We wait for Dad by the burgers, ribs, and pork-chop-on-a-stick stands for a quick snack after his eight-o’clock show. I desperately hope his second show went better than his first.
I’ve gone on two rides with Torvill and Dean, because Mom can’t. She’s letting the kids stay out late tonight, but she’s the one who looks completely beat. Mom is sleepily eating a half slab of ribs, Torvill has corn on the cob, and Dean a grape Popsicle. Dorothy has fallen asleep in her stroller, which isn’t like her at all. I stand at the end of the picnic table and keep looking around for Charlotte and Denny, who are supposed to meet me either here or over by the Scrambler ride.
“Peggy, have a seat—there’s room,” Mom says, patting the bench beside her.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m actually not going to be here much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m meeting my friends. We’re going to hang out here for a while,” I say.
“But that’s impossible. You can’t go hang out late with your friends tonight.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Mom, the rodeo’s only here for ten days. It’s the only time anything ever happens here. So can’t you let me enjoy it?”
“That’s not it. You never mentioned you were meeting Charlotte,” Mom says.
“Well, I’m mentioning it now.”
“What boy is it this time?” Mom asks. I start to shake my head, but she insists. “No, really, what boy?”
“There’s no boy,” I say.
“Do you expect me to believe that? After Saturday night?” Mom says.
Just then, Dad comes over to join us, carrying a dish of fried pickles and wearing clogs with his cowboy costume. As he gets closer, I see he’s got makeup on, too.
Dean runs up and tells him how he took down the runaway bull, how he stopped Insane Zane. “That’s nice,” Dad says, distracted. “The second program went much better. This thing with the animals . . . it’s a learning curve, I guess,” he says as he crunches into a deep-fried pickle spear.
“Well, Peggy is now going out with her friends,” Mom says in an angry tone, before I can tell him how well he skated, how he made something decent out of nothing.
“Yes, I am,” I say, staring at her.
“Hey, Fleming.” I turn around and Denny is standing behind me. He has this knack for coming to my rescue.
“Hey,” I say, turning toward him. “Have you seen Charlotte?”
“Not yet, but I’m kind of early,” Denny says. “Were we meeting by the food, or by the rides?”
“Here or at the Scrambler,” I say. “Should we go over there now?”
Mom sets down her ribs and wipes her face and that’s when I know she’s getting serious. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”
“Mom, he’s a friend,” I say.
“I asked what boy and you said there’s no boy,” Mom says.
“My friend. Denny. The guy I work with,” I say. “You and Dad even met him at our house,” I remind her.
“So. Does that mean I know anything about him?” she says.
She’s picking a really bad time to all of a sudden get involved in my life again.
“Fleming, I’ll meet you over there, then,” Denny says. He takes off, and I know how he feels. No one wants to be around someone else’s family fight.
“Why is he wearing sunglasses?” my father wonders. “It’s almost dark. I don’t trust him.”
“That’s not it—I don’t trust Peggy,” Mom says to him.
“It’s Fleming, Mom,” I say. “God, could you just try sometimes?”
“Could I try? Oh, that’s good. That’s really good.” She rips open a second packet of hand wipes. “Fleming, then. I’ve been trying to keep you involved in this family. But it’s like you don’t even want to be involved.”
My father sets his little container of fried pickles on the table. “Look, let’s not make this bigger than it has to be. P. F., you can’t hang out with your friends tonight and come home late again. You have class tomorrow. You work tomorrow. End of story.”
“My French teacher has blown off every single class so far—we have subs who don’t even speak French,” I tell them. “Of course, you wouldn’t know that because you don’t ask how my class is going. And work? I’ll be fine for work. I always am. Have I missed a day yet? Have I missed anything yet?”
“Yes. You’ve missed the last, like, five family nights in a row, so—”
“I have family night every day!” I say, which makes more sense than it sounds like. “I’m the one who’s home while you guys are out skating and forecasting and remoting and whatever else you do when you strand me at home without a car.”
“You know what? I know what this is all about,” Mom says. She shakes her head and says quietly, “You can’t stand the fact that you don’t get all the attention now. That you’ve got a brother and sisters, and you’re mad at us about that. You’ve never adjusted to this, so you’re taking it out on us by running around with these guys this summer—”
“I’m not running around with anyone!” I say, which isn’t completely true, but it’s close. “Look, I have adjusted, I am adjusting, I am adjusted. Do you want me to conjugate this for you in French? If I had an actual teacher, maybe I could, but no, my summer sucks. My entire summer is about paying you back, and making good on my promises, which I’m doing. Can’t you see that?”
“P. F., your entire summer hasn’t been about paying us back,” Dad says.
“No, actually, my entire summer has been about helping you guys out,” I say. “Peggy, can you do this, Peggy, can you do that? Except you usually don’t ask. You just assume. You totally take me for granted. You just make plans for me without me knowing about them.”
“That’s—that’s not true,” my father stammers. “We always ask.”
“We’re a family,” my mother says. “Family means thinking about other people besides yourself, family means—”
“Family! Does family mean that you guys can completely forget about me, about what I might want? I’ve given up so much time to help you guys out, and you don’t even notice—you just cruise in when you want to, when KLDV doesn’t need you, or some homeowner doesn’t need you, or when the rink is closed because it’s midnight. You expect me to take Lamaze class and figure out your skating program? And if you figure out your skating, and get your sponsors, you’re going to leave for a few months on tour? Are you serious? Are you even thinking about anyone besides yourselves?”
“We always think about you,” Mom says, looking stung, and Dad nods slowly in agreement, almost as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“Right. You think about me when you’re off deciding to have another child right before my senior year, and you think about me when you’re off deciding to leave home and go on a skating tour during my senior year,” I say angrily. “And you guys are always telling me how I have to learn to be more responsible—me.”
All of a sudden I notice Dorothy has woken up and is staring up at me with these big, watery blue eyes, blinking, not understanding, not recognizing this tone of voice, about to burst into tears.
I can’t take it. I can’t see Dorothy cry right now. She never cries, and if she starts, then I might, too.
I quickly walk away, leaving the food booths. I go past all of the games of skill, looking through tear-blurred eyes at furry white bears and pandas hanging from strings, and metal ducks being shot to a hollow ting ting ting sound. Steve is probably there, trying to win smelly stuffed animals for Jacqui, his type, but I don’t want to know if he is. I don’t want to see him—or anyone—right now. I can’t believe my parents can just stand there and tell me how much they think of me, how considerate they are, how I’m the one who doesn’t understand “family.” They’ve got it all wrong. They’re so different from how they used to be. The three of us used to be so close; we did everything together. Now it’s the two of them—and I’m the nanny.
I pass the rodeo stadium. Inside, loudspeakers blare girls’ barrel-racing results, and the crowd screams in excitement as the bareback bronco riding begins. Everyone’s shouting and applauding and having a great time. Everyone except me.
When I get to the Scrambler, Charlotte and Denny are standing in line, waiting with tickets for me, too. I fake a smile and Charlotte says, “I heard you and your parents got into it. Everything okay?”
“No,” I say.
“Ew. I mean, triple ew.” She hands me a wide silver-toned belt buckle with the initials PFF on it. She shrugs. “They were engraving them and I thought it looked cool.”
“A warning,” Denny says to me. “She’s really into this rodeo thing.”
“Thanks. Just don’t make me pose for the caricature guy,” I say. “Or those old-fashioned saloon-girl portraits.”
“Come on!” Charlotte’s jaw drops. “You are no fun.”
“Oh, God. How did I let you guys talk me into this?” Denny says as he climbs into the Scrambler cart and closes the gate behind him, and the three of us are squashed together. “Do you know what this is going to do to my rep?”
“You have a rep?” I ask.
“Yes, she’s alive! Fleming’s alive!” Charlotte puts her arm around me and hugs tight.
She and Denny are laughing and talking about the parade tomorrow, but I don’t really listen. The ride doesn’t feel like it’s been put together right, with metal scraping on metal as we revolve. I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the faces in the crowd watching us as we whip past, so I don’t have to see if my parents came to find me or not.