Tell Me Something Real Read online

  For instance, Beau, the patriarch, is nothing but steady. He’s been a farmer his whole life, and his long, lean body tells you he doesn’t shy away from physical labor—just like his skin and face tell you he spends the majority of his time outside. Even still, he doesn’t look a day over fifty.

  His prodigal grandson looks the most like him when it comes to facial features, with slicing cheekbones, a narrow face, and sharp jawline, while Colt’s face is rounder, friendlier. McHotpants has the same brown eyes as his cousin and grandfather, and though none of them would like to hear this, they carry the same defensive look right now, guarded and ready to ignore or defend at any moment.

  “Lincoln. Where’s Colt?”

  I offer Beau a smile. “He had to run into town. Said to let you know that the tractors were all serviced last night and should be ready to go.” I leave off the part about pretty boy sweeping by himself. A look at Beau’s tight jaw and strained eyes tells me he’s already irritated enough with his two grandsons, he doesn’t need snide comments to push him further. “He said he would be back soon.”

  Beau stares for a second, and I know he’s wondering the same thing I was last night: if living with his mom is the best thing for Colt. And then, if that’s where Colt is right now, already cleaning up a mess or taking care of her. Guilt battles with embarrassment, until I clear my throat and explain. I’d rather be embarrassed than have Beau worry more than necessary.

  “It’s my fault he had to leave,” I tell him, and work to keep my voice light. “I forgot some stuff. He didn’t want me to hold up the field crew, so he offered since he was on barn clean-up.”

  My eyes hold contact with Beau’s, and I see understanding register. He’s not an expressive man, Beau Slaughter, but he’s a kind and fair one. My entire life, he’s treated me with respect, when everyone else has been more than happy to treat me like the dirt my mother does her best to make me. He’s always offered me a job and a place to stay if there is trouble. His wife… she doesn’t feel quite the same for me, but I suspect that’s because not-so-long ago, a woman stepped between her family and tore her sons lives apart.

  That act led to the exile of one son, and the death of another. Now, she’s raising both of her grandsons.

  “Well, let me know if he can’t help. I’m sure I can figure something out.”

  Shame heats my cheeks, and I nod before looking down. Being poor is something you try to get used to and, most of the time, you can do it. It takes a little courage, a lot of ingenuity and canniness, and a great big eff-off to the rest of the world. However, most of the time, I can wear my socio-economic status if not comfortably, then honestly.

  But when people like Beau Slaughter make kind gestures in quietly simple ways, I can’t help but feel that slight of embarrassment, because no matter what I do, I always need help.

  It wasn’t enough to be poor; the gods everyone’s always arguing about also had to make me diabetic, which in turn, makes me needy. I hate being needy. More than I hate being the sick girl who passes out at random times, and is always aware of the very real possibility of a coma waiting just around the corner, I hate that this disease has made me more dependent on other people than ever.

  Which is why I sometimes ignore it, and pretend it doesn’t exist, that it isn’t a big deal. Because, however stupid, sometimes it’s a relief to just inject insulin at random and act like my life is livable. Kind of like drunk driving; for a while, I’ll get away with it, but if I keep it up, eventually it’s going to hurt me.

  And maybe someone else; maybe Colt. I could live with the chance if it was just me. But I can’t live with it knowing it might harm him.

  “I’m good. But thanks.”

  Beau nods. “This is Beauford—Ford,” he corrects when McHotpants whips his head to stare at him. “Um, Ford William Joseph Slaughter. My grandson,” he finally settles on, and I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen the quiet, yet formidable, Beau Slaughter a little flustered.

  Either because he’s not sure which name I’ll use, or because he wants to make a point to his grandfather, McHotpants mumbles “Just Ford,” and we all nod.

  “He’s cleaning barns and doing tractor maintenance with Colt today. Why don’t you take him over to the main barn, and show him what to do? I’ll get your rake out there and drive until Colt gets back. He can bus you over to the field after you get everything squared away.”

  Beau doesn’t wait for me to answer, which is good because that embarrassment and gratitude are back, and I don’t know how to ignore the first and verbalize the second without sounding pathetic. Instead, I watch him when he turns to Ford, who has been silent this entire exchange.

  “Listen to Lincoln, and to Colt, when they tell you what to do. If you mess it up, you have to start over and that puts everyone behind. We’re nearing the end of the season—being behind isn’t an option.”

  Ford nods, no change in his expression. Beau stares at him, and he stares back. Finally, Beau steps away and turns toward the equipment barn, while I turn and begin walking in the other direction toward the largest hay barn. I hear boots crunching over gravel behind me, and, by the time I make it to the entrance, Ford is next to me.

  “We’re sweeping today.” On that note, I gesture at the wide barn entrance with a flourish, a little impressed when his face remains blank. The barn we’re about to take two brooms to is easily triple the size of the high school football field, and littered with dust and debris and mud from the previous season.

  I check his face again—nothing.

  “Everything has to be cleaned, so the new bales coming in aren’t contaminated.”

  “Cows worried about a little dirt messing with their hay?” His voice is just as low as it was last night. Like this morning, though, there’s a note of disdain and amusement in it—not the good kind, though. The kind that says “I think you’re a country bumpkin, and I am unimpressed with your life.”

  “More like customs,” I tell him, a little snappier than normal. He turns to me and stares, and I raise my brows. “The bales we store here get bought by people from other countries, and some will send someone to visit the barn and make sure we’re clean enough to meet their standards. If we pass, the bales are taken from here, pressed and put into cargo holders, and then shipped to Japan and Korea and other places that can’t produce feed for their cows. So yeah,” I finish, a slight edge of sarcasm to my voice. “Contamination is a big deal.”

  His face remains passive, and he doesn’t respond. Why that irritates me more than any snide remark is unclear.

  Grabbing a heavy shop broom and tossing it to him before grabbing my own, I motion to the very back of the barn. “Start at the back corner. I’ll start on the opposite. Push forward, and to the center. Get it from the corners and crevices. We’ll wash when we’re done sweeping.”

  I’m suffocating.

  We’ve only been working an hour, tops, but the more we sweep, the more dust I inhale. We’re not even a quarter of the way finished, and I’m sweating through my T-shirt. I consider stripping it off and wrapping it around my nose and mouth like a bandana. The only thing stopping me is the realization that then the dust on my face will be all over my chest and back.

  Christ, I don’t do manual labor. Ever.

  My brain warns me there are probably going to be a lot of things I don’t “ever” do that will soon be added to my bucket list. It then follows with, “Get used to it, buddy. You reap what you sow.” Asshole.

  I distract myself from depression and suffocation by observing the girl across the big-ass concrete space from me. Lincoln, formerly known as Alice, is half my size, with smooth skin that glows golden and a yard of braided blonde hair that, combined with her work clothes and boots, screams cowgirl. I’d bet my inheritance she has a closet full of sparkle-butt jeans and matching belts.

  She’s also a machine.

  I know for a fact she can’t weigh more than a buck-ten, because she landed on top of
me like dead weight not even twenty-four hours ago. Yet, she’s pushing her broom in a methodical rhythm that never breaks. The dust and lack of air doesn’t seem to bother her, and while my hands feel raw and ready to blister from these last sixty minutes wielding the wooden handle of the broom, her figure appears to be relaxed, like she could do this for hours.

  I’m on the verge of breaking my silence, and asking if she ever drinks water, when booted footsteps break it for me, followed by an echoing rage.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  I pause, raising a brow and leaning on my broom in a fashion that says “looky looky,” instead of “I’m dying of heat and thirst,” while I watch my monster-sized cousin storm across the unswept front of the barn and stride toward me and Blondie. He’s carrying a white paper bag and wearing a scowl. When he aims it at me, I keep my easy stance to let him know his mood means zero to me.

  Blondie, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped sweeping, though it’s apparent she’s his target. When he steps into her dust pile, yanking the broom from her hand, she finally reacts.

  “Colt, knock it off.”

  “You knock it off. Jesus, why aren’t you in the tractor? Or better yet, waiting for me in the yard? Why would you think that manual labor on a mostly empty stomach, and not knowing your levels, was a good idea?”

  “Not an idea,” she snaps back, reaching for the broom. It’s pitifully easy for her bully of a boyfriend to keep it out of her reach, though, because she’s at least a foot shorter, even in the work boots with thick soles. “A job. I’m doing my job—the one your grandparents hired me for, the one they pay me for. The one your grandpa ordered me to do when I told him you took off.”

  When she reaches for the broom again, he yanks it even higher, his mouth opening like he’s ready to snap at her some more.

  “Jesus, dude, relax the leash a little.”

  Both of them turn to me, eyes flashing. “Stay out of it,” Blondie snaps. I ignore her though, my eyes on Colt as he steps toward me. I don’t shift to the balls of my feet, don’t change my relaxed stance, but my blood is humming, and my heart is picking up its pace. Two fights in one morning isn’t my usual, but neither is goading a guy.

  Maybe it’s the country air or manual labor, but something about the way he orders his girl around pisses me off.

  “Careful who you talk to like that, Rich Boy. Your daddy’s money doesn’t mean dick around here.”

  I don’t take the bait. Instead, I make sure to roam my eyes over his swollen and bruised face, courtesy of yours truly this morning. Then, I meet his eyes again, letting a small grin slice across my lips. “Doesn’t look like I need daddy’s money to make my point, Farm Boy.”

  The broom he’s holding clatters to the floor seconds before mine, and then we’re chest to chest, both vibrating with a rage that appears to run in the family. “For crap’s sake, knock it off.”

  I ignore the voice, staring into Colt’s eyes that are mere centimeters from mine. “Want to go again, Rich Boy?”

  I don’t answer, just stare. It’s been my experience that silence is as much an accelerant as words. Colt stares back, and I can see the anger building. My fists clench and I brace, because I won’t escape the hits, not from this close. But that also means he can’t escape them. Right as I see it climax, that anger and whatever else lies behind my cousin’s thick head, I hear it… sweeping.

  Colt hears it, too, because his anger dies immediately, and his head whips around. “Lincoln.”

  “You want to be idiots and bash each other’s faces in, fine. I can’t stop you. But Beau gave me a job to do, and until you get me to the field, I’m working.”

  “At least drink this.” Colt steps away from me without a glance, reaching down for the white bag he dropped and walking over to Lincoln. I lean down to pick up my broom, but I watch as he takes out a bottle of orange juice and hands it to her.

  A part of me wants to see her ignore it—to give him the finger for yelling at her and keep sweeping. Because it’s a reaction I don’t want to have, just like I don’t want to care what this girl does, I grab my broom and turn my back, enjoying the ache that sparks in my hands when I resume sweeping.

  I don’t look at the couple again, even when he convinces her to drop her broom and take the juice. A few seconds later, he has his arm around her shoulders, and is leading her out of the barn, his voice echoing while he tells her she has to take care of herself.

  Colt doesn’t come back in right away, and though it pisses me off, when he finally does come in and pick up a broom nearly an hour later, I don’t acknowledge him right away. Not even when he starts criticizing my work.

  “Don’t leave shit against the baseboards and the wall. We’ll have to start all over again.”

  I don’t even glance up. “Says the guy who started almost three hours late.”

  “Yeah, well, some of us have bigger things to worry about than making Grandpa happy, and getting off Daddy’s shit-list.”

  “Jealous I still have a daddy?” I shoot back.

  There are no more words exchanged after that.

  This is how the next three days of work go. I wake up and drag my tired ass to the breakfast table where Colt is usually already seated with Maggie and Beau. When I arrive, he leaves, and I sit in awkward silence with my grandparents, Maggie throwing concerned, tight-lipped looks my way, and then down the hall where Colt left, until Beau gives me my assignment for the day. It’s always with Colt, and while we fix tires on tractors, remove debris from rakes, and reload balers with strings, all in between sweeping what feels like a million yards of barn floor, we don’t speak beyond necessary words or phrases.

  Occasionally, we exchange more words than we should, and then several punches shortly after. Beau says we’re just like our dads, always ready to see the worst in each other.

  While I rinse off in the stingy stream of hot water they call a shower on my fifth night, I think that if this is how he grew up, it’s no wonder dear old dad wasn’t desperate to reminisce about days of old. Or why he’s such a closed off asshole.

  Sitting on the open tailgate of Colt’s truck, I sip my Coors tallboy and watch the people around me do the same. We’re at Green Peter, a lake just an hour outside of town, cars parked and circled between the two camp spaces Colt and some other senior boys rented.

  It’s well past dark, but the party is really just getting started, because like me and Colt, most everyone works on a farm. That means long, late hours. It will also mean early morning hours to get back by nine, but summer’s ending, daily doubles and registration start next week, and we’re taking advantage of our small freedom now.

  A sparkling white SUV is one of the last to creep around the corner and park awkwardly on the edge of the grass where it drops off to a ditch. I watch, amused by Jacqueline Foster’s inability to actually drive the fifty-thousand-dollar car her parents bought her. My amusement turns to curiosity when the passenger door opens, and Ford steps out.

  “Who is that?”

  I glance over at Evie Wright, the only person at school I would call a genuine friend other than Colt. Evie is a lot like me socially—we don’t hang out with the popular girls, though she could if she wanted. She plays volleyball, and will go D1 next year if the reports are true. At nearly 6’2”, and athletic as hell, I’m betting they are.

  But just because her height works to her advantage now, it didn’t always, and when she was nearly a head taller than everyone in middle school, with long legs, no ass, and the pimply face some kids are cursed with while their hormones rage, she became some sort of social pariah. The Ferret, they called her, from lack of hips and ass.

  That was the day we became sort-of friends, when we both sought out the bathroom to eat our lunch because it was easier than hearing less-than-clever comments about who we were: me with my coke-head, prostitute mom, and Evie with her long, lean body that looked more like an action figure than a girl.

  Need
less to say, just because popularity wanted to envelop Evie when we hit high school and her skinny figure became toned, while her face became clear and light as her thick hair is dark, she was more than glad to stick to the perimeter of the social world. I’m not really sure why Evie comes to these parties. Unlike me, she doesn’t need an escape from home… that I know of at least. Her parents are both teachers at the high school, and although I’ve had a few conversations with Mrs. Wright about being on time to English class, they seem like good people.

  And Evie doesn’t drink, so mostly she arrives alone, we hang out for a few minutes, and then she’s gone, always preferring solace and quiet to loud and boisterous. I just prefer anything to home.

  “That,” I tell Evie. “Is Ford Slaughter. Colt’s cousin.”

  “Is he here visiting? And why in the hell is he with Jacqueline Foster? She can’t stand Colt.”

  “Because he’s a rich prick, just like her.”

  Evie and I both turn to Colt, who’s hauling himself up into the bed of the truck with us. I hear a small intake of breath, and I glance at Evie, noting her eyes are trained forward, unblinking, and her fingers are clasped so tightly they’re white at the knuckles.

  Looks like the mystery of why Evie comes to parties is solved.

  “Hey, Evie girl. How’s it going?”

  Evie’s mouth works open and closed a few times, and then she finally clears her throat. “Colt.” Her skin isn’t flushed, and her voice is mostly normal, a true testament to her game day face. But those knuckles are still white. A glance at Colt tells me he doesn’t notice, too busy glaring at Ford where he’s standing next to Jacqueline while people flock to them. “If he’s your cousin, why isn’t he here with you?”