Not Our Summer

by Casie Bazay

  The stands are spilling over with spectators, and I’m lucky to find a seat on the bottom row on one end. Someone will probably be returning from the bathroom to find I took their seat. Oh well, their loss.

  I’ve only been to one rodeo before, but it looks like they’re doing the calf roping right now. A guy swings a lasso over his head while riding his horse down the arena, chasing a black and white calf. He misses, and the crowd lets out a collective groan. I turn and scan the bleachers for Becka, but she could be anywhere in this sea of faces.

  “Alrighty, folks,” the announcer says with even more twang than normal for this area. “The calf ropin’ is wrapping up, but we’re ready for some more amateur fun: goat milkin’s up next.”

  Cheers erupt from the crowd, and I swipe at the beads of sweat that have formed along my brow line. Wish I’d thought to change out of my work shirt and jeans before I left.

  Several goats are led into the arena and tied to a row of stakes about halfway down. Some are bigger than others, but it’s obvious by the way they waddle around at the end of their lines that they all have overly full udders just begging to be milked.

  “I like the black one!” a little girl exclaims a few seats down from me. She runs to the fence, grasping the railing with both hands in order to watch. She’s skinny with short, curly brown hair, and I wonder if that’s what I looked like at that age.

  “Are the contestants ready?” the announcer asks. I peek around the girl to see a line of people holding metal pails near the arena entrance. I recognize Becka’s blond ponytail bobbing among them.

  “Now wait for my cue,” the announcer continues.

  A murmur of excitement rises from the crowd.

  “Ready. Set. Go!”

  Everyone takes off running full throttle toward the goats, who jump around at the end of their lines. This should be interesting, I think, as I lean forward, keeping my eyes trained on Becka. She’s the only one wearing shorts and tennis shoes, which was probably a smart move. It’s no surprise she’s one of the first ones to get to a goat—the black one the little girl declared as her favorite. She immediately falls to her knees and grabs the lead rope, and though it takes a little while for her to persuade the goat to come near her, it finally stops protesting and stands still. She stuffs the bucket beneath it and starts milking. How does she even know how to do that? She was scared of riding a mule, but she somehow knows how to milk a goat?

  Most of the contestants are still trying to get ahold of their rowdy goats, but a few have begun filling their own pails. People around me laugh after a goat tries to head-butt one guy. He jumps backward, splashing the pail of milk all over his shirt. I let out a snort of laughter. This definitely beats watching Carter and Dax play Call of Duty.

  “Sixty seconds left,” the announcer says, which only increases the frantic activity in the arena. Three contestants still haven’t even touched their goats, much less milked them. Becka’s got her serious face on—maybe it’s her game face, I don’t know—but she’s definitely in it to win it.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  One contestant scrambles around to the other side of his goat, tripping over the lead line in the process, and falling face-first into the dirt. The crowd howls with laughter as the announcer begins the final countdown. A buzzer sounds.

  “Time’s up!”

  A judge makes his way down the line, inspecting the pails. He pauses at Becka’s and compares the contents of her pail with someone else’s. He then jogs toward the announcer’s box and shouts something up to the people inside.

  “We have a winner, folks! Becka Cowles!”

  From somewhere behind me, someone gives a squeal of excitement. I turn and notice Aunt RaeLynn and the man who must be her husband cheering about five rows above me. But unlike the last time I saw her, I’m not stricken with the same surge of bitterness. Instead, I feel nothing except a small pang of jealousy. She’s here supporting her daughter. My mom would never do that.

  “All right, let’s clear out to get ready for the team ropers,” the announcer says, drawing my attention back to the arena.

  I need to pee, so I head toward the row of porta-potties I’d seen coming in. On the way there, I spot Becka. She smiles and waves at me before seeming to remember our last conversation. Her face becomes blank, but I wave back. My cheeks warm as I think about how nice she’s been lately and what a jerk I’ve been. Becka was right, I was being a pain in the ass just to spite my mom.

  “Nice job,” I say, approaching her. “I figured you had it in the bag from the beginning.”

  She stares at me for a moment before giving a reluctant smile. Dirt is smudged across one of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “Thanks. It was actually pretty fun.” She peeks back over her shoulder at the small herd of goats being led to a pen set up near a stock trailer. “I may have cheated a little, actually. I made friends with the little black goat ahead of time, but no one said I couldn’t.” Her smile grows broader, and I play-punch her in the shoulder.

  “Doesn’t sound like cheating to me.”

  “So what are you doing here? Did you decide to go through with this after all?”

  “I dunno,” I say with a shrug. “It was kinda a spur-of-the moment decision.” I don’t feel like elaborating any further. “Do you think it’s too late to enter one of the events?”

  “I’m not sure. We can check, I guess.” Her face is hopeful with the possibility. I should never have backed out on this. It was stupid—I was being stupid.

  “My mom doesn’t know you weren’t planning to come,” she says. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. She still thinks we’re getting the money. I guess I was hoping you’d show after all.”

  I frown. “I’m sorry. I was being a total bitch about things.” I glance toward the line of blue porta-potties a few yards away. “Could you go check for me? I need to use the bathroom. I’ll meet you right back here.”

  “No problem.”

  Five minutes later, she’s back at our meeting spot, but one look at her face tells me it must be too late. Crap, I should have known.

  “There’s only one event still open,” she says.

  “What is it? I’ll do it. I don’t care.”

  “Money the Hard Way.”

  My forehead scrunches. “What the hell is that?”

  “It involves bulls.”

  A jolt of fear pierces straight through me. “Riding them?”

  She shakes her head. “No, not riding them, but you have to be in the arena with one. I think you’re supposed to get a ribbon off its horn or something like that.”

  I consider this for a moment. “So, all I have to do is go in there right? I don’t need to win.”

  “I guess so, as long as we have a record of you competing.”

  I reach for some cash in my front pocket. “How much is it to enter?”

  “You don’t have to pay for the amateur events—just sign up.”

  My heart begins to thud, but I gotta do what I gotta do, I guess. “Okay, let’s get me signed up, then.”

  Becka bites at her lip. “Wait, maybe we should see if there’s something else. Maybe you could borrow a horse or something. You know how to ride.”

  I wave her suggestion away. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be careful.”

  Becka gives me a skeptical look, but then leads the way to a van with a card table set up out front. A heavy-set woman sits behind it, writing on a notepad. A large box fan teeters on a plastic bucket beside her, blowing her curly hair to one side.

  “Um, hi there,” I say. “I need to enter Money the Hard Way.” My voice sounds slightly off.

  “You eighteen?”

  “Yep.”

  She smiles and pushes a clipboard with a consent form toward me. “Sign here, then.”

  My stomach turns queasy as I sign on the line, and my knees suddenly feel like they might be made of Jell-O. I’m not sure which is more idiotic: me trying to back out of getting my eighty-seven thousand dollars or willi
ngly signing up to play hide-and-seek with a bull.

  CHAPTER 30

  BECKA

  MY PALMS ARE SWEATING, AND IT’S NOT FROM THE heat. The barrel racing event just wrapped up, and a crew in a big white truck circles the arena, picking up the three barrels. I’m back in the stands, squeezed in next to Mom and Tim.

  The loudspeaker crackles. “Okay, folks. It’s time for the part everyone’s been waiting for.” The announcer gives a dramatic pause. “The bulls!”

  My heart beats extra hard against my chest.

  “First up,” he continues, “Money the Hard Way. Then our cowboys will brave the backs of those beasts in our final event of the night—the bull riding.”

  The crowd cheers again, but I wipe my hands on my jeans, feeling slightly nauseous.

  Mom bumps me with her shoulder. “So what is it K. J. will be doing exactly?”

  “I’m not sure.” All I know is that it involves a bull, and since it’s called Money the Hard Way, it’s not too hard to guess that it also involves a fair amount of danger.

  Moments later, “Eye of the Tiger” starts blasting from the speakers as eight contestants make their way into the arena. K. J. is the only girl. The contestants are directed to the center of the arena, right where the goats had been tied for my event, and we listen as the announcer explains the game and what may or may not happen with a bull named Psycho. Then, after that lengthy buildup, several loud bangs reverberate from the chutes beneath the announcer’s stand. A gate swings open and a bull comes trotting out. With menacing eyes, it stares around the arena for several seconds before stalking toward the contestants. I suck in a breath between my teeth as the crowd cheers again.

  “Did I mention two hundred and fifty dollars is up for grabs here?” the announcer says.

  The cheering grows louder.

  “Get it, Justin!” someone yells from a few rows below us.

  The bull paws the dirt, and Mom gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Oh my god! This is awful!”

  All I can do is watch, helpless. Get out of there, I silently plead with K. J.

  She’s entered the event and made an appearance. That should be enough. She doesn’t need to stay out there; we’re technically done now. Then I think back to the mule ride into the canyon and how she wasn’t scared of the bear at Yellowstone. The Bull Sluice was just another adventure in her eyes, not something to be frightened of. As I watch her now, I know, without a doubt, that she is not going to just walk out of the arena and quit.

  With their feet apart in a semi-crouch stance, the contestants start an awkward dance with the bull. A red ribbon dangles from one of its big white horns, and it waves in the air every time he turns his head. It looks easy enough to get ahold of, but the trouble will be getting close enough to do it. The music changes to a heavy metal song I’ve never heard before. I keep my eyes glued on K. J., who stays near the back of the group. She wipes sweat from her brow and crouches lower, like she’s ready to dart in either direction should the bull come her way.

  Please, God, let her be fast.

  The bull stops pawing and finally makes a move, taking off toward a pudgy guy in black jeans and an oversized belt buckle. The man tries to dodge left, but he doesn’t stand a chance. The bull flings him through the air like an oversized rag doll. Mom screams, but the sound is drowned out by more cheering. I don’t know how, but my heart is pounding even harder, and I’m really starting to sweat. Are these people freaking nuts? The guy jumps to his feet, pumping a fist into the air like he’s just scored a touchdown.

  The bull goes after another man, but he’s quicker than the pudgy guy and darts out of the way in plenty of time. No one has even tried to get the ribbon yet, and I can’t really blame them. The bull pauses, seeming to survey his opponents, and K. J. moves in closer.

  The music changes again. “We Will Rock You” is blaring through the speakers now and people start stomping their boots on the wooden floorboards of the bleachers in time to the beat. The sound grows until it becomes almost deafening. Psycho turns a circle, eyeing the crowd and looking more agitated by the second. He aims at another human target, paws at the dirt, and takes off.

  Mom covers her eyes. “I can’t watch this!”

  A guy trips over his own feet and goes down, but Psycho is already focused elsewhere.

  “He’s okay, Mom.” At least he’s back on his feet. I want to tell K. J. to get out of there, but she just inches closer to the bull.

  “One minute remaining,” the announcer says. “Who’s it gonna be this year? Psycho or one of you brave souls?”

  K. J. tenses and then makes her move.

  “No!” I shout, but my voice is lost in all the excitement.

  She steadily creeps toward the bull, who’s temporarily distracted by the crowd and, with one arm outstretched, she leaps toward his head. Psycho ducks and moves away, recovering with lightning speed. In the next instant, he rams smack into K. J., knocking her to the ground and trampling her before he turns his attention to another contestant.

  “No!” I scream again, jumping to my feet. My pulse throbs in my temples as I push my way down the bleachers, running to the arena fence. K. J. lies in a crumpled heap in the dirt.

  The announcer’s voice has replaced the cheering, but his words are just background noise. They don’t seem to register in my brain. Other people are in the arena now: a rodeo clown, who steals the bull’s attention away from the other contestants, and two men, who run to kneel by K. J.’s side. I start to climb over the pipe fence when someone grabs my leg, pulling me back down.

  “Not yet,” the man says. “Wait until they get the bull out of the arena.”

  Guilt burns inside me. Why didn’t I talk her out of this? I should have put up a bigger fight. It seems to take an eternity, but as soon as Psycho is lured back into the pens behind the arena, I clamber over the fence. I nearly trip on a clump of dirt as I run to where K. J. lies. Two medics tend to her, while several other people form a circle around her. I stand on my tiptoes to peer over their shoulders, terrified of what I might see. She’s covered in dirt, but there’s no blood. That’s got to be a good sign, but I also notice she isn’t moving. My breath catches in my chest as I push my way in closer, praying that this is just unconsciousness.

  “Is she okay?” I ask in a breathless whisper, but the medics don’t answer.

  “Your friend?” a man standing next to me asks.

  I shake my head, tears pooling in my eyes. “My sister.”

  He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Probably just knocked out is all.”

  I desperately hope he’s right, but my stomach twists into knots of doubt because what if she’s not all right? What if she dies like Ricky did?

  The seconds drag on and I’m only aware of K. J.’s motionless body and the medics moving about in front of me. Her face is so pale.

  “Is she going to be okay?” I ask, louder this time, because I can’t seem to stand here in silence.

  Again, no one answers.

  The announcer is still trying to smooth things over and assure the crowd that everything is under control, but he seems to be running out of things to say. It’s not until they finally have K. J. on a backboard and I’m following them out that I realize the crowd is still watching intently. Several wide-eyed young kids stand next to the fence, their fingers curled around the pipe. As they’re putting her into the ambulance, someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s the same man who’d spoken to me earlier.

  “I’m sorry,” he says and hands me a phone. It must have fallen out of K. J.’s pocket back in the arena. “Hope she’ll be okay.”

  I nod as a tear escapes down my cheek. They shut the doors, and the ambulance drives forward, lights flashing, but no sirens. Mom and Tim appear by my side.

  “What’s going on?” Mom asks, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Is she hurt bad?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. Can you take me to the hospital?”

&
nbsp; “Sure,” she says, handing me my backpack, which I’d left on the bleachers. Tim places a hand on my back as we walk toward the Jeep. Mom digs in her purse and pulls out her own phone. “Damn it,” she mumbles, “I don’t have her number. Give me K. J.’s phone.”

  She must have seen the man giving it to me. I hand it over, knowing Mom’s going to make the difficult call to Jackie. I’m filled with gratitude that I don’t have to do it, but I’m also in awe. She’s finally acting like an adult and doing what needs to be done.

  Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at Siloam Springs Regional and park near the emergency room at the back. An ambulance sits by the entrance, and medics are unloading a patient. I feel sick at the thought of seeing K. J.’s unconscious body again, but once I’m closer I realize it’s not her. They must have already taken her inside.

  A sense of overwhelming dread fills me as I enter the building. I haven’t been here since Ricky was sick. I know lots of people get better at the hospital, but it only reminds me of death. Tears well in my eyes once more.

  The trauma of being here again is written all over Mom’s face, too. I don’t think either of us will ever be able to come to a hospital without the bad memories flooding back in. I wipe away my tears and breathe in deep before going to check with the receptionist. She confirms that K. J. has been admitted and is being attended to right now.

  “Is she conscious?” I ask, my voice wavering.

  “I don’t have any information on her, dear,” she tells me, “but I’ll let you know when you can go back. I assume you’re family.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiles sympathetically. “What’s your name?”

  I tell her and she writes it down.

  “I’ll let you know, Becka,” she reiterates.

  Returning to the waiting area, I take a seat next to Mom, who’s rummaging through her purse again. She finds some lipstick, applies it, and then checks her makeup in a compact mirror. The heel of her boot taps a fast rhythm on the tile floor as my stomach endures sporadic waves of nausea.