Blank

by Trina St. Jean

  He rolls his eyes. “Duh. We’re farm kids. Hop on,” he says. I put my helmet on and slide in behind him. “And hold on!” My hands on his shoulder, he revs the engine, and the machine lurches forward, sending our helmets clinking together.

  We motor down the driveway, and the noise, the bumpiness, the breeze on my face all take me back to another day and another quad ride. My hands, smaller then, twisting the handlebars in anticipation. “Now take it easy, my girl,” Dad says from behind me. “This one’s got more power than you’re used to.” I nod, but the moment my thumb hits the gas, the quad leaps forward like a wild beast released from a chute. I screech with laughter. I push the brake and jerk to a halt, and when I turn around, there is Dad, lying in the tall grass beside the road. My heart thumps, but as soon as he sits up and glares at me with a crazy grin, I know he’s all right. “Wild thing,” he says. “You almost killed me!”

  “This too fast?” Stephen yells over his shoulder, and I am back in the present.

  “God, no! I’m falling asleep back here.”

  “You asked for it,” he says, and we are off, really off, this time. He drives faster, not fast enough to scare me but enough that I have to wrap my arms around his waist to hold on. We peel out of the driveway and onto the gravel road. It feels amazing—the wind sending tears out of the corners of my eyes, the sun hot on my face, the sound of the machine and the jolts as we hit ruts. Now this is country living. We rip to the stop sign at the end of the road and skid to a stop.

  The road beyond the stop sign is muddy and wet, and the only way to avoid it would be to head down the steep ditch. Stephen revs the engine and drives straight into the mud, sending a huge spray of brown water shooting off both sides of our vehicle. We scream, the two of us, a long, happy, ode-to-the-universe-and-mud-puddles yell. The quad slips and slides from side to side, then lurches to a stop. Stephen lets out a whoop.

  “That was the best!”

  “Yeehaw!” I yell.

  We’re dirty and wet and acting like hillbillies, but it’s the most fun I’ve had in my new life so far. I look around at the fields to either side, the sky stretched out above us. There’s nothing but hay bales and a bee buzzing by. I poke Stephen in the ribs.

  “My turn,” I say.

  His head whips around, and he glares at me. “Are you nuts? You heard what Dad said.”

  “Come on.” I gesture around us at the emptiness. “Who’s going to know?”

  “I will,” he snaps, “and you will. Isn’t that enough?” He turns back around fast, before I can get a look at his face. But he’s sitting straighter, tense, and I wonder if he’s about to cry or something. Either he’s more of a stickler for rules than I thought, or there’s something deeper going on in that high-functioning brain of his.

  “Yikes,” I say. “You need to chill out.”

  Stephen gives the quad gas suddenly, and my head jerks back a little. We head down the road toward home. Stephen parks at the end of the driveway, then jumps off and removes his helmet.

  He lifts his finger slowly, and I think he’s going to give me a lecture on ATV safety or something, but instead he points to the front lawn.

  “Who,” he says, “is that? And what’s she doing?”

  For a millisecond I think he’s trying to lighten the mood by pretending he sees a Pygmy or something dumb like that. But there’s a woman—a real woman in a puffy pink jacket—pounding a white sign into our lawn.

  The sign leans slightly to the side, so she straightens it and hammers it one more time, extra hard. The words across the front are bright and red, and I nearly fall off the quad in surprise. FOR SALE.

  Penance

  Stephen and I are striding across the lawn toward the woman with the sign, and I’m ready to tell her to get off our property, that she’s got the wrong place, when Mother comes jogging up behind us.

  “Kids,” she says. “Wait.”

  When we turn toward her, she reaches out and grabs us each by a hand. One look at her flushed face, and I know: this woman in the puffy coat does not have the wrong place. Something big is going on.

  “Can you guys go in the house for a bit?” Mother’s voice wavers. “I’ll come talk to you in a few minutes.”

  Stephen pulls his hand away and plants his hands firmly on his hips. “What’s going on? Why does that sign say for sale?”

  Mother closes her eyes for a second, then lets out a long breath. “Dad and I were going to talk to you tonight. The realtor was supposed to come tomorrow. Please go in the house, and I’ll explain as soon as she leaves.”

  “Hello!” The woman is calling and waving. “How does this look?”

  “This is a joke, right?” Stephen’s voice is loud, on the verge of hysterical. “This isn’t really happening?”

  Mother waves at the woman, then leans closer to Stephen and speaks quietly. “I’m sorry, Stephen. I understand why you’re upset. But your dad and I honestly think this is the best decision for the family.”

  I see a look in Stephen’s eyes so intense I’m scared he’s going to do something rash. So, for once, I decide to be the reasonable one. I let go of Mother’s hand, grab Stephen’s and give a gentle tug. “Come on. Let her talk to the realtor. We’ll go inside and have a cookie or something.” Mother shoots me a grateful look as I lead Stephen across the lawn and inside. We sit at the kitchen table, but neither of us makes a move to get a snack.

  Stephen leans his face into his hands. “I can’t believe it,” he says. “Where are we going to move? I’ve lived here my whole life.”

  I’m trying to be the strong one, to keep it together. But though I can’t say I have the same attachment to this place, it is where most of my memories are. If we leave, how will I ever get them back?

  “Maybe they have a good explanation,” I say. “Maybe we’re going bankrupt.” I think about Mother’s weary face when we walked in on them in the shop, Dad comforting her. Maybe her stress wasn’t about me after all.

  We sit there staring at the tabletop, the only sound the hum of the fridge. I stand up to get a cookie as the front door opens. Our parents are talking quietly to each other, probably planning their strategy for dealing with mutiny. They step into the kitchen and sit at the table with us. They both have the same expression, a mix of concern and determination. They have some convincing to do. Mother places her hand on Stephen’s back, but he shrugs it off.

  “We’re sorry you had to find out this way,” Dad says. “We meant to tell you tonight, to prepare you a little.”

  Stephen’s head shoots up, and his lips are tight with anger. “Tell us? Why couldn’t you ask us what we thought before you made such a big decision? We live here too, don’t we?”

  Dad nods slowly. “We thought about doing that. But honestly, we knew you would never agree to this, even though we believe it might be better for everyone.”

  “How? How can leaving be better?” Stephen asks.

  Mother watches Dad, letting him do the dirty work. “To be frank,” he says, “this farm is not making much money. It never has. I love it too. Really, I do. But an old friend is moving back to Winding Creek, and he wants to open a hardware store. He’s asked me to go in on it with him. If we sell the farm, we’ll have the money to put into starting the business and to maybe buy a house near town.”

  “What about the bison?” I say.

  Dad gazes down at his hands, and his voice softens. “I’m not sure I feel the same way about them anymore.” He looks at me, and I’m surprised to see his eyes are damp. “Maybe I trusted them too much before, and it’s time to move on.”

  Mother reaches across the table and lays her hand gently on top of Dad’s. “But we want you to know that this is not a sure thing. We still don’t know where we’ll move exactly. We only wanted to see if there’s any interest.”

  There’s a long, heavy silence until Stephen stands up suddenly. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?” he says, pointing at Mother. “I bet you’re so happy to be finally getting ou
t of here. You’ve never liked the farm. You’re being selfish, and it isn’t fair!” He pushes his chair hard so it hits into the table, then storms out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I flinch when his bedroom door slams.

  Mother rubs her temples, her eyes closed.

  “I’m sorry, Jessie,” Dad says. Was this what he was thinking about that night in the basement when he said he hoped he would never let me down?

  I don’t even know what to say. “All right,” is the best I can come up with.

  I disappear to my room too, where I collapse on my bed and hide under my pillow. I try to have a nap but only toss and turn. I sit up and put my ear against the wall I share with Stephen. He’s playing rock music instead of his usual classical. I get up and knock on his door until he cracks it open a few inches and peers out at me.

  “I’m so mad,” he says, “I could scribble on the walls or something.”

  He lets me in, and I sit at his desk while he perches on the edge of his bed. “This is crazy,” he says. “Unbelievable.”

  “Stephen,” I say.

  “Yeah?” His glasses have slid down his nose a little, and when he looks at me with those pale eyes, a pang shoots right through my heart.

  “This isn’t Mother’s fault,” I say.

  He keeps looking at me, and suddenly his intelligent eyes unnerve me.

  “It’s mine,” I say.

  Still no response. Just that look.

  “You know, for what I did.”

  I want him to say something—anything—maybe argue with me and say it was all an accident, what happened that Very Bad Day. That I shouldn’t beat myself up over it. Or maybe say, “That’s all right,” even if he doesn’t totally mean it.

  But he doesn’t argue and he doesn’t try to make me feel better. In fact, there’s something hard in his expression, a kind of maturity I haven’t seen before. He pushes his glasses back into place. “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  What can I say to that? If I had a magic wand, I would wave it and erase everything that happened on that Very Bad Day. I’d fix my brain to good as new and return us all to the Good Old Days. But he’s looking at me so intensely, I know this is no time for sarcasm.

  “I’ll talk to Dad,” I say.

  Lying Eyes

  When Mother knocks on the door at 7:00 AM, I wish more than anything that I hadn’t opened my foolish mouth and asked to go back to school. I waited up half the night for Dad to come home from his buddy’s farm, where he was helping with calving, so I could keep my promise to Stephen. But I fell asleep before he got back, and now I have to psych myself up for the biggest test yet: a morning at Winding Creek School.

  Buses are lined up outside the school when we arrive, and herds of kids and teenagers with backpacks mill around, laughing and chasing one another. I clench the door handle, and my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. Stephen pops out of the back-seat and trots off to the school building.

  “I’ll walk you in,” Mother says.

  I don’t argue. I don’t think I can make it across the parking lot without someone to lean on. Mother can tell how messed up I am, because she opens the door for me and pulls me out of the seat. “It’ll be fine,” she whispers. “You’ve been through a lot, and you can do this.”

  “I can’t—” I croak, but she doesn’t let me finish. She leans closer, and the bossy tone in her voice that I usually detest sounds beautifully assertive at this moment. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

  So I put one foot in front of the other and let her lead me toward the front doors. The crowd is thinning out as the students make their way inside, but I’ve caught the attention of a few groups as we pass. Some kids stare, and some turn to a friend and whisper. Probably something like “Here comes Brain-Dead Girl!”

  But I keep my composure, miraculously, and even beat Mother to pushing the heavy doors open. Standing right there, with a stack of books in her arms and that killer smile, is Megan. Queen Supreme of the Pink Posse. Or whatever they call themselves now.

  Relief washes over Mother’s face. “Thanks, Megan.” And I realize then that this is planned, that Mother has called for backup.

  “My pleasure, Mrs. Grenier. Hi, Jessie. We’re all pumped that you’re here.”

  I nod, and then Mother says goodbye. “It’ll be fine,” she says. “Megan will take care of you.”

  My BFF leads me down the hall by the elbow, and the people we pass smile at me, maybe a little too much. Mr. Swanson, the biology teacher, gives me a half hug before Megan and I take our seats at the front of the class. I try to concentrate on what he’s talking about—photosynthesis, ATP, chlorophyll, blah, blah, blah—but my head starts to ache. I look around the room, trying to spot something familiar. When I glance at the back row, my eyes land on a guy with dark hair. I look away quickly, warmth rising in my face.

  It’s Harrison. The guy from my photos, the one Megan said I was in love with. I make some scribbles in my notebook for a few minutes, then slowly and casually look back in his direction. He’s looking down, writing. His neck is long and lean, and his hair falls over his eyes. I imagine myself touching those dark locks, and I feel a little light-headed.

  Could it be that I still like him, that somewhere in the back of my mind that old crush is still buried among all the bits and pieces of my past? Or maybe the Girl and I finally have something in common: our taste in guys.

  It takes all my self-control not to gawk at and study every inch of him. I focus all my brain cells I’ve got on Mr. Swanson’s notes on the board—about chloroplast, the epidermis, vascular bundles and other such gripping stuff—and then the bell rings, and everyone bolts out of their desks like they got an electric shock. Megan guides me to our lockers.

  “I can break into yours if you want,” she says. “You’ve been using the same combo since forever.” She laughs. I lean against the locker and close my eyes.

  “Hey, babe, you all right?” Megan asks. I open my eyes and nod. “Now we’ve got gym. We’re building a survival shelter outside today. You up for that?” Again I nod.

  She opens my locker, we put our bio books away, and then I follow her down the hallway and outside to the soccer field. We’re the first ones out there, but two guys in baseball caps walk up behind us. When the taller one smiles at me, my stomach does a flip. It’s my dream man. Megan hooks arms with me and squeezes.

  “Greetings, gentlemen,” she says. “What’s the deal with the shelters again?”

  “Mr. McCain’s going to divide us into groups. Guys against girls. Make it a competition to see who’s best fit for surviving in the wild,” the shorter guy says.

  “Man,” Harrison says, “we are going to kick your butts. Like you ladies could make it five seconds without your hairspray and bunny slippers!”

  He’s only teasing, I know. But I pictured my perfect guy more…intelligent. Sensitive maybe. Those dimples are cute though. Megan gives him a friendly whack on the arm. “Whatever,” she says. “You guys would be calling for pizza in fifteen minutes.”

  We all laugh. Other students are starting to stream out onto the field, and one girl is shrieking and running after some guy who swiped her hat. High school: it’s all about the flirting. Apparently, I was a little shy before. Now I feel like a weird, overly jumpy zombie.

  Harrison’s friend steps closer to me, his green eyes intense. “How are you doing anyway?”

  “Fine, thanks,” I say. I have a feeling it might be a little awkward if I spill the details of my cereal addiction and fondness for caffeine pills or the status of my anger-management therapy. I need to be casual, have fun. Harrison looks our way, and our eyes meet. He doesn’t flinch, but holds his gaze straight on me. My cheeks are getting warm when squeals behind me break the spell.

  It’s the other members of the Pink Posse. Cybil and Kerry leap on me, giving me hugs. I let them. “Finally! You’re back!” Cybil says. “My God, this is so amazing. And you’re coming to the pit party on Saturday, right?”
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  “Pit party?”

  Kerry laughs. “It’s at the gravel pit, the one by the old cemetery. You’ve got to come.”

  “I can pick you up,” Megan says. “Finally got my driver’s.”

  I shrug, and when I glance toward Harrison, he’s still watching me.

  I may be brain-damaged, but not so badly that I can’t tell when someone’s checking me out. Did he and the Girl ever hook up? Did she ever let on that she was into him? I need to grill Megan for information later.

  Mr. McCain shows up, a short guy with way too much energy. In five minutes he has us in teams, guys versus girls as predicted, and we’ve got sheets of plastic, balls of twine and instructions to go into the woods and gather branches to build the best shelter we can. Megan, Cybil, Kerry and I trot toward the trees.

  “Let’s go over there,” Kerry says, pointing to the far end of the soccer field, near the goalpost. “Get away from the crowd.”

  We follow her, Megan dragging along the roll of plastic. “Find the biggest branches you can,” she says. “To build the frame.”

  The forest floor crunches under our feet as we walk, and I kick at the fallen branches to test their solidity. Some are half-rotten, but I pull the good ones up and drag them to the edge of the bush in a growing pile. It’s satisfying, this physical work, so much better than being in a classroom. Our spot is getting a little picked over, so I push deeper into the bush, scanning ahead for good stuff. I’m fired up to beat the guys, to show them we’re not pampered sissies.

  There’s a prime-looking log a bit farther in, so I head that way. I see flashes of clothing through the tree trunks and hear laughing. I make it to the log and sit on it to test it out. Thick and heavy, it’s perfect for a solid shelter, but I can’t drag it out of there by myself. Back in the direction of the soccer field, I catch a glimpse of Harrison’s red baseball cap, so I crouch close to the ground.

  Attraction or not, I am not ready for a tête-à-tête in the woods. I’m not even wearing lip gloss.