Brian and I sort of settled into a schedule. He'd show up after breakfast and head into the barn with me, doing weights or sit-ups and jumps and stuff while I painted. Then he'd paint too while we waited for Dad and Curtis to leave for PT or food shopping or whatever, and then we'd really go to work.
The problem was that the weather was too good. Every day came up blue-sky sunny, and you could see on the Weather Channel—which Dad keeps on all day because weather's so important to farming—that it was going to be blue-sky sunny for days. So because there wasn't any rain to worry about, Dad announced on Wednesday morning that it was time to mow the clover. Which meant me mow the clover. Which meant me mowing and then kicking it the next morning so the other side dries, and rolling it the next morning so the dew burns off, and then baling and bringing all the bales in just like hay. It was basically the rest of my week. Super.
Coming back from mowing, though, I passed the heifer field and that gave me an idea, and then once I got to the yard that idea got even better because there was Curtis coming out of the house in his good shirt and everything to go to the dentist. He loves going to the dentist, which is the weirdest thing I've ever heard. We used to tease him all the time about it when we were kids. So he and Dad went off and I raced into the barn to find Brian rolling paint on the walls like he'd been stuck doing it for a million years, and I said, "Come on!" and off we went to visit the heifers.
The heifer field is about the prettiest spot on our whole farm. You can see for miles, the hills all patterned with hay and corn and pasture until they fade away into the sky. I climbed the fence and walked around, the heifers following me because they don't have anything else to do. I found that nice flat spot near the middle, and I stood there with my hands on my hips with the heifers all gathered around like they were waiting for me to make a speech.
Brian angled over, not all that comfortable around cows yet. Just because they're dumb doesn't make up for the fact that as heifers, or yearlings even, they're still pretty big.
"Yup. This is a field all right," he said.
"This is where Win and Bill used to practice. And me, when they couldn't get anyone else."
"This?" Brian was amazed. "But what about that ... stuff?" Meaning the cowpies.
"Aw, jumping them teaches you footwork. You want to try it out?"
Trying to look all trainerlike, I whipped out the football I'd brought along. Brian looked like he didn't want to try it one teeny bit, but I guess he figured he didn't have much choice, seeing as it was this or painting. So he sighed and held out his hands, and I tossed it to him as best I could, and we started passing.
I made it really easy for him and stood in the middle of the field so he could work on his aim, which sucked. He'd throw the nicest little pass you've ever seen, and it would go sailing ten feet to my left and land with a little thunk and spook the heifers. Smut of course thought we were doing this all for her, and she was just about in heaven.
Every time Brian missed he'd blame something—the heifers or the wind or Smut distracting him.
"Stop it," I said. "That doesn't help."
"If it weren't for the stupid cow poop everywhere—"
"Ignore it. Just try again. And just—just concentrate."
It was hard. I've never been a coach before. You have to tell people what they're doing wrong without getting them all demoralized. I must have said ten times, "That was perfect. But try it this way..." It was extra hard because when I tried to point out his screwups he'd start complaining about why it wasn't his fault.
"So what!" I finally snapped. "You think there aren't distractions in a game?"
"This isn't a game. This is a cow field. In a game—"
"I've seen your games. You think your receivers like being chewed out for your mistakes?"
Brian tossed down the football and headed off the field.
I was happy to see him leave. What a whiner.
He was almost to the gate before I remembered that we only had three more days. Besides, he'd apologized to me on Monday, for something a lot worse than what I'd just said.
I took a deep breath. "Brian! I'm sorry."
He looked back at me.
"Come on. We promised Jimmy Ott a week. It's just until Friday."
"You know," he said, "it's not your job to bust me. It's your job to help."
I couldn't help grinning. "You mean Jimmy doesn't bust you?"
"Yeah! And do you see me standing out here with him?"
So we got back into a groove and he listened to me just a little bit more, a fraction of an inch more, when I told him he was standing wrong. Still, we got along okay. We kept saying "Just till Friday" whenever things got tense, like a little cheer almost. It made it bearable, knowing it wouldn't be forever, Brian so sore from all his weights and throwing and stuff, and me sore too from painting and our jogging in the afternoons, and both of us biting our tongues not to make a crack that would ruin everything. Just till Friday.
***
Thursday Curtis had a baseball game, which was just as well. He was supposed to help with the painting, only he worked so slow and Brian worked so slow that watching the two of them just about drove me insane. It wasn't like the slower they went the sooner it would be done. There weren't any painting fairies waiting to sneak in at night and finish it up for them. The only one who'd be finishing it up was me. Which explains why it made me so crazy. Plus Curtis was this big no-talking presence, sucking away anything Brian and I might have said. I got the sense that that sort of drove Brian crazy. So as soon as Curtis and Dad left, we hightailed it up to the heifer field to burn off some of our craziness.
"Okay," I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, "let's start with some sprints."
Brian stared at me. It wasn't a pretty stare.
I stuck a couple stakes at the other end of the field as he poked at a cowpie with the toe of his shoe, just to make a point. "You ready?" I asked in my best cheery voice. "Forty yards. I'll run with you." I figured that would help him, knowing we were both suffering.
So we lined up, Brian acting like this was his execution or something—God that guy can bellyache—and off we went.
I'm a sprinter on the track team. My freshman year we made regionals, we were so good. Of course I didn't run track last spring because of Dad's hip. But now I remembered how much I loved it, and how much fun it would be to run next spring.
"I think I'm going to puke," Brian managed to get out as we finished.
"Boy, that was great," I panted, wiping my forehead. "Want to do it again?"
He laughed.
"Come on, we only have four more." I headed back to our starting line.
Brian didn't move. "You're serious?"
"Yeah, why not? It'll be fun," I said.
Finally, just out of shame I guess, he shuffled over. "You Schwenks are insane. You hear me? Insane!" But I didn't hear anything else he said because I was already running.
Friday was my birthday. In the morning I celebrated by rolling and baling the clover, which was just amazingly wonderful, you can tell. Actually, it was better at least than having Brian find out it was my birthday. All that talk about how I wasn't sixteen yet—which is what a birthday means, it means you're finally turning an age that you want everyone to think you already are—I didn't want that talk at all.
Then Brian and Curtis and I had to go out in the afternoon to bring the clover in. At least I didn't have to worry about Curtis mentioning my you-know-what to Brian. If Curtis even knew it was my birthday to begin with. Anyway, the three of us got the wagon loaded, every last bale in that miserable sun, and unloaded the whole damn thing and collapsed on the hayloft floor because we were so beat. Working together like that, it sure was different from the last time we'd hayed. An awful lot had happened in one week.
Brian wiped his forehead. "I just hope come January that those cows thank me."
"I'll let you know," I said.
Curtis disappeared for a bit and came back with a couple big bottles of pop, which was about the best thing he's ever done in his entire life. We sat there passing the bottles around and belching. I'm not too good at it—I mean, I'm good for a girl and I can keep up with Amber, but that doesn't mean too much around here. Curtis is okay. Brian, though...
"Jeez," said Curtis, which is high praise coming from him.
So that was pretty fun, and we emptied both bottles and felt pretty good.
"You know," Brian said, "this has been the hardest week of my life. I don't know how you do it."
That was nice. We sat there for a few minutes, Curtis and me, savoring that. It was the very best present I got all day. Finally, though, I stood up. "It's been nice working with you."
Brian held out his hand. "Want to carry me to my car?" Which made us grin.
"Take care of yourself," I said.
And that was the end of my big important week training Brian Nelson.
That night at dinner Mom and Curtis and Dad had a little birthday party for me. Amber had to work so she couldn't come, which was a bummer because she's always fun at parties. But Dad baked this cake that looked like a real birthday cake almost, and he gave me a jar of corn syrup as a huge joke on sweet sixteen. Curtis got me a Vikings jersey which was really nice of him because those things are expensive, and I guess it shows he knew it was my birthday all along. I can wear it around the house at least, because if I wore it to school I'd get beat up, all the other kids are such Packers fans. Teachers, too. Mom got me—ready for this?—school supplies. Thanks, Mom. Plus a card promising she'd take me for my driver's test ASAP.
That night I had a dream Dad was cooking up a big pot of hay, and we were sitting around the table eating it and we were cows. All of us. I woke up and heard the rain starting, and you'd think I'd get some satisfaction from bringing all the clover in safely. But I didn't. Instead I lay there trying to figure out why I'd wanted so much to turn sixteen years old when now that I actually was sixteen I didn't feel one little bit different.