The Hard Way Home

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Yeah, I am.” I hesitate. “I have to meet him for the interview tonight.”

  Gramps does a remarkable job of hiding his surprise. Me meeting a boy at night? Even for a school assignment? Unheard of. “Well then, let’s eat.”

  “What are we having?” I ask, a little apprehensively.

  Gramps chuckles. “Potato soup.”

  Well, that explains the unappetizing color, I guess. I ladle some soup in one bowl and give it a tentative sniff. Not bad. Prior to Gramps injuring his hip last year, we used to share in the barn and household chores. Now that he’s significantly less mobile, I’ve almost entirely taken over on caring for the horses, leaving Gramps to do the cooking and cleaning, for the most part. It’s far from a perfect set-up, but it’s a workable one. At least, it has been so far.

  As soon as we finish dinner, I pull out my phone. He said to call. So, in a minute act of revolution, I text the number I accidentally memorized instead of paying attention during the paper meeting. I can meet now, I send.

  I expect him to make me wait. Squirm. But Caleb replies instantly. Leaving now. I’ll pick you up. Another surprise.

  “I’m going to head out,” I tell Gramps, grabbing my book bag from the patch of hardwood floor I dropped it on earlier. He’s in the midst of loading this dishwasher, but I’m sure he’ll be retiring to the living room and a baseball game within minutes, and I’d be surprised if he’s not asleep in the next hour.

  “Okay, Lennie,” Gramps replies. “Have fun.” There’s a bit of a teasing lilt to his words, and I’m tempted to roll my eyes.

  The wind has died down, and it’s not as cold outside as I braced myself to expect. I hurry down our dirt driveway, skirting around the miniature ditches that make the truck’s suspension groan every time it leaves the property. I make it to the end of the driveway before any headlights come into sight, and breathe out a sigh of relief when I reach our faded green mailbox. I’m not ashamed of my home, although most people probably would be. There’s a different reason I don’t want Caleb to set so much as a foot on Matthews Farm. It feels too intimate. Too personal. I could count on one hand the number of people my own age I’ve ever had over. Even before my father’s death, my mother’s gambling addiction and questionable taste in men ensured my classmate’s parents didn’t want them spending time here. And Caleb was right earlier. I have been avoiding him. I am freaked out about the moment that transpired between us at his grandfather’s funeral. Silly as it may seem, I don’t want to allow for even the slightest possibility he might breach another boundary line.

  Headlights suddenly appear, and with them a sudden urge to flee.

  “Were you planning to walk, Matthews?” Caleb asks through the window of his shiny, black truck. “Or are you trying to make me picking you up at seven seem like some sort of secret midnight tryst?”

  “Just trying to speed things along,” I reply, as I climb into the passenger seat. His car smells brand-new, and the soft leather feels like I’m sinking into a cloud.

  “You’d rather walk down your driveway in the dark than spend two extra minutes with me?” Caleb’s voice is amused as he shifts the truck back into drive.

  “You said it, not me,” I say as I snap my seatbelt in place. “Plus, you’re the one going out of your way. I figured it was the least I could do.” I mean the words as a peace offering, but they’re true. I’m not used to other people taking care of me. Helping me. Caleb may be getting something out of this article, but he certainly didn't need to come pick me up.

  He seems to hear the honesty in my voice. “It’s not a problem.”

  It takes us only a few minutes to travel from my house to Caleb’s. Caleb has the radio on, and the quiet crooning of a country song about a broken heart serves as our soundtrack for the brief trip. The Winters’ estate is just as striking as it was when I was here on Sunday for the funeral, maybe even more so. The length of the long driveway is lined with lights that gradually dilate my pupils.

  The main house is entirely lit up, illuminating the sprawling yard the memorial service was held on. Caleb parks in the circular stretch of gravel, and we both climb out of the truck. He starts striding for the main house, but I falter. After about twenty feet, Caleb realizes I’m not following him.

  He doesn’t say anything; just arches an eyebrow.

  “Can we—can we go inside?” I ask, nodding towards the barn.

  Both eyebrows rise now. “Inside?”

  “The barn. Just for a minute.”

  This clearly wasn’t a detour Caleb planned to make, but he shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. Sure.” He alters course, heading towards the looming structure I know houses the horses that have won a majority of the Landry Cups over the last decade or so.

  Unlike the brightly lit main house, the barn doesn’t appear to have any lights on. Caleb leads me to a small side door, that turns out to lead into a kitchen. I gape at the shiny appliances and granite countertops. It shouldn’t surprise me. Almost everyone in Landry has obscene amounts of money. The Winters family has the most. But this is the nicest kitchen I’ve ever been inside. And it’s located in a barn.

  “This way,” Caleb says, not bothering to stop and admire the spotless kitchen the way I am. I follow him through another door. This one leads into the main aisle of the stable. I hear him fumbling along the wall for a light switch. He finds it, and the overheads flicker to life, displaying our surroundings in vivid detail.

  It’s exactly what I expect, and nothing like it. The black rubber mats that run down the center of the aisle are bereft of any wisp of hay or sprinkle of shavings. They look like they’ve been freshly vacuumed. Which, I realize, they probably have. Unlike the tall wooden structures that enclose our horses, every horse here has a stall that’s constructed from a mixture of gleaming black iron and mahogany wood. The entrance to each stall only reaches about four feet high, allowing each horse to stick its head out into the aisle. On either side of the door, the wrought iron slopes up gradually, creating a “U” shape that frames the front of each stall. To the right of each door hangs a leather halter and a golden nameplate.

  It may look like some lavish stable that, based on the temperature inside, is actually heated, but it smells the same as every other barn I’ve ever been inside. Like horses and hay and leather and pine and liniment and home. The only sound aside from our footfalls on the rubber is the quiet munching of hay. A few horses duck their heads out of their stalls, but most of them just continue eating their dinner.

  The stalls seem to stretch endlessly, even though I know they must end eventually. I can feel Caleb’s eyes on me, but I keep mine fixed upon the gleaming surfaces and shiny coats everywhere I look. Finally, the stalls stop, transitioning into a grooming and bathing area filled with fancy equipment and racks of brushes. I halt, but Caleb keeps walking, heading towards a massive sliding door just past a shelf displaying shampoo and bug spray.

  “There’s more?” I ask, my tone thick with disbelief.

  Caleb smiles. “Thought you’d want to see the stallions.”

  He slides the wooden door open, exposing a cement hallway that veers abruptly to the left. Immediately, I hear the sound of snorts as the door moving along the tracks alerts the stallions to our incoming presence.

  Caleb turns on more lights, illuminating the stallions’ section of the barn. The stalls here are bigger, allowing the massive horses space to pace a bit more. Eight heads pop out into the aisle, abandoning their hay. A gray one whinnies, straightening the elegant slope of his neck as he shakes his thick mane. I start to walk towards the end of the aisle, but realize Caleb isn’t following me. He’s stopped next to a black horse that’s located in the second stall on the left, and is stroking the skinny white blaze that runs down the center of its wide face.

  “Grand Slam?” I ask, retracing my steps and reading the shiny nameplate.

  “I was torn between that and Babe Ruth,” Caleb informs me, giving me an almost sly look.

  I snort. “Of co
urse you were.” Caleb keeps rubbing the stallion’s forelock, and the massive horse grunts, obviously enjoying the attention. I take a step closer, and he yanks his head back, eyeing me warily. “He knows you,” I realize. I didn’t think Caleb was involved in his family’s farm very much, but it’s obvious he’s spent enough time with this horse to establish some familiarity.

  He shrugs. “I guess.” He’s acting a little too indifferent, and I suddenly have a flash of realization. “This is the foal from your speech,” I put together.

  Caleb looks a bit surprised. “Uh, yeah,” he replies.

  “He’s handsome,” I compliment, deciding not to press for more details.

  “He’s handsome, but I’m just hot? That’s cold, Matthews,” Caleb teases.

  “I knew you were going to find some way to bring that up again,” I mutter, moving on to the next stall. This stallion’s not as skittish as Grand Slam was, and he lets me stroke his neck for a couple minutes. I can feel the outline of the powerful muscles rippling beneath his soft coat. I finish walking down the aisle, and then turn back. Caleb’s already waiting by the door, clearly ready to leave. We walk back into the main barn.

  “So, are you a big horse person?” Caleb asks, when we’re about halfway down the aisle.

  “You’re joking, right?” I reply. “You are aware we live in Horsetown, USA?”

  “You can live someplace and not subscribe to everything it stands for,” Caleb responds, and for some reason I feel like he’s no longer talking about horses.

  “Well, you didn’t grow up here,” I tell him. “It’s a bit different when it’s all you’ve ever known.”

  “Meaning you wouldn’t like horses if you hadn’t grown up here?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply honestly.

  “Your grandfather doesn’t race them anymore though, right?”

  I look over at him, surprised he knows that. “Uh, yeah. He stopped racing after . . . he just decided it was time.”

  “But he still kept all the horses? That’s a lot of work for . . . well, nothing back.”

  I know exactly how much work it is. “It’s not nothing,” I reply, a bit miffed. “We still breed them. They’ve all got championship bloodlines. And I ride them . . . sometimes.”

  “Huh,” Caleb responds.

  We emerge outside. The night air feels especially chilly after being in the warm barn, and I pull my jacket a bit tighter to keep any wind from sneaking underneath.

  “Simon gave me some questions. There’s only ten, so it shouldn’t take very long to get through them, and then I’ll have enough for the article. Andrew’s very eager to get my draft, especially after your unexpected visit earlier.” I emphasize the last three words. “Thanks for that, by the way. Andrew’s convinced I’ll scare you off and we’ll have to lead with a story on the running track.”

  “You should take that as a compliment. Not much scares me.”

  I laugh. “You’re saying I scare you?”

  “Not many people can snipe with you and live to tell the tale, Matthews.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, a dangerous note in my voice.

  “It means you tell it like it is. Not many people do, or want to have to confront it. Why do you think people act so nervous around you?”

  “Because my mother gambled away all our money, made some questionable choices when it came to men, and then dropped dead out of nowhere. Then, my absentee father felt some misguided sense of obligation, so he returned, only to overdose at the racetrack when parenting became too much for him.” I summarize my messy past succinctly.

  Caleb lets out a short laugh, and then quickly glances over at me, like he’s worried I’ll be offended by his amusement at the expense of my parents’ demons.

  “I, uh, I didn’t know the details,” he says. He’s lying. My mother died when I was in sixth grade; my father the summer before I started high school. It feels like a long time ago, it was a long time ago, but the drama surrounding my parents is far too juicy not to be still gossiped about regularly. I’m certain Caleb has heard far worse about my family than what I just shared with him. “But that’s not why people are intimidated by you,” Caleb adds.

  I shoot him a look of disbelief as we climb the front stairs to his house. Mansion would be more accurate. “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, I mean it,” Caleb insists. “I never see you talk to anyone at school besides that one girl . . . ”

  “Cassie,” I supply.

  “Right, Cassie,” Caleb agrees quickly, probably worried I’m going to lecture him about remembering girls names’ again. “I’m just saying, you could make a little bit more of an effort. Some people might surprise you.”

  It’s remarkably similar to what Cassie said before Marcus’ party, but I’m more willing to believe Caleb on this. For one, I don’t think he’ll sugarcoat anything the way she might. I also don’t think he’ll lie to me. “Some people might,” I stress the first word, because I’m pretty sure I know who we’re talking about. “But most won’t. You walked into homeroom with me, the first day of freshman year. You saw how they all looked at me. I’m still the same person I was then.”

  “Maybe other people aren’t,” Caleb comments as he opens the front door. I step inside the front foyer and open my mouth, ready to respond. I close it again when a stunning blonde woman appears in front of us.

  “Caleb, where have you been?” she asks. “I texted you three times. You were supposed to look over the color schemes for your graduation party.”

  “I was out picking up Lennon,” Caleb replies. “You can choose whatever colors you want.”

  Mrs. Winters fixes her gaze on me, and I experience the uncomfortable sensation of being closely scrutinized. “You’re the Matthews girl, aren’t you?” Her words feel especially ironic after the conversation Caleb and I were just having.

  “Yes, Mrs. Winters, I’m Lennon Matthews,” I reply. “Caleb and I have a school project to work on.”

  Caleb’s mother looks relieved to hear I’m on a strictly academic basis. “All right, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She sweeps out of the front entryway as dramatically as she appeared.

  “I feel surprised,” I tell Caleb.

  He grins. “Yeah, my mom is probably not the best example. She tried to acclimate to living here by becoming the snobbiest snob of them all.”

  Caleb starts walking towards the central staircase, and I trail after him, taking in the inside of the house for the first time. It’s similar to the minimalist exterior of the house, but paired with polar contrasts. The ivory walls meld into ebony floorboards. The dark wood is dotted with light gray woven rugs, and the white painted plaster is interrupted with black and white framed photographs. Once we reach the top of the stairs Caleb turns right, leading me down a long hallway. It has a similar color scheme, interrupted with the occasional flash of color. An oil painting of the Tuscan countryside here, a vase of blue hydrangeas there. Finally, Caleb pushes open a door to what is obviously his bedroom.

  I let out a low whistle as I walk inside. “Ran out of money to pay the interior decorator?”

  Caleb grins. “Decorating my own room was a bribe for moving here.”

  After the carefully matched, neutral tones in the rest of the house, Caleb’s room is an assault to the eyes. The walls are painted a garish shade of red, one that reminds me of expensive sports cars or outlandish flowers. The bold color is scattered with posters depicting various logos, musicians, and baseball players. Lots and lots of baseball players.

  There’s a massive four poster bed in the center of the room, pushed up against the wall between two windows that are exposed to the exterior of the house. A desk sits to the right, and a dresser to the left. Just past the dresser, there’s a door that I can see leads to an attached bathroom.

  “You did a great job,” I tell Caleb dryly, dropping my heavy backpack down next to his desk.

  Caleb chooses to disregard the sarcasm in my voice. “Thanks.” He drop
s down on the upholstered bench placed at the foot of the massive bed, so I take a seat at his desk.

  It doesn’t take long to run through the questions Simon gave me. Caleb answers them seriously, and in a manner than tells me these are the types of questions one is actually supposed to ask in a sports interview. Suggesting Simon should have been the one writing this article all along. But neither of us bring that up. I take careful notes recording his answers, knowing I won’t remember the baseball jargon his responses are peppered with otherwise.

  After the interview questions are finished, we switch to English. It’s shockingly easy. Past project partners were content to let me do the bulk of the assignment, but working with Caleb feels a little bit like completing a project with a clone of myself.

  I even find myself saying, “Yeah, that’s a great idea,” once.

  Caleb looks at me with shock. “Did you just compliment me?”

  I roll my eyes. “I can think you’re smart and an annoying, entitled jock, okay? Plus, you were the one who made certain I knew you’d knocked me out of first in our class.”

  He shoots me a triumphant grin that reminds me I hadn’t exactly conceded that fact to him. “You were first?”

  “You knew that.”

  “You confirmed it.”

  “Well, don’t get comfortable,” I retort. “We have one semester left, and I fully intend to finish first.”

  “Game on, Matthews,” Caleb says with a smirk.

  By the time we finish outlining our paper, I know we’re leaps and bounds ahead of everyone else in our class. The paper’s not due for another month, and the accompanying presentation is a few weeks after that.

  Caleb realizes the same. “We’re way ahead,” he tells me. “We can meet again in a couple of weeks.” I wait for the dread to accompany his words, but it doesn’t appear in the pit of my stomach.

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “Do you want to watch a movie?” Caleb asks. His voice is casual, but serious.

  And whatever bizarre force that overtook me in the library the last time I tried to interview him strikes again. In my mind, I’m screaming Absolutely not! Terrible, awful, stupid, dangerous idea. But what comes out is, “Sure.”