The Things You Kiss Goodbye (22 page)

I asked that girl in a whisper, “How did you let him do that to you?” I thought of Cowboy and I started bawling into my bath towel.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
F THERE WAS ANYTHING GOOD ABOUT BASKETBALL SEASON
, it was that those games ate up big chunks of time—the time Brady and I usually spent alone together. We were both too busy now. Funny thing, considering I’d taken up cheerleading in a move for solidarity. But I couldn’t imagine that now—not the solidarity, not the intimacy.

I couldn’t deny it anymore; Brady Cullen was hurting me. We were unfixable. But I knew that there was not a single soul that I would ever tell that to. And I didn’t know how I was going to get myself away from him either. So many damn things were tying us together.

I guess I would have been willing to flat out dump Brady
if all could be done with no fallout.
I’m out of here
. Right. Everyone would want to know the reason why.
Everyone
. His friends. The Not-So-Cheerleaders. My own parents.

If it wasn’t enough that I felt ashamed and demeaned by the things that had happened, I was afraid too—afraid that nobody would understand. What does someone hear when the words are said?
He squeezed my fingers. He threw a ball at me. He pulled my hair. He slammed me in a locker
.

People adored Brady. They’d give him the benefit of the doubt. If I dumped him, the cheerleaders would despise me. I could not quit the squad. The season was about to begin—I’d made a commitment. Yet Brady was my only reason for being there.

But possibly the worst of all my thorn-covered thoughts was about Bampas. I believed that it would grieve him to learn that someone was hurting me—I did. But I feared he’d look upon this as
my
fail, nonetheless. He had said I was not mature enough for a relationship. What if he construed the facts as proof that he’d been right? I was afraid he’d criticize my judgment. I even feared he would think I hadn’t done enough to support Brady Cullen. I didn’t think I could bear that.

I was trapped. I hated everything I had going on as December rolled in. Brady and I went through the motions of being basketball star and cheer-girlfriend. He was affectionate
toward me, as usual. He wanted me on his arm. He wanted us to cram into a booth at Minio’s Pizza in the village with his friends after home games and wait for the ten o’clock news to light up the big screen over the bar with local sports coverage. I went sometimes—if Momma and Bampas gave me permission. But other times, I didn’t even ask to go. I gave Brady excuses: They won’t let me out tonight. I have to babysit. I have cramps.

I went home. Often, I thought about that kiss—the one he had planted on that college girl at the farm party. I actually hoped he’d go sampling some more. Maybe hook up with someone he could be nice to.

One night at Minio’s, I sat watching him while he watched the television. Then we heard it: “The White Tigers are celebrating tonight—here’s junior guard
Brady Cullen
turning in two of his
electrifying
twenty-six points—” There he was on the screen, looping a shot into the hoop. Our booth in the corner of Minio’s roared. Brady pounded his fists on his chest then reached into the air with both arms. “Yes! Yes!” he hollered. He was glowing like he’d swallowed the moon. He didn’t need to be alone with me; he’d found something better to get off on.

I didn’t love those nights out—save the few times I ended up next to Emmy for a small conversation. But better to be out than on my back in Brady’s basement. That hadn’t happened
in weeks. I sometimes wondered what he would have done if he’d seen that line of bruises skipping down my torso. He’d probably have ignored them. That seemed to be his way. But a couple of weeks went by and he didn’t see me naked. The marks faded.

In spite of being dog-tired, Brady was always willing to go out of his way to take me home. “Gives me time to unwind,” he said.

The Brady Cullen Dashboard Highlights Show
, I thought. He looked wired, staring forward out the windshield, his eyes glossy and his smile crinkling his face every so often as he recapped his successes.

In the hallways at school, I held on to my own braid—a new habit. I stood back from my own locker door. I couldn’t be sure but a couple of times, I had the feeling that Brady had rattled that sucker just to see me jerk. He’d look back at me, turn his palms up and shrug at me as if to say,
Why are you flinching?
I kept one eye on Brady.

At the end of the day we’d take a table in the library—a safe place to be—and I’d tutor him in Spanish while he bit his knuckles and filled in blanks on a practice sheet with his deliberate handwriting. Then we’d go off to our separate practices. One afternoon when we did gather at the White Tiger with his friends, one of the guys asked Brady, “Hey, Cullen, what happened with that Spanish grade this week?
Tell me you passed that test, man, ’cause we need you at guard on Friday night.”

“B-friggin’-minus!” Brady answered. Then damned if he didn’t drop his backpack so he could make a show of putting both his arms around me. “It’s all P’teen-uh. She gets me through that shit.”

For something so imperfect and doomed, Brady and I appeared orderly. What I wanted most, at least for the time being, was to have no drama. I insisted to myself that it was working. Soon two weeks were gone. Then another. And another.
Yes
.

Yes, because Brady was consumed and distracted by his sport. Yes, because I began to imagine that we’d come to a natural sort of end once basketball season wound down. I saw signs that he had the same thing in mind; he didn’t seem to care that we weren’t sleeping together.
He knows we are done
, I thought,
but he can’t risk upsetting his season by stopping to face it
. Easier to keep everything in the box. I told myself to hold on and do the right thing. Stick by Brady. Stick by the Not-So-Cheerleaders. All of this will fade. But in the meantime, I prayed for a short season for the mighty White Tigers.

Visits to see Cowboy seemed far too few. But every time I saw him it was like putting a few necessary stitches in my soul. On a December afternoon, I cut practice and we took a ride in the truck, and when we reached the road out of town
I put down my window, stuck my head and torso out, and just let the cold, cloudy air wipe me clean. I suppose it was only a few seconds that I rode like that but when I plunked back into my seat and belted up again, Cowboy glanced over.

“Better now?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I tucked back a few strands of hair and I mopped cold-wind tears out of the corners of my eyes. “It smells like snow out there,” I said. Minutes later, flakes began to fall.

That was the day he brought me to a farm, and not just to the edge of some field with a ditch full of rotting apples either. (Although, I somehow felt we might be close to the place I had been caught during the rubber-band road prank.) He drove down a long driveway to a farmhouse with a covered porch, a barn, and rail fences. He parked the truck as if he had every right to be there. “Where are we?” I asked as I followed him out of the truck.

“This is Dad’s place. But Dad’s not here during the day and neither are the brothers,” he said. “It’s just us.”

“And them,” I said, as three, then four, then six horses clomped into the back paddock. “Oh, you’re going to make me be near those, aren’t you?”

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” he said. “Wait here.” He jumped a fence and pulled open a gate to let just one horse into the front pen. Then he disappeared into the
barn and came back with a bucket of oats. “Make a bowl, Beta,” Cowboy said.

“Yeah, yeah, all right.” I cupped my hands. He poured them full of oats. He made a kissy, clicking sound.

“Here comes Sweetie,” Cowboy said, and up marched the chestnut.

I repeated a silent mantra:
Nice-Sweetie, Good-Sweetie, Nice-Sweetie, Good-Sweetie . . 
.

I knew what I was supposed to do. I held my hands forward as she stepped toward me through the new-falling snow. Sweetie nosed into the oats while her jealous barn mates stood behind the second fence. I felt the breath and fleecy lips, brushing my palms. Her lip hairs tickled me. Her large eyes shone, and snowflakes from our first snow stopped like tiny stars on the horse’s lashes.

“I might not be afraid of horses anymore,” I whispered.

“Thought so,” said Cowboy. He gave me a sideways hug, then he held me a little longer than I expected.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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C
OME THE LAST DAY BEFORE WINTER RECESS
, I
TOLD
Cowboy I wouldn’t see him for nearly two weeks. No way was I going to be able to get to the auto shop during school break. I dreaded those days off, which always grew too long at home. Yet, I’d already chosen home over having to see Brady, and I’d told him that my parents would keep me close during the holidays. I would be released to cheer at several games—oh, joy.

As for missing Cowboy, I told myself it was best to avoid a moment that might become sentimental—the way it sometimes goes with holidays. Still, I had little daydreams of him finding his way to my father’s garden again, to the rabbit
hutches, maybe on Christmas Eve just to say “Merry.” But the night passed without his visit.

But then on New Year’s Day, I woke to little thunk-thunking sounds at my window. Plum-sized snowballs stuck and slid down the glass. Beyond them stood Cowboy. “Get dressed,” he whispered, “I want to take you somewhere. Not far.”

I was still soaked in my own sleepiness, but ignited by the fact that he had come. I hurried in the bathroom. I hopped around with my toothbrush in my mouth while I pulled on a skirt from the top of the hamper. I grabbed a few layers including a heavy wool sweater. I couldn’t find leggings fast enough but I grabbed warm socks and stepped into my combat boots.

Cowboy offered me a hand as I climbed out the window. When he saw my bare knees, he said, “That’s good—something practical. Jeez, Beta! It’s January.”

“Hey, these are my clothes,” I told him. “Don’t give me any sass.”

A crusty snowfall had covered a day-old powdery one, and the weather had stayed mild after it. As we plodded down the swath, we broke through the surface, leaving craters for footprints.

“Oh, man, I need caffeine,” I mumbled.

“Gotcha covered,” he said.

Nothing felt better than climbing up into the warm truck. I held the coffee cup in both my hands, and settled in for the drive. Cowboy had come
for me
. He kept his eyes on the road and was quiet, as usual.

“Did you celebrate Christmas?” I asked.

“Eh,” he said. Then as if offering it to me, he added, “Christmas happened.”

Outside, the new snow stuck to the trees and fences, roofs and mailboxes and, all along the roadsides, the plows had banked a clean path. I traced the hillsides and the tree line as we rode. Then I concentrated on the shadows on the snow. I promised myself I’d dig out my watercolors when I got home.

“You know what?” I said to Cowboy.

“What’s that?”

“I think to paint snow you must have to paint everything
but
the snow.”

“Hmm. To paint snow you throw a cherry slushie on it,” he said.

I laughed, but then I pictured bright spills everywhere. “I could see that,” I said. The truck slowed and I raised my chin to look. I recognized the turn to the water property.

“Uh . . . are you sure you want to bring me back here again?” I asked. That day seemed like long ago, and like yesterday all at the same time.

“Yup. There is another overlook, a shorter side to that hill.
We’ll take the truck to the top. Hike down instead of up. Different view. Amazing view.”

“Okay, I want to be surprised. I’m closing my eyes and you tell me when to open. Don’t throw me out of the truck or anything.”

“Okay, keep ’em closed,” he said. I felt the truck turn and then lurch as he pulled up the brake. He killed the engine. “Hang on now,” he said, and I heard him get out. He opened my door and helped me to the ground. “Keep ’em closed, keep ’em closed.” He guided me forward, hands cupped over my elbows. “Okay,” he said. I opened my eyes.

“Wow.”

We stood above the bowl-shaped depression and looked over the tops of the trees. Snow clung to the branches, six inches deep in some places, and the sun shone on the glaze in morning pinks and yellows.

“Oh! The trees look like hills!” I said. “Like you could step out there and walk across it to the next county.”

“Or drive it.” He let out a long, fading whistle and let one hand glide over the other toward the treetops. I made a scared face at him and he let out one of those quiet laughs that I loved.

“Are we going down?” I asked.

“Yup. It’s easier going than the trails we climbed in October. Not nearly as steep. I think those are closed under snow.”

“Yeah, I’d close them under snow.”

“Ready? I’ll race ya,” he said in a not-hurried voice. Then he jumped away and started down the crunchy white slope. I watched for a few seconds. He made big sideways hops as he went.

I called down to him, “I have better boots than you!”

All the way down, we played a sort of crazed game of hide-and-seek tag. The trees were weighted with snow—the saplings were bent into hoops, heads pinned to the ground. I’d slip behind a curtain of branches but then if he didn’t come find me, I’d burst out and start looking for him. I’d hear him through the silence, breaking across the snow. Then I’d see him disappearing in and out of the tree trunks running toward me and I’d retreat again. It was never clear who was “it,” and we both took amazing diggers through the crust of snow. We scrambled to get back on our feet—me, with the sting of the snow on my bare knees.

A snowball sailed past my shoulder and broke against a shaggy tree trunk. Our game changed. I thrust my hands into my own footprints, scooped the snow, and packed it into balls. We pelted each other over and over again—and hard too—so that we grunted when we were hit. We fought until we were both breathless. Finally, my own hands ached so much with the cold that all I could do was tuck them inside my sleeves and run away. When I couldn’t run anymore, I stopped
beneath a stand of pines and leaned helplessly against a tree. Cowboy raced up to me and instead of showering me in snow, he offered, “Truce?” He could barely speak himself. We’d had a good match.