by Ibi Zoboi
Wild Horses, Wild Hearts
Jay Coles
Tomorrow is the big day. Like The big day. The day that comes around only once every three years: the North Salem Horse Race. Our small, middle-of-nowhere town has a lot of sweet things about it and one major drawback. North Salem has fewer than one hundred residents. Out of those people, only four of them are Black and that’s me and my family.
In this town things happen kinda often making us feel like real outcasts—petty things, like everyone in the town getting invited to potluck dinners or get-togethers except us. Folks make it known that we’re not really liked—whether that’s because we’re Black or not, they make sure we feel like we’re different.
It’s raining lightly and I’m standing in my new boots, the sun hiding behind a few clouds, grooming up on Big Red, our oldest stallion on the farm, gnats and flies funneling around his muzzle and crest. Big Red is my horse—he got to the farm the same year I was born. Growing up, it seemed like Big Red was the only one to understand me. Sometimes, it still feels that way. He’s a good listener, though not so much a good racer anymore. But he’s the only happy thing from my childhood I’ve got and I’m going to be here for him, grooming him and confiding in him, like I always have, like he actually understands the words coming out of my mouth. He’s sick and the vets say he’s only got a few months left to live.
“It’s okay, Big Red,” I say, brushing his hair. “It’s gon’ be okay.” I don’t even know if he’s the one who needs to hear this or if it’s just for me, but saying it brings a little calm to the hurricane trapped in the pit of my gut.
He neighs like he’s saying, “I know.” And my heart shatters a little bit. I distract myself by looking around, blinking back tears, scanning the farm to see if anything needs to be done, like picking up goat poop or stopping two hens from squaring up—anything to give me a reason not to think about Big Red not being here anymore.
A sadness creeps on me that’s more than just the idea of Big Red dying. It’s also imagining what it’d be like if things were different for me. If I could actually show happiness for things that I’m happy about. If I could live out the things I’ve been dreaming. If Momma and Daddy would put away their Bibles and see the real me. If I could believe—just believe—they’d love me the same if I told them who I really am. If I told them the truth about who Tank Robinson really is.
This farm, these fences, this life. It’s all I’ve ever known.
Acres of land in the middle of nowhere—a plot adjacent to the Smith family, who’ve hated my family since the last North Salem Horse Race. There’s a ditch as wide as Dad’s truck that stretches for yards between our properties that my dad filled with bricks, a literal red line separating the exact spot where the Smiths’ territory ends and ours begins. Personally, I think the feud is ridiculous, but I can’t say nothing about it without the risk of getting my ass whooped. (Momma’s ass-whoopings ain’t nothing to mess with.)
The Smiths think we cheated when we won the last race. But I know that’s not what it’s really about. They have Confederate flags hanging outside their house. To my parents, the Smiths are racist atheists who need Jesus and don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.
Though our farm is only a few dozen acres and feels like a fenced-in backyard to a medium-sized house in the city, it’s a lot of hard work. Last night, after collecting the eggs from our chicken coop, I lay out in front of Big Red’s corral shelter wrapped in a couple blankets and gazed up at the stars, squinting at them, using my fingers to trace their shapes. Then, I heard a familiar voice—all sweet and low. It was my neighbor’s son, Skyler. Skyler Smith.
“Tank.” He called my name softly, like a whisper. “I brought you something.”
He had a couple of cans of IPA, stolen from his dad.
Standing on the other side of the large crater between us, he tossed me one.
Hesitating, never having drunk anything, I opened it anyway and took a slow sip.
I probably made the world’s most unattractive face, and I hoped that he didn’t see it, until I looked at him trying desperately to suppress his laughter. If I was on the other side of the divide with him, I would play-punch him, but I can’t. I’m stuck over here.
I ran into him one night a few weeks ago while doing chores out in the pasture, and we’ve been meeting at the ditch secretly since then, mainly to talk about the stupid beef between our families. But it started evolving into something else.
I’m standing in the exact same spot we’ve been meeting, waiting for him to show up tonight. I look at the time on my phone. He’s late and suddenly, I’m worried.
Four, five, six minutes slip past and I watch Skyler in the distance come closer, the sun almost completely out of the sky yet still shining enough for me to see the freckles on his face and arms.
I walk over to the edge of the ditch, facing him on the other side. He gives me a small smile and then nods at me. “Sorry I’m late. Big fight with my parents. What’s up over there?” he asks.
“Nothin’” is all I say, my head hanging low. I can’t look at him in the eye for some reason. I’m trying and trying, but I just can’t. “Fight? You okay?”
“Oh yeah. And I’m peachier than the finest Georgia peach.” He’s smiling, but it isn’t reaching his eyes.
“Sure?” I can only speak in short sentences. Hell, they’re not even sentences. Just bits and pieces of my running thoughts. It’s hard forming the right words when I’m around him.
“They’re just so stupid,” he says, sighing. “In addition to this stupid, racist feud they have with your family, they’ve got all of these Make America Great Again posters plastered over our windows, and while we were in the living room watching a movie together, they just kept making really shitty homophobic comments. And I had enough.” He sighs again. “And you know, they had the nerve to threaten me, saying if I cost them the race tomorrow, they’ll send me to Texas to live with my grandparents.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer. There are so many other things I want to say to him.
“It’s okay. I just don’t know how to deal with their ignorance,” he says. “I kinda just laid some news on them, and now my dad is inside consoling my mom, who’s crying.”
“News?” We face each other.
He takes off his cowboy hat, showing his thin, short, curly blond hair. My gaze shifts and follows the tiny red freckles spaced out like constellations from his chin down his neck against his ivory-white skin. I watch him slide down onto the ground and then stretch out across the grass, his half-buttoned baby-blue plaid shirt probably getting a little muddied. But he doesn’t care.
I follow his lead and lie down on my side of the divide.
He changes the subject. “Ever think about how weird the sun is? It’s literally a giant dying star, but it’s still so full of light and never leaves the earth.” A pause. “Look at how beautiful this sky is.”
I furrow my brows trying to keep up. I look at the sky and nearly gasp. The sky is a gorgeous mural of oranges and yellows and pinks.
Last night when we met, we talked about simple things, like how online school is working out for me and how homeschooling is going for him with his dad as his teacher and all. We talked about mosquitoes and heroes; horses and our dreams; our obsessions and fandoms—mine being all things Britney Spears and his being country music and making up his own tunes with his acoustic guitar. We talked about how we both really wanna go to college—maybe someplace far away from North Salem. Tonight, despite everything going on with him and his parents, he’s wanting to just escape in the sun. Here. With me.
“I think it gets lonely sometimes though. That’s why it goes into hiding,” he says, still staring up at the sky.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
He turns to me and lets out a small, playful giggle. There’s a pause. I watch him squint and point up, making shapes with his hands. “This is one of the only things I love about being out here in the country—how
crazy, insanely beautiful the sunsets are.”
“Yeah,” I say. I can only think of one-word answers. I’m just so nervous.
“I’m having way too much fun,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, nearly blushing, picking at the mud stain on my pants. “Not to be weird, but I think hanging with you is my favorite part of the day.”
He grins and I can see his dimple showing from across the ditch. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not like anyone else?”
“No. Is that something I should aspire to be?”
“Not necessarily. But you are. You ever feel like it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What about you?” I ask.
“I do. Every time I look at myself in the mirror.” He says the word mirror like it’s just one syllable. “I’ve realized that I’m a lot like the sun—the way I hide myself in the darkness. I’m tired of hiding.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . .” He lifts up and I can tell he’s trying so desperately to reveal something by the way he pauses, looks at me, and then looks away. “I like boys. And only boys. And I like you.”
A gasp nearly slips out of me.
Here I am, wearing a white hoodie and tube socks, wrapped in blankets, and I feel suddenly cold.
“That’s what I told my parents. There’s no more lying to myself or to them. I’m taking back my happiness.”
“I think I might like boys too,” I say back to him quietly, like I don’t want God to hear me say such a thing out loud. “I mean . . . at least, I like you. That, I’m sure.”
I’d only discovered this desire two weeks ago, after the first night we hung out at the ditch, when I dreamed about him and woke up with the world’s hardest erection and sticky boxer briefs. I’m slowly starting to accept this new fact about myself, contemplating why I’ve only ever dated girls. (Well, just two girls. Both from middle school.)
I plugged in some Britney Spears, listening to the Glory album for hours on repeat, danced along to the choreography of the music video to “Toxic,” and then I realized that I had dated girls just because of what people expected of me—what people told me was right for me—what was godly. My whole life people had been telling me who I should be, who I should like, and even where I should put my dick. But I wasn’t listening to them anymore.
We stay on the ground, staring up at the sky together. Everything is so still and feels so perfect for this little while, I can almost feel the whole world move in front of us.
Eventually, he says, “I wish I could hold your hand. But that would be too soon. Right?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not too soon. I really want that.”
“This stupid ditch.”
My phone rings so loud in my pocket, buzzing against my thigh. It’s Momma. I press the button to silence it.
“I gotta go,” I say to him after a brief pause. “Meet here at midnight?”
Skyler agrees and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment.
Walking up the hill toward home, I replay everything that Skyler told me in my head, holding on to the feelings for as long as I can, a smile probably stained to my face. Then it hits me as soon as I see Momma coming from the direction of our house. No matter how magical the last forty or so minutes felt, he’s supposed to be my enemy.
No matter what my heart feels like, I have to remind myself that tomorrow he’s my competition and I’ll have to do everything in my power to win the race and bring home this year’s trophy.
I stop by the pastures to check on the horses for a moment. Momma’s with my nine-year-old little sister, Natasha, who’s eating a hot dog, mustard all over her face.
“How’s Big Red lookin’?” Momma asks, and zips up her purple jacket. “Poor thing. Lord have mercy on his precious soul.”
I shrug. “He’s okay. He’s as good as he can be right now, I guess.” Maybe this is just a lie that I believe, but the words fly out my mouth fast.
“Well, I was just talkin’ to your father and he . . . well, he thinks we should put him down so he ain’t suffering and all.”
“What!” It feels like someone just punched me, and I want to throw up.
“We ain’t got the money or the space to keep him around,” Momma says, cupping my chin in her palm. “And waiting for him to die is too damn hard on all of us. Big Red was a nice horse and he’s had his run. Gotta let him go, son. It’s clearly what God wants.”
God?
An awkward pause.
God?
Why would they talk about this without me? I hurt all over. I’m pissed—way more pissed than when Momma and Daddy told Natasha and me that we didn’t have the money for Big Red’s medication a couple months ago.
God?
“Anyway, I came to tell you that dinner’s ready, if you want some,” she says. “I made something easy today—hot dogs, so I can make a big feast tomorrow after we win.”
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. For the longest time, I stand still, watching her walk away in the distance, holding Natasha’s hand as the moon slides into the sky.
When I get back inside the house, Natasha’s already gone to bed and it’s just Momma and Daddy sitting at the dinner table with glasses and a bottle of golden-brown alcohol in front of them, the Holy Bible on the table between them.
One look at each of their facial expressions and I can tell they’ve been waiting for me.
“Your father has something to say,” Momma blurts out, sipping on some of the golden-brown alcohol in her glass. “Say it, Victor.”
“Lisa.” I watch Daddy roll his eyes a little bit, lifting from the table, his beer gut hanging over his belt, leftover relish still in his long beard from the hot dogs he had for dinner. “Listen, son. Take a seat.”
I sit at the table. I don’t know if this is about the race tomorrow or about Big Red, but the way they’re acting makes me feel like they’re about to tell me Grandma G just died or something.
My palms are clammy and I brush them on my camo pants. “Yes?” I look into Daddy’s big, dark-brown eyes.
He walks around the table and closer to me, placing his hands on the table. “You know what tomorrow means to your mom and me, right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I say. It’s all they’ve talked about this whole week. Hell, it’s all they’ve talked about since the last race three years ago.
“Good. It’s as important to us as Big Red is to you. And it seems like you’ve been distracted lately, so we wanted to make sure you’re goin’ into tomorrow with a clear mind.” He coughs a little. “We don’t want you to mess this up for us, son. It’s tradition. This would be our sixth trophy since you were born. We need to get out there and show them white folks what we’re capable of, that we belong ’round here. They can’t keep treating us like we ain’t a part of this town. Your granddaddy used to say, ‘White folks can’t hold you down if you’re coming up.’ And look at how good another trophy would complete our trophy case in the living room.”
I just nod.
“Big Red will go to a better place. He’ll be back in the Kingdom of God, where he was once with Adam and Eve.”
I roll my eyes, still nodding.
“Speaking of, uh, Big Red . . . I just got a text from Dr. Lonnie.” Dr. Lonnie’s been taking care of our animals for years. He’s a short, old fella from the Midwest whose beard is probably longer than Moses’s was after walking in the desert those forty years. “After we bring the trophy home, we’re gonna have Dr. Lonnie come and put him down. We’ll let you pick where he’s buried at in the backyard and all that.”
Tears cascade down my cheeks and dry at my chin. I feel like I want to scream, but I don’t. Natasha’s sleeping.
He picks up the Bible, flips through it, and reads a passage. “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things become new.” At this point, I’m just so numb, so shocked. It’s like my feelings don’t even matter to them at all, like always.<
br />
Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck whatever they just read from the Bible.
I want to throw up.
I don’t. I can’t. All that can come out of me are these hot tears. I just lift up from the table and storm upstairs to my room. I’ve never done this before, but it feels kind of nice. It feels kind of needed, and though I can’t place any of my thoughts, I know what I have to do tomorrow for me, for Skyler, and for Big Red. For all of us to finally break free.
I pull all my blankets over myself and plug in my headphones, blasting Britney Spears, listening to her sing about what freedom means and what it looks like to be stronger than yesterday. Britney calms my nerves enough for me to think rationally about everything. But I’m still excited to see Skyler. I count the minutes, no, seconds until I can sneak out and hopefully see him. He’ll understand how I feel.
Midnight finally comes around. I slip into my hoodie again and I leave out my window, heading down the hill to wait at the ditch. The air is stale and smells like a blend of poop, freshly cut grass, and flowers.
I watch the time go up on phone, staring at my lock screen, which I changed to a picture of Big Red earlier today—then suddenly, I look up and see him. Skyler is walking toward me.
Instantly, I lose my breath. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop getting so nervous when I see him. There’s just something about the feeling I get in my gut when I’m in his presence. I forget the world.
“Hey,” Skyler says softly.
I wave and stammer. “H-h-hey.”
He puts his arm behind his head and I look away. A pause lingers between us.
I’m supposed to hate him. But I can’t stop imagining his touch, his taste.