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November dawns with the first sun in nearly a month, and I wake with it bright on my face. With the dispersing clouds, the temperature dropped a solid ten degrees overnight. The sodden ground cracks against the soles of my shoes, where crystalline blades of grass bend and break. The frosted earth shimmers in the sunlight, and when my feet break through the crust, dirty water sluices around my shoes, seeping in to freeze my feet. My hair whips in a spiral around my head when I open the passenger door to Dylan’s truck, causing a vortex around me. The cab of the truck is warm with the blowing heat vents wide open. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he says, and I laugh.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” I repeat raising my arms out to the beautiful sky, clear and bright through the windshield. He pulls away from the drive, and we listen to the engine and blowing heat.
“Can you come by tonight? Vaude wants to talk to you about house sitting.” It’s already been agreed that I will stay at their house when they go away at Thanksgiving, but I’m sure there are details Vaude wants to give me personally.
“I have work, but I can come after that.”
“I have football till seven thirty. You get off at eight?” I nod. “Great. I’ll just pick you up, and we can grab a bite to eat.”
***
True to his word, as he is always true to his word, Dylan is waiting for me in the parking lot when I get off work. I climb into the cab and am delighted by the smell of burgers wafting through the car. He stopped and bought them on his way to me. We eat while he drives us the five miles to our part of the world. Around mouthfuls, he tells me about Jimmy Peterson’s broken leg and how his folks are pissed because it puts him out for most of the season and he will miss out on the college recruiters.
“Will he even play again?” From my limited understanding, it seems that injuries end careers all the time. Does a broken leg ever heal to be as strong as before?
“Oh yeah. He’ll play. His is a clean break without any damage to muscles or tendons. May take him a bit to get back up to speed.”
“Well, that’s good.”
We are quiet for a minute, then he asks what he always asks. “How’s your mom?”
“Strung out,” I say without any emotion. I can see him nod, and I don’t elaborate. They were gone for three nights last week, and when she came back, she fell into her bed and slept for hours. Cal hasn’t been around this week, so I’m hopeful they are done.
Vaude holds the door open to us, and we come into the Gingerbread House. “What do you think of this weather?”
“It’s better than the rain,” I say at the same time Dylan says, “It’s better than the rain.” And we both laugh. We haven’t done that in a while, but we used to, every now and then, say the exact same thing at the exact same time. We shed our jackets and leave our shoes by the door.
“Now, you sure it’s fine with your mom?”
“Sure.” Mom doesn’t know, but she isn’t going to care. It’s not like she knows whether I am around or not most of the time. “She’s fine with it.”
“Good. I’ll just feel so much better if somebody is in the house while we’re gone. It’s just better not to be empty over the holidays.” She goes on, pulling the calendar from the fridge and spreading it open on the table, indicating that they will leave on the Saturday morning before Thanksgiving and return Sunday evening after Thanksgiving. They are visiting Jake’s brother in San Diego for the holiday, a first in many years. Tom and Mary have four kids; I met them all when they visited maybe five years ago. Mary, with her wispy, blond hair, had taken over the gene pool, and all of the kids were the spit of her.
Dylan and I stop at the barn, and he runs me quickly through the feed routine, although I know it by heart. I am only partially listening as I rub sweet Chessa’s forelock. My round-bellied Chessa. She puffs out her oaty breath into my face, her nostrils quivering, and I put my face along the plane of her cheek. I love this horse. I love everything about her, but mostly I love the way she always comes to me for a scratch or a treat.
It is some time before I realize that Dylan has stopped talking and is just watching me. When I become aware, my eyes spring open to see him studying me, the most peculiar expression on his face, his pale eyes nearly glowing from the hollows of his sockets. His tongue darts out over his lips. He blinks and looks quickly away from me. What was that?
“Dylan?” My voice is high and giggly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Al. Nothing at all.” He laughs, putting his arm over my shoulder and steering me out of the barn.
He likes me. I mean he likes me. Not like a friend. That’s what I have just read on his face, that quick darting of his tongue over suddenly dry lips. My stomach plummets and twists in on itself, and I am not sure if the thought makes me happy or nervous or both. I’ve seen that hungry look before. I know what that look means. Does he want something more? How do we go from being friends and buddies to dating? How do we make that step? I don’t know, and apparently he doesn’t either. I’m a little relieved that neither of us do.
***
I sit in our trailer, my hands over my mouth and nose, enjoying the scent of Chessa, remembering the look on Dylan’s face. My stomach is still churning, nervous, excited. I am sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window in the general direction of Dylan’s house when headlights bounce through the windows as my mother pulls into the drive. A second set follows after the first, and I start to gather my homework from the table. I don’t care to be caught, and I make my way quickly down the hall to my room, where I lock the door before they make it into the house. I do not turn on the light in my bedroom, but instead grab my small flashlight and sit on the other side of my bed, so the light won’t bounce under the door, and go back to reading Lord of the Flies.