I figured God was doing His part for me today.
After class, as I was exchanging my math book for my cleats, that same dusky perfume bit my nose. I wheeled around.
“Hi,” she said, hugging her books to her chest. Her very fine chest. “I just made that up about my parents, like on the spur of the moment. Can you believe it? I freak under pressure. My parents are so totally straight; they’d die if people thought they were meth-heads. God. I can’t believe I actually said that out loud. Can you?”
“No,” I admitted.
She smiled. My insides melted.
“Apparently no one else got that I was just blowing her off. Nobody even laughed.”
A couple of people passed us in the hall and glanced back over their shoulders, checking her out. I couldn’t blame them. We’d never experienced anything like Xanadu at Coalton High.
“I wasn’t serious,” she said. “Did people think I was serious?” She peered after them, curling a lip.
“No,” I said. “They knew. We’re not as dumb as we look.”
Her eyes swept the floor. “I didn’t mean that.”
My face burned. “No. Me neither. I knew you knew.” Had I offended her? Hurt her feelings?
She raised her eyes to mine and we melded together. I could feel it. Her chest heaved and she expelled an audible sigh. “God.” She lowered her chin to her chest. “I am so lost here. So out of my realm.”
I’ll help you find your realm, I thought. I’ll ride you to the castle on a tall white steed and slay every dragon in your path.
“I guess you know my name.” She tilted her head up and crossed her eyes at me. “I’m sure the whole school does by now. What’s yours?” “Mike.” I cleared my windpipe. “Mike.” She bumped my shoulder with hers. Coy. Flirty. God, give me strength. It was suddenly a hundred and ten degrees in here.
“ ’Scuse me,” I stammered. Setting my cleats back on the shelf, I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and hung it on the hook in my locker. When I turned back, she was staring at me. And not at my face.
“Sorry,” she said, her jaw slack. “I...I thought you were a guy.” “Yeah.” I tried to smile, but the smile twisted, like my stomach. “I, uh, get that a lot.”
I
stood at the pulldown station, balancing the handlebar at crotch height, studying myself in the wall-to-wall mirrors. Mike Szabo, I thought, you are one ugly girl. If I had to be born a girl, why couldn’t I at least have been a regular girl? Attracted to guys, like every other girl in the world?
“It’s all yours, Mike.” Armie sat up, straddling the flat bench. He swabbed his dripping neck and chest with a towel, then caught his own reflection in the mirror and sucked in his gut. The hair on his back was all matted with sweat — gag — and the bench was slimy now. Darryl accused me once of wanting to be a guy. He was wrong. Guys physically repulsed me. Maybe when I was younger I wished I was a guy, but I got over it.
Armie said, “Is the bench press next on your circuit?”
“Yeah.”
He bunched the towel around his neck and crouched to replace the plates. “How much you lifting?”
“Eighty,” I told him.
“With reps?” He whistled. “That’s about your limit, I’d say.”
So he thought. I hadn’t reached my limit.
“Baby, the sky’s the limit,” Dad’s voice sounded in my head.
Shut up. Is that what you were reaching for when you jumped?
“I’m only loading sixty for you,” Armie said.
Damn him. I lay prone on the bench, my knees bent, feet flat on the floor. My fingers curled over the dumbbell, caressing it. I loved the smooth feel of the metal, the cool slickness in my palms. I spread my hands apart, deltoid distance, the bar directly over my chest. Armie fastened the second collar and stood. “I’ll spot you,” he said.
“Not necessary.” I could press sixty in my sleep.
He spotted me anyway.
I concentrated. Converted the solid steel plates into bone and muscle. Mine. I closed my eyes and pictured her, Xanadu. She hadn’t run from me, exactly. More like took off fast when she figured me out.
Up and off the rack. Damn, she was beautiful.
Inhale. Down. I wanted her.
Exhale. Up. She’d never be mine.
Inhale. Down. Why not?
“Slower,” Armie said. “Make each rep count.”
Focus. Concentrate. Exhale. Up, up, and hold. If I believed it, I could have it.
Dad again. “Believe it, baby. Believe it and it’s yours.”
Stop it. Down. Stop talking to me. My muscles contracted, quivered. Block it out, Mike. You’re strong. Feel the power. Let it grow, radiate. Exhale. Up, up, and up.
“Anything is possible.”
Shut up, Dad.
“Anything.”
You’re a liar. Remember?
Armie reracked me.
“Hey —” I was on the verge of my adrenaline high.
“You’re shaking,” Armie said. “Take a break.” The phone rang and Armie headed toward the office. Over his shoulder, he added, “Do some curls.”
I waited until he was out of view and pressed another set. I needed my high.
As I was toweling off the bench for the next person, Armie reappeared. Swinging a clump of keys on a shoestring around and around his wrist, he looked at me and shook his head.
“What?”
“You’re the best advertisement I got for this place,” he said.
I exaggerated a smile. He was right about that. I struck a pose like Mr. Universe, which made Armie laugh. He ruffled my hair and headed over to the Nautilus.
After Armie blew out his knee playing football at K State, he found his way back to Coalton. Guys like him always did. Townies. People with deep roots. His family had been here longer than mine, lucky for me. Lucky for all us jocks. Armie’d bought up the old VFW building at the end of Main and remodeled it into a weight room on one side and tanning salon on the other. The gym was totally equipped: a multistation machine, Nautilus, flat and incline benches, squat rack, bar-bells, dumbbells, a treadmill, couple of stationary bikes. He called it Armie’s Hut. It’d always be the VFW to us. When you’re used to something, it’s hard to change your way of thinking.
Dad and Armie were old drinking buddies from way back. Dad had bailed Armie out of the drunk tank more than once, so I guess Armie felt indebted when he’d offered to waive my membership fee. I told him forget it. I’d pay my way.
I took a quick shower, then poked my head into the salon, thinking I’d catch Jamie in the tanning bed. It was open and empty. Renata Pastore, Armie’s live-in girlfriend, was cleaning out the spigot on the espresso machine. “Hey, Renata,” I called to her.
She whirled around. “Oh hey, Mike.” She smiled, her head tilting at an odd angle. I knew what was coming. “How’s your Ma?”
“Doin’ good,” I lied. “You seen Jamie?”
“Not yet. That cheerleader jamboree was today.”
It should’ve been over by now. That was the reason I was here instead of softball practice. The visiting squads were hogging the field.
“We’re sure having a gorgeous spring, aren’t we?” Renata said, rinsing out her dishrag. “It’s warm for April, though. Bet we’re in for a long, hot summer.”
“Probably.” When wasn’t it long and hot in Coalton?
Renata had on a tie-dyed psychedelic skirt with an embroidered peasant blouse. Jamie called her a throwback to the sixties. Renata’s sister, Deb, who was in my class, was sort of retro too, except I think it wasn’t by choice. She mostly wore Renata’s hand-me-downs. My eyes strayed to the watch on my wrist — Dad’s old Timex. Crap. If I didn’t haul ass, I was going to be late for work.
Thompson’s Feed, Seed, and Mercantile was a historic landmark in Wallace County. A couple of years ago lightning had struck the original structure and burned it to the ground. Everett Thompson, the proprietor (as he liked to call himself ), managed to salvage one charred beam, which he extended vertically from the roof with the new Mercantile sign. You couldn’t miss it from the highway, not after he attached the rotating pig on top.
The pig lit up at night. You could see it clear from Goodland. The town council had been after Everett for years to take down that beam with the turning pig. Coalton was more than a pig on a spit.
Everett met me at the open barn door in back. “Mike, where ya been?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. “I need you to take this order up to the Davenport place. You know where it is?”
“Out by the main power line past Blaylock’s Dairy.”
Everett nodded as he rubbernecked around me into the gravel parking lot.
“Darryl needed the truck.” I answered his unspoken question. Fire me, I prayed. Fire me. Set me free. Give me an excuse to kick Darryl’s ass for losing the family business.
Out the side of his mouth, Everett spit a stream of chew. “Think you can handle the flatbed? I gotta stick around here for an order of well pumps and troughs coming in from Dallas.”
“Sure, no problem.” Okay, that’d be fun. I’d ridden along with Everett’s son, Junior, enough times on delivery runs to see how all the gears worked. If June could drive the flatbed, there was no reason I couldn’t.
“Here’s the order.” From his apron pocket, Everett pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.
I scanned the list. A pallet of horse feed, bottle of dewormer, two bags of dog chow. Everett’s handwriting was all spidery from his Parkinson’s.
“Faye specifically wants the Profile Horse Feed and not the Purina. She says Purina gives her mares the bloats.”
“Got it.” I started for the feed aisle.
“If you need help loading the truck —”
“Got it,” I said over my shoulder, flexing my biceps.
Everett chuckled and shuffled off. He was a good guy, but I still hated this job. I never thought I’d be working at the Merc. Never thought I’d need a job. I had a job. A career. A purpose in life. But that was gone now. All of it. Thanks, Dad. You knew Darryl couldn’t be trusted.
The keys to the flatbed were in the ignition. I backed up to the rear of the Merc, maneuvering as close as I could to the pallets of feed. At least it’s physical labor, I thought as I tossed up the first bag of Profile. And I got to work outside, stocking feed and garden supplies. It wasn’t what I loved to do; wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing the rest of my life. It wasn’t what I was born to. If I had to work, though, this job was better than the Dairy Delite or the Suprette, where most people ended up. I could never work at the Dairy Delite. Couldn’t bring myself to wear that candy striper shirt with the cow on the breast pocket. Jamie loved it, but that was Jamie.
My muscle tee was soaked clear through by the time I finished loading the flatbed. I would’ve liked to stop by home and change — make myself more presentable — but it was getting on to dusk already and I’d only sweat out again unloading at the Davenports’.
The Davenports’. I hadn’t been out there since the summer before sixth grade. Dad and I had been contracted to plumb their new barn — install a toilet and utility sink, an outdoor shower for cleanup. That was before Mr. Davenport — Leland — fell off the roof and broke his back. I remember Ma had baked a rhubarb pie for me to take to Faye. Wow, that was a long lost memory. Back when Ma was a functioning, productive human being.
The dogs met me at the gate. Bean and Howdy. They were looking older, grayer. Bean was hobbling around like he had arthritis.
“Hey, guys,” I greeted them from the cab. “Stay back.” I inched up the gravel entrance to the farmhouse. The Davenports probably owned the majority of sections south of town, but since they were getting up in years, they leased the land to commercial farmers. Most everyone around Coalton grew wheat or milo for feed. Farther east were the stink holes, the cattle lots, and pig farms.
I jumped down from the cab. The dogs sniffed my crotch.
“Bean, Howdy, get down,” Faye hollered from the house. The screen door slammed behind her. “Hello, Mike.” She clip-clopped down the porch steps in her rubber clogs. There was this painting from ninth grade Art Appreciation called
American Gothic.
That’s what Faye and Leland Davenport reminded me of, those two stoic farmers. Except more human.
“How nice to see you again.” Faye wiped her hands on her apron, then gave me a hug. “How’s your mother?”
“Doin’ good,” I lied.
“Leland’s down at the horse pens, if you want to take that feed around.” Faye pointed past the big barn. I shielded my eyes at the sun glinting off the metal roof. For some reason, my focus fell to the ham-mock in Faye’s yard, strung between two cottonwoods. Specifically, the person in it who was sleeping with a pair of earphones on.
My heart shattered my rib cage. The sound of cracking bone must’ve carried because her eyes opened and she swiveled her head around.
Xanadu struggled to sit up. She clawed off the earphones, swung her legs over the hammock, and smiled. At me. Or was that my imagination running wild? Because it was running wild all over the place.
Slipping into sandals, she floated across the greening lawn. She was wearing shorts. Short shorts almost invisible under an oversized tee. Which my X-ray vision might’ve been trying to see through because it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. A twinge of electricity surged between my legs.
When she got to where I was, she shoved her CD player under the waistband of her shorts and said, “Hi, Mike. Wow, I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to die of terminal boredom. Let’s see if I did.” She slapped her cheek. “Not yet. I still have feeling on one side.” She grinned. I laughed. My heart pounded like a well drill.
Without her clunky shoes, she wasn’t that much taller than me. Four, five inches.
“I see you’ve met my grandniece,” Faye said.
“Uh, yes, ma’am. I’ve had the pleasure.”
Xanadu snorted. “What are you doing out here in the boonies?” She crossed her arms loosely over her chest. Maybe because my eyes were glued to it. “Besides rescuing me?” she added.
I looked from her to Faye. Faye smiled thinly. “I’m delivering your order from the Merc,” I said. “Well, not
your
order.” My mouth was dry as chicken scratch. Xanadu was still grinning at me. It was making me light-headed. Get a grip, Mike. I stumbled to the rear of the flat-bed to retrieve Faye’s dog food.