Dairy Queen (13 page)

I wouldn't be the first girl in the world to play football either. You hear stories sometimes about high school girls who place kick, which is safe and neat and you don't get tackled or anything. And I saw a TV thing once about a football league made of girls in California or someplace like that. But I'd never heard of a girl playing running back on a boys' team. Which was the position I wanted to play.

But the real reason I wanted to play football—and I sure wanted it as much as I've ever wanted anything in my life, as much as I wanted to beat Hawley in basketball last season—is because, well, this is going to sound really strange, and I'll probably never be able to explain to anyone. But if I made the Red Bend football team, it would mean I wasn't a cow. That's what I'd been struggling with ever since Brian showed up. Everyone I looked at, their whole lives, did exactly what they were supposed to do without even questioning it, without even wondering if they could do something different. Of course my brothers played football; everyone knew they'd be playing football. People knew before they were born, even. They never had a choice. They acted like cows do, doing what they're told without even thinking about it. But what if it was different? I mean, what if one day a cow out there in our pasture said to herself, "I've been looking at that tree for years and today I'm going to climb it"? Which wouldn't be all that safe for a cow to do, and which now that I think about it doesn't reflect too well on my own goals for football. But at least she'd be doing something, her very own idea.

And so would I. I'd be doing something. Even though we didn't have any money and I'm a failure at school—because that's what F means, it means failure—and I'll probably never go to college and I'm not pretty or popular or talkative or anything like that, I'd still be doing something. Something no other girl had ever done, no girl that I ever knew, anyway.

It's not like I stood there in our heifer field thinking all this through. Someone else's brain might work that fast, but mine sure doesn't. But I just had this immediate feeling that filled me up like milk pouring into a pitcher until you can see it right there at the rim almost bubbling out. That's what it felt like. It took me a lot longer to put the words to it. Some of the words I didn't figure out until just now, writing this down.

But I must have been thinking something, because Brian asked if I was okay.

"I'm fine."

"You look like you just remembered something," he said.

"It's nothing," I said. "Come on. Let's see some real distance now." And we went right back into the passing drills because I sure wasn't going to tell him. Not yet, anyway.

For the rest of the day my mind was going a million miles a minute: how I'd find gear to train in, how I'd train because it was only two weeks now until preseason, whether I'd make the team, what it would feel like to play in a real game ... like I was in a room full of presents and I didn't know which one to open first.

On our run, Brian asked finally, "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, kind of startled to be interrupted.

"You haven't said a word all day! Usually you say something, at least."

"Sorry."

"Are you mad about something?"

"No."

He looked at me.

"I'm not mad!" I figured I should say something more, and I'd been meaning to ask this for a while anyway. "What does your mom think is wrong with Curtis?"

"Oh. She doesn't think there's anything wrong with him. She just thinks it's real interesting that he never talks."

"What do you mean, 'interesting'?" I asked.

"I don't know. She just said that a lot of times in families people don't talk because they're afraid to."

I didn't say anything. I had this feeling that the more I thought about it, the more I'd see that Mrs. Oprah Winfrey Nelson was right.

But even that couldn't take away that bubbly feeling I had about football. It's like—the only way I can describe it is, well, you know that little guy in the tire ads, the one made out of big white cushions? That's what I felt like. Like I had big soft pillows all around me to protect me from a whole bunch of stuff that I hadn't been able to deal with before. It was like this totally crazy idea,
my
idea, was a shield keeping me safe from a whole bunch of pain.

I know that doesn't make any sense. Maybe it was just that I was so preoccupied with my own new set of problems, meaning football, that I didn't have too much time to think about anyone else's. But the thing is, I did think about them. All through milking when I wasn't thinking about all the stuff I needed to do, I thought about Curtis. He never talked around Dad, which I could understand completely. But Curtis didn't talk to me either. I didn't like that thought too much. Now that I thought about it, there was a lot of stuff about Curtis I didn't know.

Like why he's so into skulls. Which I haven't mentioned before because I never think about it except when I'm in his room, which I'm never in because of the skulls and because, well, how much time would you spend hanging out with your little brother who's suddenly taller than you and doesn't shower too much and never talks?

But I had to go into his room—he was on
another
sleepover. Probably trying to get away from Dad and a grumpy big sister (which I have to admit I was a lot). So he was gone and I needed to find some football gear to wear because I hadn't had any in about five years and I wanted to find out, you know, if it fit me because you can't play football without gear. So I had to go into his room, and then I saw the skulls again.

Curtis collects animal skulls. If there's a dead raccoon or something he'll take the head—hopefully it's so dead there's not much stuff stuck to it, yuck—and clean it all out and keep the skull. Mom caught him boiling something a couple years ago and she just let him keep that pot, bought herself another one. He's got that pot in his room now, along with about twenty skulls. And it's got to be both parts, you know—the head plus the jaw. Win brought him the head part of a deer once and Curtis wouldn't take it because it didn't have a jaw. But he's found another deer head since then. Skull, I mean. It's about the weirdest thing I've ever heard of. His little room is pretty ripe, what with the skulls—even though most of them are really old and dried out—and his clothes and all. I was glad to get out of there, after I'd found an old helmet and some cleats and a jersey in his closet under a whole bunch of junk.

Then I went into Win and Bill's room, which was just as weird. Compared to Curtis's room, it was neat as a pin. Two twin beds with matching covers, football posters on the walls, a corkboard with pictures of some of Bill's old girlfriends, Win's All-State plaque ... It was like a model of a bedroom. If you wanted to do a magazine article about a room for two college football players, that's what it would look like. It wasn't a room for people. It was a room for people who were never coming home. That's what it felt like. I snuck around in there as quiet as a mouse because I didn't want Mom coming up and asking what I was doing with an armful of football gear and no explanation in the world. Luckily she didn't.

So I got to my room and locked the door and tried everything on. Here are a couple things I learned: Whatever kind of breasts you have, at least if they're, you know, kind of normal or less than normal like mine are, well, it doesn't matter because they don't show under the pads. Also, ponytails don't work too well with a helmet. Maybe some pro player somewhere has a ponytail and a custom-made helmet, but Curtis's Red Bend Junior High School helmet made my ponytail dig right into my spine in a way that would not work ever. I even tried letting my hair out, which I normally don't do because my neck gets so sweaty, and immediately my neck started getting sweaty. So I'd have to figure that out. Otherwise everything fit pretty well, all things considered. It's a lot of bulk. It's not like anyone ever says, I'm going to the movies and I'm going to wear my shoulder pads and thigh pads and hip pads and knee pads and rib pads and collar and helmet because they're so darn comfortable. On the plus side, when you're playing at least you know it slows everyone else down too. That's the only consolation. That and the fact that without it you'd probably get killed.

That night in bed I started getting second thoughts about how the kids at school would react. Or Amber. I hoped she'd think it was a good idea, but I can never tell what she'll say. Or Dad—jeez. The thought made my stomach hurt. Of course, Dad would find out eventually, if I made the team and all. He goes to every game and he'd notice after a while that there was a player on the bench named Schwenk, and he'd figure out it was me. But I didn't want to think about that part, him watching me play. That was too much. I just knew he couldn't find out in the next two weeks. It would be ten times worse than him finding out about me training Brian. I couldn't even think about the cracks he'd make. He didn't want anyone knowing he baked brownies—what would he say about a girl playing football?

And then there was my hair. I was thinking I might have to cut it because of the helmet and all. Amber was the obvious person, but I didn't want to tell her why, or lie, which she'd see right through. Plus I had a feeling she wouldn't do the best job in the world. No one would, not in Red Bend, anyway. I mean, have you ever heard anyone say they're heading over to Red Bend, Wisconsin, because people there cut hair so good? No, you haven't. And I felt if I was going to play boys' football I needed hair that didn't look like it'd been cut with a hedge trimmer.

But you know, even worrying about haircuts couldn't depress me. Because every time I started sinking low, I'd just remember about football. All this time I'd thought I wanted to be a trainer, when it turned out I wanted to be a player instead. I saw something I wanted to do and I decided to do it. The feeling of freedom this gave me—I can't even describe it. It was my decision. I chose it. I am not a cow.

That cushiony feeling stayed with me too, keeping me safe so I wouldn't get smashed down by whatever came my way. It was the strangest thing. And because I had it, I could talk. Brian and I were already, you know, talking up a storm about a bunch of heavy stuff. But now we really let it rip.

And painting, well, if you ever want to talk to someone, painting a barn is a good way to do it. Tuesday, for example, we were stuck in there all morning. We started out chatting about how fast the calves were growing and whether Dad would keep making brownies, with lots of quiet time in between, good quiet. Then Brian asked kind of sadly, right out of the blue, "Do your folks get along?"

I thought about it a bit. "Yeah, they do. But they shouldn't."

He cracked up. He was laughing so hard he had to put down his roller.

Normally—like every single day of my life up to this point—I would have left it at that, because who wants to take someone feeling bad and make them feel worse? But for one thing I felt like we'd been spending a lot of time talking about my family, which is certainly worth talking about if you're looking for subjects, so I felt it was only fair to talk about his for a while. And frankly, I cared too.

So after we'd enjoyed Brian's good mood for a bit I asked, "Why? Do yours?"

He shrugged. "I think they're just waiting for me to go to college so they can split up."

"Jeez." I felt sick all of a sudden, like when Amber brings up her dad.

"It's not that big a deal," he said, sounding almost like he meant it.

"Does it," I asked, taking a big deep breath, "have anything to do with, you know, Talk Back and all of that?"

Brian painted for a bit. "They don't have anything to say to each other. All Mom ever wants to do is talk about feelings, what everyone's feeling. How we all have to get in touch with our feelings."

"You're pretty good at that," I said. "At least with football."

"What does that mean?"

Darn, I wished I hadn't opened my big fat mouth. "Nothing. It's just, you know, when you play you're always, you know, expressing your feelings." That's just great. A guy starts telling you his family secrets and you point out how he acts like a jerk. Good job, D.J.

"What does your dad do after games?" he asked.

"After football games?"

"Yeah. Whatever."

I thought about it. "He's like a coach: 'You messed that up, next time you need to...' That sort of thing."

Brian scowled. "My dad tells me how good I was, that I was perfect."

"And that's bad?" It sounded pretty fantastic to me.

"He really wanted me to take that lifeguarding job. He was real mad when I told him I was coming back here."

"I'm sorry. I wish we could pay you—"

"No! Remember that first week when I quit during haying? When I got home, he told me how smart I was, how I had to save my hands. But ... you didn't quit."

"We couldn't."

"I know you couldn't! It's life and death for you guys." He frowned at himself.

"I wasn't being so great to you back then." Which I offered as a big gift to him, and it was quite a confession for me to make, if you want to know the truth.

But he didn't even take it. "My dad—he always says what I'm doing is right whether it is or not. But your dad expects it to be right."

I struggled through what Brian just said. "But Dad never says anything nice to us."

"So what? He knows you can do it. My father would never send three kids out haying. He'd hire someone. Or painting this barn. This is a big responsibility."

Yeah, I thought to myself. Too big.

"Your dad thinks a lot more of you than my dad does of me," Brian said softly.

Wow. On the one hand it was kind of nice, having someone tell me Dad's okay. That's not something I hear very much, and it was nice considering he's my father and he made me and all. Half of me, anyway.

But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Anyone could look at Dad and think he was just a funny guy who named his cows after football players and made brownies. But that wasn't the full picture. Besides, it wasn't that he believed I was good at anything. He just didn't have much of a choice.