Horse Camp (11 page)

Dear Mom,

I would like to officially report to you that I am now a woman, even though I am still a couple of weeks from my thirteenth birthday. As fate would have it, all of us were watching the adult talent show (I got fourth prize for my presentation on African sleeping sickness in the youth talent show) at the county fair when it happened. I was sitting with Sheryl and June Bug, and just a few rows away was this boy Wesley, whom I met in the horse barn a couple of days ago. Wesley is supernice, and has the most amazing horse ever, this black stallion named Mick.

For some dumb reason (that reason being that June Bug loaned them to me and told me how cute I looked), I chose to wear white shorts that day, and Sheryl was the one to notice when we stood up to clap for this really old farmer who was doing a yodeling thing. I got my predicament publicly announced by Sheryl (whose voice could carry through peat-bog mud, I swear) when she yelled out, “Oh, honey! You've started your period.” Her voice bounced off the metal machine shed and probably carried into the next barns, so that all the kids showing cattle, horses, ducks, geese, rabbits, and canned goods were duly informed, as well. She wrapped her sweatshirt around my waist (I'm sure she was more than happy to take it off and display her low-cut tank top!) and hustled me off to the ladies' room. I was too mortified to look over to see Wesley's reaction. I was so ashamed. It was horrid.

To be honest, I didn't react very well. I started breathing really fast and nearly fainted. Sheryl's never said anything mean to me before, but at that moment, she grabbed my arm hard and told me to snap out of it, which I did fairly quickly.

Right there, before we were anywhere near the bathroom, she pulled out supplies and told me to go and clean myself up. When I came back out of the bathroom, she was waiting for me. She dug around in her purse for a while (Her purse has an enormous unicorn head on it and is the size of a normal person's suitcase, so you can imagine what a production it is for her to find anything in there. One time I saw her produce a pair of Rollerblades, a helmet, and knee pads for Pauly out of that thing!) and finally pulled out a bottle of Midol. She tapped out two pills and gave me a drink of her Dr Pepper. Then we sat on a curb outside the 4-H building for a while. She smoked a cigarette (right in my face!) and rubbed my back and told me to relax. Then she asked me how it felt to be officially a woman. I felt better then, because I did feel kind of special even if it was really embarrassing for a little bit.

When we joined the rest of the family, Sheryl told everyone to leave me alone and be nice and not say or do one annoying thing toward me. The strange thing is that they all listened. They sort of looked at me as a person to be feared or respected. June Bug was very concerned for me, but I couldn't tell if it was real concern, fake concern, or just masked jealousy. She may know more about horses and chickens, but I think it's obvious to her now that I'm the more mature one.

Do you think my breasts will blossom now?

You probably would like to hear some more about Wesley. Wesley Calvin Richter goes to the school we're going to attend if you have to stay in jail and can't come and get us off this farm. He's so nice. He's a whiz with animals. He's also really good with computers and technology, and he told me he could help me with my homework whenever I wanted once school starts. I told him thanks, and I didn't mention that I probably wouldn't need help because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He's really gentle with his horse, Mick (short for Michelob, he said, but don't worry, because Wesley said he's not a drinker). He doesn't mind sending me things in the regular snail mail, due to the fact that Stretch's farm is in some sort of technological black hole and doesn't get cell phone reception or Internet. I know he's older than me, but I don't think it's a big deal because I'm so mature for my age and will probably always end up attracting older guys because of that.

Stretch said that Wesley is a good kid, whose dad used to play football with Stretch back in the day. His dad's name is Willy, and Stretch said that you'd remember him because he used to pester you about going out constantly when you all were in high school a million years ago.

I hope you're not considering going on a date with Wesley's dad. I have a number of good reasons.

Maybe you need to lighten up a little bit. One thing I would recommend is looking into the eye of a horse. That seems to put everything in perspective for me.

Well, that's the update. Hope things are going okay in jail.

Love,

Penny

Dear Diary,

I've been in my room for three straight days, which apparently is Pauly's threshold for giving me peace and quiet. All day long, he's been coming up to my bedroom door and peeking in the keyhole. Sometimes he sits down out there and sticks his little brown fingers underneath the door. A couple of times, Sheryl has hollered at him to scat, and he has. But he always comes back up the stairs, clomping like a maniac in his cowboy boots.

I know he's just curious about what I'm doing in here, but the truth is I'm not quite sure myself. I've put myself into a kind of self-imposed exile, like the Dalai Lama or something. I just want to be alone. I want to clear my head. I want to lie here, folded over this pillow, and rest. Sheryl brought me a heating pad, some bubble bath, an outdated
People
magazine with Angelina Jolie on the cover with about a thousand babies and apparently expecting two more (who do these people who have four, five, six kids think they are? Don't they know that the earth's already overcrowded?), and two extra-strength Midols.

My brain's firing away with all sorts of random thoughts. Things I'd forgotten, like science lessons and social studies homework from two years ago, are coming back to me and making more sense. I'm remembering Mom sitting all three of us kids at the little tables in all of our different homes to teach us math or taking us on nature walks or to science and art museums or to look at star constellations. I think Mom was a really good teacher. I wonder if she could become a real teacher once she gets out, since her nursing license has been revoked. I'm thinking a lot about Dad and Mom and God and religion.

I remember studying entrainment, which is the synchronization of rhythms. For instance, a roomful of grandfather clocks will coordinate the swing of their pendulums, no matter how unevenly they may have begun swinging. Fireflies trapped in a glass will coordinate their flashing. I remember studying vocabulary words, too.
Taboo
, a word often associated with discussion about womanly things, actually gets its origin from the Polynesian culture and their word
tapua
, which means “sacred.”

Then I started thinking about Dad. I wonder if he's missing us or if he's happy to be rid of us. I think about all his sermons on women's and men's and children's roles in the family. I think he was probably right about a lot of things, like being nice and sharing with the poor, but he was misguided about a lot of other things, like men being the head of the household. I think Dad is flawed, which is okay. I guess all humans are. But I'm having a hard time figuring out if he was always flawed and I just didn't notice or if he became flawed suddenly because Mom drove him to it. Or did he become flawed suddenly all on his own or because of something I did wrong? I worry sometimes that I drove my parents to make bad mistakes. I wonder if I could have been a better daughter. I worry that my parents wish they had never had me. Maybe they think having us kids was a big mistake. I worry that I or my brothers ruined my parents' lives.

I thought about talking to June Bug about all this stuff because she might understand how I feel, especially since she was practically conceived at a rock concert by two people who didn't even know each other that well. I decided not to, though.

Last night, I snuck downstairs and took a cigarette and lighter out of Sheryl's purse. I'm not sure why I did that exactly, but I think it has to do with accepting flaws. I know it's a bad flaw to smoke, but having that flaw doesn't make the smoker a bad person. I just wanted to see what smoking felt like and why people do it. So I went upstairs to the attic and lit up the cigarette. I put it to my lips and tried to breathe like I'd seen Sheryl do. The cigarette tasted like rotten coffee and tea all mixed together with dirty horse feed and nail polish remover, so I stopped. But I think a little of the smoke went into my lungs because I got this weird, calm feeling. The attic was really hot and flooded with eerie moonlight coming through the tiny window. I didn't smoke the cigarette anymore, but I let it burn. The only moving particles in the attic were the floating dust specks and the curling smoke off the red ember as it burned down to the filter. I snuffed it onto the floor and made sure it was completely out. I spit on the butt and kicked it aside.

I didn't dare turn on any lights because Percy would have seen it from his granary room and come to investigate. All around me were trunks and boxes of stuff, but I didn't open them. The attic wasn't bright enough to see very well, and some of the boxes didn't have tops. I could see into them without snooping. Mostly, they were full of regular things like old baby blankets, sleeping bags, some toys like trucks and a train set, someone's old football uniform, a pile of women's Levi's jeans and cowboy boots. All the stuff told me that Stretch once had a regular nuclear family, too, and that his nuclear family disintegrated just like mine.

Maybe it's just none of my business what happened to it. Maybe he'll tell me when he's ready, or maybe it's okay to leave some things in the past.

Today, outside, Percy and June Bug are spraying down the horses with the hose. Even the mean one. Pauly's back. He's sliding a piece of paper under my door with a drawing of a big, black, stick-legged horse on it. He's sweet. I may be ready to come out of my room now.

Dear Dad,

You might be interested to know that I am a woman now and have a different, more mature perspective of many things.

How's the new church looking? How's the new accountant working out? Is she good with numbers?

I am pretty disappointed in you, Dad. But it's probably not entirely your fault. I may not have previously noticed that you have flaws like all other human beings. I may have looked past them. But since I've become a woman, I see things a lot more clearly. I can see that Mom had some really good points about your being a hypocrite. When I think about all those sermons and men's conferences you gave about the Family First! movement and then compare those words to how you've abandoned and ignored Percy, Pauly, and me, I get really, really disappointed in you. But you are my father no matter what, so I still love you.

Penny

DEAR OKONKWO,

HOW IS EVERYTHING IN AFRICA? LIFE'S PRETTY HECTIC HERE, BUT I STILL FIND TIME TO WRITE YOU. I THINK YOU SHOULD TAKE MORE CARE TO RESPOND TO MY LETTERS. I UNDERSTAND YOU ARE PROBABLY PRETTY BUSY, TOO, BUT ONE OF THE REASONS I AGREED TO SEND MONEY TO YOU WAS BECAUSE I THOUGHT I WOULD RECEIVE REGULAR UPDATES FROM MY ADOPTED CHILD. I THINK IT WOULD SHOW SOME MATURITY AND GRATITUDE ON YOUR PART TO WRITE MORE REGULARLY TO ME SO THAT I WOULD FEEL LIKE I'M GETTING SOMETHING OUT OF SPONSORING YOU. RIGHT NOW IT FEELS LIKE A ONE-SIDED RELATIONSHIP WITH ME GIVING EVERYTHING AND YOU TAKING EVERYTHING.

MAYBE THAT'S HOW THINGS WORK IN YOUR WORLD. MAYBE IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT YOU'RE BEING SO SELFISH AND YOU CAN'T EVEN HELP IT. MAYBE NO ONE EVER TAUGHT YOU HOW TO BE POLITE. I KNOW YOU PROBABLY DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT CHRISTIANITY BECAUSE YOU PROBABLY PRACTICE SOME OTHER KIND OF RELIGION, BUT SOME PEOPLE DON'T EVEN NEED TO KNOW ONE THING ABOUT ANY RELIGION TO BE NICE AND HAVE MANNERS. THERE ARE SOME PEOPLE IN THE WORLD WHO DON'T BELIEVE IN JESUS WHO DO LOTS OF GREAT WORKS. THERE'S THIS GUY NAMED GANDHI, FOR INSTANCE, WHO LAY AROUND WITH THE POOR AND UNTOUCHABLE PEOPLE IN INDIA ALL DAY, NEVER EVEN WORRYING ONE BIT ABOUT HOW DIRTY AND FULL OF GERMS THEY WERE. THERE IS THIS OTHER GUY, TOO, CALLED THE DALAI LAMA, WHO JUST SITS AND MEDITATES FOR THE FREEDOM OF A WHOLE COUNTRY CALLED TIBET. THOSE TWO GUYS DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT JESUS, BUT THEY STILL CARE ABOUT THEIR FELLOW MAN. YOU SHOULD THINK LONG AND HARD ABOUT THAT, OKONKWO.

SINCERELY,

PENELOPE PRIBYL

W
HEN WE get home from the pool, a few days after the fair is over, Sheryl has dinner all laid out on the table. It's some kind of hot dish with a lot of potatoes in it, salad, corn on the cob, and watermelon. I am hungry and sit right down to eat.

“Wash your hands,” says Uncle Stretch.

“But they're not even dirty,” I say.

“Get to the bathroom and wash up,” says Uncle Stretch, giving me the eye.

“But I've been at the pool! I've had water on them all day!”

Uncle Stretch gets up from his chair and reaches out.
Whap!
I get one on the side of the head. It stings, so I yelp and hold my head with both hands.

“Oh, just go already,” says Penny.

“Yeah,” says Pauly. “Ev-we-one knows it didn't hoht that bad.”

I want to tell Pauly to shut up, but Uncle Stretch is standing too close. I go into the bathroom to wash my hands. They don't know it, but I don't even use soap.

Back at the table, Pauly's bragging to everyone about how he was doing all these cool jumps off the diving board and how one of the lifeguards told him it was so great. I saw it myself, and believe me, Pauly's jumps off the diving board are
not
anything to brag about. It's like he runs slowly off the board with his hands straight out like a mummy's and then his feet keep running until he hits the water. No dives, no cannonballs, no can openers, no jackknives, no belly busters, no preachers, no flips, nothing. Mummy hands and running feet—every single time. But I decide to let him brag because I know everyone will just yell at me if I tell the truth.

I wait for him to quit bragging and then sit there while June Bug tells how she met this new girl who moved to town who's going to be in the same grade as her. She blabs how they played freeze tag all afternoon and then when it was break time, they shared a Cherry Coke. Whoop-de-doo!

Then it's Penny's turn to bore us. I had gotten kind of used to her hanging out in her room, which she did for about three days, but ever since she's come out of there, she's been trying to act older than she is or something. She starts telling everyone about this boring book she was reading the whole time at the pool. Something about Eleanor of Aquitaine and medieval castles and treason and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I can barely take it anymore. “Penny never even got her hair wet,” I say. “She just sat there reading and applying and reapplying sunscreen to make sure she didn't get skin cancer. What a waste!”

Everyone looks at me like I farted or something.

“What!” I say.

“You're a jerk, that's what,” says June Bug.

“Sherylynn,” says her mother.

“Naw, she's right,” says Uncle Stretch. “Girl's calling a spade a spade, is all.”

Whatever that means!
Nobody says anything for a couple of minutes. All you can hear is people using their forks or chewing, mostly Pauly, because he's a big hog at the dinner table. I look over at Penny, who usually has some sympathy on her face for people who get called names, but she just glares back at me for a couple of seconds and then slowly continues eating.

Then Sheryl breaks the silence. “Well, Percy, what did you do at the pool today?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“You better have something to say for yourself if you're going to shoot down your sister's story, buddy,” says Uncle Stretch. His dinner fork and knife are raised about his plate like he's going to slash me to bits if I don't talk.

“Well,” I say, mumbling, “I just swam around and went off the board a few times, like Pauly, except, you know, like real jumps and stuff …” I look at every-body's faces, and they don't look very supportive of my telling the truth. I keep talking, anyway. “And then at break, I went outside the fence to talk to this teenager kid, Jimmy, who was shooting hoops by himself. I thought maybe he'd like some company or something, so I rebounded for him for a while. A long time, actually, because I missed the whole next swim period. When Jimmy is shooting, and I'm rebounding, I kind of lose track of time. It's like Jimmy making the shot and me getting the ball and making a perfect pass to him is all that matters. So … that's what I did.”

“Jimmy Fredrichs?” says Uncle Stretch.

“I don't know his last name,” I say.

“Is this the first time you met this boy?” asks Sheryl.

“No,” I say. “I met him at the fair. He was shooting baskets, and I rebounded for him there, too. He makes pretty much every shot.”

“Dark hair?” asks Uncle Stretch. “Kinda skinny, dresses like a hooligan? Doesn't talk much?”

“Yeah, he barely says a word,” I say. “Although I think he looks pretty cool, actually.”

“That's Jimmy Fredrichs.”

“He told me some stuff about your son,” I say.

Penny's head snaps up from her plate.

“His brother Jorry was a good friend of Roland's,” says Uncle Stretch.

I say, “Jimmy told me his brother and Roland died in the same car crash.”

Pretty much everybody has stopped eating by now. Penny, in particular, sits there with her mouth open— and not because she's about to take a bite of her food. Sheryl puts her hand on Uncle Stretch's shoulder and rubs it.

Uncle Stretch looks at me. Then he looks at Sheryl, like he's only talking to her. “Jimmy's got a good heart, but he's a punk, got some dumb ideas,” he says. “Smokes and drinks. Could be the best basketball player in school but doesn't even go out for the team.”

“Why not?” I ask.

Uncle Stretch turns back to me. “Why don't you ask him?” he says. “You two are thick as thieves, sounds like.”

“I don't even know where he lives,” I say. “I've just seen him around a couple times.”

Uncle Stretch snorts. “If you paid attention to more than just yourself, you'd've probably realized by now that Jimmy lives right up the road,” he says. “'Bout two miles north.”

I can see this conversation has gotten underneath Uncle Stretch's skin, so I just ask for another piece of corn. June Bug passes me the plate, and I take an ear and start in. Nobody's saying anything again, so I try to lighten things up.

“So who gets to drive me up to the state fair this weekend?” I ask. “Did you figure it out?”

Uncle Stretch looks at Sheryl. Sheryl looks at Uncle Stretch. Uncle Stretch picks up a piece of watermelon and takes a bite.

“We were just discussing that, hon,” says Sheryl, “and it's a dilemma. Stretch has to load and deliver hogs the day you're supposed to be in the fair, and I've got a baby shower I planned on throwing for my sister two months ago.”

Uncle Stretch spits a watermelon seed onto his plate and says, “Doesn't look good.”

“You don't even have a new chicken picked out, ee-thoh,” says Pauly.

“Shut up, Pauly,” I say.

“Don't talk to him like that,” says Penny.

“Pauly's got a point,” says Uncle Stretch. “Have you given one second to getting a new chicken ready? There's not much use in taking you up there if you're not prepared.”

“I'm prepared!” I say. “I chose a new one. I just need to clean him up. June Bug said she'd help.”

June Bug rolls her eyes. “Maybe your fake girlfriend, Elle, can help you with your chicken, and maybe she can give you a ride to the state fair, too.”

My face goes red. “What are you even talking about?” I say.

“Pauly and I saw you talking to that picture on the wall in the granary. We heard you calling her Elle and being all mushy with her.”

Penny's eyes widen. “I
knew
he was doing dirty things in there!” she says.

“All that proves is that you were spying on me,” I say. “And as for anything else, I don't even know what you're talking about!” I back up my chair and ask to be excused.

“Sherylynn!” says her mom. “Apologize!”

“No!” says June Bug.

Now it's Sheryl's turn to blush.

“Now wait a cotton-pickin' minute,” says Uncle Stretch. He lays his silverware down, takes a deep breath, and exhales. “You won an entry in the state fair. We'll see what we can do to get you there. I might find somebody else to take you up. Let us think about it.”

The idea strikes me like lightning. “What about Jimmy?” I say.

“Is he old enough to drive?” asks Sheryl.

“He said he was sixteen. I bet he'd do it,” I say.

Uncle Stretch scratches his cheek. He says, “He may be busy himself.”

“Well, can I at least ask?” I say.

Uncle Stretch sighs and says, “Sure.”

“We can find his number in the phone book after dinner,” says Sheryl.

“It's 445-3204,” says Uncle Stretch.

“I think I'd rather run over there,” I say, thinking it'd be cool to see where Jimmy lives. “I need a workout. Which way is it from here?”

“Two and a half miles north,” says Uncle Stretch. “Place with a crumbled silo and a big barn that's black instead of red, thanks to Jimmy painting it when he was in his gothic stage, or whatever they call it.”

“So at the end of our driveway,” I say, “I turn to the … ?”

“North,” says Uncle Stretch.

“So that means I go to the left or … ?”

“Other left,” says Uncle Stretch.

“Huh?” I say.

“Turn right, sweetie,” says Sheryl.

We're on the gravel road after supper. I have to jog slower than usual to wait up for Pauly, who's riding his little dirt bike beside me. He rides annoyingly slow. Uncle Stretch and Sheryl made me bring him along because they said we need to learn how to get along better as brothers. I told them I was going to be running too fast for Pauly, doing a cardio workout, but they wouldn't have it. We've gone about a mile, but it's taken us forever. And the sky is getting dark.

“Jeez, Pauly!” I say. “Pick it up. It's going to rain on us.”

“My foot hohts,” says Pauly. “I stepped on a piece of glass at the pool, and it hohts to pwess the pedal.”

“Whatever,” I say. “Suck it up.” I pick up the pace and run a little faster. He'll catch up. I can't wait to get to Jimmy's. The idea of taking a road trip with him— getting out of this stupid place for a while—sounds great to me. We would get a couple Gatorades on the drive up. Maybe Uncle Stretch would give us some money for a hotel, and we could go swimming, play some video games, maybe find a hoop and let Jimmy practice for a few hours. I would rebound a thousand shots. Jimmy would make nine hundred and ninety-nine. My new chicken would win the grand prize, and I'd win some money we could spend on pizza or more video games or … whatever we wanted. I realize, with all the good thoughts I'm having, I'm sprinting. I look back and see Pauly
way
behind. I stop.

“Pauly!” I yell. “Come on!”

I yell again, as loud as I can. Just then I feel a raindrop. I look up the road. We're about halfway to Jimmy's house. It's just as close for me to run that way as it is to head back to Uncle Stretch's. But then I see Pauly sitting down on the side of the road, his bike on its side. If I don't go back and get him, Uncle Stretch won't let me go to the state fair.

I start walking back to Pauly.

A huge lightning bolt juts across the sky, and thunder booms. I start to run. The rain picks up.

When I get to Pauly, I find him pouting, with his head down.

“What's wrong with you?” I say. “Dang it, Pauly, why do you have to mess everything up?”

“My foot,” he says, and points to it.

Through his sandal, I can see dirt and some small pieces of gravel. And there's blood.

“Your foot's bleeding,” I say.

The rain is really coming down now. It's hard to tell what's rain and what's tears on Pauly's face. He barely ever cries.

“C'mon, get up, Pauly.”

He gets up, and I take his arm, and he limps a couple of steps. I try to get him to get going on his bike, but it's not working well. The lightning and thunder crackle, and the rain pours down. I felt less wet at the swimming pool!

“C'mon Pauly! We're going to get struck by lightning.”

“I can't, Pohcy!” he says. “My foot hohts too much!”

He tugs away from me and falls to the ground and starts crying for sure. His mouth is wide open, and you can see all his teeth. What do I do? If I leave him in the ditch while I run back to Uncle Stretch's, he could get struck by lightning or hit by a car. I get an idea.

“Get on my back,” I say. Pauly just lies there, bawling in the rain and thunder.

“Stand up!” I scream at him. I chuck his bike into the ditch, yank him to his feet, and then hoist him onto my back. He's heavy. But I start running back to Uncle Stretch's house. We both might get hit by lightning, but at least I'm trying to save us. Pauly's blubbering mouth is right next to my ear, and I can hear every sob.

“Ease up on the crying!” I yell. He doesn't. So I twirl in circles and make little bunny hops. He stops crying and says, “What ow you doing, dude?”

“Nothing,” I say. I keep running and twirling, zigzagging and hopping. I almost fall a couple of times, but I don't. Pauly knows it's more of a game now, and he starts laughing. The rain is soaking us, the sky is blinking, and we're dashing for home.