Bull Rider (5 page)

Possum walked into the chute and one of the guys slid the gate behind him. It was time to put on the bull rope. Now, the pro bull riders and the bigger rodeos, they have a special rigging chute that makes the whole deal a lot easier. But in a little hometown arena like we had in Salt Lick, we made do with the fish-and-stretch method: dangle the rope down one side of the chute and a second cowboy on the other side of the chute reaches a long wire hook under the bull to catch the rope. Work both sides of the bull rope up to the top of the chute and stretch across the bull to pull it around him like a ribbon on a package. That’s how they rigged up Possum. And all the while the steer was moving back and forth into the sides of the chute. With every bang,
the whole chute moved. I could feel the size of him under my boots on the platform before I ever went over the rail.

I’d seen this a thousand times, and I knew that, since I was going to ride, or at least try to ride, the steer, I should be the one to fix the bull rope. But I didn’t. I let Andrew reach in and adjust the size of the rope so it fit around the steer. He moved it back and forth until the handle was on top. I watched. And prayed.

I thought about jumping around and slapping my hands together like some guys do before they ride, but I felt quiet, so I waited till they tied the flank rope on Possum. That’s when you have to decide. And I’m telling you, you have to decide every time. Are you going over the rails to get on the bull, or are you going to be smart and go back down? My instinct was to climb down. But Ben was watching me and then Darrell handed me his buckskin glove. I slipped it on my right hand and clenched my fingers, feeling the pine tar that bull riders rub on their gloves for extra grip stick my fingers together. Possum banged back and forth in the chute. I shivered.

“We’ll ease you down,” Darrell said. He put a hand under my armpit the same way I had put mine under Ben’s to get him out of the truck, and right then, I swallowed, swung my legs across the rails, and dropped onto Possum.

The steer let go with a shower of poop. No offense meant, but the back end of a bull is pretty much a manure factory, and when they get excited it shoots everywhere. Even a little steer like Possum has a broad back. I stretched my legs out across him, settled in, and felt his muscles tense. “Hang on tight with them legs,” Andrew said. He pulled the rope snug
to cinch it on the steer. I was sure this animal didn’t like me. “That feel good to you?” he asked. I didn’t have a clue what felt good, but I nodded. “Now rough your rope.” I ran my glove up and down the bull rope a bunch of times to raise the fuzz up and give me anything extra to hold on to. Then I slipped my hand into the handle, palm up. Andrew laid the tail of the rope across my fingers one direction, made a loop, and brought it back the other way on top of my palm. I wrapped my fingers around the rope, and Darrell reached in and squeezed my hand shut over the rope to seal everything up with the pine tar. The steer jumped to one side.

“Keep your toes in,” Grandpa Roy yelled. I looked up and he was straddling the fence above me. I turned my left toe under the steer just before he would have ripped it along the rails. He jammed my knee into the boards instead, and I bit my lip to keep from yelling. This was when a clear thinker should have got out.

“Now sit forward when you ride,” Grandpa said. “And don’t forget your shoulders. Keep ’em square. You ready?” His face was taut with excitement. I felt the bull squash my leg and scrape it along the side of the chute.

“Ready,” I said. They opened the chute wide, the steer jumped to the right, and I blacked out.

N
ow in case you think I’m a wimp or something, I’m telling you a lot of the guys black out their first ride. That’s what Ben says, anyway. There’s just too much happening all at once. I don’t think I stuck two seconds. I don’t remember. I do remember scrambling up the rail and Possum trotting around the far end of the ring, with Andrew shooing him away from me. And from the throbbing, I can tell you I landed hard on my right side.

I brushed myself off and then I saw the cowboys watching me. “That’s one way to ride a bull!” someone yelled. Everybody laughed.

“Well, he’s lucky he passed out before he got a load of your ugly face,” another one called.

I blushed and pulled Ben’s hat down lower. I wished they were talking about anybody but me. I unzipped Darrell’s vest and took it over to him. The odd thing was, when my head cleared enough to think, I was tingly and tight and
wired and pumped up all at once. All I wanted was to do it again. But the guys were still joking about my ride, and getting on another steer meant I had to lower myself into the chute, and I was scared. Stomach-churning scared.

So I sat on the fence and tried to act cool, like blacking out on the back of a steer happened to me every day. Meanwhile, Darrell got settled for his ride. He picked the big black Brahma. Andrew pulled the gate clear back and, man, that bull shot out. He bucked high and landed four-footed, turned right, and then threw his head back, then ducked it to the left. Darrell went flying off to the side. He hit, bounced, and jumped to his feet, hopping one, two, three, four. He sprang up the fence like a jack rabbit and landed next to me.

“So, you gonna be a bull rider like your brother?”

“That’s a lot of bull riding,” I said.

“Yeah, it is,” Darrell said, catching his breath. “But he’s out and it seems like we could use another O’Mara in.”

I stared at him to see if he was fooling with me after all that ribbing. But his face was serious the way guys are when they need you to believe something important.

“
Ben
and you are the bull riders,” I said. Then I realized just how stupid that sounded now.

He took off his cowboy hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ben just goes with bull riding, don’t he?” He knocked the dust off his hat. “Well, if it’s not Ben, maybe it’ll be you—someday. In or out?” he asked.

I jumped off the fence. “Let’s see you on a board first.”

“That’s a bet, Cam O’Mara—you didn’t do so good on the bulls, and I’ll beat you at skateboarding, too.”

“I’ll take any bet you’ve got. Just show up,” I said, grinning.

“Soon,” he said.

“You’re on.”

Monday morning, Mike, Favi, and me sat together on the school bus. I was bursting to tell them about the bull riding, but Mike beat me to it, in the news category.

“My mom’s been fainting again. This weird Meniere’s Disease makes her ears ring and she loses her balance. They can’t get her medications right.”

“Is she going to be okay?” Favi asked.

“Yeah, the doctors aren’t worried, but she can’t drive for a while.”

“That’s too bad,” Favi said.

“Too bad for her. My dad says he’s got some big irrigation contracts up in Oregon. He’ll be out of town a lot, so I’ll have to get an emergency driver’s license.”

“No way,” I said.

“Yep. I’ll be legal to drive as soon as I pass the tests.” Mike just beamed.

“Will they give you a license even though you’re fourteen?” Favi asked. She went on without waiting for his answer. “I’ll help you study for your written test.”

“Can you drive us places?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I have to get the license first.”

We spent the rest of the ride talking about Mike’s good luck. The bus pulled up to school before I’d said one word about my bull ride.

So I told them at lunch. “I went with Ben and Grandpa to the bull ring. And I rode a steer. It was a total rush. You wouldn’t believe how it feels when they open the gate.” I talked faster. “And after that, well I don’t remember a lot, but it was even better than hitting a landing off that high ramp at the Winnemucca Skate Park. It’s not like what I expected. It’s awesome. I’m thinking about going back.”

“You can’t just decide to be a bull rider,” Favi said, picking the tomatoes out of her sandwich. “That’s not you.”

“Sure he can, he just has to fall off about a thousand times.” Mike ate one of Favi’s tomatoes. “Then he’ll learn how to stick on a bull—but it’s not worth it.”

“I can do it,” I said to Favi. “Just like Mike can get his license.”

“Well, I
need
that to drive my mom around. But bull riding—you don’t have time,” Mike said. “We’re practicing for the skateboarding jam.”

“I can do both.”

“Just remember you said you’d skateboard
first
,” Mike pressed. He reached for my chips. “Remember, we’re boarders. That’s what we do.” He pushed his hair back off his forehead.

“Don’t worry. He can’t learn to bull ride that fast. Or maybe,” Favi teased me the way she did when other kids might be listening, “they’ll give you a real
nice
bull that anybody can ride.”

I glared at her. “You can’t score high on a nice bull.”

“Maybe it would turn mean when you sit on it.”

“Faviola, grow up,” Mike said.

“Yeah, like you’re the mature one.” She stuffed her
garbage into her lunch bag. “I’d stick to skateboarding, Cam. Bull riding is too dangerous. It’s almost
barbaric
.” She used one of this week’s vocabulary words. “You’re a skater.”

“I can do what I want, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” Now I sounded just like Ben. Or Grandpa.

“Well, if you are going to go off bull riding instead of practicing for the skate jam, don’t be whining to me when you lose,” Mike said. “You haven’t landed a decent jump all week.”

“I won’t lose,” I told him, and I smashed my lunch bag into the garbage.

My reputation was on the line. Bulls or no bulls, I had to prove to Mike that I could win the skateboard competition in Winnemucca.

When Lali and I came in from school, Grandma Jean had the kitchen full of cucumbers, green tomatoes, and onions from the garden. The whole place smelled like vinegar.

“Pickles!” Lali said. “Can I help?”

“Shhh, honey, Ben’s sleeping.” Grandma handed Lali the measuring spoons. “You can put in the peppercorns.” Grandma turned to me and smiled. “Somebody around here mostly helps out by eating them. Cam, you can slice the cucumbers.”

I knew how to do it. Grandma Jean made pickles every fall.

“What did you do today?” she asked. “Is that Mr. Killworth still as cranky as I remember?”

“Pretty much.”

“You kids should loosen him up. Have you thought about filling his gym locker with shaving cream?”

“Grandma!”

“It’s just an idea,” she said. “Pretend I never said it.”

We sliced and talked till the vegetables filled three big bowls. I helped Grandma Jean lift the heavy jars of pickles into a kettle of boiling water. Lali sang a song. “Pickles, pickles are green and red. Grandma’s pickles are…” She couldn’t find a rhyme. “Good,” she finished. Suddenly, she looked serious.

“Grandma, can Ben eat the pickles? He can still eat pickles, can’t he?”

“Of course he can.” Grandma hugged her.

I realized that, for almost an hour, I hadn’t thought about Ben. But I
was
thinking about what Mike said at lunch—that I was going to lose the skate jam. It was just a few days away, and I needed practice.

That night I convinced Mom that Killworth hadn’t given us any homework. Of course, if she’d have been paying attention, she’d know that he gave us lots of homework every night, and that Monday was his favorite, because if you didn’t get it done, then he had the whole week to bug you for it. But she was busy doing more accounting and more fretting about Ben, so she believed me about the homework and let me take my board out.

I headed for the Grange to board in the parking lot before it got dark. I used some stuff they had piled out back to set up a hurdle. Well, it was a piece of PVC pipe on two
pieces of concrete. I ran up to it on my board, jumped the pipe in the middle of a kickflip, and landed like a pro. Then I raised the pipe higher for my next run. It wasn’t like the real ramps and stuff we had at Mike’s, but it would have to do. I was so into the jumps and kickflips that I didn’t see Darrell walk up behind me, carrying a board.

“Looks good, kid,” he said.

“I didn’t know you had a board,” I said.

“I told you I’d take you on—bull to board. I think I’ve got the edge on the bulls. So I’ll give you a head start on the boards.”

I laughed. “I don’t need it. I’ll take you. What can you do?”

Darrell looked around. “Let’s get that jump higher and add some real turns.”

He went to the field behind the Grange and came back carrying two big rocks. “Bring some more rocks over. We’ll set up a course.”

Darrell and I, we worked for a while. We used the rocks like slalom gates and set up two more hurdles. It was funny being there with Darrell. I hadn’t seen him much since Ben had joined the service and Darrell’d taken a job selling ATVs and motorcycles down in Winnemucca. Of course, everyone knew he’d be at the bull ring any day there was practice, but until now, that wasn’t exactly my spot to hang out.

“You should come by to see Ben,” I said.

“Your brother and me, we
do
stuff. He don’t want to sit around and talk to me,” Darrell said.

“You don’t know that.” I balanced a PVC pipe to make another hurdle.

“You tell him hi for me. Right after I beat you.” He
bopped me on the head. “Let’s go. If I win, kid, I’m picking out a mean bull and you take another ride.”

“And if I win, you do my algebra homework.” I was counting on getting my homework done on time.

“I’ll clock you.” Being a bull rider, Darrell had a stopwatch button on his wristwatch. I ran my board around the course once to build up speed. Then I called to Darrell to start his watch and started between the first two rocks. I swung the board left and right under my feet. I could move it where I wanted by swaying my hips and knees, balancing over the wheels. I loved knowing exactly where I was going. I cut the corners as close as I could. I was flying and then I kicked off the board, landed my first jump, and moved between the next pair of rocks. I turned wide and had to slow down to make the next turn. I cleared another jump and was roaring to the last hurdle. It was the highest and when I jumped, I caught the pipe with my heel. I landed forward on my board and hit the asphalt hard with my shoulder. The pipe bounced along the asphalt with a hollow thunk.

“Too bad!” Darrell yelled.

I picked myself up. My shirt was torn and my shoulder was bleeding. “Crumb, I like this shirt,” I said. “What’s my time? You have to go faster.”

“Nah, I just have to clear the last jump,” he said.

“And go faster,” I repeated.

Darrell pointed to the watch. “Don’t worry. I’ll do both.” He tossed me the watch and started around the course. He had an easy balance that looked slow but he wove through the rocks like a dancer. Or a bull rider. He made the first jump and the second. The third jump came up just after a
set of rocks. He kicked hard, jumped the pipe, landed on his board, turned ninety degrees, and skidded to a stop. “How’d I do?” he asked me.

“Well, you made the last jump, but you took an extra half a second.”

“That’s ’cause I finished,” Darrell said, looking straight at me.

“But you didn’t beat my time,” I said.

“I didn’t pass out, either.” He slapped my back and laughed. “I think you owe me a bull ride.”

“I think you should do my algebra,” I said.

“Tell you what, squirt. You come to the bull ring tomorrow and bring your math. I’ll help you out. Right after you ride.”

I thought about Killworth and the extra problems he’d give the whole class if we didn’t all get Monday’s homework in by Wednesday. “Well, you didn’t win,” I said.

“And I didn’t lose. See you at the bull ring.” He took his board and walked toward his truck.

“I’m bringing my homework!” I yelled after him. He didn’t look back.