Grows That Way (6 page)

chapter
eleven

Franco has the pieces of the book in one hand and he shakes them at Logan. “Look what you made me do. I'm going to be in big trouble with Brumby over this, you little fag.”

Logan's hand vibrates in mine.

“You did it yourself, dumbo,” says Logan.

Franco looks from Logan to me and gives me a thorough once-over, from head to toes and back again. It's as though he's never really seen me before. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe he never noticed me whenever he was with Taylor.

“This is my girlfriend, Sylvia,” says Logan.

My eyes almost pop right out of my head. His girlfriend? I am? Well, perhaps only to deflect Franco, who apparently believes that Logan is gay. I think of all the times that Logan has come to my rescue.

I clear my throat. “Yes,” I say.

Franco looks me up and down again and scoffs. “Are you sure that's a girl?” he says. “How old is she—five?”

I feel Logan's grip tighten. He won't understand that I'm used to these sorts of comments. I don't want him to confront Franco on my behalf. I give his hand a tug. “Come on, Studly,” I say, because that's what my mom used to call my dad in the good old days.

“Studly?” says Franco, laughing. He picks up his gym bag and swings it over his shoulder. “Now I've heard everything.” Shaking his head, he swaggers away down the driveway.

Logan stoops and picks up a rock.

“No, Logan. He's not worth it.”

Logan studies the rock in his hand.

“You'll only make him mad,” I say.

“Not if I kill him first.”

“You can't play pro ball if you have a criminal record,” I remind him.

He turns to me and smiles. “You remember me saying that?”

I tell him of course I remember.

“I suppose there are smarter ways of taking revenge,” he says, tossing the rock under a shrub.

We run together down the driveway, along the road, past lumbering Franco, and finally when I can't run any more I make him walk. He continues to hold my hand. When we reach the corner by Amber and Topaz's house I expect him to let go, but he doesn't. It's as though he's proud.

Even when we've stopped running, my palm keeps sweating. I like holding hands with Logan and at the same time I don't. I mean, what's next? Is he going to want to put his arm around me? Is he going to try to slide his hand up under my shirt? I sneak a look at his face, as though this might give me an idea about his intentions, but he's smiling at me in the friendliest sort of way, reminding me of all the years I've known him in school, and how he's always been nice to me, and always been a jokester, and really he's pretty cute even though he's having a little trouble with some acne at the back of his neck. But what the heck does he see in me? Franco's right about that. I figure Logan could hold hands with any girl in school, and instead he picks the shrimp who still wears an undershirt instead of a bra. I don't understand. I hope he doesn't want to kiss me—I'm not ready for that. My mom has warned me about boys, how they are propelled by testosterone to only think about one thing, which I take to mean sexual intercourse, and I'm really not ready for that.

I wonder if there's such a thing as a pulley rein stop for boys like there is for runaway horses—not that Logan is running away with me. Something more subtle could work. Kansas says that sometimes horses just need a distraction from what they're thinking about. I remember the article I have about
Ardipithecus.

“Logan, can I talk to you about something?” I say.

“Anything,” he says.

“You have to promise not to laugh.”

“I promise,” says Logan and he crosses his heart with his free hand. Maybe kissing him wouldn't be so bad, though not right now.

I make myself focus. I take in a deep breath and let it out. I square my shoulders the way Kansas has taught me to, lift my sternum and feel the balance in my feet. “I saw something, when I was riding,” I tell him. “I thought at first it was a bear, but it wasn't. I think I saw an extinct ape.”

Logan doesn't laugh, thank goodness. He squeezes my hand. “Wow. Have you told anyone else?” he says.

I shake my head, then remember. “I had a hypothetical discussion with Dr. Cleveland.” I'm not sure about telling Logan that Dr. Cleveland is my former therapist, and decide that saying anything about this now would only confuse the matter. “She's a psychiatrist who has a horse at my barn. I told her I thought I saw a were-ape, but that was before I found out about
Ardipithecus
—though I guess it could be either. Anyway, she thinks maybe I've deceived myself into believing I saw something because I'm afraid.”

“Afraid of what? I didn't think you were afraid of anything…except maybe for Amber and Topaz.” Logan is making a little joke, but I don't mind. It actually feels kind of nice that he knows me so well.

“I could be subconsciously afraid,” I say. “Though that sounds like something my mom would think. She's a psychotherapist.”

“Cool,” says Logan, which almost makes me drop his hand.

“You have no idea,” I say. “And my dad's a financial planner. They're both obsessed.”

Logan shrugs. “All adults are obsessed about something,” he says.

“Even your parents?”

“My mom's a teacher. There's nothing worse than having a teacher for a parent, unless it's having a parent who's a teacher at your own school. Fortunately I don't have that to deal with. As it is, I can't get away with anything. When she asks ‘How was school today?' she really means it.”

I imagine what it would be like if one of my parents was a teacher, and have to agree with Logan: nothing would be worse. At least I enjoy some peace for a few hours a day, and I can brush off questions about how school is going because they don't have a clue.

“What about your dad?” I say. “What's his obsession?”

Logan hesitates so long that I start to think I shouldn't have asked, that maybe his dad has a top secret profession such as a spy, or an undercover law enforcement officer.

Eventually he clears his throat and tells me his dad is a biologist, which doesn't sound strange at all, and I want to ask Logan what the problem is when he says, “My dad's always going on about global warming and climate change and how humans are a scourge on the face of the planet and Earth would be better off without us.”

“That is harsh,” I say.

“How do you know you saw an extinct ape?” asks Logan.

“I found an article on the computer with a drawing of a skeleton and a ton of text. I think it describes what I saw, though I don't understand all of it.”

“Let me read it,” says Logan.

I slip off my backpack and we're digging through the front pocket for the article when Amber shows up.

“Looking for her flea powder?” she says.

“Nope,” says Logan. “Bear spray.” He stands and faces her with one hand behind his back. He's holding the article rolled up in his fist, but of course Amber doesn't know that. She looks at the place where his arm disappears, then searches Logan's face, looking for a sign, perhaps of Logan's usual humour and good will.

Logan doesn't flinch.

“Oh I was just kidding,” says Amber, backing away. She scampers around us, laughing in a forced way. “I'll see you at school!” she says over her shoulder.

“Not if I see you first,” says Logan under his breath. He puts a smile on his face and he waves, so I wave too for a few seconds, then I stop. I don't like this fakeness. I don't like pretending to be friendly when I'm not. It worries me that this is how people have treated me all my life, pretending to accept me but believing I'm a weirdo misfit midget.

“Logan,” I say, “we don't have to do this. Let's go.” I take his hand.
I
take
his
hand. I can't believe it, but I do. It frightens and excites me, thinking what I might come up with next.

chapter
twelve

School is pretty boring, all day, though any time I bring my hand near my nose, I can smell Logan Losino, so that's kind of fun. Plus I tell myself I'll never get dandruff on my palm which is a good thing, and it makes me laugh inside even when Mr. Brumby continues his reign of terror by springing a surprise quiz on us in math class.

Logan is waiting for me at the front door after school. For a change there's no sign of Amber or Topaz, so I guess they have dance lessons. Logan walks me back to his place where Pinky is stashed. There's no sign of Franco either; he's probably at the gym learning how to bench-press small children.

I'm buckling on my helmet when Logan says, “Can I come with you?”

I freeze with my fingers stuck on my chinstrap. “It would be boring,” I say.

“No, it wouldn't. Not as much as homework.”

I can't see how I can get out of this. I wonder if I should tell him that Kansas has a No Boys policy at the barn, but that would make Kansas sound sexist and I don't want to do that.

“It's boring watching people ride,” I tell him. “I stay in the arena during the week. I go around in circles. I'm not even jumping Brooklyn yet.” Truly, I don't want him to come. I don't want to have to split my attention between Brooklyn and Logan. I don't know how to tell him this. He sees my hesitation, and looks down at his toes. I've hurt his feelings. He's been so nice to me, and I've been mean to him. I feel awful.

“How about another time?” I say.

His face lights up. “On a weekend? When you're not in the arena? We could explore the trails. My bike can go anywhere a horse goes.”

“Sure,” I say. “That's a great idea.” Though it isn't of course. For one thing, bikes can't jump fallen trees. For another, I don't intend to do another trail ride for the rest of my life.

Declan's truck is parked beside Kansas's beater near the barn, but there's no sign of them until I open the tack room door, and there they are, necking, shirtless (both of them!), in a panic of motion when they hear the door squeak on its hinges.

I could die, I really could.

Kansas isn't even wearing a sports bra. She's got some frilly pink thing on, that hardly has her covered at all. Pink. I can't believe it.

Declan turns his back and pulls a black T-shirt over his head. He saunters past me without a word.

“Ooops—sorry,” says Kansas.

“Couldn't you have gone to your trailer?” I ask. This would have been so simple. The trailer is mere steps away, behind the barn.

“We got a bit carried away,” says Kansas, as though this is an explanation. “I didn't plan on it.”

“If you weren't planning on it why weren't you wearing your sports bra?” I ask.

Kansas stops buttoning her shirt. “There's no need to be mad at me,” she says.

“I'm not mad,” I say. Then I think about it, and realize I am, a little bit, though I couldn't say why. It's not that I'm jealous of Kansas's attentions. It's more like I feel she's betrayed me. What's that about?

“This
is
my barn,” says Kansas.

Sure it's her barn. She has every right, that's not the problem. Still, I'm feeling really upset with her, plus upset with myself because I can't figure out why. I'd like to punch something—hard.

Kansas finishes doing up her shirt except for one section where two buttons are missing, then she stands there looking at me sheepishly, as though she thinks she's done something wrong too. I can tell she feels guilty, which somehow makes me feel more upset, and so even though it's not very nice of me, I find myself taking advantage of the situation. “Can you give me a riding lesson?” I ask. “I'd like to do some jumping.”

Kansas has been reluctant to help me start jumping with Brooklyn. She wants us to perfect our flat work first, something that could take the rest of my life at the rate we're going. I know Kansas loves dressage, I know that flat work is important, but I want to jump.

Kansas is ready to roll out her usual objections. She shakes her head and I see her mouth open to say no.

I say, “My parents think it's okay. They trust you. They think you're very wholesome and provide a safe learning environment.”

Kansas looks at the floor for a moment and then sighs. “Okay,” she says.

“Not just ground poles,” I tell her. “I want to really jump something.”

“Fine,” she says.

When I've tacked up Brooklyn and led him to the ring, Kansas is out there, pacing out the distances between the jumps.

We do our usual flat work for ten minutes to warm up. Brooklyn is a slug. It's all I can do to get him moving forward. He is so bored with this. Like me.

Finally Kansas tells me to shorten my stirrups two holes and we review how to balance in a forward seat with weight in my heels. Kansas tells me I'm a natural. She says it like she's not entirely happy about it, like it would be better if I was a slower learner and needed to spend more time on the flat. I'm thrilled anyway, and when she tells me to, I ride Brooklyn through a grid of ground poles with a one-foot jump at the far end. Actually, it's not big enough to be called a jump. Even Kansas only calls it a bounce, but it's a start.

Brooklyn clears it by a mile, then brings his head way up, tosses it and pulls into the bridle, much like he did on the trail ride.

Kansas tells me to circle him until he slows down. After about the twentieth circle she says to stop him and wait while she finds a running martingale in the tack room. I hope Declan hasn't crept back there or I'll be waiting forever. His truck is still in the parking lot. I don't know where he's gone.

But Kansas returns quickly with the martingale, and I dismount and she shows me how to slip it over Brooklyn's neck, run the girth through the long end, and pass the reins through the metal rings.

“He likes to jump,” says Kansas.

“A lot,” I say.

“The martingale will give you some leverage. I don't like gizmos on horses, but he has a strong neck. I don't want him running off with you.”

I snort. “I can control him. He listens really well to emergency stop aids.”

Kansas slows as she refastens the rein buckle, so I realize what I've done. She slips the end through its keeper. “And when exactly did you do an emergency stop on Brooklyn?” she asks.

I lead Brooklyn to the mounting block, wondering how much I can say, or better still, how little I can say.

I step onto the mounting block and Brooklyn positions himself beside me. He's still excited, his neck is up and he's looking at the closest jump in the ring. I stick my toe in the stirrup and swing into the saddle.

“It was last week sometime,” I say, hoping she'll be satisfied with a vague answer. No such luck.

“And what exactly were the circumstances?” says Kansas.

I can't brush her off. If I try, she'll stop my jumping lesson.

“He took me on a trail ride,” I say.

“
He
took
you
?” says Kansas.

“I put him on a loose rein, and let him go where he wanted.” Kansas doesn't say anything, so I continue. “We went to the river.”

“To the river?” says Kansas. Her voice is getting high. “Did you cross it?”

“Of course not,” I say. “There was a…” Now what am I going to say? I don't want to explain the extinct ape thing to Kansas. Kansas doesn't use the Internet so she won't understand. “There was a bear,” I tell her, “in the water. Fishing.”

“Jesus,” says Kansas.

“It was fine,” I tell her. “Brooklyn was good. He got kind of excited, but then he…galloped me to safety.”

“Oh lord,” says Kansas.

“And I did a pulley rein stop before we had to turn that sharp corner where the trail divides. I did it exactly the way you taught me,” I say. I pick up my reins and ask Brooklyn to trot down the long side of the ring, and we circle at the far end, giving Kansas some time to absorb all the news and come to the reasonable conclusion that no action needs to be taken given that no one was hurt and that Brooklyn took care of me and never got frightened. I was the one who was frightened, but I'm not going to tell her that.

We trot down the other long side. Kansas is in the middle of the ring considering her rubber boots. “What did your parents say about all this?” she asks.

I know what she's getting at. She wants to know how much trouble she's in for letting me go on a trail ride all by myself.

“I haven't told them yet,” I say.

I figure this is a good way of influencing her to raise the jumps above baby height.

I trot through the grid, and Brooklyn sails over the bounce as usual, but I have better control on the far side thanks to the martingale. We do two circles, and I yell at Kansas, “Raise the last rail!”

She does. She puts it at two feet. Brooklyn jumps it as though it's twice that high, then we gallop off around the ring.

I'm so happy I could scream.