The Queen of Kentucky

by Alecia Whitaker

  This gets a few chuckles and I plow forward.

  “Then, at this meeting, maybe some cool, hot jock is sitting next to me and asks me to stand up, only to have the entire classroom staring at me as I say, ‘But I am standing up!’ Except, you know, funnier.”

  A few kids giggle and the big guy next to me grunts, “Pretty funny.”

  I smile over at my new comrade and smack his massive shoulder like we’re old friends. I’m going to have to get his name.

  “I mean, obviously it’d be better than that. But I just think it’d be good comic relief,” I add, doing what my dad calls laying it on thick. “And we could put it near the pet obits to balance out all the high-school-is-depressing-enough vibes!”

  Now the laughs are easy and everyone’s smiling, and I feel myself loosen up a bit. Just like Mom and Dad with cheerleading, these folks are cracking under my spell, and I start really amping up the drama.

  “And I know I couldn’t use ‘Traumarama’ as a title since Seventeen already does, but I’m thinking ‘Trauma and Drama—Terrible Tales of Teenagedom,’ or something like that, with some real-life gossip mixed in.”

  I can tell the idea is taking off because another girl I don’t know adds that we could have monthly themes (which I’d already thought of, but I’m delighted to let her think it was her idea if it means she’s in my corner).

  “I like it,” Mitch says. “I’ll work on it with you at first, actually, as you get a feel for the staff and how we run things around here. Girl, you will get so much gossip and dishing that you may want to consider being anonymous as well. People will be breaking down your door wanting to know who really said what.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. But people breaking down my door to talk to me? Sounds to me like I have to have that byline.

  Mamaw and Papaw have picked me up from school every day this week, now that I demand to see Bandit as soon as the last bell rings or practice is over. Squished between my grandparents and moving at thirty miles an hour is a small price to pay to get to the vet’s office, but today Luke begged to come along, so Papaw is driving even slower than usual. With Luke hunched down behind us in the bed of the truck, obviously without a seat belt, Mamaw keeps her eye on the odometer and yells about “precious cargo” every time the needle nears twenty.

  At Dr. Switzer’s office, Luke and I get our books out and start studying. Mamaw watches over us like a hawk, determined to make us focus on our “lessons” until they let us in to see Bandit, while Papaw occupies himself with a copy of Field & Stream magazine that the staff left out in the waiting room.

  On my first few visits, I just did my homework until my momma came by, getting to see Bandit briefly before going home. They let me pet him while he rested and talk to him and mash up his medicine in his food. But yesterday was different: Bandit was totally awake and hobbled around out back a little, yelping weakly and excited to see me. When I told Luke, he was determined to come visit.

  “We can probably take him home this weekend, depending on whether he’ll need the eye surgery,” I whisper to Luke when Mamaw gets up to use the bathroom. “The staff is watching him around the clock.”

  “He’s lucky,” Luke says.

  “Yeah,” I agree. “And I’m lucky to have parents and a doctor who are willing to save him instead of saving money by putting him to sleep.”

  “Absolutely,” he says, nodding firmly.

  “And, you know”—I shrug my shoulders and start tapping my pencil against my science book involuntarily—“I—well, we—are all just… I don’t know. We owe you one. A big one. If you hadn’t found him when you did, hadn’t saved him…”

  I’m working toward “thank you,” but my throat closes up. I know I can get it out, but the only way to open up my throat is to open up my tear ducts, and I really don’t want to cry again.

  A warm hand covers mine and my pencil clacking stops. “I know,” Luke says.

  I glance over at him and nod, then turn back to the clock.

  “Miss Winstead?” the girl at the front desk asks. “Would you like to see Bandit now? He’s up and walking.”

  A smile explodes across my face and, of course, a couple of tears spill out, but I play them off as tears of happiness.

  “I’d love to,” I answer, quickly wiping the back of my hand across each cheek.

  We put our books in our bags and leave them with Papaw. Then we walk down the hallway to the outside kennel, me leading the way. At the back door, Luke stops cold when he sees Bandit through the thick glass. He still has the tube through his chest and neck and he’s wearing a bandage on his left eye. Plus, there are lots of stitches.

  “I know,” I say, grabbing Luke’s arm and pulling him a little. “But really, he’s a lot better.”

  I open the door and Bandit howls when he sees us, whipping his tail back and forth like crazy. I force myself not to run, but walk calmly over to him and put my face close so that he can give me kisses. I’d like to hug him and wrestle with him and kiss him right back, but Dr. Switzer has warned me many times to remain calm and be gentle. Bandit doesn’t realize the extent of his injuries, so we can’t overexcite him. I can tell Luke is worried about touching him at all, but as soon as he sits down, Bandit hobbles in between his long legs and licks his chin.

  “I can’t believe it, Ricki Jo,” Luke says to me, his face a sea of astonishment. “I… I didn’t know if…”

  “I know,” I say. “You saved his life.”

  Luke looks out over my shoulder at the back lot, which separates the vet’s parking area from the nursing home’s. He is intensely focused on something, but when I turn around to follow his gaze, I don’t see anything. And then, when his eyes darken, I get a cold chill.

  “Hey,” I say softly, reaching out to touch his knee. “Are you okay?”

  “I saved his life,” he says, “but I took a life, too.”

  I sigh and look over at Bandit. He waddles out from between Luke’s legs and over to a caterpillar making its way across the ground.

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  “I killed one,” he says, still not looking at me. “I picked up a piece of wood from your dad’s woodpile and beat that big black dog. His teeth were just—”

  He pauses to look at Bandit, involuntarily raising his hand up to his own neck.

  “Just latched on,” he continues. “Bandit didn’t have a chance. His head was like a rag doll’s, just hanging there in that killer dog’s mouth while the others were barking him on and taking swipes and bites at Bandit’s side and—”

  Luke shakes his head hard, closes his eyes, and shakes it again. I can almost see the whole scene being tossed out of his mind, being driven out by that need to get out from under the hold something like that would have on a person. He shakes his head yet again and opens his eyes, finally looking at me. I shiver.

  “I gripped that piece of wood,” he continues shakily, “hollering like a madman, and just whacked him as hard as I could. His skull cracked, Ricki Jo. He just fell—dropped limp. Bandit, too. They just fell right there on the spot.”

  I flip my ponytail over my shoulder and run my fingers through it absentmindedly, listening and afraid to interrupt since Luke is usually a closed book. I don’t know what to say, because all the things I want to say—You did the right thing, Thank you, You saved his life—might make him stop talking.

  Luke sighs as Bandit follows the caterpillar around him, smacking him in the back with his tail.

  “I can hear that crack when I go to sleep at night,” Luke says really softly. “It kind of haunts me. Like, I know I had to do something to help Bandit, but then, after I whacked that other dog, I didn’t even check on him, didn’t even give him a second look. I just pried Bandit out from his grip and ran. I just left him there.”

  At this point, I feel a little of that old anger bubble up in my gut. I mean, I’m glad Luke’s talking to me, ’cause he always keeps everything so bottled up, but seriously? Am I supposed to feel so
rry for that stupid attack dog, who shouldn’t have even been on our property in the first place? Supposed to feel sorry for a five-on-one fight where my dog was tied up the whole time? No! I’m glad Luke didn’t check on that other dog. To be honest, I’m glad he killed it, and I wish he’d killed them all.

  “You can’t think like that,” I finally say, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to keep the bitterness at bay. “If you hadn’t stopped him, he would’ve killed Bandit. He almost did. And anyway, blame is a weird thing. I mean, if I’d untied Bandit that morning, or taken him with me to the creek, he wouldn’t have been there to be attacked in the first place. And if he weren’t chained up, he would’ve at least had a fighting chance. And then you wouldn’t have had to kill that monster. So, whose fault is it really?”

  “Well,” Luke says, “it’s not your fault.”

  “Sure feels like it.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “Yeah, but I could’ve prevented it. Right?” I ask. “I mean, I could’ve stopped it from ever happening.”

  Luke looks at me hard. Then he looks off behind me again, past sun-kissed old cars parked in the nursing home lot across the way. I see his jaw tighten, see the storm clouds roll over his blue eyes. He stares out and I stare at him, and we sit, silent.

  “It’s my fault then,” he finally says. But I can’t tell if it’s a statement or a question or a challenge.

  “I’m sorry?” I say.

  “I don’t prevent my momma from getting knocked around, so it’s my fault.”

  “Luke,” I start, “that’s totally dif—”

  “No,” he says angrily. “You’ve seen it now. You heard it before, maybe assumed it, but the other day, you actually saw it. Saw what I come home to, or what happens sometimes right there in front of me. And I always just let it happen.”

  “Luke.”

  “That’s what you’re saying, right, Ricki Jo?” His voice is getting louder. “You said you didn’t prevent it, so it’s all your fault. So if I don’t stand up to my pathetic excuse for a father, then the bruises on my momma’s face and arms are my fault.”

  “Luke,” I say, leaning up on my knees, trying to make eye contact. “Luke, look at me.”

  “He beats her,” Luke says, turning his head to look directly into my eyes. “He drinks and becomes a different person. A monster. An animal that waits until my older brothers are gone to pick fights with my momma. To knock her around.” He takes a second, looks away, and then looks me straight in the eye again. “Ricki Jo, I’m afraid he’s gonna kill her.”

  “Luke.”

  “No. It’s like with Bandit. He didn’t have a chance in that fight. Just like Momma.”

  “Luke.”

  “I’ve got to stand up to him. Fight him. Grab a piece of wood, or whatever it takes. Fight force with force.”

  “Luke,” I whisper, because I don’t know what else to say and he’s scaring me. I put my hands on his face and stroke his cheeks with my thumbs. He looks at me, looks right through me, and I feel like he can see all the way into me, to the blood racing in my veins. I am kneeling in front of him, eye to eye, locked. I want to tell him with my eyes that it’s not his fault. That he’s the best person I’ve ever known. That—

  “Luke” is all I can choke out, all I can say.

  He softens, though. He hears everything I want to tell him in the quiet between us. Then he takes my hands from his face and rocks me back ’til I’m on my heels again. I see that his eyes are full before he drops his head into his hands, hunching over his long legs. Bandit stops still between us and looks at Luke, curious. And I guess he can sense our emotion, ’cause his tail drops and drapes itself between his back legs. He whimpers and limps over Luke’s legs again, up between his skinny arms, snuggling into his lap as best he can. I hear Luke let out a soft sob and I spin so that I’m facing the other way, knowing that’s what he wants. We sit there another ten minutes, Luke crying and me pretending not to hear.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “You want to help me feed, Ricki Jo?” my dad asks Saturday morning.

  I’m sprawled out in front of the television, watching cartoons with Ben, totally zoned out. I look over at my dad and consider my options.

  “Are you asking if I want to help you feed, or are you telling me to help you feed?” I ask.

  “Up to you, kiddo,” he says. “The cows have missed you, and your dear old dad likes having you around, but it’s completely up to you.”

  Guilt trip. Great.

  I lug myself off the couch, tired of SpongeBob anyway. “Give me a second, Dad.”

  “I’ll meet you in the shop,” he says, smiling, and heads down the hallway to his man-cave.

  It’s a bright morning, brisk but clear. As I put on a flannel shirt and old jeans, I think about how little I love the smell of manure, but also how great my dad’s been about Bandit. That last surgery yesterday wasn’t necessary for Bandit to live, but Dad gave the go-ahead anyway and Dr. Switzer was able to restore partial vision in his left eye. So feeding the cows isn’t glamorous or mentioned anywhere in Seventeen when they’re talking about how to snag boyfriends or become popular, but it’s a good way to show my dad that I appreciate everything. Plus, he usually tells pretty great stories when we’re out on the farm alone.

  In the garage, I pull on my work boots and grab a pair of my dad’s old leather work gloves. As I am making my way across the backyard to my dad’s shop, he meets me with a Coke and a Little Debbie, and I can’t help but smile. Every now and then, he mixes business and pleasure in the perfect way. We make it to the electric fence before I hear Momma yelling for me.

  “Ricki Jo!”

  I turn back and see her on the deck with the cordless phone in her hand.

  “Yeah?” I holler.

  “Telephone!”

  I look at my dad. “Want me to tell her to take a message?”

  It’s the right thing to say with my voice, but he can see in my eyes that it’s the exact opposite of what I really want to do.

  “That’s okay,” he says. “Go take the call, and then meet me up at the barn.”

  I hug him and kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Teenagers,” he mumbles.

  “Just a second, Momma!” I call, running to her at breakneck speed.

  “Who is it?” I ask, completely out of breath.

  She covers the mouthpiece and holds the phone away. The smile on her face and the twinkle in her eye make me nervous… like she’s up to something.

  “A boy,” she says.

  I freeze. A boy?

  “And it’s not Luke,” she continues.

  I wrack my brain, wondering who the mystery boy could be.

  “Want me to ask who it is?” she whispers.

  “No!” I yell. I’m still trying to control my breathing when she finally hands me the phone.

  I take the phone and walk toward the other end of the back deck, eager to get far away from my mother, and even more eager to find out who’s on the phone. I’m guessing it’s Mark. I mean, that’s the only logical person besides Luke, because I think he sort of likes me, and he could’ve asked Mackenzie for my number. No other guys know my phone number. I mean, they could look it up—there aren’t that many Winsteads in the phone book—but why would they? Who would?

  “Hello?” I pant into the phone, keeping an eye on my momma, who doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to give me privacy.

  “Yo puedo hablar con Ericka?”

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  All the blood rushes from my face and then floods back a second later. Momma steps closer when she sees my reaction and I wave her away.

  “This is she,” I answer, knowing that voice and that god-awful hick Spanish accent.

  “Hey. It’s David,” the voice says. “Um, Wolf.”

  I pause to scoop my lower jaw off the deck and sit on the bench to stop the yard from spinning.

  “
Hello?” he asks.

  “Uh, I’m here,” I say.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Um, not much,” I say, my head reeling. “Just finished up some homework.”

  “That’s cool,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Then we both just sit silently on the phone. I use this pause to go back inside and shut myself safely in my room, away from the nosy interference of my momma. I cradle the phone between my shoulder and my ear and wipe my sweaty hands on my flannel shirt, all the while watching the big clock on my headboard as thirty slow seconds tick by. I’ve dreamed of this phone call for months, and now that it’s here, I have nothing to say.

  I am crazy about this boy, and although he knows I’m alive, he seems to use that knowledge for evil. I’m still pretty mad about the school picture thing, but it’s hard to be angry with him right here, right now, when he’s called me and he’s on the other end of the phone line!

  “I’m sorry,” he finally chokes out.

  “What?” I say, thinking I misheard him.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I don’t always act like a nice guy, but I do feel bad about your dog. Is he okay?”

  “He’s getting better,” I say, smiling in spite of myself—tingling in spite of myself. “Still at the vet’s, but we hope he can come home this weekend.”

  “That’s cool,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, and we go into another marathon pause.

  “So…” he finally says. “Think you can start talking to me again?”

  “Oh, so you noticed the silencio treatment?” I tease. My horoscope in Seventeen this month encourages me to “take a romantic risk,” so I’m going for it.

  “Yeah, I noticed when I had to do Actividad thirty-three as both fruit vendor and customer,” he says, and I can hear him grinning through the phone.

  “Well, payback’s a you-know-what,” I say, giggling.

  “I know, I know,” he says with a lighthearted laugh. “But I didn’t talk to you for one class period. You’ve ignored me all week!”