The Hard Way Home

by C. W. Farnsworth

  A few soft nickers greet me as I slide open the barn door just enough to slip through. The chance of Gramps looking outside and seeing a light on in the barn is slim, but the potential repercussion of having to explain to him why I spent less than an hour at “prom” is more than enough of a deterrent to keep me cloaked in darkness.

  Besides, I don’t need a light to navigate my way through the building I practically grew up in. I enter the tack room silently, ignoring the horses poking heads out of their stalls in hopes of a late night snack. They give up when I disappear, shuffling back to a corner of the stall or an uneaten wisp of hay.

  I dig through one of the neglected bins stored beside the canisters of grain and procure an old saddle blanket. I toss it over a bale of hay, then lower myself atop it. I can still feel tufts of dried grass poking through the cotton material, but it’s better than nothing. I stare up at the underside of the trophy case mounted above me, a painful reminder of happier times. Easier times. My fingers trace along the underside of the dusty wood, stopping when I encounter an unnatural groove.

  The hard ridge of my phone isn’t easy to pull out in this position, but I finally manage to. The light it shines reveals the letters carved in the underside of the shelf. “E.M. <3s A.W.,” it reads. E.M. were my mother’s initials. A.W. were not my father’s. Maybe that should bother me, but it doesn’t. My parents had a brief relationship, if you could even call it that. My mother got pregnant with me her first year of college, dropped out, and returned home to Landry. Up until her death, my interactions with my father consisted of a couple brief visits and the occasional birthday card. It’s actually comforting to think my mother had love in her life before the short, tragic time I knew her. When she was bored and harried and handed me off to Gramps more often than not.

  Her message gives me a flash of inspiration. I roll off the hay bale and grab one of the many markers always lying around. Returning to my former position, I etch out a new pair of initials right above my mother and her mystery man’s. It’s an outlet for the anger and frustration I’m still teeming with following my latest encounter with Caleb Winters, and it makes me feel close to my mother for the first time in years.

  Time has started to fade my memories of her, creating rips and tears in the recollections that I patch as best I can. If she were still alive, maybe she’d know what to say. Not that my vivacious, outgoing mother ever dealt with an arrogant jock being rude to her. Men could never resist her, which is partly to blame for my own abysmal social status now.

  I stare up at “L.M. hates C.W.” until I’m certain my grandfather must be asleep.

  Then I sneak out of the barn as soundlessly as I entered it.

  Senior

  Year

  FOUR

  __________________________________

  My stomach clenches when I hear his name called. I miss a loop in the pattern I’m painstakingly drawing on the margins of the creased paper when mine immediately follows. I’ve known it was coming for the last four and a half minutes. Mr. Tanner isn’t known for his innovation. He prides himself on his predictability. One doesn’t have to look any further than the course syllabus I’m doodling on. It’s lined with title after title of revered, classic literature, no doubt copied directly from the state curriculum.

  Pairing Ellie Nash with the name at the top of the class roster was my first clue. I didn’t need the four minutes of scrambling to assemble a list of last names of everyone in this English class to come to the inevitable conclusion Mr. Tanner just announced.

  “Lucky,” Cassie Belmont whispers next to me. Since she’s the solitary person I consider to be a friend at this school, I don’t bother to correct her assumption. Luck, for me, would be never having to see Caleb Winters again. Being paired with him on an assignment that will determine a quarter of my English grade and require me to spend more time with him than the past three years and a half years combined? The worst start to a new year I can imagine, and we’re only four days in.

  It’s also a sad testament to my lone friendship Cassie isn’t aware of just how much I can’t stand Caleb Winters, even taking into consideration the fact she only started attending Landry High this past August. I’ve made a conscious effort senior year to be friendlier in general, and less hostile towards him specifically, but I hadn’t thought it was a very successful one.

  Of course, I've barely had to see him, much less talk to him. Made things easier.

  “I’m reserving the rest of class for you to start planning your project with your partners,” Mr. Tanner announces after reading the last set of names. “Remember, this is worth twenty-five percent of your final grade in this course. This is a chance to finish strong, not to slack off because it’s your last semester of high school. Please rearrange to sit with your assigned partners.”

  Cassie stands and moves to the front of the room. I don’t so much as shift in my chair. Partly because I’m still hoping this is some sort of sick joke, and mostly because I know it’s not and want to force him to come to me.

  The chair next to me scrapes against the floor as I resume my doodling in a desperate attempt to appear nonchalant.

  “Happy New Year, Matthews.”

  I grunt.

  “You could look a little more enthused. There are worse things than being paired with the guy at the top of our class.”

  “You’re not,” I dispute automatically. Arrogant ass.

  “I must have misread the ‘1’ next to class ranking, then,” Caleb replies.

  I complete another loop. “Grades haven’t come out yet.”

  “Actually, they were released last night,” Caleb informs me.

  “They were?” I pause my drawing and look at him for the first time, dread starting to swirl in my stomach.

  “Yes . . . ” The pleased expression he was sporting before has started to edge closer to confusion.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I have yet to hallucinate receiving a report card, Matthews.” His voice is teasing, almost mocking, but he’s studying my face closely, clearly trying to discern why I care.

  Unlike the rest of the senior class, I don’t have any plans to attend an elite college this fall. I haven’t worked twice as hard as everyone else so I could receive a full ride someplace. Truth is, I probably could. If I didn’t already have a full-time job waiting for me after graduation. Taking care of the farm. My grandfather. But I thought I’d have the satisfaction of everyone knowing I chose it. That I had options.

  That when everyone else left for their shiny futures I’d at least have the appeasement of knowing I’d beaten them all in one way.

  Of course Caleb Winters would be the one to ruin that too. And he realizes it.

  “You were first, weren’t you?”

  “Forget it.”

  “That’s the only reason you’d care what my ranking is.”

  “I said drop it, Winters,” I grit out, growing increasingly incensed.

  “Well, between the two of us we should manage to get a decent English grade, at least.”

  “Or how about I do the whole thing and you take half the credit? Wouldn’t be the first time,” I snap.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Any affability—fake or genuine— has long since disappeared from Caleb’s face.

  “It means we both know your last name means you have a lot of things handed to you.”

  “Oh, really? We took the same classes, with the same teachers, and I did better than you did. That’s what is really bothering you, right?”

  He is right, not that I’d admit it with a gun to my head. Landry’s wealthy inhabitants ensure it consistently is considered the best school district in the state. But it churns out perfect test scores and elite college acceptances by ensuring its students are prepared, not by handing out easy A’s.

  I’m not ordinarily a violent person, but right now there is nothing I’d love more than to punch Caleb Winters in his arrogant, handsome face. The humor swimming in his blue eyes sugg
ests he knows it, and that makes it even worse. He’s gotten under my skin again, and he’s enjoying it.

  “You are seriously the most—”

  I’m cut off by Mr. Tanner.

  “Mr. Winters! Ms. Matthews! Do I need to switch partners?” His voice interrupts our argument, drawing everyone’s attention to my glower and Caleb’s smirk.

  There’s nothing I’d like more, but my pride won’t allow it. I don’t need to look over at Caleb to know he’s also shaking his head. That’s one thing we have in common, at least.

  We’re both stubborn.

  “Keep your contretemps out of my classroom, then. Plenty of time outside of class to quibble over gossip or have a lovers’ spat.”

  I have to work not to audibly cringe in response to the word “lover” being used in relation to me and Caleb.

  Caleb responds before I have a chance to. “I can assure you that our dispute was entirely academic in nature, Mr. Tanner. But we’ll refrain from any dissension in the future.”

  “Wow, managing to be a suck-up and a show-off in two sentences. Impressive,” I whisper under my breath.

  “My solitary goal in life is to impress you, Matthews,” Caleb murmurs back under his breath. Even in the low volume, he manages to make the words lofty and overbearing.

  “See that you do,” is Mr. Tanner’s only response. But he eyes us closely, obviously not entirely swayed by Caleb’s effortless charm. That makes one person. Besides me.

  I nod, feeling my cheeks redden. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve been chastised by a teacher. And they all have one maddening commonality.

  We sit in silence for a moment as our classmates chatter around us. Caleb’s voice finally cuts through the charged air.

  “I fully intend to do half the project, so we’re going to need to agree on a book.”

  “Fine,” I grind out.

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Moby Dick?” I challenge.

  Caleb chokes on a laugh. “Pass.”

  “Great Expectations?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Crime and Punishment?”

  “Your suggestions are punishment enough,” Caleb replies pompously.

  “By all means, Winters, blow me away with your literary prowess,” I challenge.

  “What about Frankenstein?”

  “I don’t like horror.”

  “It’s not horror; it’s a classic,” Caleb argues.

  “I assume you’re basing that solely on the fact it’s on the reading list? You don’t really seem like the type to enjoy classic literature.”

  “And we’re back to insulting my intelligence. How refreshing. Remind me, which university are you headed off to in eight months?”

  I’m back to contemplating violence as I glare at his smug expression.

  His handsome face is saved by the bell. “All right, everyone. Outlines detailing the book you chose and the three literary devices you’ll be analyzing are due tomorrow. See you then,” Mr. Tanner calls out as the room erupts in commotion.

  Students scramble to return to their belongings. Landry High made the puzzling decision to allow only four minutes between each class, meaning there’s rarely any time to dally between periods. On second thought, it’s probably not that difficult to speculate why the administration chose to do so. But it makes for a hectic two hundred and forty seconds for every member of the student body.

  Not that I need any incentive to get as far away from Caleb Winters as possible. And thanks to the fact I’m one of the few who stayed in their original seat, all I have to do is shove my binder back in my backpack and rush out the door. My hasty departure is tracked by a few questioning glances, but the only one I acknowledge is Cassie’s.

  “I’ll see you at lunch,” I tell Cassie as I pass her by on my way to the math wing. My pride is still stinging from Caleb’s last comment, especially in the wake of his class rank revelation. Not that he’s aware of just how deeply that cut. Which makes it worse.

  Calculus is a relaxing respite from the stress of the unexpected and unwelcome events of English. I’ve always appreciated the predictability of math. The assuredness. I always know exactly what to expect from an equation.

  People? Not so much.

  By the time Calculus ends, I’ve almost managed to forget my conversation with Caleb. The first of the new year. And thanks to Mr. Tanner, definitely not the last. For attending a high school as small as Landry High, I’ve actually done a remarkably good job of ensuring our interactions were kept to an absolute minimum over the past three and a half years. Now that I’m in the home stretch of my required time in these hallways, I have every intention of ensuring that trend continues.

  Rather than head straight to lunch, I turn in the direction of the library when the bell rings. I spent every lunch period as a freshman, sophomore, and junior among the stacks of books, making the library my very own private dining hall. It provided me with the time to perfect the assignments my chores sometimes rushed me through, with the added benefit of allowing me to avoid both my peers and the quandary of where to sit in the cafeteria.

  Cassie asked if she could sit with me at lunch the first day of senior year, her first day at Landry High, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell her no. Or admit I’d spent the past three years eating in the library. Starting at a new school is never ideal, but in Landry? New students are rare, and they’re typically relegated to the fringes following a cold reception. Unless their grandfather happens to be a senator, of course. Caleb coasted in on the winning combination of ancestry and affluence.

  Cassie’s family is wealthy, but doesn’t have any roots in Landry. Money buys some favor—literally—but even after living here for six months she’s mostly treated like an outsider. Unlike me, Cassie tries to see the best in people, though, which is the solitary, or at least main, reason we’re friends. Her unassuming, warm personality also managed to defrost a few of our less pretentious peers, expanding our lunch table of two slowly over the first half of senior year. Despite sitting at an (almost) full lunch table, my social circle has remained more of a line. Consisting of me and her.

  I’m not retreating back into my old habits of eating solo today, though. I’m checking Caleb’s proclamation that he’s the top student in our year.

  The library is empty when I enter it, the same as every other time I’ve been in here during lunchtime. Mr. Gibbs, the elderly librarian, looks up and gives me a smile as I enter before turning back to his crossword puzzle. I walk across the beige carpet towards the computer terminals, inhaling the comforting scent of paper and ink.

  Unlike the ancient contraption I use at home, the brand-new computer whirs to life as soon as I move the mouse. It only takes seconds for the school’s homepage to load, and then I sign into my account. My grades appear instantaneously.

  And there it is. Next to class ranking there’s now the number two.

  I growl under my breath as I scroll down through my past semester’s grades. All A’s and one A- in Biology. He must have gotten all A’s.

  Any remaining zen from my hour of math disappears. I’m irritable again. I turn off the computer, and head back into the hallway, this time walking in the direction of the cafeteria. The wall of noise that greets me like a physical wave when I enter the large space is startling after the quiet library and empty hallway.

  Despite the minutes I spent in the library, there’s still a long line of students waiting to buy lunch that I have to weave around to get to my usual table. In a contrary twist on the typical archetype, Landry High’s cafeteria food is universally considered to be quite good. Not that I would know. Bringing a sandwich from home is cheaper.

  I finally manage to navigate my way over to my typical lunch table, and take my usual seat next to Cassie. “Hey, what happened to you?” she asks as I appear beside her.

  “Had to stop at the library,” I explain as I pull my lunch out of my backpack.

  “You’re not already
working on that English project, are you?” she questions. I’m pretty sure Cassie thinks I’m some sort of insane overachiever, which isn’t entirely inaccurate. But my work ethic at school has a lot more to do with the fact that by the time I finish my chores at home schoolwork is the last thing I feel like doing.

  “Definitely not,” I respond crisply as I take a bite of my peanut butter and banana sandwich, unhappy about the reminder of the assignment. Or more specifically, my partner on the project.

  Cassie doesn’t seem to sense my annoyance regarding the subject. Or maybe she does. “So, what’s the deal with you and Caleb Winters? Did you two date or something?”

  A glob of peanut butter gets caught in my throat. “What?” I half-choke, half-exclaim the word. “You’re joking, right?” I know Cassie hasn’t lived here for long, but I’m shocked she could spend more than a day attending Landry High and come to conclusion Caleb Winters would ever date me. Or, more importantly, that I would ever date him. Social strata aside, we also have yet to manage a completely civil conversation. My parents—and my peers—have not exactly demonstrated model romantic relationships, but even I know endless arguing is not conducive to a successful one.

  “Not at all,” Cassie replies. I’m dismayed to realize she appears to be completely serious. “You two have some crazy chemistry.”

  Nothing I say is ordinarily of interest to anyone besides Cassie, but I suddenly have the entire table’s attention. I scoff loudly, eager to dispel any confusion on this topic. “We absolutely do not have chemistry. What you were sensing is actually called mutual hatred.”

  “Well, your ‘hatred’ looked an awful lot like sparks flying,” Cassie persists. “I mean, even Mr. Tanner noticed. I’ve never seen him interject in two students arguing before. Normally, he loves debates.”

  “I think he learned his lesson about having us debate sophomore year,” I remark. Caleb and I were both in his advanced English class, and I am still convinced Mr. Tanner chose to scrap the remainder of his class-wide activities after the first two involved some heated discussions between us. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t alter his pairing plan once he realized it would result in the two of us working together. I’m guessing his hatred of deviating from a well-laid plan is to blame. Or maybe he assumed Caleb and I grew up in the past two years.