by Jahn, Amalie
Resisting the urge to go to him now, I head in the opposite direction to the card table covered in three half-eaten bags of chips, a bowl of crusty queso, and a double-duty sheet cake with ‘We’ll Miss You Tess’ and ‘Happy New Year’ written across the top. At least I earned top billing with whoever decorated the cake. I help myself to a chip as I count the people dispersed around the room. Along with the eight other members of the chess club, there are a few stragglers who obviously weren’t invited to any other New Year’s parties around town.
“Surprise!” Claire yells, jumping off the second-hand sectional to give me a hug. I smile because she must realize the party is anything but a surprise since she’s been discussing it ad nauseam with anyone who’ll listen for the past three weeks.
Bruster hands me a Solo cup, and I thank him. “What’s in it?” I ask.
“Does it matter?” he says over the music, and I shrug in agreement before taking a sip. It’s warm and fruity and burns the back of my throat. The evening might be less painful if I chug it down, but I want to remember every moment of the last night I’m ever going to spend with these people, so I decide to nurse it instead.
I’m still standing awkwardly in a corner alone with my cup when Zander finally notices me, nodding in my direction from across the room. Looking at him hurts deep down, and I’m struck by an insatiable longing. There’s a hopelessness in the way he stares at me now as if he wishes I would get on with my leaving instead of dragging out the inevitable with my continued presence.
I force myself to turn away, unable to muster more than a wave before accepting an invitation to sit on the sofa between Tina and Claire. Ryan Seacrest is on TV announcing the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve performances. The people in New York look cold.
“I love Katy Perry,” Tina says, commenting on the night’s scheduled musicians. “I would love to dye my hair that color.”
“You should do it,” Claire tells her, grabbing for another handful of Doritos.
Tina rolls her eyes. “Like my mother wouldn’t kill me. Can you even imagine?”
If I had to choose two girls from East Chester who might legitimately dye their hair teal, Tina and Claire would be the last two I would pick. Of course, there aren’t many who would consider doing something so edgy. Edgy is one thing the kids from our town are not.
Claire turns to me then, as if she’s just remembered I’m leaving in the morning. “So how long’s the drive to Fayetteville?”
I’ve been dreading this conversation. The one where we all finally talk about my forced relocation across the country. Until now, everyone’s been avoiding the topic, like not talking about it might keep it from happening. But the time has come. My last night in Iowa. I guess they figure it’s now or never.
Never would have been preferable.
I sigh. “My dad says it’s like eighteen hours or something, but we’re taking two days to get there.”
“Your mom’s staying behind, though, right?”
“Yeah. To finish with the movers. Dad insisted Ashley and I leave with him tomorrow so we can register for school by the end of this week and start classes next Monday. He’s freaking out about us ‘getting behind on our studies,’ so we’ll be sleeping on the floor ‘til Mom and the movers show up sometime next week.”
Our new residence is a sore subject, and although I’ve been trying not to worry about living in a neighborhood, it’s making me claustrophobic already. I realize, as I chance a glance over my shoulder in Zander’s direction, I’m going to have new neighbors and none of them will be him. My mouth goes dry, and I bite at the inside of my cheek to keep the tears from spilling over. Someone new will be moving into my house, too. Probably a replacement best friend for Zander.
“Are you excited about your new school?” Tina asks, pulling me from my thoughts back into our conversation. It takes a second for my brain to switch gears, and as I shift my gaze away from the foosball match, I’m certain ‘excited’ is the last word I would use to describe how I feel.
“It’s gonna be different,” I say diplomatically. Although I’m in no mood to discuss my deep-seated feelings of inadequacy associated with not fitting in at my new school, for some reason, I go on. “I’m nervous about making friends. I don’t know quite what to expect.”
“Totally understandable,” Claire chimes in, always happy to hijack a conversation. “Because we’ve all know each other forever, right? I mean, since kindergarten at least. Except for when Jessica moved here in second grade. Or was it third? Either way, I can’t imagine having to start over again. Especially with a bunch of military kids who don’t know anything about life on a farm. What are the chances you’ll have anything in common with them?”
Although I attempt to keep the shock off my face, I must still appear horrified because before I can engage my brain to formulate a suitable response, Claire continues. “But I’m sure you’ll find someone to hang out with. And you always have Ashley, right? Sisters are the best.”
If Claire’s intent for this party was to help me feel better about my transition out of Iowa, it’s definitely not having the desired effect. Maybe it was overly optimistic of me to hope my classmates might gush about what an amazing opportunity I’ve been given or perhaps express jealousy over the path of my new life, even if they had to lie to my face. So far, they’re only making things worse.
Tina must sense my unease, cutting her eyes away from the television to change the subject. “Did you guys find a buyer for the farm and the livestock?”
“The auction’s in February,” I tell her, realizing as I say it there isn’t a single pleasant topic for us to discuss. The long drive. The new school. The sale of my farm. It all hurts. And now, despite their commiserate faces, I’m done with the party. I’m done chit-chatting about how my world is imploding all around me.
All I want to do is go home.
“Well, I’m sure my dad will go. He can’t resist a good livestock auction.” She takes out her phone and scrolls through her contacts. “I wanna make sure I’ve got your number because we should totally keep in touch. Call and text and whatever. And you follow me on Snapchat and Instagram, right? Promise you’ll post lots of pictures of the Army stuff in Fayetteville once you get there.”
Claire’s forced lightheartedness only makes me want to bolt even more. “Absolutely,” I say, the level of enthusiasm in my voice far surpassing my actual excitement. “I’ll definitely keep in touch.”
The girls turn back to Ryan Seacrest and his Rockin’ New Year’s Eve. We’ve officially reached the point in our friendship where there’s nothing left to say. To discuss homework or relationship drama or even the basketball team’s unexpected winning season would be a waste of breath. These things no longer connect us. We sit together in strained silence, watching the crowd of spectators in New York City who have assembled to welcome in the promise of a new year. I can’t help but resent their revelry.
“I’m gonna go check out what the guys are up to,” I tell them at a commercial break, even though I’d have to be deaf not to hear them freaking out over the foosball match on the other side of the room.
With my mostly-full cup in hand, I make my way to where Zander and Mike are still duking it out. As hard as I try, I simply can’t stay away.
“Game point,” Mike says.
“You wish,” Zander replies. “Somehow points keep ending up on your side. I know you’re cheating.”
“I never cheat. It’s not my fault you suck.”
Their banter continues, back and forth between them as if I’m not even there. The tiny ball ricochets around the table, flying from one end to the other until Zander finally shoots it into Mike’s goal.
“And that, my friend, is how you do it,” Zander says, spinning his red players in a display of triumph. He glances at me, a mischievous grin on his face. “You wanna play?”
His simple offer splinters the tension between us, causing a hairline fracture in the carefully crafted blockades we’ve both const
ructed to save us from ourselves. Part of me wants to decline nonchalantly as if I can’t be bothered with so many other options at my disposal. But instead, I cave immediately. How can I resist? Especially since it’s not only our final opportunity to be together but my last chance to beat the master at his own game.
“First one to ten,” I say.
Having already warmed up, he scores against me quickly. Twice. But before long, my hands remember the rhythm of the strikers: forward, mid, defense, goal. Between shots, I notice beads of sweat gathering at his hairline. He really wants to win.
I wish the moment could last forever. I wish I could keep living this life. The one where Zander and I battle over foosball and chess and who gets the last chocolate donut at the bake shop.
But time keeps moving forward and before long I’m surprised to discover I’m up by three points. Mike and Pete dog Zander from the sideline.
“After all these years you’re gonna let her beat you now?”
“Don’t be nice to her,” Mike warns. “She’ll never let you live this down.”
My body tenses. In an effort to rile up Zander, Mike’s distracted me instead. I lift my head to glare at him. I want to yell in his face. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter if I win or never let him ‘live it down.’ Because who cares about bragging rights when you live 1,200 miles away?
With my concentration broken, Zander scores again, the ball hurtling so quickly into my goal, I don’t even realize what’s happened.
“Your turn,” he says, smirking.
I fish the ball out of the return and toss it onto the table. Immediately, he scores another goal.
And another.
And another.
“Game point,” he says.
I want to win. I do. Because in all the years we’ve been hanging out in Claire’s basement, I’ve never beaten him, and it would feel amazing to finally take him down. But in that moment, my palms sweaty against the handles, I know we may never play another game of foosball in Claire’s basement together again.
And I can’t do it.
The ball drops one final time, and I ease off the rods. In less than ten seconds, Zander emerges victorious, dancing around the room like a lunatic, high-fiving the others.
“Tough break, Tess,” he says, giving me a sympathetic pat on the back. “Maybe next time.”
I force a smile. His words are meaningless—something nice to say since there will probably never be a next time. “Good game,” I manage.
I slink off to the food table and test the salsa. Not surprisingly, it’s mild, like everything else in Iowa. The people. The pace. The entire way of life. I wonder if I’ll ever adjust to a spicier existence.
I dip another tortilla chip into the queso, remembering the weather forecast on the radio on the way to the party. With predictions of overnight temperatures in the single digits, Dad’s probably already moving the herd into the barn and might need help raking extra straw for dry bedding to keep them warm. I’m weighing my allegiance to my friends with my commitment to my dad when it hits me: I’m wasting my time in Claire’s basement, because the truth is, Zander’s been right all along. If I’m gonna go, I should get on with it. Stop dragging out the unavoidable and leave already.
I excuse myself, announcing I have to use the bathroom upstairs, and with one final glance over my shoulder, grab my coat and keys from where I dropped them earlier at the foot of the stairs and head up. I don’t wave. I don’t give hugs. I don’t even say goodbye. I bolt out the front door into the arctic air, which catches in my lungs and nearly stops me in my tracks.
*
I find Dad where I expect, pitchfork in hand, piling additional layers of insulation for the cows to sleep against. He’s bundled in his heaviest coat, and his face is barely visible beneath his thermal mask.
“Need some help?” I ask, sliding the barn door shut behind me.
“Thought you were at your farewell party? Gotta be getting close to midnight, doesn’t it?” he asks, without looking up from his work.
I shrug. “I left a little after eleven o’clock. There wasn’t much left to say, and I figured you could probably use an extra set of hands here.”
He stops shoveling, and I can tell there’s some underlying sentiment he wants to express but doesn’t. Instead, he says, “It’s supposed to be cold like this for a few more days, and I can’t expect your mother to keep up with the herd while she’s dealing with the movers. I hired Dean Reynolds to take care of things until after the auction and Zander’s dad offered to help as well, but I wanna make sure the girls are ready to deal with this cold on their own as best they can. I’m gonna fill all the troughs with double the feed both inside and out in the fields. I also wanna keep this bedding nice and thick. They hate being cooped up inside, but it’s too cold for ‘em out there.”
I grab another pitchfork from the storage closet and begin lobbing straw into the stalls. As the herd looks on, we work in silence, relishing the strain of our muscles and the satisfaction of protecting the creatures who can’t protect themselves. It occurs to me, as we toil side by side, being a soldier might be more like being a farmer than I initially supposed, and my dad is going to make a great one.
With two of us working, it doesn’t take long to fill the stall floors. “If you load the troughs in here, I’ll take care of the ones in the field,” he says once we finish.
“Sounds good,” I agree.
He slides the door shut behind him while I head off in the direction of the feeders. Usually, the herd eats outside. In the summer, the cows feed on the grass in the pasture, but in the winter, we haul hay bales or grain into the large metal troughs scattered throughout the property. Most of them are outside, but there are some inside, too, for occasions such as this.
As I dump bags of grain into the troughs, I find myself lingering, pausing beside each cow to say goodbye. It seems strange I’m more inclined to have a proper farewell with them than my friends, but perhaps it’s because the cows, ignorant of our diverging futures, haven’t begun looking at me with sadness in their eyes. I scratch Greta behind the ears. Lay my cheek against Daisy’s snout. And by the time Dad reappears from the pasture, I’m weeping into Sunshine’s neck.
“They’re gonna be fine,” he consoles me, placing both hands on my shoulders. When I don’t respond, he pulls me away from her, and I crumple into his chest, crying with unrestrained desperation. He strokes my hair, quietly shushing me like I’m a child with a busted-up knee, and although his reassurances are inadequate, they’re comforting just the same. Once my breathing returns to normal, I find the courage to lift my face, hoping to draw strength from his composure. Instead, his tear-stained cheeks betray him.
“We’re gonna be fine. All of us,” he tells me, and I get the feeling saying the words aloud is as much for his benefit as my own. “Once we get past this hard part of leaving, I’m sure it’s gonna get easier.”
“It’s gonna be great,” I offer in an effort to ease his guilt.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and leads me toward the barn door. “You always have been my optimistic girl, haven’t you,” he says.
I shrug but absorb the warmth of his praise.
Before leaving the barn for the last time, he turns back to face the herd, calling to them in a voice racked with guilt. “Good night, Ladies,” he says. “And Happy New Year.”
*
It’s almost one o’clock in the morning by the time I crawl into bed. Even after a hot shower, my cheeks and toes are still cool to the touch, and I welcome the warmth of my flannel sheets. I wonder briefly before closing my eyes if we’ll even need them in North Carolina but decide I don’t care. I’m keeping them either way.
I’m almost asleep, barely conscious of drifting off, when I’m startled by a noise outside my window. Before I have a chance to turn on the light and investigate, the sash slides open and someone steps into my room.
I hope beyond all hope I’m not dreaming.
“Zand
er?” I ask, not wondering if it’s him but why he’s here.
He’s all the way in the room now, standing at the foot of my bed. “Did I wake you?” he whispers.
“No,” I tell him. He blows into his hands, and I lift my blankets, inviting him under the covers to warm up.
“It’s colder than a polar bear’s butt out there,” he says, snuggling against me in my tiny twin bed like we’re still six-year-olds, camping outside in each other’s backyards. I wrap my arms around him and he settles against my shoulder. “You left your own party.”
“It wasn’t really my party,” I say. “More New Year’s than anything else.”
“The cake was good. Red velvet. You would’ve liked it.”
There’s so much I want to say. Apologies I want to give. Promises I want to make. But the words are jumbled around in my head, and I’m afraid if I speak everything will come out all wrong.
“I didn’t have anyone to kiss at the ball drop,” he says eventually, and I wonder if whatever was in his Solo cup has gone to his head.
“Tina and Claire were there,” I say.
He chuckles grimly and his voice turns serious. “We’ve been together every New Year’s since we were babies, you know that?” His words settle over me, and I strain under the weight of them. Heavier still is the burden of what he doesn’t say: And this might have been our last.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling the need to explain, “but it was so cold and I knew my dad was gonna need help with the herd and…”
He rolls over to face me, placing a finger over my lips. “It’s okay, Tess. I get it. It’s been hard being around each other for the past few weeks. I didn’t realize the anticipation of you leaving was gonna suck so bad. I didn’t know how horrible I was at long goodbyes.” Now he’s the one who’s apologizing. “I guess I didn’t know what else to do. I figured this day might be easier for both of us…”