by Amy Reed
“How old are you?” I say.
“Twenty-one.”
“We’re seventeen,” I say.
“I know.”
I can feel you burning next to me.
He stands up suddenly, stretching the full length of his body. His hands touch the ceiling of the porch, and for a second it looks like he’s holding it up.
“If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have things to do.”
“Okay,” you say. “See you later.” There is a tiny question in your voice, a crack in your confidence.
“Sure,” he says without looking at us, then goes inside and shuts the door behind him.
You’re bored. Of course you’re bored. You get bored in Seattle, how could I expect a farm to entertain you? It’s been four days, and already you’re talking about stealing Doff’s truck and driving until we find a city.
“Why don’t we just ask him if we can borrow it?” I say.
“Fine.” As if you hadn’t even thought of this. You always want to do things the hard way.
Maybe I’m easily amused. Working, eating, swimming, reading, sleeping. That’s all we’re doing. In that order. Maybe it’s enough for me. Maybe I’m made for a simple life tending the earth. Maybe my dreams of academic greatness and European adventures are a thing of the past, and instead of a world of history and myth and dusty old artifacts, all I really need is a plot of land to care for, the epic story reduced to the life and death of a vegetable, the trajectory of Western thought not much more than these trails of dirt in the creases of my palm.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I say. I am always nervous when you drive.
“There’s one road. We’re going the direction Doff pointed. It’s the only way to go.”
The truck only has a radio, and it only picks up two stations: Country and Weird Jesus. We listen to Weird Jesus for a while because we think it’ll be funny. But it’s way more scary than funny, especially when the preacher starts talking about God being angry about homosexuals and Muslims and liberals and how he’s going to punish everyone for their evil. He says nothing about how sad God must be that we all turned into such assholes.
We pass three trucks and two tractors. They all wave and smile, and I wonder if they’re listening to the same radio station, wonder if they believe what the preacher says, wonder how they can be so friendly if they’re filled with so much hate.
It takes half an hour to get to the “town” of Hazeldon. We know we’re there because a sign tells us so. WELCOME TO HAZELDON. POPULATION: 873. You squeal when we have to stop at a stop sign. “Civilization!” you cry.
But when we look around, all we see are a couple of rickety houses and a brown horse scratching its rump on a tree. An unattended roadside stand with ears of corn lined up on a table, a shoebox with a slot in the top that says “5 for $1.” Some kind of vulture flies in circles overhead.
“The town,” you say. “Where is it?”
“It’s got to be somewhere.”
You dodge a dozen or so cows wandering the road. They moo at us as we drive by, as if annoyed at our intrusion. The Weird Jesus preacher is yelling at us, telling us to Repent! I can hear the spit hissing out of his mouth.
“Yes!” you proclaim, and I think for a second you’ve found the Lord, but then I see what you’re staring at ahead of us. Buildings. None of them over one story, but buildings nonetheless. Not many, but enough to warrant a few blocks of sidewalk and a couple more stop signs. There are parked cars and a scattering of people walking. As we get closer, we can read a sign advertising Millie’s Diner, Big Ben’s Hardware & Feed, the Hazeldon Post Office, a grocery store, a Quick Stop gas station, a white Catholic church and a baby-blue Lutheran church, like all the little pieces of a toy set of a town.
You’re looking around frantically, like you’re afraid you missed something, like maybe there’s a club hiding between these little quaint buildings, maybe one of your favorite bands is playing tonight amid the corn. But all we see are a couple of old men in cowboys hats, sitting outside the coffee shop smoking cigarettes, a middle-aged woman with a tragic haircut, carrying grocery bags to her dented minivan, an old lady making her slow way up the Catholic church steps. The people are all shaped like those Little People toys, kind of like roundish squares.
You pull into a space in front of the diner. I can see your jaw grinding, your lips thin.
“Want a milkshake?” I say.
“Fine.”
The old men nod at us as we pass. They appear to be made out of leather. The inside of the café is all vinyl booths and checkerboard linoleum. It smells like decades’ worth of grease, cigarette smoke, disinfectant, and burnt coffee, and the stained floral wallpaper seems to have been hanging there the whole time. The place is empty.
“Hello?” I say because you don’t. You are standing with your arms crossed in front of your chest, your sunglasses still hiding your eyes.
“Sit anywhere you like,” a voice yells from somewhere through the window to the kitchen.
We take a booth near the window. You stare at the backs of the old men’s heads as I open the plastic-covered menu on the table.
“Ooh, fries!” I say. You don’t respond, just keep looking out the window.
A woman in an apron approaches. She could be anywhere from her midthirties to her fifties.
“You girls from Oasis?” she asks, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
“Yes,” I say. “Is it that obvious?”
She half smiles. “Pretty much.”
I order us a chocolate milkshake and fries to share. As soon as the waitress leaves, you take off your sunglasses and look me in the eyes. “Max, I don’t think I’m going to make it.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“No, seriously. I feel like screaming every five minutes.”
“Then scream. I’m sure no one would mind. You can tell them it’s some kind of therapy.”
“I’m serious, Max. I can’t do a whole summer of this. I just can’t.”
I can hear the sizzle of the French fries cooking and the whirr of the milkshake machine. You’ve got tears in your eyes and a look on your face like the world is ending.
“But you were so excited, remember?” I say. “To get out of Seattle and spend the summer with your mom finally.”
A long, wet tear streaks down your cheek and makes a puddle on the table. “But I’ve barely even seen her,” you choke out. “It’s like she doesn’t even want me here.” The tears keep coming, and the puddle gets bigger. It will drown us if I don’t manage to cheer you up.
“She’s busy, Sadie. Everyone is. Remember how she said there’s a lot to do right now but there’s a break between harvests soon? And everyone will have more time and energy to do other stuff?”
“Uh huh.” You wipe your wet nose with the back of your hand. The waitress delivers our order, setting two milkshakes on the table.
“I made a little extra,” she says. “On the house. Looked like you needed it.”
I am speechless for a moment, but I finally manage to say, “Thank you.” Your face becomes a waterfall and you blubber an earnest “You are so nice.” The waitress smiles and shrugs as if her kindness is unremarkable, as if people do things like that all the time. She says, “Enjoy, girls,” and I want to hug her.
“See,” I tell you. “Things are looking up.”
You nod and sniffle.
“It’s just culture shock,” I say. “You’ll get used to it. We’re going to have fun, I promise.”
You take a long sip of the milkshake and close your eyes. I’m afraid you’re going to start crying again, but then you say, “Oh my God, this is so fucking good.” I taste it. You are right. It is the best milkshake I have ever tasted in my life.
“What do they put in these things?” you say.
“Crack,” I say. “It must be crack.”
We each grab a fry and dunk it in our milkshakes. Some people have not experienced the great delicacy that is French fries d
ipped in chocolate milkshake. Their lives are incomplete.
“Oh my God.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Hallelujah.”
For a few minutes, everything feels just right. Your cheeks dry as we fill ourselves with grease and fat and sugar. This is the Sadie I love, the girl who smiles with a little of my help. And you do, the fries and milky shake squishing out of your teeth like a rabies froth.
“Do you like seafood?” you say.
“You’re so dumb, Sadie,” I say, but the air is light.
“See food!” You open your mouth wide to give me a good view of its squishy contents. I throw a fry at your face, and you catch it with your teeth. “Ta da!”
But then everything shifts. The air is hot and oppressive once again. You have the power to do this with just the darting of your eyes to the opening door. Your ears perk at the sound of the bells ringing, and I watch our new visitor as he approaches the counter.
You lean over and whisper, “I love me some farm boy.” I can smell the greasy sweetness of your breath.
“Shhh,” I say. “Gross.” Your eyes have that twinkle that usually means trouble.
“Max, look at his ass! These guys have actual muscles.”
I can’t help it. I look. His ass is indeed miraculous. You don’t find asses like that on the skinny wannabe hipsters in Seattle, whose greatest athletic achievement is carrying a guitar case.
“Hey, Mom!” he calls into the kitchen. He sits on a stool and spins around, stopping midspin when he sees us.
“Hi,” you say, twisting your straw between your fingertips.
“Hi,” he says with a surprisingly shy smile. He’s not that cute according to our usual criteria. He is definitely no Dylan, not one of the bad boys you usually go for. But I guess he has an all-American charm, with his short, sandy blond hair and freckles.
“I’m Sadie and this is Max. We’re here for the summer.”
“I’m Seth. You staying at Oasis?”
“Why does everyone assume that?” you flirt.
“Um,” he says, not catching the teasing. “Because you’re new? And no one new ever comes here except to work at Oasis?”
“Oh,” you say. You do that giggle I hate, the one that makes you sound like a bimbo.
Seth spins back to face the counter as his mom comes out of the kitchen. She ruffles his hair and says, “Hi, sweetie,” and his eyes dart in our direction as his face reddens.
“Mom,” he says softly.
“He doesn’t want us to hear him,” you whisper devilishly, hopefully not loud enough for them to hear.
“Can I have twenty dollars?” he says.
“What for? I just gave you ten yesterday.”
“He wants to buy us flowers,” you say, a little too loudly. “And champagne.”
“Sadie, shhh,” I whisper.
“I just need to get some groceries.”
“It’s pretty cheap champagne,” you say.
“I just bought groceries,” the waitress says.
“But we’re worth it,” you say.
“But you didn’t get any of the stuff I like,” Seth whines. I take it back—there’s actually nothing attractive about him.
“What, like junk?” the waitress says, but pulls a few bills out of her apron anyway, hands him one. “Ten dollars. That’s it.” She ruffles his hair again and walks back into the kitchen.
“Thanks, Mom,” he calls after her.
“A rare glimpse of the rural teen in his natural environment,” you say. “Fascinating stuff.”
“Fascinating,” I fake-agree.
“Hey, Seth!” you shout across the empty restaurant.
He turns around to face us, his face turning red once again.
“Tell us about the nightlife in Hazeldon,” you say, patting the booth. He blinks and cocks his head like a confused puppy. “Have a seat,” you say, and he comes as instructed.
Seth takes a seat next to you and doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands. “Um, there’s not really any nightlife here.” He says “nightlife” like it’s a foreign word, like he doesn’t quite know how to pronounce it.
“What do you do for fun?” Sadie says. “Like what are you doing tonight? Like right now? What are you really going to spend that ten dollars on?”
“Um, chips?” he says. “And pop?” He seems acutely aware that he is giving you the wrong answer.
You sigh. “Let’s try again, Seth. What are you and your friends doing tonight?”
“Well, I’m babysitting my sister tonight,” he says. “Probably playing video games after she goes to sleep. Before that, she usually makes me watch a stupid princess movie.’
You slump over the table and hold your head in your hands, slowly shaking it back and forth in exasperation. “Seth, you gotta work with me here.” Poor Seth.
“Wait!” he says, his face lighting up. You’re skeptical. “There’s a party tomorrow night! A big one. Everyone’s going.” He has your full attention now. “At the abandoned barn out on Fuller Road. Do you know where that is?”
“As a matter of fact, I do not,” you say, grinning. “Would you like to tell me?”
“Yeah,” Seth says. “You should come. It’ll be real fun.”
“We’d be delighted. Wouldn’t we, Max?”
“Delighted,” I agree. I suddenly feel very tired.
Seth draws directions on a napkin, then leaves for his exciting night of chip eating and pop drinking and princess movie watching. You hold up the napkin proudly, like it’s some valuable artifact in your anthropological study of the farm boy. “Max, we’re going to a party.”
“Yippee,” I say, mock-enthusiastically.
Seth’s mom gives us the check and takes our plate and glasses. “You girls running out of things to do?” she says, not nearly as friendly as she was before.
“A little bit,” you say.
“Well, don’t go looking too hard,” she says, then walks away.
You look at me and mouth What’s her problem? I say nothing about how I imagine a mother would feel about her son inviting you to a party.
You’re a lot more useful when you’re excited about something. The party is tonight, and you actually did some work today instead of taking breaks every ten minutes to combat imaginary heat stroke.
You stay at the trailer to take a “beauty nap” while I walk up to the main house. We’ve been here almost a week now, and I figure it’s time to finally call my parents. I left a message on Monday, but I called when I knew my dad was at work and wouldn’t be there to pick up the phone. Mom was home, but I knew she wouldn’t answer either.
There are a few people puttering around in the kitchen, taking showers, and lounging on the patio. Skyler is painting a hideous watercolor of the lake, wearing a stupid pink beret on her head even though it’s a million degrees outside. She takes a break to glare at me.
“Where’s Sadie?” she asks.
“Taking a nap.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Making a phone call.”
“Long distance?”
“Yes,” I say, not that it’s any of her business.
“You have to pay us back, you know,” Skyler says with her nose in the air. “We’re not just going to pay for your phone calls.”
“I know,” I say. Skyler rolls her eyes, and I make my way into the living room.
Dylan is sitting in the corner by the ancient computer with his feet up on the back of a couch. He watches me enter the room like I’m some bug crawling across the floor he’s too lazy to step on. He turns his body to the wall and talks low into the phone so I can’t make out anything he’s saying.
I try to act cool, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave, alone in a room with someone scary and beautiful who’s having a conversation on the phone he doesn’t want me to hear. I pretend like I’m perusing the bookshelves—years’ worth of old National Geographics; books about organic gardening, animal husbandry, herbal medicin
e, and self-sufficiency; some old paperback novels; biographies; books of poetry; miscellaneous textbooks. I pull out a National Geographic from the nineties and lie down on a couch, trying to look as relaxed as possible, like I don’t even know Dylan’s there whispering secrets in the corner, like it’s totally normal for me to be in a weird room with a weird guy and not feel weird. The text of the magazine is too small and too long to read, so I flip through the pages just looking at the pictures. I look at a picture of a buffalo standing knee-deep in a mud puddle and think I hear Dylan mumble “big” or “pig,” or maybe “wig.” At a picture of a flock of pink flamingos, I hear him say “clear” or “here,” possibly “queer.” At something that looks like a miniature deer, he says “yeah.” Hippo, “no.” Cheetah, “fuck.” Hyena, “hell, no.” He is not mumbling anymore. His voice is loud and clear. Lion, “A deal’s a deal, man.” Big lion, “That’s fucking right.” Big angry lion, “Fuck you.” Big angry lion attacking a warthog, “All right then.” Dead, mangled, bloody body of a warthog, “All right.” Pause, quiet, text on a page. Advertisement for American Express with a photo of a sunset over the Grand Canyon, “Yeah, bye.”
“What are you looking at?”
“Huh?” I say.
He’s looking straight at me with a scowl on his face.
“I need to use the phone,” I say.
“So use it.” He gets up and walks out of the room, taking the air with him. I feel my stomach drop. I want to run after him, want to scream No, wait! want to explain that I was not eavesdropping, that I am not the loser he thinks I am, that I am not just some dumb kid. But he’s gone, and I’m left with the phone like a torture device.
It is early afternoon in Seattle and I know my dad is home. He never goes anywhere on the weekends. He hasn’t figured out a way to escape besides work. He will answer the phone, and I will have to talk to him.
Sadie, why do you have to be sleeping? Why can’t you be here sitting next to me while I do this?
He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?” he says, and I can tell from that tiny word that he is so tired.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Maxie!” he says. “Oh, it’s so good to hear from you. Sorry we missed your call the other day. How are things there?”