by Chanel Smith
Before the evening when my world turned crazy, it was one of those days. Slow and steamy, with the pungent smells of petrochemicals mixed with agrochemicals. It was a stench I was used to, and one that permeated the pores of my skin so deeply that sometimes I wondered if I moved away if it would stay with me.
The rubber on my tractor tires glistened. It appeared as though the heat had begun melting them, or maybe it was just an optical illusion brought on by my own dehydration. But tires or no tires, hallucinations or not, the hay-moving job needed finishing… today. I wasn’t gonna spend my weekend breathing in gnats or scorching in the sun like some panting gecko on a fence post.
Rainstorms were expected next week and after checking the moisture content of a few of the bales drying in the field, Dad had asked me to move the hay bales into the large shed before the weather turned. I didn’t mind the hard work. In fact, it was kind of my poor man’s gym to move the bales from the field with the tractor and then stack them by hand on pallets four or five high in a staggered pattern with spacing between them. I had washboard abs, and arms and shoulders like a gym addict. Whenever I was tired of busting my ass, I reminded myself of all the city boys who paid personal trainers to torture them… just to look like I did.
The hay was a constant worry. It was my job to periodically take the temperature of the hay. The alfalfa hay business was a decent trade as long as you kept your bales from getting wet and moldy—and stacked them correctly to avoid spontaneous combustion. I always got a little bit of beer money out of it, too. My dad was good to me like that. After Tommy had left us, Dad had moved me up to profit sharing, which was somewhat better than the eight bucks an hour that he used to pay me. But that meant I worked harder, too. No goofing off. I was a semi-partner in this dirty hell, and maybe it would be mine someday. Mine and Tommy’s, if he ever came back.
We also grew avocados. A lot of avocados. For most of the year, it was just only my family and Jesse, our hired guy, tending the orchard; but when the fruit got near-ripe, we hired a crew of seasonal migrant workers to get them all off the trees as quickly as possible and ship them off in reefer trucks. With up to five hundred avocados per tree, there was no way that we could do the picking by ourselves. My dad always tried to beat the Peruvian avocados to market by a week—he was so good at timing that kind of thing that it blew me away, year after year. His instinct for the marketing side, as well as the farming side, was seasoned by experience.
Dad always said to have at least two crops, just in case one of the crops got wiped out by weather, drought, disease or pests. His logic and planning had saved our farm many times over the years. And as much work as it was to have both avocados and hay, he was about the smartest businessman I knew. As much as I complained about him, I secretly respected him, what he and his father had built from naked dirt.
My family had a hay contract with the winery and wedding venue up the road. The vineyard had a stable of showy, dappled Percherons—draft horses—with braided manes and tails, which the winery used to lure tourists off the highway for photo ops and horse-drawn carriage rides. The horses were good for their wedding business and also for our hay business. Every girl who grew up around these parts wanted to have her wedding at the Cavallo Valley Winery and arrive at the white wedding gazebo in a coach worthy of Cinderella. Their stable of pretty horses, well-watered turf and rose gardens—with the picturesque golden foothills in the background—brought an imitation of style from the Napa Valley to scummy Wheatville. Their wine wasn’t the tastiest, but they hyped it with their advertising and horsey brand identity. Like other farmers around here, they struggled to make a go of two revenue streams. In that way, they were like us, never depending on just one “crop.” I didn’t kid myself that we were in their league, though. They were an upscale business, and we were the real dirt farmers. So we weren’t friends. We did business transactions.
I got it. Class consciousness was definitely at a premium around here. On a personal level, though, I did think that class came from within. Through honest thoughts and honest actions. If I felt out of place somewhere or with someone, or I had to pretend to be someone I wasn’t… it ain’t real. Also, there was nothing real about the Cavallo Valley Winery—nothing but the money. They were all show.
Soon, though, folks around these parts were about to have a lot more to worry about than weddings, wine tastings, and caring for flashy pairs of matched horses.
While backing the tractor away from the shed, I glanced over my shoulder. As I did so, I noticed a dust plume rising and expanding into the air, like the smoke from a steam engine. Only a few things sped that fast on the slippery and narrow dirt roads: the Department of Agriculture, the immigration brute squad—we called them La Migra—and my buddy, Vance Chambers, on his new Yamaha dirt bike.
Sure enough, it was Vance, whom fate chose to distract me from my chores. He skillfully drifted to a stutter-stop and followed with a crooked middle-finger salute. Then, like a spoiled little shithead, he skidded his back tire and proceeded with a couple of noisy donuts, kicking up the dried topsoil into my nostrils and mouth.
“What the hell, man?” I yelled, spewing dirt spittle from my lips. “You could have hit the tractor. It’s not even paid for!”
“I had it under control.” His eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, Vance sat on his bike and flashed me his trademark grin. The same carefree grin that made guys want to pound in his face with their fists and made girls want to peck at it with their lips.
He wore his favorite red Adidas jacket with two white stripes running down its sleeves, a pair of butt-tight, black 511 skinny jeans, and his favorite brown cowboy boots. Country hipster, I called him, and not kindly, either. Everyone else knew him as Second-Chance Vance after he’d barely survived crashing his dad’s crop duster into the Sacramento River, making headlines from here to Modesto.
That had been big news in these parts. Vance had swum to shore, but his grandpa hadn’t been so lucky in that plane crash.
“What ya’ think?” he said, gunning the bike and turning it in another circle, kicking up even more dirt. “Been practicing all week. I’m thinking of taking the bike to some motocross competitions.”
“Don’t be a fool. You just learned to ride that thing, and not very well either,” I said, and felt something hard grinding between my molars. I spat it out onto the palm of my hand: a pebble. “I should pin your ass down and shove a fistful of dirt down your pie hole, too.”
“Ah, come on. You know you wish you could be riding this sweet bike instead of slaving away for Daddy.”
“Well, not all of us had a granddad leave us a fortune—which you seem to be pissing away with a new toy every week,” I said. I was suddenly startled at how jealous I felt of Vance’s money, which had come to him through his own recklessness and not by any hard work.
It was a low blow I’d dealt, too. I knew Vance missed his grandpa, and the airplane crash had left some serious scars along his arms and upper back. Then again, it was also piss-hot and I could give a shit about anyone’s feelings but mine. Vance was irritating me and was now threatening to shit on my weekend.
I stepped off the tractor and bent down to stretch my cramped legs.
He ignored my comment, and instead, shook dirt from his dirty blond mop. “What are your plans this evening? Got another asado lined up with family?”
“Why?” I asked, perking up. “Is something kickin’ tonight?”
I hated his condescending tone, but he was right. It was about time I had a little fun on the weekends. Something that didn’t include listening to my drunk Uncle Julio singing along with Ídolo Americano, Telemundo’s version of America’s, fast-declining, favorite karaoke show—and badly, too.
Yes, I needed to get a life.
“Of course, you haven’t heard the news. You’ve been playing on your tractor all day,” he said.
Playing? I nearly wrung his neck. Nearly. Maybe later. “Heard what, dammit?”
“There’s a party on Saturday night.
Like old times. You comin’ or what?”
“Whose party?” I asked, my face twisted, half-expecting it to be Krista’s or one of Giovanni Russo’s wannabe ravers.
“Don’t worry, man. It’s not with Gio or his crowd. I know that whole scene makes you uncomfortable.”
“Glad it isn’t Gio.” I nodded. “I don’t party with druggies.”
Vance did hang with Giovanni—occasionally. It wasn’t that Vance dabbled in drugs, he just had a thing for hot girls with daddy issues, and they all seemed to gravitate to Gio like moths to a flame. Plus Gio had a sexy bad-girl sister, Terri.
I did my best to avoid that scene. Unlike Vance, I had a thing for good girls, and just one good girl in particular. Not Terri. I also didn’t have much respect for Gio; in fact, I despised him and considered Terri completely off limits, just because of her brother.
The guy always seemed to have that crazed look in his eye, like some cornered raccoon. Always paranoid, always on edge. Supposedly, he fought real dirty, too. Like dirty and rotten ugly, as in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly… Ugly. There had been rumors streaming through town of Gio vigorously stomping on a guy’s nuts—not to mention the time he bit some dude’s ear clean off, apparently over being cheated out of an eighth of an ounce of pot. Not even good pot.
Such bullshit.
In my eyes, Gio was small time, too dumb to be anything but a drug dealer.
I’d give him the tiniest bit of credit, though. He’d somehow been able to beat the odds. The shit odds that life had dealt him.
It was no secret that Gio had an older brother serving ten in Lompoc; another, six feet under at Hillcrest, and a father who’d been on the run since ’08. Nothing too terrible, just 10 years of missed child support payments was all.
“Where’s the party?” I asked.
“Guess.” Vance’s eyebrows arched high over his platinum and reflective lenses.
“Where?” I demanded. I guess he thought I could read his mind.
“The party is at Miranda’s parents’ place.”
Okay, such news made the prospect of leaving my work unfinished a little more enticing, but it also revealed how much out of the loop I was. “Miranda’s home? I thought she was still at Berkeley.”
Vance chuckled. “Dude, they got you working too hard. It’s April. Spring break. She’s down this week and wants to hang out with the crew again. Or what’s left of us. She asked about you. She wants you to come.”
Why did I suddenly turn into a babbling, wide-eyed dope as soon as I heard her name escape Vance’s crusty lips? Miranda was by far the most gorgeous, intelligent and amazing girl I’d ever gone to school with. Then again, I could have been a little biased. We’d dated, before life’s crossroads had split us apart.
Miranda was the only girl I’d ever known who didn’t let a little dirt on my cheeks get in the way of a kiss.
After a moment or two, pretending I wasn’t burning with excitement at her presence in town, I said, “I’m in, but I had plans with Ricky.”
“Ricky? That sophomore high school kid next door? What were you guys gonna do, drink Capri Sun while earning a Cub Scout patch or something?”
“It’s tough to make it to Eagle Scout, but he’ll make it. So, shut the hell up.” Sure, Ricky was just a kid, but I often felt like his protective older brother, kinda how Tommy used to be with me.
I also felt sorry for the kid. He lived with Walt, his father, a heavyset, long-distance truck driver who popped pills like they were Skittles. Although Walt did all he could to financially support Ricky, he’d often leave him home alone whenever an overnight delivery came up.
After his parents had divorced, Ricky’s mother had moved north to a commune in southern Oregon. A vegan, hippy-dippy outpost where turnips were carved into deities or some shit, and whose location was tucked deep in the woods near the Cascades, far from civilization, nowhere near a decent school—hell, nowhere near any school. Which was the main reason Ricky lived with his father during the school year.
“Poor kid doesn’t even know how to fish,” I said, hoping Vance would understand. “I promised him a round of night fishing.”
Vance tightened the grip on the bike’s handlebars and lowered his apelike brow.
“Seriously?” he said, revving the engine. “Ricky’s not goin’ anywhere. Miranda is. If you want to see her at all, you’ll come to the party.”
“Dammit,” I said. “Let me use your cell phone.”
“Calling Miranda?” He handed it to me.
“Nope.” I dialed the number I knew by heart and waited for Ricky to pick up.
When he said hello, I told him, “Hey, Ricky. It’s Miguel. I’m using Vance’s phone.”
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I need to postpone our fishing thing.”
“Oh, no,” Ricky said, deflated.
“We’ll do it soon, I promise.”
“Are you sick or something?” he asked.
“No, bro. My ex-girlfriend’s in town and I’m gonna see her. A party at her parents’ house.” It was always best to tell the truth.
“Can I come?” came his young, eager voice.
“I dunno. There’s going to be drinking. I don’t want your dad to get pissed at me for taking you to something like that—if he found out, he might not let us ever chill again.”
Ricky sighed. “You’re right. I can’t say I’m happy about it, though. I got my fishing license at Walmart. Like you told me to.”
“We’re gonna fish. I promise. Just not this week.”
“When is she leaving town?”
I paused. “When spring break’s over.”
“A college girl. I see why you prefer her company to mine,” Ricky teased.
I laughed. “What are you going to do instead?”
“Chat on Facebook with some city girls. Pretend I’m older and that I have a nice car.”
“Good plan,” I said. “I’ll call you next week.”
“You better or I’ll pretend to be you online,” Ricky said and hung up.
I handed back Vance’s phone.
“He took that pretty well,” Vance said.
“Shut up. He’s my friend. My neighbor. He’s got no bro and that sucks in this town.”
“You got that right.” Vance said, “Hop on. Bro.”
“Why?”
“You’ve got blood dripping from a cut on your right arm. I’ll take you up to the house.”
I looked at it and wrapped my sweaty neck bandana around it and tied it. “Shit. I must have cut it on something while I was stacking bales.”
“Come on.”
I took one final glance at the tractor behind me before turning back to Vance and his Yamaha. Before hopping on, I noticed the sissy bar behind the seat was missing. “You got rid of the bitch bar, does that mean—”
“That you’ll wrap your arms around my waist and squeeze me oh so tight,” he joked. “And be my bitch?”
It was the twenty-first century, and I really didn’t give a shit, but Wheatville was still a conservative town and lately, they seemed eager to pile on Vance and his family, too. Their silo business was up for sale, and a Chinese company was the frontrunner. Grandpa Chambers would never have entertained such a deal, they said, and I couldn’t have agreed more.
“No, it just felt safer with the bitch bar,” I replied dryly. “I don’t care if I gotta hug you.”
“Well, I do, but I wasn’t the one who took the sissy bar off. Some tweaker ran off with it early this morning. The muffler would’ve been next if I hadn’t remembered leaving a sixer near Grandpa’s old, detached wheel house.”
“What? That thing’s still there?” I asked, fondly remembering our drinking spot from most of our senior year.
His face lit up like old times, back when we had been part of a dude posse before his grandfather had died in the plane crash, back when he had been truly happy and not distracted by these rich boy’s toys.
He patted the back of his bike se
at and said, “Get on, cowboy. Let’s get you all cleaned up before you get lockjaw or something.”
Chapter Three
We drove by the crooked, charcoaled trees lining both sides of the dusty road that led to the front of our house. There was another road that led to the back, where Dad or Jesse usually parked the truck. Our hired hand, Jesse, had dropped me off this morning before running an errand for Dad. Jesse wasn’t scheduled to pick me up at the field for another hour or so. So, I had time.
As soon as I got off Vance’s Yamaha, I heard Dad yelling on the phone through our wide porch window.
“Who’s he barking at?” asked Vance.
“Who knows,” I said. “But he’s gonna be pissed even more when he finds out I didn’t finish the hay moving job. Let’s just pray it doesn’t rain tonight or I’m dead meat.”
“Just tell him Miranda’s in town. He’s gotta understand. I mean, he’s got you working all day and half the night—he did like Miranda, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” I said, nodding as I heard Dad barking through the window, “Who doesn’t like Miranda?”
Vance chuckled underneath his breath.
Caught off-guard by his not-so-subtle giggle, I turned to him and asked, “Who doesn’t like Miranda? Tell me.”
“Well, Krista thinks she’s a bitch, but you knew that already,” Vance said, dismissively. “She’s just jealous.”
No, in fact, I didn’t know. I knew they stopped hanging out during junior year, and sensed friction between them at times. There was something more to Vance’s immediate reaction and I suspected envy had nothing to do with Miranda and Krista’s rift.
“I need a cell phone in my life,” I told Vance. “If I had one, I’m sure Miranda would have called me, like from college. I mean, wouldn’t she have?”
“Yeah, so how come you ain’t got one yet?” Vance asked.
“Dad said he’s got an extra one for me lying round the house. Once he finds it, he said he’ll activate it.”
“All right. Give me a call once you’re done with whatever you gotta do or ask. Remember, the party’s this Saturday. It’ll be like old times,” Vance said.