With a shriek, she threw a hand up to block me right before our skulls clunked together, and her laughter filled the air. “You can stay on a steer no problem, but can’t manage to keep your own two feet underneath you?”
“I was just trying to beat you to the bottom.”
Her tongue darted out to lick her lip, then she shoved myshoulder hard as she stood. As she launched her body forward, her feet barely stayed under her as she ran. But,shit,she made it. With a triumphant fist pump, she turned to faceme.
“Beat you,” she taunted.
I ran down after her, skidding through the soft earth to stop before my chest crashed into hers. “Didn’t know I was dealing with a cheater.”
Ignoring me, she beelined for the tracks and held one of the flattened coins between her finger and thumb, letting the setting sun reflect off the smooth surface. Her doe eyes sparkled with a similar shade of worn copper, a kaleidoscope of browns and greens and golds.
She was right, the flattened penny wasn’tthatimpressive. And I could tell she knew that.
“This is so cool,” I lied with a smile, holding up my own to inspect it. “Dang, now I wish we’d done this with a toonie to see what the two colors all squished together would look like. Next weekend?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea. I’m going to see if I can figure out the train schedule this week so we can make sure we’re down here to watch it go by.”
God, she was weird. And I guess I was, too, because I enjoyed every second of hanging out with her. When we started back up toward the rodeo ground, I was already counting down the time until we’d be back here.
I smiled over at her, extending a hand to climb the embankment together. “I’ll bring the butterscotch pudding.”
Blair
(thirteen years old)
I spent nearly every summer weekend with the Wells family. Sometimes, it was only Denny, his mom, and me heading out on the road with her old ranch pickup and a bumper-pull horse trailer. We’d get a crappy motel room or camp out under the inky sky—giggling late at night about silly pictures we found in the stars or the motel ceiling stains. Living off nothing but processed sugar and laughter.
Other times, the entire Wells clan tagged along with massive gooseneck stock trailers, complete with live-in quarters. Then it was full meals, sleeping alone in the same trailer as the parents while Denny bunked with his brothers, and boisterous family hangouts around a fire every evening.
Regardless, it was Denny and I all summer long—attached at the hip, as Lucy loved to say. I learned Denny could say the words “chubby bunny” with six marshmallows in his mouth, his favorite color was blue, and he was deathly afraid of June beetles. We toilet-papered Austin’s truck, ate our weight in ketchup chips, and stayed up way too late every night laughing. He was my best friend. I was also pretty sure I was in love with him—though anytime my bestie, Cassidy, asked me if I loved him, I’d lie.
The first day back at school was damp and dreary and daunting. Elbows linked with Cass, we walked into the eighth grade together. Wearing my favorite pair of jeans, a beltbuckle I’d won a few weeks prior, and the pink, pearl-snap shirt Lucy Wells gifted me for my first rodeo, I was on top of the world.
“I wish we had more choices for electives. I don’t even want to take cooking class.” Cassidy stared down at her class schedule, checking once again that it hadn’t magically changed on her. We both knew she’d had the schedule memorized since they sent it out weeks ago.
“At least it’s better than taking shop class or band.” I shrugged, clutching my binders to my chest as I scanned the crowded hallway.
“Barely.” Cass huffed. “Why can’t they give us something useful?”
I snorted. “Since when is cooking not useful?”
“I can just live off the French fries from the Horseshoe forever.”
“I can’t talk about fries right now. Denny and I ate so much poutine last weekend it made my stomach hurt.”
Cass raised her eyebrow, a glimmering expression calling me out for mentioning Dennyagain. According to her, I found a way to work him into every conversation, which simply wasn’t true. I only brought up Denver Wells when the story fit the conversation. Just so happened, I usually had a story involving him that fit.
Shaking my head with an irritated eye roll, I spotted him. Down the hall, past the band room, Denny was huddled with a group of boys by a bank of lockers. With his back to us, it was the perfect opportunity for payback. I raced up behind him and pinched his side—a move he’d done to me at least a million times over the summer. He jumped, twisting his torso midair to see who the culprit was.
I stupidly expected a laugh. Maybe a retaliation tickle.
Instead, he metaphorically slapped me across the face when his voice grew low and, in an annoyed tone, he said, “Oh, hi, Hart.”
“Hi,” I croaked, unsure why he was acting like we hadn’t spent nearly every day together for the last two months.
Denny turned back to his friends, who stood with scrunched noses, staring at me like the biggest weirdo in school. And maybe I was. Any other girl in our grade would’ve swooned over Denny simply looking at them. But my eyes welled, my cheeks grew hot, and my intestines knotted with embarrassment.
Screw Denver Wells.
