CHAPTER NINE

It had been two weeks since I’d moved here, and we’d just got back our geometry tests. Mr. Bailey said I could take the test and see where we were at with my knowledge of geometry. When I got it back with A+ and a smiley face written at the top, along with See me after class, I was kind of surprised and also kind of frightened. Did students who got A+ grades have to see the teachers after class a lot?

So I waited until all the students left—well, not all. Nancy was waiting at the front of the room. She looked sick. Her test was balled up, and it looked like she had been crying.

“Nancy Clutter, do you know our new student?” Mr. Bailey asked her gently.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, I was thinking you two might want to get better acquainted.” He smiled at me. “I have an idea.”

Nancy sniffled. “This is unlike me, Mr. Bailey. I’m a good student.”

“I’m sure it is for your other classes. But Nancy . . . this is becoming a problem. This is your fourth D in a row. I think you need a tutor.”

Her eyes shot up. “A tutor?”

Mr. Bailey nodded.

“I don’t need a tutor,” she said. She wasn’t crying anymore.

“Yes, I think it would help.”

“I think Carly—Carly, right?”

“Yes, it’s Carly,” I said.

“Well, I think Carly would be an excellent tutor for you.”

Nancy stood there, frozen. Then she started crying again. Her face was wet. Tears were streaming from her eyes. But it was like watching June Allyson act. The waterworks were on full blast. Like they were on cue. The tears were real, but she was most definitely acting. And while Mr. Bailey comforted her, I stood off to the side, awkwardly holding my A+ test.

I coughed as if to say, I’m still here. They looked at me. Nancy shrugged, took a deep breath, and sighed.

“What do you think about helping me out with geometry?” she asked, even though it wasn’t her idea. “But it’ll be our little secret.”

“Okay,” I said, probably a little too eager for the new girl.

And that’s how we became best friends. From that moment on, we were inseparable. We were attached at the hip. At lunch, at 4-H club, every school event, double dates, sleepovers, I was popular by association.

I wish.

I started tutoring her the next day. I’d go over to her house once a week and then twice a week when there was a scheduled quiz or test.

Finals were rough. I was over at her house until really late one night, when she asked, “Why don’t you sleep over so we can do more studying in the morning?”

I said yes, too quickly as always, even before we got permission from our parents. I knew her parents were nice. Sure, kind of strict, but whose parents weren’t?

My parents were thrilled when I called to ask them. This was the first time I slept over at a friend’s house, at least here in Holcomb. I didn’t have many friends here. Mary Claire was the only one who initiated any sort of friend relationship. My family was “city folk” and Nancy’s family was “country folk”; at least that’s how she described it. She didn’t exactly know how to act at my house, and I didn’t know how to act at hers. Eventually it got easier, but at the beginning—whew.

That night, I hoped things might change. Once I got my parents’ permission, I tried to keep my excitement in check.

“We don’t need to tell anyone that you stayed over, though,” Nancy said the moment I hung up.

“Oh, okay,” I said, trying not to rock the boat.

“Good.” She nodded. She went to her sister’s room and found an old pair of pajamas. “My sister doesn’t wear these anymore. They might be a little small.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Bathroom’s down the hall.”

I changed quickly and we were back to studying. No gossiping. Or making cookies. Or anything you normally do at a sleepover. But that was okay. Even if she was adamant about keeping our friendship a secret, she was talking to me. Even if no one else knew. I was her tutor, not her friend. She was afraid of not being seen as the perfect girl, and me having to tutor her in math certainly did not make her perfect. But maybe this was the first step to becoming her friend and not just her tutor.

We stayed up past midnight. Mr. Clutter woke us up with the smell of pancakes.

“So, New York City,” he said at breakfast, pouring a cup of coffee for his wife. He didn’t drink the stuff.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I tried to keep smiling as I cut a piece of butter.

“What brought your family out here? Does your family farm?” Mrs. Clutter asked.

I shook my head as Nancy passed me the syrup. “My dad’s a lawyer.”

“A good one?” Mr. Clutter said with a smile.

“He’s a defense attorney, so . . . it can go either way.”

He laughed.

“Why did you choose Kansas?” Nancy asked.

“What’s wrong with Kansas, dear?” her father asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” She sounded bored, or maybe just tired. “It’s far away from where she came from, that’s all.”

“My dad spent a lot of summers visiting his great-aunt Lucille and uncle Olin out here. They lived near the Colorado border,” I said.

“Well, that’s nice,” Mrs. Clutter said.

“When a case went bad, he decided he didn’t want to deal with capital murder cases anymore,” I said, pouring syrup all over my pancakes.

“Oh. Do you mind if I ask which one?” Mr. Clutter asked.

“He has a morbid curiosity,” Nancy said with a smile.

I shook my head. “Frank Beggett.”

“Yes. So, your father defended him? I remember reading about that case in the newspaper.” The “defended him” implied judgment.

I slowly nodded. I was trying to stay cheery.

“We all need good defense attorneys, even when we get to heaven. Do you go to church?” he asked, probably thinking that this New York City lawyer and child were heathens.

“Yes, the First Methodist Church in Garden City.”

That seemed to shake Nancy out of her doldrums. “You do?” she asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.”

“We usually sit in the back,” I said, cutting my pancakes.

“This Sunday, sit up close, so the good Lord and all of us can see you,” Mr. Clutter said, handing each of us a napkin.

Kenyon came down a little later. When he saw me, he said hello right away. He knew me, of course. He’d been over at our house a lot. Apparently, Asher can make friends real fast. Me? Not so much.

When we’d finished, Nancy took our plates to the sink. Her father nodded approvingly. “I’m proud of you, Nancy, for befriending a new student. Doesn’t Nancy make the best tutor?”

“Tutor?” I echoed slowly.

“She’s a good student,” Nancy piped up. She grabbed my hand, ushering me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “I’ll do the dishes later, Dad,” she yelled from the landing.

“But I’m tutoring you,” I said as she closed the bedroom door.

“I know, but I can’t let my dad know that. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

I stared at her, baffled, as she flopped down on her bed. “So you’ll let him believe a lie?”

“It’s not a lie. I can tutor you in something, too,” she said. “What subject are you struggling in? How about Kansas history? You know nothing about Kansas history, since you’re an outsider.”

“Kansas history?” I repeated. I almost started laughing.

“Yes! I taught everything Sue needed to know.”

I took a moment to consider what Nancy had just let slip out. Sue Kidwell was practically joined at the hip with Nancy when they were out socializing, at the 4-H or at school. But thinking about them now, I realized Sue always seemed to follow Nancy’s lead. It was always Nancy asking Sue, “Doesn’t this sweater look pretty?” or “What do you think of Bobby’s truck?” And Sue would nod or shrug or laugh or shake her head. She’d give whatever response Nancy was looking for.

“Sue’s not from here, either?” I asked.

Nancy shook her head. “She’s from California.”

“Righto.”

“California. Doesn’t it sound exotic?”

Then I did laugh.

“New York sounds exotic, too,” she said, smiling back at me.

“It can be.”

“But not like here. We have blizzards,” she said.

“So do we. I mean, when I lived there, we did.”

“Yeah? But not like here.”

Now Nancy had a cover. We didn’t even have a class on Kansas history. It was just a ploy for her parents—really, her dad—so he wouldn’t find out that she was failing geometry. But it worked. Her grades went up. And what do you know: I learned some interesting facts about Kansas. Like, Dodge City was dubbed the “Wickedest Little City in America,” so that’s why Dodge City High School’s mascot is a Red Demon. The Arkansas River is pronounced “R-Kansas,” not like the state of Arkansas at all. And cow patties aren’t some pie or cookie, and a cow-chip toss isn’t some game where you eat with your hands afterward.

She did tutor me in her own way, I suppose.

Beyond the fake class, I learned a lot of hands-on Kansas stuff by joining 4-H, which I wouldn’t have known about if it weren’t for Nancy. My dad thought it was a good way to make friends and Mom thought it was a good way to get involved in the community. She’s a big fan of community involvement. She was right, too, because that’s where I got to know Mary Claire.

I knew who she was before I started going to 4-H, so that helped. The first time I officially met Mary Claire, though, was when her dad hired my dad for some legal matter. Some land dispute that he had with a neighboring farm. Mr. Haas came by our house to sign some papers and brought along his daughter.

Mary Claire’s family owns Haas Feed Yard. With over forty-five thousand head of cattle, it’s one of the biggest in the state. The first time I ever saw a cow slaughtered was at her house. It was a year ago, October. Mary Claire had just showed her Texas Longhorn at the Kansas State Fair in Hutchinson. She got a ribbon, but if I remember correctly, she wasn’t too happy with the judge’s decision with the color she got. Most people were showing their Herefords and Holsteins. Mary Claire assumed hers was unique, but the winner ended up being Brandon Dalton, a boy who lives in Cimarron. He had the newest breed, a Charolais—a French cow. Mary Claire had never liked Brandon; this pushed her over the edge.

Once we got back to Holcomb, she declared her losing Texas Longhorn, appropriately renamed B.D. (after Brandon Dalton), would be slaughtered. Mary Claire’s got a dark side.

That morning, I stood off to the side with Nancy. She made her famous award-winning cherry pie for dessert. B.D. would be the main course. We watched as Mr. Haas loaded his .22 rifle and aimed for the kill shot, an invisible X above the eyes. He squeezed the trigger. I couldn’t look. I grabbed Nancy’s hand and, like Mr. Haas, squeezed hard.

“You don’t want to watch?” Nancy asked.

My entire body shook. “No,” I squeaked out.

Nancy laughed. “City girl.”

Then there was screaming. At first I didn’t realize that it was me.

Mr. Haas looked at me and shook his head. “City kid,” he said.

B.D. fell to the ground with a loud thud. Nancy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me closer to the fallen Texas Longhorn. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want to just be this “city kid.” I watched as Mr. Haas handed Mary Claire a hunting knife and let her cut B.D.’s throat. The blood drained out onto the ground. I thought I was going to throw up.

“Come here, girls,” Mr. Haas said to Nancy and me.

Nancy and I moved toward dead B.D.

“I need the both of you to pump the leg up and down a few times to help get the blood out,” he said, showing us what to do.

Nancy got down on the ground and I did the same. I wanted to ask for gloves but thought that would be a “city kid” thing to do. I grabbed the front leg and started jerking it up and down, watching as the blood poured out of B.D.’s neck.

“See, you can do this,” Mary Claire said, wiping the bloody knife on her apron.

The rest of the girls were inside with Mrs. Haas, cutting potatoes and carrots for the sides. I wished that I had stayed inside to help with that chore.

“Did that move? Did his back leg just move? Oh dear lord, he’s still alive . . .”

Mary Claire laughed at my jabbering. So did Nancy. Thank goodness Mr. Haas had walked away and wasn’t in earshot any longer, or he would’ve, too, and then called me “city kid” for good measure.

“It’s just his unconscious reflexes,” Mary Claire finally said.

“His what?”

“Even decapitated animals will kick.”

“I don’t think I want to see a decapitated animal.” I blew my hair out of my face.

Mary Claire and Nancy looked at each other and snickered. Mr. Haas walked out of the barn, carrying a large saw.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Let me! Let me!” Mary Claire squealed.

Mr. Haas shook his head. We three moved out of the way and watched as Mr. Haas cut off B.D.’s head with sharp, straight motions.

“Oh my God, what in the world just happened here?” I said, covering my mouth.

Those were my last words before I passed out.

When I woke up, Mr. Haas was removing B.D.’s testicles, while Mary Claire and Nancy were removing the front feet and lower legs.

“Welcome back, city slicker,” Foreman Taylor said, lending me a hand.

Foreman Taylor is tall and always wears overalls. The cowboy hat he wears all the time kind of smells like pee. He supervises everything on the Haas family farm.

I stood and wiped the dirt off my pants.

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Haas said. “I’ve got the most important job for you yet.”

I tried to smile.

Foreman Taylor and Mr. Haas loaded up B.D. on the tractor and took him to where they could finish butchering him. Mary Claire, Nancy, and I followed slowly behind.

“You still look white as a ghost,” Nancy said.

“Yeah, you do,” Mary Claire agreed.

I was real quiet. I didn’t know what Mr. Haas had in store for me. We entered the slaughterhouse; B.D. was hanging by a shackle. Foreman Taylor had already started to skin him.

“Let Carly,” Mr. Haas said.

“Dad, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Mary Claire interjected, trying to save me from this torture.

“Nonsense. She’s got to learn how to live off a farm.”

“But her dad’s a lawyer,” Nancy said. “If we’re doing stuff our parents do, she’s just got to learn how to defend people.”

“Yeah, I need to learn how to do lunch and get a person off,” I said, shaking.

“Still, everyone should know how to slaughter an animal,” Mr. Haas affirmed.

I didn’t even want to know the reasoning behind that.

“Come on, Carly, I’ll show you how it’s done,” Foreman Taylor said.

I took a deep breath and climbed a small ladder to stand beside Foreman Taylor. He grabbed my waist so that I wouldn’t fall into B.D. Nancy and Mary Claire cheered me on from down below.

“Quiet, girls. Carly needs to concentrate so she doesn’t cut herself,” Mr. Haas said.

I didn’t even think about that. Foreman Taylor handed me the sharp knife and showed me where to cut into the cowhide. I took another deep breath and laid the knife onto the hair.

“I’m so sorry, Brandon Dalton,” I said, making my first cut.

“Don’t talk to it,” Mr. Haas said.

Mary Claire and Nancy laughed. A long piece of skin fell to the ground.

“Good job,” Foreman Taylor said.

I handed the knife to him and made my way back down the ladder. Foreman Taylor and Mr. Haas finished up B.D. while Mary Claire, Nancy, and I made our way to the main house. Once outside, I threw up.

“Are you all right?” Nancy asked as I wiped my mouth on my apron.

“Uh-huh,” I answered.

“I can’t believe you apologized to B.D. before you skinned it,” Mary Claire said.

“How polite of you,” Nancy said with a laugh.

“Next weekend, I’ll have you milk a cow,” Mary Claire chimed in.

“Milk a cow?” I asked.

“Yes, milk a cow,” she said, showing me how with her hands. “You know some weird guy was doing some dirty stuff when he discovered milk came out of udders.”

She and I laughed, but Nancy just rolled her eyes.