Dad offered me a fortifying hug. “Wren and Luke are probably so excited to see you.”
I doubted that. At Thanksgiving last year, they didn’t recognize the names of any of the plays and musicals I’d seen. Instead, they went on and on about a homecoming football game at their local high school, like it was the biggest thing since smartphones. The visit ended with us promising to keep in touch, but Wren and Luke had both looked visibly relieved as they climbed into their Chevy Suburban to head back to the farm.
“Bria!” I heard my aunt’s voice before I saw her. Despite her petite frame, she burst from the farmhouse’s door with the force of a tornado, and grabbed me in a fierce hug. “I swear, you’ve grown a foot since the last time I saw you!” She held me at arm’s length, taking in my watermelon-pink espadrilles and lime-green sundress. I’d added one of Mom’s vintage scarves as a belt for good measure. “My, my, you’re all sophistication and style, aren’t you?”
When I only shrugged nonchalantly, Mom said, “You should see the outfits she puts together. She was nominated for best dressed in her class this year.”
I hadn’t won. Leila had, which was no surprise. But what nobody except the two of us knew was how many times I’d picked out her outfits. When she’d won best dressed, she’d thanked me, saying, “I knew letting you be my friend would be worth my while.”
“Well, Miss Fashionista,” Aunt Beth said, “what do you think of our new creamery uniforms, then?” She proudly smoothed out her red polo shirt, which was emblazoned with the words “Cow Whisperer” across the front, and the Dawson’s Dairy and Creamery logo on the pocket. “I have one for you, too! Aren’t they hilarious?”
“Um … sure.” I forced a smile. Oh, if I could only tell her what I really thought. It was so, so tempting. And there was no way I was putting on that shirt. Ever.
“Liar!” my cousin Wren said quietly as she appeared in the doorway, along with Uncle Troy. “You are so lying right now. The only person on the planet who thinks these shirts are hilarious is Mom, and that’s only because her sense of humor has been warped by years of exposure to cow manure.”
Aunt Beth clutched her chest and pretended to stagger in pain. “How could you say such a thing?” she moaned, but she was laughing.
Wren rolled her eyes at me. “Thank goodness you’re here.” She jerked her head toward Aunt Beth. “It’s hard to handle all her cheesiness alone.” She grinned, and I noticed that she looked taller, and older, than the last time I’d seen her. Even though Mom and Aunt Beth resembled each other, Wren and I looked nothing alike; Wren had dark brown, straight hair while mine was auburn and curly. My skin was pale and I sunburned easily while Wren’s skin always got tan from being outside so much.
And, of course, our styles couldn’t have been more different. Wren’s hair was short—in a no muss, no fuss pixie cut—and her carpenter jeans and steel-toed work boots were caked in dried mud. Or at least, I hoped it was only mud (considering the accusation she’d made about her mother).
“I’d hug you, but …” Wren gestured to the dirt.
“Thanks,” I said gratefully, but my relief only lasted a split second, because Uncle Troy swooped me into a bear hug that lifted me off my feet, and his clothes were in even worse shape than Wren’s.
“Welcome to Dawson Boot Camp, niece!” boomed Uncle Troy, his ruddy, sun-freckled face beaming as he set me back on the ground. I glanced down at my dress to find it covered in dust. “Drills begin at zero five hundred tomorrow morning. Will you be ready?”
“Zero five hundred?” I racked my brain, trying to remember what that translated into. I’d nearly forgotten that Uncle Troy, a retired marine, always spoke in military time. Zero five hundred meant … five o’clock in the morning! “Ha!” I laughed. “Very funny, Uncle Troy.”
I waited for somebody else to laugh at his joke, but nobody did. After a beat of silence, Aunt Beth told Wren, “Why don’t you show Bria where to put her things while I catch up with your aunt and uncle? The boys will be back from the pasture in a few minutes, and then we’ll all sit down to dinner.”
I wondered who “the boys” were; wasn’t it just my cousin Luke who was missing?
Wren nodded, scooping up my suitcases like they were light as feathers, even though I’d packed up my entire summer wardrobe, including every pair of shoes I owned.
As I scrambled to catch up with Wren, one of my espadrilles caught the edge of a stepping stone. With a cry, I barely saved myself from face-planting. Wren glanced down, saying matter-of-factly, “I hope you brought other shoes. You won’t want to wear those around here.”
It wasn’t meant as a dig, only as a statement of truth. That was Wren’s way. She’d always been quieter than me, but she wasn’t shy. Her words were like her clothes: chosen for their practicality rather than their entertainment value.
“I brought other shoes,” I said. “But not work boots.”
“I might have a pair that’ll fit you.”
I looked at her boots. If they’d been Doc Martens, I could’ve appreciated them as iconic. But they weren’t. “I’m not wearing those ugl—” I stopped, catching myself just as Wren leveled her eyes at me. She didn’t seem angry, but she clearly wanted to see if I had the guts to finish my sentence. “I’ll be fine with the shoes I brought,” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
Inside, the house smelled of old wood and cinnamon, and the floorboards protested with each step I took across the braided rugs. I remembered feeling very cozy among its chaos the last time I was here. Now I imagined what Leila would say: “Shabby but definitely not chic.”
When I spotted a computer on a desk in the den, my spirits lifted. “You have internet, right?”
“Our Wi-Fi’s sketchy,” Wren said. “The signal on your phone might go in and out.”
“I don’t have a phone this summer,” I said through gritted teeth. Then, sensing an opportunity to get my hands on one, I said, “But you do, right?”
To my horror, Wren shook her head. “Luke has one, but I don’t. My friends come by the creamery a lot.” She shrugged. “You can’t go anywhere around here without running into somebody you know, so a phone seems pretty pointless to me.”
“But—but what about social media?” I sputtered, unable to believe what I was hearing. “Posting pics? Texting?”
“Not my thing,” she said simply, and then turned for the stairs.
I felt my chances of being able to text Leila slip away as I dragged my feet upstairs after Wren. We passed the prehistoric bathroom, with its claw-footed bathtub and never-warm water (sigh), and dropped my suitcases in the bedroom we’d be sharing. Wren’s bed was half-covered with 4-H magazines, open to articles on raising calves and innovations in milking machines. I took a quick peek at her closet and saw that I didn’t need to worry about having enough room for my clothes. There was one simple chambray shirtdress; a plaid, belted tunic; and a half a dozen canvas work pants, dungarees, and jeans.
With a sinking heart, I followed Wren back down into the kitchen, which was full of Mom and Aunt Beth’s laughter.
“There’s the cuz!” Luke cried, grabbing me around the neck to give me a noogie, and ruining my meticulously tamed auburn hair. Luke looked a lot like Wren, only he was much taller and broader—and rowdier.
“Leave her be, you animal,” Aunt Beth teased Luke. “You don’t see Gabe doing that. At least one of you boys knows how to behave like a gentleman.”
It was then that I noticed another boy standing in the kitchen. I tried and failed to press my flyaway curls back into place as he smiled at me. He had the most striking gray eyes I’d ever seen, an angular jaw, light brown skin, and tousled black curls. My heart gave a staccato beat. He was beyond cute.
The boy shot Luke a mocking look that seemed to say, See? Your mom loves me best.
Luke rolled his eyes. “Gabe, you’re such a suck-up.” He made a playful lunge at the other boy, nearly knocking half the dinner plates off the table in the process.
Uncle Troy tried to put a stop to the roughhousing while Wren and I sat down with my parents and Aunt Beth.
“You remember Gabriel Reeves, right?” Wren asked me. “Luke’s best friend? He’s in eighth grade, same as Luke.” I shook my head (I was sure I would’ve remembered any boy as cute as he was).
“Gabe, this is my cousin Bria Muller,” Luke explained as the boys finally took their seats along with Uncle Troy. Gabe smiled at me again, and my heart skipped another beat.
“Our families have known each other forever,” Wren said, piling my plate with Aunt Beth’s famous mashed potatoes. “He’s helping out on the farm this summer.”
“More than helping.” Aunt Beth gave Gabe a proud smile. “He’s the real cow whisperer around here.”
“You know how some people are crazy about dogs or cats?” Wren said, passing me my plate. “Gabe’s like that with all animals, but especially our cows.”
Aunt Beth nodded. “I swear, he can read their minds.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Why would anyone want to?” Mom gave me a disappointed glance and the good humor that had infused the room cooled.
Gabe’s smile dimmed a bit but didn’t disappear. Instead, he tilted his head at me quizzically, as if trying to decide whether to take me seriously or not. In a quiet, steady voice, he said, “There’s more to learn from a cow than you’d expect.”
I snorted. Was he for real? I was about to ask him this very question when the phone rang, making everyone jump.
“Don’t get it, Mom,” Wren said, a sudden frown on her face. “You know it’s the Vulture.”
“Who?” my mom asked, giving Uncle Troy a questioning glance as Aunt Beth answered the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Brannigen,” Aunt Beth said into the phone, her voice tight. “Yes, I got your email about stopping by to tour the facilities. Tomorrow? Well, I’m not sure—Yes, I’m aware you’re considering other properties …”
Luke muttered something about a “bloodsucker” while Wren stuck out her tongue toward the phone.
Aunt Beth sighed. “Tomorrow will be fine,” she said, and hung up the phone.
Uncle Troy, Luke, Wren, and Gabe all muttered “CheeseCo” in unison.
“What’s CheeseCo?” I asked.
Luke looked at me in disbelief. “Only the biggest dairy production company in the country. That was their big-shot representative Mr. Brannigen, aka the Vulture. He’s been calling for years, trying to get Mom and Dad to sell our land to CheeseCo so they can convert it into a branch of their dairy operations.”
Worry streaked across Mom’s face as Aunt Beth took the seat beside her again. “I didn’t think you were seriously thinking about selling …”
Aunt Beth looked sheepish and Uncle Troy turned to Mom. “We’re just giving them a tour, Lettie,” he said. “Nothing’s decided.”
Silence settled over the table as we ate, and then Uncle Troy declared, “Enough CheeseCo for tonight.” He smiled at me and my parents. “Let’s kick off Bria’s summer on a high note. We’ll clean up in here and watch some Star Trek.” He clapped Luke on the shoulder and winked at Wren. “What do you say, troops?”
Gabe nodded. “Original series, right? William Shatner, best Captain Kirk ever.”
I burst out laughing. “Vintage TV? You’re kidding.”
Gabe shook his head, looking amused. “What, do you prefer modern Star Trek?”
I opened my mouth to give a vehement no, but stopped when Dad stood up from the table.
“We’ll have to skip it, I’m afraid,” he announced. “Lettie and I should get back on the road.”
I swallowed. This was it. Soon, we were all standing on the front porch saying goodbyes.
“We’ll call every day,” Dad said as he hugged me.
Mom beamed at me. “I love that you’re getting to spend the summer the way I always did as a girl. You’re so lucky to have this time here.”
Lucky was not the word I’d been thinking.
She handed me a book-shaped package wrapped in teal paper. “This is for you.” I tore it open to see a spiral-bound sketchbook with an illustration of a strawberry milkshake on the cover. “You have such an artistic eye, and you doodle on your school binders all the time. Maybe you could use this for drawings. To design some outfits? Or sketch other ideas?” Her voice scooped hopefully. “I left you something else, too. Inside your suitcase. Or … one of your suitcases.” She gave me a meaningful look. “In case you need to reach out to a friend.”
Yes! My heart leapt. She’d decided to leave me my phone after all. I threw myself at her, hugging her again. “Thanks, Mom!” Maybe I would survive the summer.
I waved as she and my dad climbed back into our car and drove away. Then I rushed back inside, taking the stairs to Wren’s bedroom two at a time. I frantically unzipped first one suitcase, then the other, and then the last, shaking their contents onto the floor. But it wasn’t my cell phone that fell out amid the heaps of shoes and clothes. It was a note.
With sinking spirits, I read:
Bria, always be brave enough to be you. Love, Mom
Written below that was Jane’s mailing address, email, and home phone number.
“I don’t believe it,” I whispered. Jane was my former best friend, the one who I hadn’t spoken to in over a month. Why would Mom do that?
I stared out the bedroom window and saw my parents’ car—already a distant speck. I crinkled up the paper and threw it as hard as I could back into the suitcase.
There was a knock on the bedroom door, and Aunt Beth, Uncle Troy, and Wren peeked inside—all three hopeful, expectant.
“Ready for that Trekkie marathon?” Uncle Troy asked.
“Actually …” I faked a yawn. “I’m pretty wiped. I think I’ll go to bed.”
Puzzlement flicked over Aunt Beth’s face, but she nodded. “All right, hon. Get a good night’s sleep.”
Uncle Troy smiled. “Briefing and boot camp in the morning.”
“Dad! Try speaking civilian for once.” Wren fake-glowered at him, and he rubbed her head playfully in response. “He means we’ll give you a tour of the farm tomorrow.” With a tiny smile, she followed my aunt and uncle back downstairs.
I brushed my teeth and changed for bed quickly, but once I was lying on the old mattress, half-sunken with age and squeaking with my smallest movement, I couldn’t sleep. There was no AC, so every window was open to the night air. A chorus of crickets sang in the fields, with the occasional lowing of a cow. This night music was strange and foreign to me.
I closed my eyes, trying to call up the soundtrack of Chicago—the steady hum of traffic and rumble of delivery trucks over manholes; the occasional shout or laughter echoing through the streets; the muted classical music drifting through the walls of Mom and Dad’s study as they wrapped up work for the night. I couldn’t quite conjure the happy chaos of city sounds.
There was no doubt about it. My summer was over, and it hadn’t even begun yet.
I sat bolt upright in bed, on the verge of screaming as an alarm blared inches from my ears. What was happening? Adrenaline surged through me as I stared into the blackness of the strange room. Then a blinding light flicked on, and I couldn’t decide if I should cover my eyes or my ears.
“Morning, sunshine,” a voice deadpanned.
I squinted and saw Wren, already dressed in cargo pants and a worn gray T-shirt, shutting off the screeching alarm clock. In a flash, it all came back to me. I was in Iowa … on my aunt and uncle’s farm. To make matters worse—I glanced at the clock and nearly screamed all over again—it was four forty-five in the morning!
“Wren, what are you doing?” My voice was raspy. I sank back against my pillow and pulled the covers over my head. “It’s the middle of the night!”
Wren emitted her short “Ha!” then added, “This is the time we get up every day. The cows have to be milked and mucked first thing.” She lifted a corner of my sheet, peering down at me. “Better get a move on or Dad will com
e in with ice water.”
“Wha—?”
I couldn’t even finish forming the question before Uncle Troy’s overly cheerful voice boomed from the hallway. “There’s nothing like a bracing ice shower to start the day off right!” Thankfully, I guess, instead of a freezing shower I got his floorboard-shaking rendition of “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.”
“It’s official,” I moaned. “I’m in purgatory.”
“Nah.” Wren grabbed her work boots from the closet and headed into the hallway. “Mom’s corned beef hash is too good for purgatory. And if you don’t get to breakfast in five, Luke and Gabe will eat every last bite of it.”
She was right; when I stumbled blearily into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, breakfast was already finished and cleared away. Everyone had left for the barns, but it seemed that Wren had been tasked with waiting for me. She hopped up and handed me an egg sandwich. At least something was still left. She eyed my cute floral shorts and purple tank top.
“You won’t want to wear that. Do you have any cargoes? Or jeans? Something that can get dirty?”
I loved this tank. I’d frayed the hem of it myself, and added some beaded fringe with fabric glue. It was one of a kind.
“I brought two pairs of jeans and some capris, but … will they get ruined?”
“Pretty much.” Wren shrugged matter-of-factly. “I’ll get you something to wear.” She dragged me back upstairs and shoved a pair of dingy cargo pants and a ragged gray tee into my hands. “You can borrow these. You’ll have to change into the creamery uniform after the barn chores are done anyway.”
I took the clothes reluctantly. Well, I could at least knot the tee at the waist to make it a little less sad. “The thing is … I don’t really do dirt,” I said as I turned around to change.
Wren gave another short “Ha!” of a laugh and was soon dragging me back down the staircase once again. “Oh, it’s more than dirt.”
Shake It Off Page 2