The Hard Way Home

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “It’s true that they don’t get along,” Shannon James chimes in with. “Everyone knows they can’t stand each other.”

  I’m glad Shannon is disabusing Cassie of any disturbing notions about Caleb and me, but I also have to suppress a sigh. That’s all I’m known for in Landry: my last name and my notorious verbal sparring with Landry’s golden boy whenever we’re forced to interact.

  Eliza Gray laughs from her spot across from me. “The spelling bee freshman year?”

  Tina Smith leans forward to speak past Cassie. “Oh my god, I forgot about the spelling bee. I had culinary with them. Caleb swapped out your sugar for salt, remember Lennon?”

  “I remember,” I state acidly, taking another bite of my sandwich as I grow increasingly annoyed with the direction of the conversation.

  “Don’t forget that debate they had in History junior year!” Shannon adds.

  “I still say Johnson shouldn’t have been impeached.” A new voice joins our conversation from directly behind me. A familiar one. A male one.

  The only thing worse than being caught in a conversation about Caleb Winters? Having Caleb Winters overhear it.

  “Eavesdropping, Winters?” I keep my voice as nonchalant as I can manage, glad he can’t see my face. Beyond embarrassment he overheard my table talking about us, I have no idea what he’s doing over here. The baseball team rarely strays from its elite corner table, lording over the rest of us with the few others who have clawed their way to the top of the high school social hierarchy.

  “Well, I certainly doubt I missed hearing anything good about myself if you were involved in the discussion, Matthews.”

  I look over my shoulder at Caleb’s smirking face, ignoring the awed glances of my tablemates, who have all fallen suspiciously silent. Leaving me to clean up the aftermath of their gossip. How thoughtful. “Did you need something, or did you just come over here to annoy me?”

  “A little presumptuous of you to think I came over here to talk to you, don’t you think?” Caleb gives me his signature crooked grin. Dimpled. Devilish. Devastating. “Maybe I was looking to talk to one of your lunch companions instead.”

  “Don’t get my hopes up,” I tell him.

  Caleb smiles again, but this time it’s more genuine than purposefully alluring. “We never decided on our paper details. Hell, I’m not even sure we settled on a book. And then you fled as soon as the bell rang.”

  “I did not flee. The bell signals the end of class. And I’ll do the outline, okay?”

  “Without me?”

  “I’ll put your name on it, Winters.”

  “Do you really want to have this conversation? Again?”

  I heave out a long sigh I make sure to drench in as much exasperation as I can muster. Which is a sizable amount. “Why do you have to be so freaking difficult?” I ask Caleb irritably as I stand up and grab my sandwich.

  “Oh, I’m the difficult one? That’s rich.” I’m sorely tempted to stick out my tongue at him, but I resist the urge as I stride over towards a mostly empty table about twenty feet away. Only a few other students, who look to be freshman, huddle at one end. I drop down on the opposite side from them, and Caleb mirrors me.

  “How often do you spend lunch gossiping about me?”

  I should have known he wouldn’t let it drop so easily. “First and last time,” I inform him.

  He smirks. “Yeah, right.”

  I sigh. “Cassie had some questions after English.” No way am I telling him she surmised we used to date. “The others got a little carried away reminiscing about our past . . . encounters.”

  “Encounters?” Caleb replies, looking amused. “That’s an interest—”

  “We can do Frankenstein,” I interrupt, before taking a bite of my sandwich. Caleb studies me with a strange, speculative look for a minute. “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” Caleb gives his head a small shake. “Okay, so we’ve settled on a book.”

  “Miraculous,” I mutter dryly.

  “Got any favorite literary devices?” Caleb asks.

  “Please tell me that’s not one of your pick-up lines,” I can’t help but quip.

  Caleb gives me another one of his rare, genuine grins. “I’ve got better game than that, Matthews.”

  “I don’t see why you’d need to. Perk of being the hottest guy in school, and all that.” The words slip out past the piece of banana I’ve just swallowed. Unthinkingly. And I regret them as soon as they leave my mouth.

  “You think I’m the hottest guy in school?” Caleb asks, a wicked gleam appearing in his blue eyes.

  Shit. “That wasn’t a personal opinion. I just meant, that’s what people say, is all.” I’m flustered, and I’m pretty sure Caleb can tell. Mostly because I do think he’s the hottest guy in school, and that’s something I never wanted him to know.

  Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t press the topic. “Foreshadowing?”

  I breathe a subtle sigh of relief. “I’d hope so, considering the subject.”

  “Two to go, then.”

  “Imagery?” I offer.

  “Isn’t that a given in every book?” Caleb contends.

  “Did you notice how I didn’t criticize your suggestion?” I retort.

  “Fine. Personification?”

  “Done,” I state, eager to be finished with this discussion. “Do you trust me to write the outline now?”

  “Yes,” Caleb replies simply.

  “Good.” I ball up the plastic baggie I transported my sandwich in, expecting that to be the end of our conversation. But Caleb doesn’t move, and I somehow feel obligated to remain in place as a result.

  We stare at each other in silence. It’s a stark contrast to the din of voices swirling around us.

  “How was your break?” Caleb finally asks, and I don’t answer at first, too taken aback by his unexpected question. We don’t exchange pleasantries. We snark and quibble.

  I feel like it’s a test, and so I don’t bother with the pre-packaged version of events I offered to Cassie and the one other person who bothered to ask. Besides Caleb. “It . . . wasn’t great,” I admit. Maybe honesty will fracture this bizarre moment. “You?”

  If Caleb’s surprised by my answer, he doesn’t show it. “Not great, either.”

  His answer isn’t what I expect. I spent most of break arguing with Gramps, who is still insisting he could handle the farm if I went off to college in the fall, despite the fact he struggles to walk to the barn some days. I know that’s not how Caleb spent his. Maybe he feels obligated to mirror my melancholy answer, but I don’t see why he would. I’m well aware of how charmed his life is. Everyone is aware.

  “Great,” I finally say, because something needs to be said.

  A small smile tugs at the corners of Caleb’s mouth in response to my obvious sarcasm. “Well, I’m sure my presence is being missed at my table,” I say sardonically. “So I’m going to go. Back there,” I add unnecessarily when Caleb still doesn’t say anything.

  I stand, and he finally acknowledges my imminent departure with a single nod. Unnerved by his sudden muteness, I start walking back towards my table. I should have just told him what I narrated to Cassie in homeroom earlier.

  “Matthews!” I turn back around at the sound of my last name. Caleb has also risen from the table. “You’ve got some peanut butter on your nose,” he informs me.

  I swipe at the center of my face repeatedly as I glare at him. “This whole time? And you’re just now telling me?”

  Caleb shrugs as he gives me a lazy smirk. “You called me hot, so I decided to be nice and let you know.”

  “I did NOT call you hot,” I practically snarl, before spinning back around and stalking the remaining distance to my table.

  “How did it go?” Cassie asks me tentatively as I plop down beside her.

  “Peachy,” I growl.

  “That’s good,” she replies, her voice making it clear she doesn’t believe me.

  “Do I have any food
on my face?” I ask her.

  She studies my face carefully. “Uh . . . yeah. There’s some peanut butter right there.” She points to my nose.

  I grab a napkin out of my lunch box and scrub at my face. “Gone?” Cassie nods. “God, could this day get any worse?” I mutter, as I pull an apple out to munch on for the remaining few minutes of lunch.

  At age seventeen, I really should know better than to tempt the universe by now.

  FIVE

  __________________________________

  Dusty could go out with Stormy, but then I’d need to put Commie out solo. Maybe all the mares should . . .

  “Lennon? Lennon!”

  I jerk back to attention when I hear my name called for a second time. “What’s that?” I ask, trying to act as though my attention only just began to drift from the newsroom, when in reality I’ve tuned out most of the hour-long meeting. Our editor, Andrew, is a senior like me. Meaning he views the next five months as his final chance to leave an everlasting mark on Landry High Times. His “vision” for the next few issues took up the first forty minutes of the meeting. I zoned out after five to plan the turnout schedule for the next week.

  “You’ll be covering the baseball interview, Lennon,” Andrew repeats.

  I sit up straight. “Baseball interview? What baseball interview?”

  “It’s Caleb Winters’ final season. He finally agreed to do an interview.” I’ve never seen Andrew look so enthused. He’s practically beaming as he delivers the news that makes every other member of the staff perk up as well. Even me, but for an entirely different reason.

  “How thrilling,” I drone. “I’m not writing it, though.”

  “You have to!” Andrew proclaims urgently as he pushes his tortoiseshell framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. I recognize it as one of his nervous tells. The two of us have had a number of creative differences since both joining the paper freshman year. I tend to win.

  “No, I definitely do not,” I inform Andrew. “Me writing an article about Caleb Winters is a terrible idea. You know that we don’t . . . get along. And Simon is the sports writer!” Simon startles when I say his name, looking nervous rather than eager. Despite my personal misgivings, I know Andrew is right to be excited. An interview with Landry’s most revered athlete will be huge for the paper. But Simon certainly doesn’t jump in and offer to do the interview for me, which is odd. I’ve personally been subjected to hearing him drool over Caleb several times.

  “Actually, you do,” Andrew states firmly, distracting me from Simon’s reticence. “Caleb said he’d only do an article if you were the one who interviewed him.”

  “He said what?” I scramble to assemble my confused thoughts and prepare a rebuttal. “I’m sure he only said that because he knows I won’t agree to it. Or he’ll never show up. Or he’ll make up all his answers. This is his way of getting out of it. Using me.”

  Andrew doesn’t attempt to dispel any of the scenarios I suggested. “Not a chance we can take,” he replies matter of factly. “Winters never talks to the press. No one knows where he wants to play next year. This is our chance to get a serious scoop. There’s not a single person in this town who won’t read an interview with Caleb Winters.”

  “I wouldn’t.” My voice is petulant.

  “Not sure you’ll have much choice, considering you’ll be the one writing it.” Andrew’s words are firm. Unyielding.

  The school paper has always been a refuge for me. None of the other members of the staff are people I’d consider to be friends exactly, but none of them have ever treated with me with any form of derision. They’re mostly people who tend to keep to themselves, like me. Not only that, but writing for the town paper, the Landry Gazette, is my sole, and best opportunity for employment following graduation. Simply put, not only do I not want to quit the school paper, I can’t.

  Despite the many hours we collectively pour into each issue, I’ve never even seen any of my classmates read the school paper. There’s no way I’ll be able to convince Andrew to do anything to endanger this story.

  Which means I’ll have to take it up with the instigator of this infuriating predicament.

  “Fine,” I state passively, slumping back in my chair. Andrew eyes me suspiciously, no doubt skeptical about my sudden lack of objection. “I’ll give him one chance. But don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I add in a huff.

  “I can send you some questions to ask, Lennon,” Simon finally chimes in with.

  “Thanks,” I tell him irritably.

  Andrew gives me another wary glance, but moves along to the end of his list of assignments. “Julie, you’ll be covering Mr. Barnett’s retirement. Steve, the plans for the new running track. Good work, everyone! Drafts for the new issue by the end of next week, please.”

  Everyone disperses from our huddle in the middle of the room to head back to our assigned desks. Most of them are talking excitedly about my assignment, unsurprisingly.

  “I guess the rumors are true,” Julie muses as she takes a seat at her desk, which is adjacent to mine.

  “What rumors?” I ask as I shove my notebook back inside my backpack, preparing to depart the newsroom.

  “That you hate Caleb Winters.”

  “We hate each other,” I correct.

  “Then why would he have you do his interview?” Julie questions.

  “To torture me. He’s a jerk,” I say simply as I zip my bag up.

  “I’ve never talked to him,” Julie states, which causes me to look at her with surprise. That’s something I haven’t managed to do in a small school while actively attempting to avoid him. “But if he is a jerk, he’s a hot one.” Her tone has turned wistful. Admiring.

  “The most dangerous kind,” I warn as I grab the last of my belongings and head in the direction of the exit. “See you tomorrow, Julie.”

  “Bye, Lennon,” she calls after me. “Ask if he’s single!”

  I grimace as I head out the door of the newsroom. Good to know she took my warning seriously.

  I told Cassie I’d stop by the boys basketball game after my paper meeting, so I head out the front doors instead of the rear exit I usually take to make my way towards the sports complex. Yes, it’s a complex. Landry takes its athletics very seriously.

  The unusual route takes me directly past the baseball field. Despite the chilly temperature and the fact the baseball season doesn’t start until—actually I have no idea when the baseball season starts, but I know it hasn’t—I recognize enough of the navy-clad figures to realize the team is out on the field practicing. Which means he must be out practicing.

  I alter my course slightly, veering to the left of the parking lot and alongside the stretch of metal bleachers I watched the junior prom procession from.

  “Winters!” I disregard the half dozen guys gathered around Caleb and march right up to him. He’s leaning against the chain-link fence, tossing a baseball back and forth between his hands like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Must be nice. He doesn’t say anything in response when I call his name, just cocks a brow maddeningly. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Feel free.”

  “Somewhere else?” I ignore the mutters the words prompt among the other baseball players. Lunch earlier illuminated an alarming level of interest in my altercations with Caleb, and I’d like to avoid feeding any speculation. He either doesn’t know about the gossip, or more likely doesn’t care, because he remains in place.

  “You’ve got a problem with this patch of dirt? By all means, choose a different spot.” He spreads one arm, gesturing to the broad expanse of green blades.

  “Forget it.” Maybe it’s better to have witnesses to how unreasonable he’s being. “What the hell is your problem?” I hiss.

  Caleb doesn’t look nearly as apprehensive as I think he ought to. “You’re mad at me? That’s a refreshing change.”

  I scowl. “Well, if you stopped trying to purposefully piss me off, you wouldn’t have to deal with me being mad at yo
u.”

  Caleb merely arches an arrogant brow again.

  “You told Andrew you wouldn’t do an interview with the paper unless it was with me? Why on earth would you do that? It’s not bad enough we’re partners on that English project?”

  “After over three years of being begged to do so, I agreed to do an interview with the school paper that will likely increase its readership to more than four people,” Caleb drawls. “Didn’t realize that was a crime. More like it merited a thank you.”

  “Four people? God, you’re such a jerk,” I spit. The fact he’s probably not wildly off on his readership count is irrelevant.

  “Are you done? We’re kind of in the middle of practice here.” Caleb gestures to his baseball teammates, none of who are making any attempt to act like they’re not hanging on to every word of our spirited conversation.

  “I’m not doing the interview with you.” I don’t leave any room for doubt in the words.

  But Caleb manages to find some. “If you meant that then I doubt you’d be here, yelling at me about it.”

  I grit my teeth, probably doing some damage to my molars. “Do the interview with someone else, Caleb.” I keep each word measured, but emphasize every syllable as I speak it.

  “You’re the best writer on the paper. It’s you or no one else, Lennon.”

  He emphasizes my first name slightly, and I know it’s to let me know he caught the fact I used his. But I’m more distracted by the fact he just complimented me. At least I think he did. I’m still waiting for the punchline.

  When it doesn’t come, I still choose to disregard the unprecedented praise. “I have a busy schedule. You’d have to work around it.”

  Caleb doesn’t bother to hide his grin, and I know it’s because he thinks I’m just being difficult. I’m far from overly involved in school activities. Honestly, I’m surprised he even knows I am on the paper. “You’ve got a busy schedule?” He scoffs. “Okay, fine. When do you want to meet?