I interrupt her with a low grunt. If she’s about to call me old again, I have a name or two I can call her as well.
Also—when the hell did she talk to him?
Aboutme?
“Never mind,” she says. “Right. So you’re familiar with teenagers. Are you familiar with teenagers whose mothers ruin their lives by moving them seven universes away from all that they love and hold dear, permanently scarring them for the rest of their lives, since they definitely don’t have access to telephones and email and forty-seven varieties of social media to keep in touch with said friends until they all live out their dream of reuniting and sharing a house when they go to the same college intwo whole horrible, terrible, awful, never-endingyears?”
Don’t wobble,I order my lips.She’s not funny. She’s not amusing. She’s going to ruin the ranch with her ignorance about what it needs and cause a lot of trouble for you in the meantime, and you should take a hell of a lot of pleasure in knowing that she has someone in her life making her suffer the way she’s about to make you suffer.
If she were anyone else delivering that line, I’d let myself chuckle. Because, yes, I know a little something about ruining teenagers’ lives.
Do it daily.
And I go back every fall becauseI get it. I vividly remember being a teenager. I relate to what they’re going through, no matter whatsometeenagers seem to believe. I can especially relate to what June’s going through. I moved in with my aunt here in Hell’s Bells at the start of my own junior year and never felt like I found my place in high school.
Being a safe place for teenagers to be who they are and feel what they’re feeling gives me a purpose in life, and I wouldn’t want any other job.
Or any other home now that I’ve resettled here.
And I don’t love it solely for the view of the butte at sunrise and the bluffs along the creek at sunset that I can get from the gatehouse I’ve rented from Tony since I came back to Hell’s Bells. Or for taking a dip in the creek on a hot summer day after working with the animals at Kory’s place, or on a roofing project with a friend, or doing any of the dozens of other big and small tasks that I help out with around town most days in the summer and most of my free time on weekends through the school year.
I love Hell’s Bells because it’s home now. More, I love the ranch because Tony always welcomed me to bring groups of students out here when they needed to blow off steam or learn to ride a horse, or what it’s like to herd cattle, or just to run free and blow off steam in a place with the occasional building to hide in when they needed some space to be alone.
The school has unofficially used Wit’s End, which sits about a mile outside of town limits, as a teaching ground for the next generation to learn about being stewards of the land.
Might inspire a new generation of ranchers.
Or it might inspire someone who can figure out how to save the earth.
And while I’m worried about the future of Hell’s Bells and the kids, she’s traipsing in here and announcing we’re having acow funeralbecause that’s what her teenager needs.
Thevery worst partof all this, though?
Hell if I’m not on board.
It’s what the teenager needs.
“You know where to find the shovel?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Shovel?Oh no. This is a job for the tractor. Ground’s hard here when it’s this dry. Plus,tractor. Hello, fun. That was always my favorite part of visiting here.”
“You’ve driven Tony’s tractor?” I don’t know if I’m surprised that she’s driven it—she drovenothingon her TV show, not even a regularpickup truck—or that she’s comfortable casually droppingOh yes, I used to visit here and liked it.
Every now and again, when he was watching her show, Tony would talk about the times she visited as a kid, but I always got the impression he was willfully remembering it better than it had been.
Glad to see she grew up happy, even if she doesn’t stop by as much anymore,he’d say when he’d stop himself midstory, getting a far-off look on his face like he didn’t want to think about how long it had been since she was last here.
And damn if Maisey’s expression doesn’t go the exact same kind of wistful as she shields her eyes from the sun and squints up at me again. “Not since I was about Junie’s age. Maybe a year older. Tony was that uncle everyone should have, and he was everything I needed when I was younger. Once I left for college ... well. Anyway. If I’d known his time was short, which clearly, none of us did, but—the tractor. Right. I drove the whole thing into the creek the second time I tried it, and after he finished laughing, Uncle Tony took away the tractor license he made for me.”
I grunt in what I hope is a normal olethat’s interestingkind of way.
Ihaveheard about her and the tractor.
Slipped my mind.
But if she can drive a tractor, she can take care of the cow herself. And maybe that’s what she needs.
Maybe she needs to try this life, drive that tractor into the creek again, realize here isn’t the fit she wants it to be, and then she’ll leave.
