Amazing Grayson (#MyNewLife Book 3)

by M. E. Carter

  “Oh, Adeline that sounds great.”

  “Eh. Too cliché.”

  I smack my hand to my forehead. “You really are blocked.”

  “I am, Greer. I so am,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I need to go on this promotional tour and meet some people to inspire me. You know how much wandering around new cities and taking pictures helps open up my brain to creativity.”

  “That’ll probably help.”

  We chat for a few more minutes about her work-not-actually-in-progress as well as a few more administrative things before I hear the front door open. Julie walks around the corner and waves at me, knowing better than to interrupt a phone call while her brother isn’t home. Uninterrupted time is a commodity around here.

  “Hey, Adi, I need to let you go. Kids are getting out of school, and I need to get into mom mode. They’ve only been in school for a week so we’re trying to get this new routine down.”

  Poor Adeline. She knows my home life situation and is always accommodating. She doesn’t know how much it makes things easier on me, but really does.

  “All right, well, wish me luck.” I know she really means it.

  “Good luck. But, Adi, you’ve got this. I know you do.”

  “Thanks. And hey, Greer?” She stops me right before I hang up.

  “Yeah?”

  “You got this too. This move is the best thing for you.”

  My whole body relaxes at her words.

  “Thanks, Adeline. I think we’re finally where we’re supposed to be.”

  And I do. Something in my gut is telling me this is it. This is the last place I’m going to live, and I’m perfectly okay with that.

  We get off the phone right as the bus pulls up. Time to take over afternoon duties. That means switching from career woman mode into mom mode. Not that Adeline and I are all that professional when she’s in a mood like today’s. Still, the kids come first.

  Opening the door, Oli ambles up the walkway and into the house.

  “Hey, buddy. How was school?”

  “Good,” he says vaguely. Oli has a hard time coming up with intricate answers to questions. There’s no asking how his day was and getting an explanation of an assignment he didn’t like or a funny conversation. His standard answers are either “good” or “bad,” which still isn’t all that accurate. But I’ll take this one to mean nothing overly upsetting happened. It’s a small win, but I’ll take it.

  Unsurprisingly, he heads straight for the pantry. Oli may have his own issues, but his appetite is right on track for a seventeen-year-old boy.

  “What was good about it?” I try to pull more information out of him. It’s good practice for his social skills.

  “Nothing.”

  Okay. It wasn’t as good as I’d hoped, but I’m actually not surprised. We do this conversation song and dance almost every day. Then we argue over peanut butter, like we’re about to again. I brace myself and hope he’s in a good enough mood that we can practice some sandwich-making skills this afternoon.

  “Oli, that’s too much peanut butter. Remember we talked about how to spread it across the bread?” I ask gently, trying to sound encouraging and not nagging.

  He grabs a jar of honey and begins squeezing it on the other slice of bread, completely ignoring me.

  “And that’s too much honey.”

  I snatch it out of his hands so he’ll stop making a pool of liquid sugar, and he yells, “Hey! I was using that!”

  “Oliver,” I say sternly, “you are ignoring me. You need to spread the peanut butter and not use that much honey. That much sugar isn’t good for you.”

  “Yes, it is,” he says, smashing the two pieces of bread together and taking a giant bite. I’m almost positive he didn’t get a hint of protein in that morsel since the peanut butter is still a lump in the center of the sandwich.

  “No, it’s not. And I’m not going to argue with you about it. If you won’t use the right portions, you won’t be allowed to make your own sandwiches.”

  He rolls his eyes, another normal teenage thing to do. “Why do I have to learn that anyway? That’s stupid.”

  “It’s part of being an adult. Knowing how to eat good portion sizes will help keep you healthy.”

  “I don’t want to be healthy.”

  Our conversation is beginning to spiral, and I know if I don’t change topics, it could be leading to a meltdown. So, I close the jar and the bread bag and hope to transition to something less volatile.

  Who knew Jiffy could cause so much drama?

  “Are you excited to work at the farm tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  His answer surprises me. It’s all he’s been talking about all week. His new school offers a co-op opportunity for the special education kids where they go out to a local farm and work. It’s a great opportunity, and we were lucky to get him in. Not everyone is accepted into the program. I hope this attitude doesn’t transcend over to tomorrow. I’d hate for it to ruin his first day.

  “How come?”

  He takes a giant bite of his food before answering, “I don’t like riding the bus.”

  Putting the food back in my new giant pantry, which may be my favorite part of the house, I purse my lips at him. “Since when? You love riding the bus.”

  “Huh uh,” he argues. “I don’t like when the other kids sneeze.”

  I lean my forearms against the counter, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “People sneeze all the time. Why does it bother you now?”

  “Cause this girl sits behind me, and she sneezes and gets germs all on the back of my head.”

  A lightbulb goes off in my brain. Oli isn’t usually obsessed with germs, but I can see why he would be grossed out by someone sneezing on him. I would be too.

  “Have you told your bus driver about it?”

  “No. Can I have my tablet?” The subject change is immediate, but not exactly surprising.

  “You know you can’t have it until seven o’clock.”

  Hands clenched together, he stomps his foot on the floor and yells. “That’s not fair! It’s my tablet, not yours!”

  Aaaaannnnnd, here we go.

  “It is fair. The rule is you have to do your chores first, and at seven, we’ll talk about how much tablet time you’ve earned.”

  Pressing his lips in a hard line, he squeezes his eyes shut and brings his fists to his forehead. If I wasn’t used to it, the mood change would be jarring. It’s almost sad that, because this is our normal now, it doesn’t faze me.

  Finally, after taking a few seconds to try and calm down, Oli tries a different tactic. “Mom, I had a hard day. I’m tired. I want my tablet time now.”

  “No, Oliver, don’t ask me again.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Julie walk in the room just as Oli gets more enraged. He bellows out in frustration, making Julie turn on her heel and head to her room. I hate that she doesn’t even flinch when these outbursts happen. And I hate that I have to go talk to our new neighbors and let them know they don’t need to call the cops.

  No domestic violence here. Just a boy stuck in a man’s body and all the frustrations that go with it.

  “I hate you!” he screams at me. “You’re the worst mom ever!”

  I blow out a breath as he stomps off, grateful when his bedroom door slams shut. At least he didn’t break anything on his way out of the room this time.

  Deep breath in.

  It still smells like cleaning products and paint and cardboard boxes. It’s the smell of a new beginning to our lives. I’ll take all the baby steps I can get.

  “Whew!” Pedro exclaims next to me, as we watch the black mare unload off the trailer in front of us. “She is a beaut, isn’t she?”

  I cock my eyebrow at him like he’s insane, which quite possibly he is. The horse I see in front of me is haggard, has scars all over her body, probably from previous abuse, and she’s still a little on the skinny side. Granted, she’s a rescue, and we knew she wouldn�
�t be in the best of shape, but somehow Pedro sees something I don’t.

  “Are we observing the same horse?”

  “Aw, come on, Ace.” He kicks up his leg, resting his boot on the wooden picket fence in front of us. “She just needs a chance. I’m telling you, she is gonna be a great riding horse once I build her trust. Maybe she’ll even be good at rounding up the cattle.”

  The words no more than come out of his mouth before she rears up, causing the farmhand who’s guiding her off the trailer to hang on to the rope for dear life, as he’s lifted two feet off the ground.

  I turn my head to watch Pedro, wondering if he’s changed his mind.

  “So, we’ve got some kinks to work out,” he remarks before I can say anything. “But this is what we do here, right? Take the ones that have kinks, smooth them out, and help them find their best potential.”

  He knows I can’t rebut that, because he’s right.

  All Hands Farm began as a dairy farm, and that’s still our main function. With over three hundred Holstein cows, we provide milk not only to the local grocery stores in the area, but we’re in the process of expanding to more states. It’s a business that has been in my family for generations.

  Shortly before my mom passed, though, she and I came up with a plan to expand even further. That includes the other side of the farm—the special needs co-op program.

  For the last decade, we’ve been working with a couple local schools, specifically their special education department. The high school busses some of the higher functioning special needs students out here to give them some fresh air and a little bit of exercise. In the process, we teach them job skills varying from minor construction to lawn maintenance. Several work in the calf barn doing feedings and cleaning. I even had a couple kids learn how to use all of the equipment to milk the cows and were later hired on after graduation. It’s turned into a win/win for everyone.

  And I know from first-hand experience, having had a brother with disabilities, being around and interacting with the animals can make a huge difference. There’s nothing like the nuzzle of a good horse to calm someone’s impulsive behaviors.

  The program has worked out great, to the point where at least a couple times a year, people from the Texas Education Agency come out to see how we operate and if there is a way to duplicate it in other parts of the state. As far as I know, they’ve never been able to, but at least we give them a good start.

  It also means I don’t have a good argument against Pedro bringing a wild mare into our midst. Especially since he purchased her with his own money, on his own time, and is going to be the one responsible for her care.

  “I know I agreed to this,” I say without so much as a glance at him, still watching the horse with a wary eye, “but you better make damn sure everyone on this farm knows no one is to get on her except you. You are it, my man. She’s your horse. She’s your responsibility. She’s your liability. I’m not gonna have this place shut down because of your wild card.”

  He claps me on the back with a wide grin on his face. “No worries, man. I got this. You know me better than that.”

  I make a “hmfph” sound because I know full well if anyone can break her and get her under control, it’s Pedro.

  Pedro and I grew up together. This farm has been in my family for three generations. When my dad inherited from my grandfather, Pedro’s dad was his number one farmhand. From the time we were practically toddlers, Juan was bringing Pedro to play with me and help out with basic chores. He and I, being the same age, of course became best friends, spending our mornings learning how to feed baby calves and muck stalls and the afternoons swimming in the lake, catching frogs.

  We went to the same high school. Played in the same sports. Admired the same pretty girls. He was more like a brother than a friend.

  Even this many years later, that bond has never left. He’s one of the people I trust most in the world. When my dad suddenly died of a massive heart attack in the west field, Pedro was the one who broke the news to me and picked me up at the airport when I flew home. And when I took over at the farm, Pedro was with me every step of the way—helping me get all the clients squared away, making sure we knew how to do the books, and hiring someone to run the office. It was a natural progression for him to move into the position of farm manager and my right-hand man when Juan retired. We’ve been a team for so long, there is no one I trust more. Not with my business nor with my life.

  Except when it comes to this. This horse has a history of being unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Based on her skittish behavior, I have huge reservations about her ability to thrive around people, let alone be ridden safely. But there’s no stopping Pedro from trying. That doesn’t mean I don’t think he’s crazy for it.

  I hear the bus pulling up behind us and turn to greet our co-op kids. Waving at the program coordinator, Mrs. Johnson, who doubles as the bus driver, I see mostly familiar faces getting off the bus.

  “Hey, Mr. Ace.”

  “Hey, Donnie,” I say to one of our regulars as he high-fives me on the way to the barn to start feeding our small collection of chickens and barn cats. I love working with these kids. It’s nice to see them flourish and grow, and seeing the delight on their faces makes it all worth it.

  Unfortunately, some of the delight is directed at Pedro’s new project, who is still whinnying and stomping in displeasure.

  All of a sudden, a new face in the bunch takes off running away from the rest.

  “Oli!” Mrs. Johnson yells after him. “Oliver Declan, stop!”

  He doesn’t listen, so I go immediately into “bouncer” mode. “Oliver Declan, stop right now,” I yell, and he does. Somehow the deep timbre of my voice makes an effective tool when it comes to getting kids to obey.

  “Must be the new kid,” Pedro says unnecessarily since neither of us have seen him before.

  Walking toward the teen, I do a quick assessment. It always helps to make a few pre-judgements on the kinds of issues we could be dealing with. Because of all the privacy laws, I’m not allowed to get a lot of initial information on the disabilities and needs the kids have. I have enough to make sure they’re safe, but a lot of times I’m forced to wing it for a while. Once the parents come to visit and take a tour, they usually give me more insight and ideas.

  Until then, I must go with what Mrs. Johnson is allowed to tell me and my gut instincts. For instance, this particular boy doesn’t have any outward physical deformities. He also doesn’t have any distinct facial features like my brother had, so I can safely rule out Down’s Syndrome. He doesn’t seem to be avoiding eye contact either. If he’s on the autism spectrum, he must be pretty high functioning. However, he’s a little on the heavy side and lumbers rather than walks. Maybe muscle tone issues?

  No matter what his official diagnoses are, he has a huge smile on his face. That’s a good sign.

  “Morning. I take it you’re Oliver?”

  “Don’t call me Oliver.” His voice is monotone but not angry. Just factual. “My name is Oli.”

  “Hi, Oli. I’m Ace.” I reach out my hand and sure enough, he takes it and shakes it tightly. “Welcome to All Hands Farm. It’s your first day, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I like horses.”

  So far, so good.

  “Me too. Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

  He shakes his head, still admiring the mare and not paying much attention to me. “No. But I’m gonna be a cowboy someday.”

  “That sounds great, Oli.” I take care not to stand too close and get in his personal space, still not able to pinpoint what kind of reactions he might have. I assume there are some behavioral concerns with him, but that’s not unusual for the special ed program. Frustrations can run high when you struggle to communicate or get terribly uncomfortable. “The most important part of being a good cowboy is you have to learn the rules and you have to follow them.”

  “What kind of rules?” Oli finally regards me, and while his eyes are clear, th
ere is a slight vacancy to them.

  “The number one rule is you don’t approach any of the animals without permission from either myself, Mrs. Johnson, or my friend Pedro.”

  Pedro immediately jumps in. “Hey, Oli. Nice to meet you.” He puts his hand out to be shaken and Oli complies easily, which has me feeling confident that Mrs. Johnson made a good choice bringing him here.

  “Can I pet that horse?” Oli stares right at the mare when he asks.

  Shooting Pedro a glare for coordinating a terrible delivery time, I respond, “That horse just got here. You see how she’s jumping around and stomping?”

  He nods.

  “She’s still kind of scared, it being her first day and all. So, we’re not letting anyone pet her today. We’re gonna let her get used to being in a brand-new place.”

  “Okay.” Oli looks over at me again. “Can I pet another horse?”

  “You can pet a horse after we get some work done.”

  His shoulders slump. “Aw man. You’re gonna make me work?”

  This is more along the lines of what I was expecting. It doesn’t matter how many times the kids are told work comes first and hanging out with the animals comes second, it doesn’t completely translate until they’ve been in a routine for a couple weeks. It’s a struggle in the beginning, but one that’s well worth it after they’ve learned the ropes. Even better, once they get used to the reward system, the kids almost always start to enjoy the productivity of a job well done.

  “Hey Oli, why don’t you come with me?” Pedro offers. “I’ll give you a tour. Show you where everything is and get you set up at your first job. The sooner you finish your work, the sooner we can pet the animals.”

  “Okay.” Oli doesn’t even hesitate, just walks away with Pedro as he points to the normal things he shows on the tour, like where the bathroom and the water fountain are located. We’ve learned over the years those are the two most important things.