I pick up a ball and slam it with one palm. It’s firm and has that new-ball smell. I press it down in a dribble a few times and head toward the free throw line.
Swish!
Feels good. I grab my own rebound and line up a jump shot.
Swish!
Nothing but net. The ball comes back to me and I take an eight-footer.
Swish!
I go after my rebound and feel a little better, a little less tense. A little more like Ricki Jo… uh, Ericka… Ericka?
“Not bad, Winstead.”
I turn and see Wolf standing near the three-point line in a wifebeater and Nike shorts. Now I know who’s got practice. I bounce pass the ball to him.
“Oh, you talking to me now?” I ask.
“What?” he asks innocently, his cocoa eyes wide. “You noticed my silencio treatment in Spanish class?” He takes his shot, sinking it.
“Yeah, I noticed when I had to do Actividad twenty-two by myself, as both waiter and customer,” I say, catching the ball and passing it back to him.
He dribbles a little around the arc, looks at me, and shrugs from the top of the key. “I was just disappointed, I guess.”
“Kinda like I am when you play dumb in our Spanish big-group work?” I say as he lines up his shot.
Swish!
“I don’t know,” he says, wiping his brow with the bottom of his shirt and showing the beautiful six-pack I had assumed was there all along. “At first, I thought you were just gonna be some redneck. Then, I don’t know, we have homeroom and Spanish and whatever, and I kind of got to know you and I thought you were smart, and funny.”
I grin, glad to be having a normal conversation and sure that smart and funny probably equals marriage material… although he also said that redneck was his first impression.
“And now,” he continues, “I don’t know what to think. I just didn’t peg you as the kind of girl to sell out.”
I lose the grin, grab the ball, and chest pass it to him, hard and direct. “Sell out? How? I was just helping out a friend.”
“Looked to me like you were peddling your smarts to get friends.”
“Ha!” I scoff. “And you hide your smarts to keep friends.”
He shrugs and shoots, totally showing off. I grab the ball and pass it to him again, as hard as I can.
“And maybe you wanna get in good with Mackenzie’s brother,” he says, lining up a ten-footer. “I saw him at your locker today. What? Homework for a homecoming date?”
He closes his eyes and sinks the jump shot, making my blood boil. I guess this is why he’s a freshman starter for Varsity, but he has officially ticked me off.
I rebound for him again, but this time I dribble the ball out to where he’s standing, crossing it between my legs, which is pretty awesome considering the previously mentioned tall boots with tall socks.
“Horse?” I ask, challenging him to a shot-for-shot game in which one person shoots from anywhere on the court, in any style. The other person has to match the shot or take a letter. The first one to spell H-O-R-S-E loses.
He shrugs. “Should I go ahead and take a couple letters?”
“I don’t need a handicap,” I say, offended.
“Oh, yeah. You take the two letters, then, since you’re so willing to help out your friends.”
He sinks a jumper from the hash mark near the free throw line. I pull my thick hair back with the ponytail holder on my wrist.
Game. On.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
“He Wants You to Make the Move!”
This is what the headline of October’s Seventeen says, anyway. I’ve combed through September’s issue so many times the pages are starting to fall out. When Mamaw saw how down I was yesterday after school, she asked me what would make me feel better.
“A trip to Walmart,” I answered, to the extreme delight of my papaw, who shot up in his recliner like he’d won the lottery.
And now here I sit, spending a lazy Saturday afternoon in my favorite spot by the creek with the newest issue of my all-time favorite reading material ever, anxious to find out “The #1 Guy Mistake [I’m] Making.”
The signs seem pretty obvious. Apparently, guys don’t always have the confidence to ask us out, so they clue us in to their attraction in four easy ways:
He does the “look back.”
He says something stupid.
He tilts his head.
He uncrosses his arms.
I don’t know, though. At Mackenzie’s birthday party, Wolf put his hands on my shoulders, asked me why I wasn’t out there for the couples’ skate, and stared deeply into my eyes while the disco ball and slow jams entranced us. But then he forgot all about me the instant he saw another girl, so I don’t know what to make of that. According to the magazine, if his pupils were dilated, he was definitely into me. The problem is, I didn’t have the magazine at the time, so I didn’t know to check said gorgeous pupils.
“Ugh.” I sigh, closing the magazine, rolling it up, and stashing it in the pocket of my University of Kentucky hoodie. Fall is looming, cooling the otherwise warm day with a chilly breeze and working its way through the tall grass and around the trees, eager to settle in around the farm.
Curling my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I stare out over the rolling hills of our farm, feeling a little lost—like I’m back at square one. I mean, Luke is obviously going through scary stuff at home, and I can’t do anything to help him. My new friends are cool and popular and starting to accept me—especially when it comes to borrowing my homework, which makes me feel bad about myself. Candace is talking to me again, but we don’t have that much in common anymore. Wolf apparently holds me to some kind of moral standard that he himself doesn’t even observe but thinks I should. And as frustrating as that is, I still like him—maybe even more than before—because he’s right. Cheating is wrong. And it’s beneath me… as is leading guys on, which I think I may be doing with Mackenzie’s brother, Mark. He does the look back, he always says something stupid around me, his head is on constant tilt, and he uncrosses his arms when we talk.
I sigh. He would be such a nicer boy to like.
I stand up and make my way back to the house, brushing the grass and dirt off the butt of my jeans. I’m getting hungry and hear a PB&J calling my name. Then I’m going to snap out of my funk. Maybe I’ll go over some of my cheers in the front yard, or maybe I’ll call Luke and dominate yet another innocent victim at a game of Horse. Poor Wolf. His coach walked in right when he missed that last hook shot I set up. The look on his face was priceless, although my beating him may mean a few more días of silencio.
Back at the house, I smear creamy peanut butter over one slice of white bread and spread grape jelly over the other. Mash them together, and voilà! Lunch à la Ericka. I pour a glass of milk, shake a few SunChips onto my plate, and grab a paper towel before carrying my lunch out to the front porch swing.
The thing about being home alone with no cable is that there’s not a lot to distract me on days like today when my mind is going nonstop. I finished Gone with the Wind last night and wish I had the sequel ’cause I tore through it so fast and am dying for more. I need to know what happens to Scarlett and Rhett—that can’t be the end. I mean, sure, Scarlett’s conniving and somewhat selfish, but she’s also strong and fights hard for everything she wants. She loves to be the center of attention, doesn’t take no for an answer, and is both in love with and depressed by her family’s land. I love her, and I just can’t let myself believe that Rhett doesn’t give a damn. I really can’t.
Downing the last of my milk, I wipe my mouth and hop off the swing. Standing under Old Glory, my dad’s pride and joy ever since the summer we dug a hole and planted the flagpole, I stretch and soak up the last of the sunny days. I don’t want to think about Luke or Wolf or Mark or any of my friends, fabulous or otherwise. I jump up and down to get my blood moving and begin pumping my fists, doing Up V’s and Down V’s, twisting m
y hips, and lunging as I practice our chants.
“Go, go, G-O! G-O! Go, go, let’s go!” I shout, repeating the chant and motions over and over, the hills throwing my words back at me. I practice my tuck jump and keep working on my toe touch. I can almost do a back walkover; once I’m bent backward I have to kick off from the flagpole for the momentum I need, but I know that I’ll eventually get over by myself. When I see a vehicle passing by, I shout “Go, fight, win!” extra loud down the long driveway.
I’ve gotten one honk, which isn’t bad.
“Ricki Jo! Ricki Jo!”
I hear Luke, desperately calling my name repeatedly. I hear him shouting for me and I race around the side of the house toward his voice. What I see when I get to the backyard stops me dead in my tracks. Luke is running toward me at full speed, with blood all over his white T-shirt and carrying something small in his arms. Something about the size of a dog. Of my dog. Bandit.
“Ricki Jo! Is your dad here? Your momma? We gotta get Bandit to the vet!” he shouts, out of breath, almost over to where I stand, stunned.
I can’t move.
“Ricki Jo!”
He’s standing right in front of me now, panting, holding Bandit carefully against his chest. I am at eye level with my dog, the dog I picked four years ago when my uncle’s dog had puppies, the one I confide in, the one whose right foot goes crazy when I scratch his belly, the one I named and feed and love. My dog. Luke is holding my dog in front of me and I barely recognize him.
“Oh, Bandit,” I whisper.
His face is like some horrible cartoon, distorted and droopy. His left ear is hanging off his head, limp and sad. There is a huge gash on his jaw so that I can see every jagged tooth even though his mouth is closed. And his neck. Oh, god, his neck won’t stop bleeding.
“Ricki Jo,” Luke says.
I can’t move.
“Ricki Jo. It was that pack of dogs. I was heading over to see if you wanted to go to the creek or skip rocks or something and I saw ’em. They were all around Bandit’s doghouse. He was chained up, nipping at them from inside, but they were too much. They were all over him. I—” Luke falters. “I killed one.”
I look up at his face and see that it’s tortured.
“I killed one, Ricki Jo,” he says again, his face white. “Oh, god.”
Bandit whimpers and I look down. One eye is unfocused and dead-looking, but the other pierces me through the heart with a look of equal parts fear and defeat.
I break out of my trance, and touch Bandit gingerly. I’m relieved when I feel the slightest movement. He’s still alive, but barely.
“What are we going to do?” I ask Luke. “My folks went to town. Is anybody home at your house?”
He shakes his head, clearly distraught. “They’re gone. Everybody’s in town. Oh my god.”
Everybody’s gone.
“We gotta get him to the vet, Ricki Jo. We gotta get him some help.”
I look at Bandit and am filled with rage. Every breath he manages is labored. The wheezing sounds he makes torture me. I feel so angry and helpless. I look around the farm and wish my dad were here. He would know what to do. He would—
“The tractor,” I say. “We can put Bandit in the bucket and raise him up and… I don’t know, drive it to town.”
“It’ll take forever to get to town in the tractor,” Luke says.
“The four-wheeler, then,” I say, knowing this is the best idea. “Yeah. I’ll drive, and you keep holding Bandit ’cause I don’t want to move him. We can go way faster on the four-wheeler. And maybe… maybe Sarah’s family is home, and we can stop by there. They have racehorses! They probably have a vet on staff! Or maybe her family could take us into town.”
He nods and we’re off, running up to the barn. I hear Bandit cry a little bit and know that Luke is doing his best not to jar him too much. I hop on the four-wheeler and turn the key while Luke steps carefully over the seat and kind of leans back, holding on to the back rails with one arm so that Bandit can lie flatter against his stomach. I guide us down the hills and take the shortcut across the farm to the road past Luke’s house. No way am I passing the Gumbels’ place right now. No way.
At Luke’s backyard I power around to the front driveway, hoping like crazy that somebody’s come back home, but it’s empty. I do see his dad out back; he hollers something about tread marks in his yard.
“Keep going, Ricki Jo!” Luke shouts, and that’s just what I do.
On the road I can really open it up, and we’re flying. It’s so much smoother and I’m not as afraid for Bandit as we take the curves. I am afraid of meeting a car or toppling over, but I don’t—can’t—slow down. After a couple of miles I see the gates in front of Sarah’s house and feel a wave of relief wash over me. Her dad is actually out front, checking the mail.
“Mr. Whitman!” I yell, gunning it. “Mr. Whitman, please help us!”
I whip the four-wheeler into the driveway and he sees Luke and Bandit and all the blood right away. “Oh my god,” he says, his voice a whisper.
“My dog’s been attacked,” I start, words racing out of my mouth at ninety miles an hour. “He’s hurt bad and he’s still alive, but he needs a doctor and I’m really scared and our parents aren’t home and—”
He holds up his hand. “Wait here.”
We watch him run past the open gate and down the long tree-lined driveway. It looks like a lot of people are outside on their wraparound porch, and I’m so relieved that they’re home.
“It’s gonna be okay, Bandit,” I say, turning around and looking down at my dog. “Mr. Whitman’s gonna help us, okay? Okay, puppy?”
I look up at Luke and he looks at me, and I can’t take the darkness in his eyes, the fear. My emotions finally spill over. I don’t want to cry, but I do. Bandit whimpers and I cry harder. Luke reaches out to touch my hand, but his own is covered in blood and he stops himself. I grab it anyway, and hold on tight.
“Please don’t let my dog die,” I pray out loud. “Please, God, please don’t let my dog die.”
“He’s coming,” Luke says, and I turn back around to see Mr. Whitman flying down his driveway in a silver Mercedes-Benz. I let go of Luke’s hand, wipe my face on my sleeve, and shake my head, trying to get it together.
Mr. Whitman stops the car and hurries out of the driver’s side toward us. “We’re gonna put him on the back floorboard, okay, kids?” he says. “I put some newspaper down, and I want you to lay him down on top of that, okay?”
I slide off the four-wheeler to give Luke room and he carefully stands, swinging his leg over, being super gentle with Bandit.
“I’m going to need you to take off your shirt, son,” Mr. Whitman says before opening the back door. Luke’s hands are full and he pauses for a second, trying to work out the logistics.
“I’ll help you,” I say. “Squat down some.”
He does and I peel the bloodied T-shirt off his back and over his head, wrapping it around Bandit. Mr. Whitman opens the back door and Luke sets Bandit down as carefully as if he were handling dynamite. Mr. Whitman closes the back door and opens the front one, throwing a beach towel to each of us.
“For the seats,” he says, and heads back around to the driver’s side. I take my towel and walk around the car to the back. I want to ride with Bandit.
Luke and I spread our towels over the seats and get in. I’ve never been in a car this nice and it still has that new-car smell. We buckle our seat belts and Mr. Whitman takes off, handling the curves like he’s on the NASCAR circuit. I breathe, and pray, and try not to cry. I lie down on the seat, forgetting about my towel, just getting my whispers as close to Bandit as I can. I tell him I love him and he’s going to be okay. I keep telling him over and over because I have to keep telling myself. Mr. Whitman lets Luke borrow his cell phone to call his momma and then my folks. I close my eyes and keep whispering to Bandit, rolling with the rocking of the car, hoping that we’ll make it in time.
The girl at the front desk
only needed one look at the shirtless, frightened teenage boy holding a bloodied dog to page the doctor and get Bandit right in. The waiting room was actually a little more crowded than I would have expected, but no one minded us barging in when they saw our terror and, frankly, all the blood. Luke laid Bandit on a steel table in a small back room and Dr. Switzer asked us to leave, saying that Bandit needed “immediate attention,” which we later found out meant surgery.
When my parents finally showed up, I broke down; I started crying like crazy. My momma pulled me in and rocked me and stroked my hair, murmuring in my ear. My dad stuck out his hand for the usual man-to-man handshake he and Luke always share, but then shocked us all by pulling him in for a long hug. Luke blinked full eyes, pulled away, and walked over to the windows. Then Mr. Whitman approached my folks with a calmer version of what actually happened. I watched the grown-ups huddle together to discuss the situation and decided after a minute that it was all too much.
“Let’s go out back,” I said to Luke.
And now we’re perched on a black rail, waiting for word.
“Bandit was fine this morning,” I say, sniffling. “I fed him and took him water, and he was happy as a lark.” I wipe my nose on my shirt sleeve, a habit my momma hates. “Seriously. He’s such a good dog. I don’t know why I didn’t take him with me to the creek. I always take him with me. I should have taken him.”
“It’s not your fault,” Luke says, looking over at me. “You know that, right?”
I shrug, but I can’t shake the guilt. “It feels like my fault.”
“Yeah,” Luke says, swinging his legs and looking out at the horizon. “Sometimes things feel that way. You know, you just think there must’ve been—must be—something you can do. But in the end, you just gotta do the best you can, when you can.”
I look over at him and see his sharp jaw settling into a deep frown. His pep talk is forced, as if he’s trying to convince both of us… as if he’s not talking about Bandit at all.
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