The Things You Kiss Goodbye (20 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I
’
D FINISHED ICING MY FAT EYE
. M
Y MOTHER INSISTED THAT
I do it every night that week even though I told her it wouldn’t help anymore. I was already dressed for bed and had said good night to Momma and Bampas when I heard a tap at my bedroom window. I thought it must be Brady, but he’d never done that before. I waited. Then I heard the voice. “Beta!” There was only one person in the world who called me that. I whipped the curtains aside.

Cowboy stepped back as I pushed the window open. “You scared me,” I pretended to hiss, but I was glad at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”

“Can you come out?” he whispered. “Let’s talk.”

“I’m in my nightgown,” I said, but I guess both of us knew I’d go anyway—crazy and dangerous as it was. I could be caught. So could he. Still, I stepped into loose boots and grabbed the throw blanket off my bed. I gathered the skirt of my gown in one hand and stepped out through the window. The moonlight defined the way as I followed Cowboy back to the stand of pines where the rabbit cages were.

“How’s this?” Cowboy tapped his own cheekbone to ask about mine.

“I’m taking care of it.” I didn’t want to talk about my black eye. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Your brothers told me. And so did you.”

I opened my eyes wide. “What?”

“On ice-cream night, back in September. Remember? You were down by the river and you all pointed to the path.”

“And you guessed at my room?”

“I figured it out.” He shrugged. He glanced at the horseshoe of rabbit hutches. “Nice gophers.”

I smiled and pulled the blanket closer around me. Nobody else really knew about the rabbits, but it seemed right to be standing there with Cowboy.

“Not what I expected,” he said, looking around him.

“The rabbits?”

“Not just that. Your house looks shut down from the front. From back here, it’s almost . . . exposed. Well, once you come
through the garden. And yeah, sorry for creeping around.” I gave him a smirk and a nod. He lifted his chin at me. “I won’t make it a habit. I just felt like I had to find you. . . .”

“It’s a weird house,” I admitted. “The front is the back and the back is the front depending what road you’re on.”

“Right,” he said. A second ticked by and he asked, “So, why rabbits?”

“Fertilizer.” I shrugged.

“Guess that’s working.” Cowboy looked back toward the house where my father’s plantings surrounded the pool and terrace. I was suddenly uncomfortable with the moonlit beauty of the place. Nothing was blooming, but even in winter the landscaping showed good bones. I cleared my throat.

“When I was little I wanted a dog. But I have rabbits because that’s what my father said I could have—secondhand Easter bunnies. We find them in the paper. We call it our ‘rabbit habit,’” I added.

“Well, you’d have to,” Cowboy said. “You have a lot of the black-and-white ones,” he noted.

“Yes, four of them,” I said. “I did that.”

“What do you mean?”

“We got two Dutches, one male, one female, when I was about twelve. My father had told me in no uncertain terms, ‘Bettina, no visits between the two,’” I imitated Bampas. “So, knowing the possibilities . . .” Cowboy muffled a gulp. I
hid a smile as best I could. “Yeah . . . I put them together first chance I got.”

“Beta!”

“Twenty-eight days later, two Dutches turn into six Dutches. Little-bitty babies.” I showed him with my fingers. “The parents are gone now and these guys are even getting a little old,” I said. “But this big guy is our baby.” I opened one cage and brought out the Giant Flemish buck and cradled him. His guard hairs glowed silvery white over his orange coat. “I love the shape of them,” I said. They’re my favorite animals.”

“What about horses?”

“Because all little girls love horses?” I shook my head no. “I’m afraid of horses.”

“Not you. You’re not afraid of anything.” Cowboy set his fingers into the fur of the Flemish.

“Don’t pat against the growth,” I said. “He won’t like that.” I watched Cowboy correct. “So, you said that you wanted to talk.”

“I’m sorry I kicked you out of the garage today. I don’t talk about . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. “But you, you’re different. I was an ass. I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have pried.”

He looked up at the night sky. “It’s okay. You can pry,” he said.

“Can I? Okay, then tell me something about your brothers,” I said, and Cowboy let out a laugh.

“Well, one older, one younger. Michael and . . .”

“What’s Michael’s middle name?” I interrupted. “What goes with Silas Wolcott Shepherd?”

“Newlin. Michael Newlin. And the other one is Lincoln Hanley.”

“Nice names,” I said. “Huh, we both have two brothers.”

“Yeah, I saw yours again tonight while I was skulking. Their curtains are open and they’re looking at dirty pics on a tablet,” he said.

“Way to go, boys!” I had to laugh. “I mean dirty pics are demoralizing. But the boys snuck that tablet away from my father. They are going to survive this household fine,” I said. Cowboy smiled and we both fell silent for a moment. “So, I don’t get it,” I said. “How does someone make beautiful kids, give them beautiful names . . . and then one day start hurting them?”

“You’ve got a funny mind, Beta.”

“No, I’m serious. I want to know.” I eased the Flemish buck back into his hutch and gave him a few strokes before I latched the door. Cowboy held a cigarette between his lips and struck a match.

“Families,” he mumbled. “Shit happens.”

“That’s not a reason to—”

“To beat your kids? It was for my ma.”

I remembered Regina Colletti’s story, what her father did to her. It was horrible, but different from what Cowboy’s mother did to him. Cowboy shook out the match. His cigarette was still unlit and I watched him try again.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“You’re too young to smoke.”

“Are you ever going to stop saying that to me? Anyone with lungs is old enough to smoke. Besides, I was just going to light it for you. I really only smoke when I
want
to feel bad,” I said.

“Hmm . . . and I only smoke when I
do
feel bad. Like when I’m wrong—or when someone else is. This time,” he gave me a nod, “I was wrong.”

“Forgiven,” I said. “Maybe we can both cut that out for good someday.” I gestured at the cigarette, which now glowed at its tip. Then I asked him, “What set your mother off? What did you do?”

“Name it, I probably did it,” he said coolly. “School stuff.” He shook his head. “That was always tough. Late for supper, forgot to pick up the mail, mowed the friggin’ lawn crooked. Everything pissed her off.
Everything
.” He knocked ashes from the cigarette onto the ground at his feet. “Michael and Lincoln didn’t catch as much of it. But I wasn’t good at much except cars. I don’t think she liked having a grease monkey
for a son. She could go off like a gun, and grab a stick or a strap—” I let out a gasp and my hands went weak.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“When I was a kid, I protected my head until she was done,” he said.

I could see him, a boy like Favian or Avel, ducking—it was unbearable. I brought my blanket up over my nose and wiped my eyes.

“Come on, Beta. No crying.”

“No, no, I don’t cry,” I said. “But I just can’t imagine it. Would you ever do that to your kids?”

“I’m not having kids.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

“That’s giving up.”

“I know whether or not I want kids.”

“God! Why do you have to do that?” My tears were gone. “You tell me something important and then you cut me off as soon as I start to react. And I’m not even talking about
the stuff we never talk about
. I’m not—I’m not a stone, Cowboy.”

He drew hard on the cigarette and nodded. “Good for you, Beta.”

“Oh, screw off! That’s condescending! I count on you
not
to do that to me.”

“Not condescending. Serious,” he said. “There is nothing
better for me than seeing you stand up for you.” He smiled at me. My heart turned to sauce.

“You make me really sad,” I said, and I accidentally let out a little cry. “You don’t know how much I wish we could both just . . . feel better.” I gulped and ducked back into the blanket. I wanted to hold him, wanted him to hold me. “Are you seeing anyone? I mean do you have a girlfriend? Somebody you haven’t told me about? Like, something physical—” I swallowed. He squinted at me—like I’d crossed a line.

“Physical? What? You want to know if I’m getting laid? God, there’s a question I couldn’t bear to ask you,” he said.

I couldn’t look at him. I glanced into the rabbit hutch where the Flemish had disappeared into his box for warmth. “I was talking about . . . I don’t know . . . comfort, I guess.”

“I’ve been there,” he said. “It’s not that comforting, Beta. You know that. Are you really happy with your dirtbag boyfriend? I mean, really?”

“
Happy
might not be the word,” I conceded.

“But still, you choose him.”

“I—I don’t
have
choices,” I said. My snappishness surprised me. “I let Brady in months ago. He was different then. Now, he’s the boy my father he lets me out of the house with. I’ve tried. Truth is, I’m not very good to Brady—not anymore.” I huffed a not-funny laugh. “I use him. I don’t want to be home and alone all the time. So there. Now you know how
horrible I am,” I said, and I meant it.

“I don’t think you’re horrible.” His singsong was unusual.

“He cares more than I do. . . .”

“Yeah, don’t let that be your glue,” Cowboy said.

“What I said about you seeing someone, I wasn’t trying to be icky. I just meant that you have such a good heart—” My voice cracked, and I held on for a second. “And I—I want good things for you. That’s all.”

“You’re sweet, Beta. But don’t waste that on me. I’m fine,” he said. “And you should go back in.” He gestured toward the house. “I don’t want to get you grounded.”

“You go first,” I said.

He did. I watched him disappearing down the swath until I couldn’t see him anymore. I pictured his truck parked on River Road. I wanted to run down there in my blanket, catch up to Cowboy and just drive far, far away with him.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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T
HE MIGHTY
W
HITE
T
IGERS WERE GETTING READY FOR
their first scrimmage. It was planned for just after Thanksgiving recess. The days just before we went on that break felt like a lousy stretch when all I did was placate other people.

Brady was a wicked combo of pumped up and nervous. He’d been fretting over his grades; players had to have C’s or better or they’d be benched. He’d been chewing his callused knuckles raw. I pleaded with him to leave them alone. He’d come to me for dabs of Momma’s olive oil and rosemary.

Since he was so on edge all the time, I tried to be a sport about his latest trick: he kept dumping my books out of
my arms in the middle of the hall. Then he’d bring out Mr. Adorable to joke and apologize and pick them up for me, only to knock them away again. He did it more than once a day. It got so old that I just stood there and waited—looking like a bitch to everyone else, I am sure—while he handed me back my books.

One day he made me a public offer. “Here, baby, here. Take a shot. You dump mine.” He offered me the armful.

“No,” I said. “Because that’s not nice.”

“Ooo . . . temperamental . . .”

Ass hat
. I left him and went to my class.

Meanwhile, Momma and Bampas were having a hard time getting their heads around my upcoming game schedule, which was sure to crash into our dinnertimes.

“We will reconsider this next year, Bettina. There’ll be no signing up behind our backs again,” Bampas told me. He looked up from reading the mail to wag a finger at me. “This has been most inconvenient.”

Go ahead. Make me quit
.

“Shall we all go to the game?” Momma asked.

I watched my father turn on his man-shoes so that both toes pointed at Momma. “And why?” he asked. “To add to our chaos, Loreena?”

“Well, the boys might like to see the game,” Momma said. Her tone was wimpy, but boy, she had a plan. “And I
would like to see Bettina cheer,” she added.

Bampas peered over his glasses at her. “With the long days I put in, I want to be home at my quiet house come nighttime.”

“It’s not that much of a show, Momma,” I said. “Not like dance recitals. And if you want, I will try to get a ride home—”

“No,” Bampas said. It was his half-syllable no. Close to his
siopi
, but with less finality. “You will come home in my car. I will wait in the circle.”

“Pickup is in the back lot on game nights. The visiting team’s bus parks in the circle,” I told him.

“More inconvenience . . .” he muttered.

Yeah, Bampas, but only for you
.

Then there were the Not-So-Cheerleaders. They were all aflutter and had their eyes on my eye—my black eye—and perhaps it was their prayers that helped turn it from blue-purple to yellow-brown just in time for that first preseason game.

“I’m so glad that’s getting better,” one of the girls told me. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore,” I said. I had wanted no conversation about it. No shudders, no glances.

“It must have been awful. What did you do? I heard you stepped off a log or something?”

“I just tripped,” I said. I pretended to walk through a cheer, arms pumping.

“One of my cousins, man, she has the hardest time.” One of the girls piped. “She’s is always getting hurt. We feel sorry for her. She’s sort of a
klutz
!”

“Yeah, me too,” I said. Then I excused myself to go into the bathroom and into a stall where I could ball my fists and silently scream at myself.
What are you saying? You are
not
a klutz! You have
never
been a klutz!