by Linda Benson
“That’s awful,” I say. “My mother used to cook gourmet meals, like every single night. She was always trying out new cookbooks and she made us the most amazing things to eat.”
David has moved closer now and I can feel the nearness of him. He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. I’ve never had a boy hold my hand. Well, except for my brother Pendleton, when I was little. But this is different. I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe. My heart beats so hard against my chest I hear it pounding in my ears.
We sit there like that, David and me, and neither of us says a word. I can hear him breathing, in and out, and I close my eyes and try to match his exact rhythm.
I’m not sure how long we’re on the bench together. My head drops over sideways, and I think it might even lean on David’s shoulder. He doesn’t move. But the phone ringing in the kitchen startles us both.
I jump up and run to grab it.
“Olive?” It’s Aunt Trudy on the line.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, dear. I’m feeling fine. I just wanted to make sure you got home safely, and to tell you that the yellow dog…what was his name?”
“You mean Calypso?” I say, almost breaking into a laugh at the sound of that silly name. David has followed me into the kitchen and stands there with a quizzical look on his face.
“He’s run away again. That lady called down here to the shelter to report him lost. He broke his chain, just like last time. I thought I’d let you know, in case he comes back up toward the house again.”
“Okay, we’ll, I mean I’ll watch for him.” I hang up the phone and glance over at David. He was holding my hand less than one minute ago, but now I’m suddenly shy. “That was Aunt Trudy. She said—”
“Something about the dog?”
“Yes. That yellow dog is loose again.”
“Wow,” he says. “Well, maybe that’s good, in a way. I always felt bad thinking about him chained up again. Hey, what time is it?”
“I don’t know.” I check the clock on the wall behind him. “Two-thirty.” I can’t believe so much time has passed. We must have sat on the bench together for a long time.
“I gotta go. I need to show up on time,” he says. “Building the barn.”
“Okay. But Swede probably wouldn’t care if you were a little bit late. He’s really a nice person.”
“I know. But you don’t understand. I have to be there.”
“How’re you gonna get there? Call your mom?”
“I could. But I don’t want to. I can jog. If I take the shortcut down Conrad Road, it’s only about three miles to the field.”
“But…you have all your books.”
David shrugs, and hoists his bag onto his shoulders. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and he takes off, just like that, down the driveway, the backpack flopping around on his back.
I stand on the front porch and watch him go. At the end of the driveway he turns around and waves at me, and I get goose bumpy all over.
34-David
The heavy backpack bangs against my shoulder blades. I can feel the edges of my algebra book digging into my left shoulder. When I think about how much homework I have tonight in my advanced classes, I get a sick feeling in my gut. I try to keep up a steady jog, but it’s not as easy as I thought carrying all my books, and I sort of wish I’d called my mom for a ride.
I slow to a walk, and I wish I knew exactly what time it is. Then I pick up the pace again, feeling like one of those hamsters trapped inside a tiny cage. Swede might be a nice guy, but I know he expects people to show up on time.
As I get close to the shortcut at Conrad Road, I steal a glance ahead, toward the bottom of Upper Ridge, thinking about Aunt Trudy’s phone call and wondering where the yellow dog might be. That dog could be almost anywhere. He’s free. Free to just go as he pleases, checking out every little corner of the world.
Unlike me, who is stuck on this hamster wheel. Finish building the barn, finish my weekends with Swede through the end of the contract, finish school, start the Air Force Academy, finish the Air Force. The weight of everything before me just sags against me, almost worse than the actual pack on my back.
If only I could just break loose like the yellow dog and go wherever I please. Maybe it’s a sign, that the dog is free again. But what does it mean? I have no time to be running around exploring where I might go. I’m stuck, and can’t see a way out of this mess.
I walk a little faster and find if I jog at a certain pace, the backpack doesn’t move around too much. Then I think about Olive, and how she leaned her head on my shoulder and how good she smells. I smile, and for a little while, I forget all about the load on my back.
I jog to the end of Conrad Road, close to the highway and the bridge where my mother picked us up after our stupid raft adventure. I see a shiny Toyota turn cautiously into the narrow track of the dirt field. Whose car is that? Must be somebody who’s lost. The car’s way too new to be driving it into a rutted hay field.
I reach the field and notice two people sitting inside while the car still idles, purring like a contented cat. Both the passenger and the driver open their doors at the same time and step outside. The driver is Sherman.
“Hey,” he says. “Check out my new wheels.”
“Wow.” I ease my backpack onto the ground. “But you’re not sixteen yet, are you?”
“Not for a couple more weeks,” he says. “But the dealership was going out of business, and my dad decided it was too good a bargain to pass up.”
I whistle through my teeth. “Sweet.”
It must be nice to have Sherman’s parents. My dad could probably afford to buy me a car, but I’m sure he won’t. He never bought one for my brothers. Instead, he told them they could work for it and buy their own cars.
“So your dad’s letting you drive a brand-new car with just your permit?”
“Yeah,” says Sherman. “He said I might as well learn in the same car I’m going to be driving when I get my license. They’re all a little different, you know.”
“Hey, you got anything to eat?” I ask as Sherman’s dad slides behind the wheel of the shiny Toyota and backs it out onto the highway.
“No,” says Sherman. “I ate lunch at home. Didn’t you?”
“No. I went up to Olive’s. We played with her puppies and hung out, but I forgot to eat anything except a couple of cookies.”
“Olive, huh?” asks Sherman. “Is that the girl in the truck that day, who gave us a ride with the raft?”
“Yeah. She rides the same bus as me.”
“What is she, like eighth grade? You sort of like her, don’t you?”
I shrug my shoulders. Sherman seems like an all right guy, but I don’t want to tell him what I think about Olive just yet. Besides, I don’t really know myself.
We walk through the dried stubble of the field toward the barn, which has the framework nailed solidly in place now. Swede’s brown Dodge bumps toward us across the field, bringing a load of siding.
“Afternoon, boys,” he says. “James show up yet?”
We both shake our heads. James is late pretty often. I don’t want to be late. I want to get this whole ordeal over with and totally off my record.
“Humphh. Here, give me a hand with this, would you?” says Swede. “You can stack it on the east side. We’ll start nailing it up from there.”
After about fifteen minutes, Sherman and I have all the siding unloaded and we’ve nailed a couple pieces in place. James’s mother pulls in to the end of the pasture and lets him off.
James meanders down the dirt track toward the barn, acting like he has all the time in the world. Swede Hanson glances at his watch. Then he heads toward James.
“Uh oh,” I wink at Sherman. “James is going to get chewed out.”
We can hear their voices through the still October afternoon. The words late again and contract drift across the field.
“Yeah,” says Sherman. “That Sw
ede seems like a pretty nice guy. I mean, I wish we were getting paid for this, but I don’t really mind doing this kind of work. But I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.”
“Same here,” I say.
The afternoon goes by pretty quickly after that. Swede has me and Sherman finish nailing up the siding together. He makes James haul the corrugated sheets of roofing up a ladder and then kneel in the hot sun and screw it down.
“Ow,” says James. “This stuff is hurting my hands.”
What a baby. Sherman and I just ignore him. Swede digs around in the toolbox behind the cab of his pickup for an extra set of gloves. He tosses them up to James, and then climbs up the ladder to show him how to fit the roofing together.
It’s about five-thirty, close to quitting time, when I see my mother’s SUV turn into the field. She’s early, which is weird. She’s never early. But she’s blasting the horn as she guns the vehicle bumpity-bump across the rutted field. A shudder runs through my body. Is it news about one of my brothers? Bad news?
But Mom jumps out the vehicle with a huge smile on her face, waving her hands to get my attention. “David. David!” she hollers. “Grant is getting leave from Afghanistan. He’ll be home for Christmas!”
That’s great. I’m dying to see my brother. Except for the fact that I have lost his championship football ring.
35-Olive
Of course the minute I started thinking a boy like David might actually like me, now I’ve barely seen him. We don’t have any of the same classes at school or the same lunch period, and he hasn’t been riding the bus hardly at all, which is like the entire story of my life. The minute I start thinking something good is going to happen, it never does. Which is why it’s probably all my fault, because ever since David came up to my house and we sat on the bench together, I started thinking about him as my boyfriend.
Now I’m stuck here, sitting in Aunt Trudy’s living room with two cats on my lap. Rags and a small white kitten curl up on my crossed legs. Three more cats are sprawled out on the carpet and one sits by the front window, watching the early November rain.
I stroke the fur underneath the white kitten’s neck and she purrs. I keep thinking of the way David laced his fingers through mine when we sat on the bench out back. But it’s stupid to keep thinking about David. Even if he did like me, if he ever found out where my mother’s actually been all this time, that would be the end of that. Besides, I still haven’t heard from my mother, I’ll probably never have an actual boyfriend, and now I’m turning into a Cat Lady.
“Olive, what’s your favorite kind of cake?” Aunt Trudy calls from the kitchen.
I ignore her, because I don’t want to think about what she’s planning. I aim the remote over the tops of the cats’ ears and flip through channels on the television. I should go into my room and work on my U.S. history homework, but I have one word for that. Boring.
“Olive, did you hear me?” She wanders out with the stub of a yellow pencil in her hand. She’s making notes on the back of a used envelope she dug out of the garbage. Waste not, want not. That’s the favorite motto around here.
Aunt Trudy tucks a graying strand of hair behind her ear, and looks me straight in the eye. “What kind of cake do you like, hon?”
I know what she’s doing. She’s planning a big celebration for my fourteenth birthday. It’s not till the weekend after next, but she’s already been talking about it. Aunt Trudy wants to have an actual party, but I have no friends from school, and David probably won’t come, so guess what? The only guests are going to be Swede and maybe a couple of ladies from the animal shelter.
Aunt Trudy stares at me, waiting for an answer.
“Carrot cake,” I finally say.
“Really? That’s different,” she says. “I thought you’d like chocolate. I’m not sure they have carrot cake mix at the market, but I’ll look for it.”
“My mother used to make it from scratch,” I say.
“Oh she did, did she?” Aunt Trudy raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t know Jade ever took the time to bake.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, closing my eyes. “Mom made carrot cupcakes for every one of my classroom parties when I was little. And when I got older, she used to plan these great get-togethers for my birthday, and make all the food herself, from scratch.”
“I see,” says Aunt Trudy.
“When we lived in California, we’d celebrate my birthday at the beach, because it was always warm there, like eighty degrees or so.”
“Even in November?” she asks. “Eighty degrees?”
“Yes,” I say. “California was so wonderful. It never rained at all. The sun shone every single day down there and it was always pretty much…well, perfect.”
“Olive, I don’t want to upset your apple cart, but I’ve heard they have some pretty big storms down in California. Sometimes it even rains hard enough they have mudslides.”
“Well, not where we lived!” I say, my voice coming out louder than expected. “Besides, how would you know? You weren’t there. You don’t even know what my life was like.”
Aunt Trudy moves a step toward me, with her arm outstretched like she’s going to reach down and hug me or something. I don’t want any of her hugs. I am so sick of hugs. The white kitten jumps off my lap as I spring up, still holding Rags, and dash into my room. I slam the door shut, flop down on the single bed next to my cat, and pull a pillow over my head. Aunt Trudy knows nothing of how it was in California. She’s never even been there.
Finally, after a little time has gone by, I reach for my U.S. history book and begin to read chapter twenty-one, which is our assignment for tomorrow. But I cannot concentrate because for some reason my eyes are all blurry. It doesn’t matter, anyway, if I don’t do my homework. My mother will get out of jail soon. It’s been almost six months. And then she’ll come up to get me, and I’ll go back home with her, and I’ll start school all over again back in California. Or wherever we decide to live this time.
I hear a soft knock on the door. I know it’s Aunt Trudy. She’s going to apologize for getting me so upset. “What?” I ask. I reach for a tissue and wipe my nose.
“I’m going to town, Olive. Do you want to come with me?”
Town? The rain rat-a-tats against my window. There is absolutely nothing to do here at the house. I can’t go outside, and I’m bored out of my gourd staying inside.
“No, I’m going to stay here,” I say.
“I thought we might stop by that shoe store out on the old highway and get you a good pair of winter shoes,” she says.
Great. Just what I need—winter shoes. In California, you can wear flip-flops all year long. “I said I don’t want to go!” I know the words sound mean the minute they come out of my mouth. But I can’t actually take them back.
“Okay,” says Aunt Trudy. At least she doesn’t open the door. “I’ll only be gone about an hour.”
I have a funny feeling inside my gut. It’s been a couple of months now since that scary incident when Aunt Trudy passed out in front of the feed store and had to be admitted to the hospital. But she’s been absolutely fine since then, so maybe it was just a weird fluke. I’m sure she’ll be okay driving to town by herself. I mean, I can’t drive yet anyway, so how could I be any help? I can’t go anywhere. I am just stuck here, waiting. Waiting to turn fourteen. Waiting for my mother to serve her time and get out of jail. Waiting for her to come up here and get me. It seems like that’s all I ever do in life. Just sit here and wait.
36-David
We got the hay barn finished just in time, because basketball season starts the first week of November. Winter seems like it’s already started too, and I’m glad I’m not still standing out there in the downpour nailing siding on the barn or climbing up a rain-slicked ladder carrying roofing material.
My mom drives me to school now, and I stay after for basketball, so I haven’t seen Olive at all. The first week of practice seems like it drags on and on. Coach works our butt off after school,
running drills up and down the court. And my advanced classes are tough, too, with so much homework that I barely get it all done each night.
Saturday morning, I can barely climb out of bed. But then I remember it’s my weekend for hay deliveries for Swede. And of course he always starts early.
So I’m up having breakfast with my dad, who never sleeps past six a.m. no matter what day of the week it is. “You got your contract with Mr. Hanson almost wrapped up?” he asks, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Yeah. Just a few more times delivering hay and then I’m done.” I can smell his strong brew all the way across the table. Personally, I don’t know how anybody can drink that stuff.
“That’s great, son. Get all of this business behind you and forgotten. Won’t show up on your record or anything. That reminds me…” he says, popping a couple of pieces of whole-wheat bread in the toaster.
“What?” I am barely awake and not really up for a long conversation.
“I arranged an interview for you with Senator Hyster next weekend.”
“An interview?” I ask. “About what?”
“Oh, just kind of a meet and greet. He’s doing it as a favor for me. I’ll be there, too. We’ll make it a Sunday afternoon lunch thing.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Next Sunday. It’s never too early to be starting on your letters of recommendation for the Academy, David. You are going to need several of them to get in, you know.”
“But I’ve never even met the guy,” I say.
“Exactly,” says Dad. “He needs to see who you are, what you represent, what you can bring to the military service. That kind of thing. We’ll begin to establish a relationship with him, maybe play a few rounds of golf if the rain holds off. Get him on our team, son. So when you do need your letter, he’ll be able to draft one easily and your chances of getting into the Academy will be right up there. Trust me on this one.”
Why do I have such a sick feeling in my gut? I don’t want to spend Sunday afternoon with a senator, or even have a “round” of golf with the guy, as my dad calls it. I barely know how to play golf. I’d rather go up to Olive’s house and play with the puppies. But I don’t say that. In fact, I don’t say anything. It’s the story of my life. The appointment has been made. The plans are set.