any idea how many strings I’ve pulled to make sure you shine? I brought Division I to your lap and you shit on it, instead falling in love with some . . . some . . . tiny-ass community college in fucking Iceland!”
I’m at the sink now, holding my mom’s fall-themed dishtowel on my face while I rinse blood from my arm. I’ve ruined the pumpkin design.
“It’s D-two, and it’s North Dakota, Dad. Hardly Iceland.” I switch my grip to wash my other hand, muttering under my breath, “And Iceland is actually a really amazing country, but you don’t know that because you failed geography and have the IQ of Aunt Linda’s poodle.”
My mumble is apparently louder than I think. My father storms around the kitchen island to shove me away from the water and rip the towel from my hand so he can slap me with it. I’m too big for him to knock over, and we both know that if I actually fight back, I could cripple him. So instead, after he’s done smacking me with the bloody towel, we both stand there panting while my nose drips down my chest, soaking my shirt to my body.
“Leland!” My mom hasn’t raised her voice in front of me since I was in second grade and she caught me coloring on the bathroom wall. Her voice cuts through the air, causing my father to shiver with the reality of what he’s done, the mess he’s made—of me, and our relationship.
“He’s okay, honey. Go back to bed; I’ll be right up.”
He’s saying this because he got caught.
“Why are you burning my letters?”
We both turn to face her, paying more attention to the items in her hand than the fact she’s speaking—speaking up.
“Your . . . letters.” My dad repeats that part slowly, and I sense that he feels betrayed.
A pained expression colors my mother’s eyes and cheeks, a redness on her pale skin both from the early hour and repressed tears.
“I’m going to try to pick them up. If some are missing, though . . . I don’t know. I don’t know.” She moves through the sliding door and out onto the patio, gathering scraps from the ground like a penniless woman catching dollar bills that have fallen from the sky. My father takes slow steps toward the door, a numbness to his movements. He stops at the opening and watches while his distant wife gathers torn and wrinkled pages of work she’s done for her son.
She did fight for me. All this time, I thought she was ignoring it all, but instead . . . she was listening. She was listening, and she was trying to make it right for me—her son.
16
Damsel
He’s hiding from me in our dreams. He must be, because I’ve looked. I go to the same place, every night, and I wait. His customers come. Their cars circle the empty road, motors humming just out of the spot from the streetlight. They wait, sometimes almost as long as I do, then finally give up and drive away.
I wonder if they buy from someone else, or from him . . . somewhere else?
He doesn’t hide in the awake world anymore. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he doesn’t hide. In the daytime, he’s there—in his alleyway, handing out whatever it is he sells to get my classmates high. Our eyes meet in the hallway at school, on his way out of shop class, on his way into the building in the morning. No nods, though. Just glances—mere recognition that I’ve seen him and he’s seen me. His eyes are sunken in; the darkness around them growing every time I see them. He’s exhausted.
He’s become someone else. Maybe he was never who I thought. I don’t know. I don’t know why I care so much, either. It’s not as if I really know him. It’s not as if I really know anyone. I just knew him more than most. We had a brief moment of time, when I was at my weakest and he was . . . tender. We are into our second week of Morpheus, and I’ve wasted the first several days of what’s supposed to help me become the best version of myself on some stoner. And I haven’t sold a damn piece of chocolate.
I was supposed to work the football game last night. I was going to walk the stands, wear a sandwich board boasting two-for-one candy prices. I made that plan for our council the day before I took the pill. Now I have a full box of chocolate, and about sixteen dollars in my Washington DC account.
Oh, and an asshole asleep on my lawn.
“You know, your friends are a reflection of who you are.” My dad pipes in with his daily dose of wisdom as he passes my room. He says the same thing every Saturday morning, and my reply is always the same.
“He’s not my friend, Daddy. We live on the corner, and the party is always at the Nelsons’ house across the street. Dumb teenaged boys end up on our lawn by proximity.” I practically hum the end of my response as I walk the opposite way down the hall to head outside and rid our yard of the vermin. My dad didn’t hear a word of it; he’ll repeat the same bit of insight into life next weekend. And the next.
My little sisters are sitting in a pile of blankets in front of the TV. They pulled every blanket we own in here, and I know I’ll be the one putting them all back. My mom tells them, “Sissy doesn’t mind.” Why doesn’t my dad offer wisdom about responsibility and cleaning up your own messes? Probably because they’re both under three feet tall with adorable braids knotted at the sides of their head like princesses.
Keyword: Princesses.
I do my best not to get distracted by the spilled Cheerios I step over on my way to the door, instead saving my pent-up anger for the loser on my lawn. Unlike most mornings we do this same routine, his position looks a little more staged. His yellow and black Matador hat rests over his face, his hands tucked behind his head for a pillow, elbows bent. I move to the hose bib at the side of the house to uncoil the hose. I’m ready to spray him, something I haven’t done in a few weeks. I like to mix it up. Before I can turn the water on, t
hough, he pulls the hat from his face and rolls to his side, lifting himself up on one arm.
“I need to talk to you.”
He isn’t drunk.
Weird.
“I told you I’m not tutoring you. You’ll pass and be just fine.” I cross my arms over my chest, still considering drenching his arrogant ass.
“Right. Kinda mean, but not why I’m here.” He pulls his legs in and moves to stand. I switch the water on to a trickle, ready for full blast, because I can show him mean if that’s what he thinks. That’s when the black circles around his eyes and disformed jaw catch my attention.
“What the hell?” I flip the water back off and step toward him, meeting him at the end of the driveway.
“Oh. Yeah. I sorta forgot about the face thing.” He tenderly touches his cheek, wincing, which also seems to hurt.
“How do you forget something like that?” I reach up toward his face as we near, mostly out of some innate mothering instinct, I guess. “You should probably put ice on that.”
He jerks back when I nearly touch him.
“Ice. Got it.” He holds out his palm as a barrier so I don’t attempt to touch him again. I hold both of mine up.
“Sorry. Habit,” I say.
“Yeah, you seem like a real caretaker.” His snark doesn’t seem damaged at all.
I purse my lips.
“Why are you on my lawn, Cowboy? Shouldn’t you be at some football meeting you guys have every Saturday?”
“I’ve got an hour.” He tugs up the bottom of his shirt, and at the first sight of his boxers band peeking out the top of his gray sweatpants, I feel every cell of my skin flush.
“Are you stripping?” I cover my eyes. His laugh doesn’t start right away, but when it punches through the air I realize that the pause was only because he was laughing too hard for sound.
“Prude,” he teases.
I touch his face, just a little poke with my index finger, and he flies back a few steps.