Curtis shrugged. "It was disappointing."
"What'd you think of that third interception on Kyle?"
My head came up at this. I noticed Mom watching too.
Curtis shoveled in a big forkful of eggs. "Not good," he said around the eggs.
"There were only two interceptions," I couldn't help pointing out.
Curtis stopped chewing. He sat there staring at his plate.
Dad set his fork down. "I ran into Bill Heil after the game." Bill Heil is the middle school football coach. "He told me you missed two practices this week."
Curtis didn't move. It was like he was thinking that if he stayed perfectly still, maybe we'd forget about him and leave. Like birds do sometimes with dogs.
Mom leaned forward. "Curt, honey, what's going on?"
"Nothing," he answered, which seemed like a bit of a stretch to me.
"Where were you during the game?"
"Nowhere. I just—I went over to Sarah's uncle's, okay? He lives right near there."
"Were there any grownups around?" Mom asked, and I nearly choked. Curtis's ears turned bright red so I guess he also figured out what she was saying. Jeez, Curtis? I mean, Mom wouldn't have trusted Bill mailing a letter, but I had a hard time picturing Curtis fooling around. Although I never would have pictured him missing practice, or lying about going to the game either.
"Her—her uncle was in the living room," he whispered.
"And where were you?"
"In the kitchen," he said miserably.
Mom blinked a bit at that one. Me too.
"We were—we were working at the table," he continued.
"On schoolwork?" Mom asked. She sounded suspicious.
Curtis nodded. You'd think he'd been caught selling drugs or something.
Dad and Mom shared one of their looks. This wasn't going the way they'd expected.
"If you need more time for homework, we can do that here," Mom said. "But you can't lie to us like this."
"Or miss practice," Dad added.
Curtis nodded. There was a long silence while Curtis didn't look at any of us, and then I guess he figured his torture was over because he cleared his plate and went back up to his room, and wouldn't even come down to watch the games.
Saturday afternoon I called Brian to see what he was up to, if he wanted to hang out that night or anything, but he didn't pick up and I didn't bother leaving a message. That's one great thing about cell phones. They keep track of who calls so you don't have to talk.
He came by Sunday morning at least and helped a bit with a bigtime barn clean-out we were doing, changing the wood shavings and all. He didn't once rub in how badly Red Bend had lost. "It would have been different if you'd been playing," he said at one point, which was really nice of him—one of those examples of what a great guy he can be.
"I called you yesterday," I said, working right next to him because it was so satisfying being in his body zone, "but I didn't leave a message."
"Well, leave it now," he grinned. "'It's Brian—beep.'"
"Uh, hey, it's me," I started, and Brian immediately cracked up because even faking it I sound pathetic. I'm sure if there was ever a contest for the worst messages in America, I'd make the semifinals at least. "I was, you know, just wondering, you know, what you're up to."
"You have to press the off button," Brian pointed out. Which I faked, which made us grin. "Okay, now I got your message. I was just hanging out."
"Doing what?"
"A bunch of us guys went to the movies. It was dumb, though. We left halfway through."
"Oh," I said, and there was this little awkward pause and then Dad talked about barn cleaning until Brian had to go home to watch the Packers game. I didn't walk him out, though, because I was trying to figure all this out. I mean, I'm not saying Brian should abandon his friends once the two of us, you know, started kissing. And I sure appreciated the time he spent with me, pretty much every Saturday day, and Sundays sometimes, waking up really early just to drive over to Schwenk Farm. That's a lot. But that's the thing: wouldn't two people who spent so much time talking and playing with blowtorches and eating Dad's food, and making out—wouldn't you think that once in a while they'd want to go to the movies together, something like that? Instead of Brian going with his bozo Hawley friends?
Sunday night I was supposed to be doing homework, especially this Spanish paper about what I would visit in Madrid, which I'm sure I'll never go to so why bother. But all I could do was think about Brian, going around and around in my head how much it bummed me out that he'd been with his friends instead of me. Then I'd get mad at myself for being a total selfish whiner like some of Bill's girlfriends who insisted they spend every possible second just the two of them together. God knows I don't want to be that kind of girl, not ever. But I couldn't understand why, just once, we couldn't take a break from farm work and do something fun. Only maybe I should ask him, right? This isn't the Dark Ages—a girl can ask a boy out without it being a federal crime. Not that I had one clue how to do this. Brian was much more that kind of person, the kind who can ask someone out without needing CPR. So why didn't he ask me? And then I'd start right back at the beginning and cycle through all these thoughts again.
Finally I decided that if I wasn't getting anything done I might as well take a real break, and I headed downstairs for a pop. I must have come down pretty quietly, or maybe they weren't listening, because just as I got to the bottom step I heard Mom sigh, and there was something about the way she did it that made me freeze for a second, even though it was totally none of my business, to hear what she was sighing about. And this is what she said:
"We can't keep this place running on my paycheck."
Dad made this noise of rubbing his chin, all the stubble there, and said in a really tired voice, "Maybe milk prices will come back."
"The government doesn't care about farms this size." It wasn't nasty, the way Mom said it, just sad.
"I'm not selling to a developer," Dad said.
"We've got two more kids to put through college. We've got health care, retirement—my pension won't cover that."
"You think we should sell?" Dad asked, and the heartbreak in his voice—it was four generations of farmers he was speaking for when he said those words.
"I don't know. But these numbers don't add up. What are we going to do?"
"Let me make some coffee," Dad said in the same tired voice, pushing back his chair.
I used that scraping sound to head back upstairs. I felt ... I felt like that time Mom explained where babies come from. For years I knew where babies come from because of course I live on a farm, and every couple weeks the vet comes and puts on a long rubber glove that goes all the way to his armpit, and sticks his arm in a cow's rear, a cow who's ready to be bred, and puts a baby seed inside her—that's what Dad called it when I asked, baby seed. Because of course bringing a bull in whenever you want to get a cow pregnant is really expensive and time-consuming, not to mention getting the both of them, you know, in the mood. So the vet almost always does it instead, which I guess isn't so romantic for the cow, but I wasn't giving that too much thought when I was nine. And so of course it made perfect sense to me that whenever Mom wanted a baby that the vet would come and put a baby seed inside her as well. Only when I explained this at dinner one night Dad started laughing so hard he had to leave the table, and Mom almost had a hernia trying not to laugh as well, and Bill, who I think was born knowing where babies really come from, made all sorts of fun of me even though Win smacked him, and for years after that whenever the vet came by, Dad would shout for Mom that Doc Hansen was here, their own little joke at my expense. Anyway, after that dinner back when I was nine Mom explained to me where babies really came from, human babies, and that process was so much more disturbing than what the vet does, plus combined with all my humiliation at making such a fool of myself in front of everyone, that for years after I couldn't even think about it without feeling sick.
That's the sam
e way I felt now, which makes a little sense when you think about it because both times I was being let in on something that was ten times worse than what I'd thought. No wonder the farm was getting smaller all the time and we were selling heifers we could be keeping to milk, and not buying any new machinery, and never going to Win and Bill's games, and repairing the milk house with blowtorches and duct tape. It's not that the farm wasn't making money—it was losing it. And if Mom didn't work full-time—up to now I'd always thought it was sort of a side job for her, something she did for fun even though she has a ton of things to do at home—well, we'd be more than broke. We'd be gone, and all our beautiful cropland would be turned into houses just like had almost happened already, and all our wonderful cows would go who knows where and probably end up as fast food hamburgers.
All my life Dad had said Win would inherit the farm one day. That's what their huge fight had been about last Christmas, when Win had made a crack about how Dad couldn't break even. Did Win know about the farm losing money? Did Bill? Because Bill had backed Win up in the middle of that fight, which is why neither of them talked to us for months. While little old responsible D.J. stuck around—which I had to do anyway seeing as I didn't have a big athletic scholarship to escape with—and kept on working, wondering why Dad never fixed anything or spent any money, and why Mom's Caravan was ten years old and Dad's pickup way older. It was just like the babies thing, my two older brothers in on a family secret while the dumb little sister was kept in the dark.
I'd never thought, not once, that maybe Dad's not spending money wasn't voluntary. That it was the only choice he had. And I have to tell you, as tough as farming is, the idea of farming when you're losing money year after year ... that's not life even, that's like death. That's eternal damnation.
9. Separations Are Very Stressful
SCHOOL ON MONDAY was pretty tough. It's hard to think about stuff like algebra when every number reminds you that your farm is about to fail and you'll lose your home and everything you've worked for your whole life. So I was a little tiny bit distracted. But I finished that Spanish paper at least, knowing the grade wouldn't be anything to brag to Mom about, and we started the nervous system in A&P, which meant we'd be getting to muscles next, hurrah, and Amber was back. Though in last period she got called into Mr. Slutsky's office about her attendance with Lori as well, which must have been sheer joy, Amber I'm sure not breathing a word about why school happened to suck for her so much. She came by my locker afterward, and she did a great imitation of Mr. Slutsky combing over his bald spot when he talked.
"Yeah, baby, I'm looking good now," she said in her Bob voice.
"You mean Mr. Slutsky runs around after lady ducks?" I asked, trying so hard not to crack up.
"Duh. He's like the mallard king of Red Bend."
"You'd think he'd get one of those hairpiece things made of feathers," I said.
Amber nodded like this was brilliant. "Made of down. Plus it'd keep his brain warm."
Oh, I loved that image of Mr. Slutsky walking around with a head full of white duck down. We couldn't stop joking about it, whether he'd have it different colors and all. I suggested eagle feathers as well, like an Indian, and that made us laugh even more. It's a good thing Paul wasn't there because he probably would have died, hearing us make fun of the principal like that.
So I started practice in a pretty good mood, all things considered. Not that it should matter one way or the other what my mood was. I mean, right when it happened I was tackling Justin Hunsberger, which normally puts me in a bad mood, even being near him, because he's such a jerk. He'd bum anyone out, even his mother probably, no matter how good he is at football. But it was just a practice tackle so his jerkness shouldn't matter that much. And I'd been in a bad mood all day up until I got to hang out with Amber, so maybe that bad mood cloud was still sticking to me in ways I didn't even realize, and that changed things. Who knows—it might not have been Justin at all, it might just have been the way I landed. I'll never know for sure, though, because life doesn't come with instant replay.
What I do know is that I hit him, pretty hard for practice but so what, and in that millisecond I landed, I was shot through with pain. Like someone had heated a knife and jammed it in my shoulder. I gave this little wheeze because it was all I could do to breathe, and I put every bit of energy I had into not moving a single molecule because I sure didn't want that pain getting any worse.
Everyone else stood up, getting off the ground in that way you do when you've hit the grass a million times in your life and you know you'll hit it a million more. I wanted to stand up too, stand like you always do. Because if you don't, it means that you're either really wimpy or really hurt, and who would want to be either one of those? But I couldn't.
Beaner came over. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I managed to whisper. "Just give me a minute."
By the time Jeff made it over, I could sit up at least, doing my best not to move my arm. "I'm fine," I said, taking deeper breaths now that the pain wasn't so bad. I hated having all the guys standing around staring at me like I was a dead animal or something.
"Aw, jeez," said Jeff, gnawing away at his mustache. "Shoulder, huh?"
"Yeah." I didn't nod because that might set it off again. "I'll be fine in a sec."
"Mmm ... You better go see the trainer, have him take a look."
The trainer got my jersey off, and pads, trying his best not to move my arm, and it was pretty amazing how swollen my shoulder was already. He filled up a bag with ice and plopped it on, and right away it started feeling better the way ice always does. Or at least numb.
"Looks like you got a separated shoulder," he said.
"Can I play?" I asked. Because we had Bonnelac coming up Friday, and New Norway the week after that. I was really looking forward to that Norway game—if we beat them we'd be only one game behind Hawley. Which meant we might get another chance to beat them in November.
"Aw, sure. Rest it a week, you'll be fine." He held up this piece of foam, kind of doughnut shaped. "We'll put this under your pad, keep you safe."
It was such an enormous relief hearing that, you can't even imagine. It made the pain go away even more, and my whole body relaxed a little bit.
The trainer went off to make a call, though I didn't pay attention until I heard "Mrs. Schwenk" and I realized he was calling my mother.
"Nothing serious," he said, "but x-rays might be a good idea."
"X-rays?" I interrupted. Because "x-rays" sounds a lot different from "playing in a week."
"Just to be sure," he said to me and Mom at the same time. "Make sure nothing's broken."
***
I climbed into the Caravan as best I could holding that ice pack against my shoulder, a fresh Red Bend Football T-shirt on so God forbid I wouldn't be seen in just a sports bra. Then we got to spend a whole bunch of time in the clinic waiting room. Mom called Dad to have him pick up Curtis from his football practice, trying not to frazzle Dad too much because he's no good around doctors. You even mention needles and he gets dizzy, which explains why it took him so long to have his hip operation.
The x-rays were so cool—I couldn't stop looking at those pictures of my insides. Not that the bones looked like me or anything, but it was pretty amazing just how closely my humerus and scapula and clavicle matched the diagrams in our A&P book. It was like my skeleton had taken A&P too, and passed with an A+.
"Well, nothing's broken," Dr. Miller said, peering at the films. Dr. Miller has been our doctor for years. He does a lot of sports stuff, which is good for our family because so do we. "We'll need to order you an ice pack kit to work on that swelling."
"How much does it cost?" I asked.
Mom frowned at me. I'd never discussed money like that before. But she didn't know I'd heard her talking to Dad. So then she had to say, "The cost doesn't matter."
"Yeah, it does," I said right back. "Can't we just use regular ice, like from the fridge?"
"D.J.—" Mom s
tarted sharply, but Dr. Miller cut her off. I guess he didn't want to listen to us bickering about money. Any more than I did, frankly.
"Let's take a look at you," he said, flipping off the x-ray light.
"When can I play again?" I said, and then "Ow!" because he was moving my arm around, and any time he pushed it across my body, it hurt like heck. Not that he was hurting me on purpose, but you know how it is.
"Mmm. AC separation. Doesn't look too serious, though."
"A what separation?"
"Acromioclavicular. Type I."
"Acro what?" That was way too many syllables for me to absorb all at once.
"Acromio—meaning acromion, the end of your shoulder blade—and clavicular, your collarbone. You've injured the ligament that connects them. But you don't have any shoulder displacement, so it's only sprained, which is good news. That's what Type I means."
I nodded, hoping I'd remember enough of this medical talk for when I had my A&P book in front of me and could really figure out what he was saying.
"Can I play—next week?" I asked, trying not to gasp too much when he moved it.
Dr. Miller didn't answer, just kept working on me like I was an anatomy model or something. Not a person. He frowned a bit, poking at my shoulder. It was all wet by now—the whole right side of my shirt was wet, really, and the football pants I was still wearing, and the melting ice dripped off my elbow onto the examination table, making a soggy lake out of the crinkly white paper. Lake Schwenk. I guess that's one downside to refrigerator ice: you end up in a puddle.
"The trainer said I could play in a week or two," I added, because that sounded about right to me, that time frame.
"Mmm. Keep it in a sling, ice it every four hours ... ibuprofen, some PT ... you could." Again, he was talking like he was all alone in the room, like Mom and I weren't even there.
"Great," I said. Only it sounded more like "Great?" because I couldn't figure out why he didn't sound happier.
The Off Season Page 6