Dear Life, You Suck (21 page)

I’m tempted to tell her about my Prison tower storytime, but I don’t. “No, I’ve never thought about it.”

Moxie doesn’t bite. “Oh, please. Give me at least some credit. I’m not nearly as stupid as I look.”

Books and movies. Apollo Zipper would be famous.
Apolloblanca
.
Gone with the Zipper. Apollo of Arabia. The Zipper Mutiny. Apollo-Hur. Rebel Without a Zipper.

“If you don’t go to college, what are you going to do with your life?”

Slightly less humorous
.
Do you not recall the ominous message in my Dear Life, You Suck letter, Lordy Lordikins?
“What life?”

“Oh, right, I forgot. You’re planning a retreat via the escape pod when no one’s looking. Leave the rest of us here to go down with the ship.”

I’m not sure if I should be offended or amused. I flash Moxie one of my best pre-fight glares.

She’s not intimidated. “Why would you want to jump ship now? The ride’s just about to start getting fun.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?”

“You’re graduating high school. You’re getting away from all of us pain-in-the-ass teachers who’ve been ordering you around and making you write stupid letters. You’ll be an adult. You’ll be able to do whatever you want. You’ll be free.”

I have to admit, her comments gush some sticky juices outta me like a machete slicing a ripe watermelon. I never thought about it that way. I’ve only thought about how the freedom’s gonna freak me out when I get kicked out of the Prison. I’ve never thought about how the freedom’s gonna free me. Of course, I can’t let her know her words have tickled me a mischievous fancy.

“Yeah, right, free.” I serve it up with an extra dollop of sarcasm.

“Why haven’t you applied to college?”

“Why would I?”

She jabs me with her own pre-fight glare.
Not bad
.

“I wouldn’t get in, and even if I did, I couldn’t pay for it.”

“I’ve seen your transcripts. You could get in. And most kids can’t afford college but they figure out a way. The question is, how can you afford
not
to?”

I lift my head and gaze around the room.

“What are you looking for, Cricket?”

“The poster you just read that platitude off of. It must be here somewhere.”

I feel her smile. “That one’s been hanging in my head for a very long time. Anyway, you pay for college the same way everyone does. Beg, borrow, and steal. It’s the way of the world.”

“You don’t understand my world.”

“I understand it more today than I did last week.”

Shit
. Maybe I dripped out more personal ickies in my Reasons than I should have. I never thought we’d be talking about them. I just thought she’d scratch me an F and call it a day. “I ain’t got the dough to mail in an application, let alone buy books and pay for room and board and all that other crap. There’s no way.”

“There’s always a way. But forget money for a moment. Would you like to go to college if you could?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Damn, this tripping Janis Joplin wannabe is good
. I slip her a sideways glance. Her expression’s serious, but her eyes are giggly. I can tell this ain’t no typical shooting-the-breeze bullshit conversation. She’s after something. Something about me. Something for me.

Foxy Moxie stands and slides her chair under a desk. “Think about it. If you decide it’s something you want to explore, see me after school on Monday. I’ll give you some suggestions on schools with good writing programs. Then we can connect with Miss Regan about financial aid and scholarships. She’s a wiz at all that. She can probably finagle a way for you to attend college and get paid to do it. But don’t wait too long. Last thing you want to do is miss the scholarship deadlines and be stuck in this frosty hellhole for another year.” She winks and walks away.

Huh, how do you like that? She hates this place too
.

I’m under the big oak tree near the tennis courts at one o’clock, as requested. I ain’t skipping out of school. It’s a half day. Skipping after being back only two days would not be good. Not that I wouldn’t have done it for a date with Wynona. That’s what this is. A date. At least that’s what she called it this morning when she asked me. I don’t know what we’re doing, but I don’t care. Ain’t that a smooth sailing tack in the udder rudder? I don’t care one rat’s nut what we do. Just to be with her is enough. Holy fruit-swizzled pirouettes, Batgirl. I sound like a friggin’ Portuguese love sonnet.

I see her coming. The way she’s glowing and grinning, I’m expecting an avalanche of words to tumble out when she gets to me, but she just says hi. She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the main road. I glance over my shoulder to see if any of the kids in the courtyard are watching, and they are, so I’m psyched. Their faces aren’t scrunched and tilted like usual. More open-mouthed and gawky.
Sweeeet
.

We walk for a while without talking. She’s squeezing my hand like she’s afraid I’ll bolt if she lets go. Like I’m a stray dog she’s rescued. Our palms are sweaty, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I feel fruity holding her hand in the middle of town, and I’m praying no one like Grubs or one of the guys from Duckies drives by. I’d never hear the end of it. Even though I’m feeling like a Tinker Bell balloon floating down Main Street in the Thanksgiving Day parade, I don’t let go. It’s worth the risk. She’s worth the risk. Her fingers feel like the end of an electrical wire wrapped in soft cloth. The current’s zapping my hand, energizing my arm, and singeing my chest. There’s a hazardous sensation coursing through my veins too, on account of I know any second a bolt of reality might electrify my ass. Truth is, I like the feeling.

I don’t realize where we’re going until she yanks my arm a sharp left toward her driveway.
Oh, shit. I hope we ain’t doing another eat-’n’-greet with Sergeant Superdad and Madame Step-Snob
.

“I already ate lunch,” I grumble.

“Cool, me too.”

At the top of the driveway, we turn onto a gravel path that curves around the house, which is a relief because I like being alone with her. Maybe she’s taking me somewhere for a secret smooch session. The sound of gravel crunching under our sneakers makes me realize we haven’t spoken during the entire walk. Just a few hints and glints between our sweaty palms.

The trail slopes downhill toward a big barn that’s tilting so much it looks like it’s about to tip over. A small corral built from wooden pallets is attached to the barn. There’s a watering trough and one of them crossbeam things that’s used in old Western movies to tie up horses. I’m just waiting for John Wayne to waddle out.
Where’d you find this peckerwood?

When we get to the barn, the smell of horseshit slams me hard in the face. And I thought scrubbing seagull shit off the boathouse roof was bad. Pterodactyls couldn’t shitzkrieg turds this huge.

Wynona unlatches a bungee cord lock and slides the giant door open. “Wait here,” she says, stepping inside. A few minutes later, she walks out leading two horses.

I cross my arms over my chest and glare.

She beams at me. “What?”

“I hope this date don’t involve me hauling my skinny ass onto one of them giant goddamn Pegasus bastards.”

She feigns a frown. “Arabella and Mingo do not have wings. And I resent the implication. They are purebred Appaloosa.” She steps forward and loops the reins around the tree-trunk crossbeam.

Oh, Jesus nut-crushing Christ. I’m doomed. I’ve never been on a horse, and I definitely don’t want today to be my circus clown debut. Me bouncing and bashing the ol’ family jewels a galloping mischief is not good first-date material. Afterward, we’ll sip lemonade on her front porch while I apply an ice pack to my nutsack.

I watch her saddle the horses, all the while trying to think up some excuse that will get me out of this death-defying debacle.

Wynona finagles her sneaker into the loopy foot-holder thing and swoops onto the bigger horse like he’s a playground seesaw. She merry-go-rounds me a grin like she’s expecting me to do the same.

I flick her a crooked stare.

“What?”

“What do you think, what? I ain’t scaling my ass up that friggin’ four-legged skyscraper.”

Wynona scrunches her face and sticks out her tongue.
Damn, she’s cute
. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little horse?”

“I ain’t scared of him. I’m scared of the big-ass boulder he’s gonna buck me into.”

“She.”

“What?”

“Mingo’s a she, and she’s a sweetheart. She wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

Just then, Mingo jabs her head at me and snorts like she’s agreeing.

Wynona laughs. “See?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, please. You can fistfight a guy as big as a horse, but you’re afraid to ride one?”

Her saying that pushes me over the edge. I’d rather get thrown off a horse to my death than have Wynona think I’m a pussy. I step up to Mingo and notice that my saddle has a giant handle like I’m some Special Olympics equestrian. I’m surprised she’s not making me wear a football helmet.

I jam my foot into the loop and grab the handle. Mingo starts walking, forcing me to hop on one foot to keep up. I try to push off the ground, but before I’m halfway up she lunges forward and I lose my grip and land on my ass.

Wynona’s cackling under her hand, which for a split second bubbles a rage in my gut like right before a fight, but then I notice something unusual in her sparking eyes. She’s looking at me differently from the way most glaring eyes do. She’s laughing like we’re at the cinema together watching a Monty Python flick.

I jump to my feet and fake a laugh, but I can feel the red on my face. “Wouldn’t hurt a flea, huh?”

“Just relax,” Wynona says through the giggles. “You’re making her nervous.”

“Maybe we should shoot her up with some equine ecstasy.”

Wynona smiles and my insides swoosh. I walk over to Mingo and jump onto her like I’ve done it a million times.

I don’t know if it’s the elevation or the view or the giant body twitching between my legs or Wynona’s applause, but something immediately lifts me to a place I’ve never been and transmogrifies me into a person I’ve never seen. Like all of a sudden, I am a horseback rider. Mingo must sense the change, because she nods and blasts me a nostril-flapping thumbs-up and trots off like I ESP’d her a
ready, set, go
.

Wynona gallops past me with a solemn expression, as if my ass-over-teakettle tumble never happened. I’m bouncing pretty good, so I press down on the foot holders and the ride smoothes like the feet things are control pedals. I let go of the handle and hold the reins like Wynona, except I use two hands. I feel balanced.

We pass through a gate into an enormous field and the tall tan grass swaying in the wind makes me feel like I’m riding through a wheat ocean on a dirt jetty.

Wynona fades into the scenery like she’s painted there.

Mingo’s head is tick-tocking like a metronome. Even though I can’t see her eyes, I can tell by the way she’s holding her head up that she’s proud of me and proud to be carrying me. She’s snorting me
attaboy
s and being extra careful with her footing and speed. This probably sounds corny, but I sense she’s looking out for me. Like she actually cares about me.

I suddenly feel like Mingo is carrying me into my future. It makes me feel old. Older than I’ve ever imagined myself getting. Like ninety or a hundred. So old the memories aren’t memories but parts of me, like limbs. Real parts of a real person. So old I can see more stuff behind me than in front.

I’m sitting at an enormous oak table talking to a skinny, scared, dirt-encrusted kid. I’m explaining to him how horseback riding isn’t about skill, but trust. I’m explaining to him how horseback riding is about more than him. I tell him about the horseback ride I took that day with the beautiful girl in the beautiful field beside the beautiful ocean and how the beautiful wind made my ugly eyes cry. And I tell him about how that horse saved my life.

Mingo snorts me back to the present. The tall, tan grass sways beneath me. The warm wind dries my eyes.

My eighteenth birthday suddenly feels very far away.

Mingo catches up to Arabella as we enter a tunnel of trees. It reminds me of the rhododendron path at the Prison, except this trail smells like the pine-scented disinfectant I scrub the toilets with. Mingo trots alongside Arabella as if she has a secret to tell her, and my leg bumps Wynona’s. She smiles without turning, makes a clicking sound with her mouth, and jabs Arabella in the sides with her heels. They gallop away.

The tunnel dumps us onto a sandy beach littered with leaves and limbs like a hurricane hit it. I wonder if they washed over from the Prison.

Wynona turns Arabella smoothly toward the ocean like the reins are a steering wheel. Mingo follows.

Wynona gazes at the ocean as if it’s her first time seeing it. I’m right next to her, but she doesn’t see me. Her gaze is intense. And familiar. The courtyard. The day I pummeled Pitbull. After the fight, when she was kneeling beside him and glaring at me with that look of . . . what was it? Not fear. Not anger. Determination. Except today I’m the pummeled Pitbull, and the ocean is me.
Freaky deaky
.

I’m happy she likes God Art more than Man Art.

She turns to me when her conversation with the ocean is over. “You’re a natural.”

Jeezy breezy lemon squeezy! Being called a natural for the third time in one lifetime.

She inches Arabella closer and leans her face into mine, and my face does the same without me telling it to. Her kiss feels like a feather landing on my lips. She keeps leaning until her body is sliding down Arabella like some equestrianated stripper move.

I dismount with far less grace, and we meet at Mingo’s ass.
Romantic
. Mingo flicks her tail and catches me in the eye. Wynona laughs. The horses stand at the water’s edge as if she ordered them to. I step back, and Wynona steps forward and grabs my hips and keeps walking until she bumps into me and hugs my waist, and I stumble backwards and fall on the sand, and she lands on top of me, which I guess was her plan all along because she’s giggling an evil giggle.