Tomorrow is the big day. Like The big day. The day that comes around only once every three years: the North Salem Horse Race. Our small, middle-of-nowhere town has a lot of sweet things about it and one major drawback. North Salem has fewer than one hundred residents. Out of those people, only four of them are Black and that’s me and my family.
In this town things happen kinda often making us feel like real outcasts—petty things, like everyone in the town getting invited to potluck dinners or get-togethers except us. Folks make it known that we’re not really liked—whether that’s because we’re Black or not, they make sure we feel like we’re different.
It’s raining lightly and I’m standing in my new boots, the sun hiding behind a few clouds, grooming up on Big Red, our oldest stallion on the farm, gnats and flies funneling around his muzzle and crest. Big Red is my horse—he got to the farm the same year I was born. Growing up, it seemed like Big Red was the only one to understand me. Sometimes, it still feels that way. He’s a good listener, though not so much a good racer anymore. But he’s the only happy thing from my childhood I’ve got and I’m going to be here for him, grooming him and confiding in him, like I always have, like he actually understands the words coming out of my mouth. He’s sick and the vets say he’s only got a few months left to live.
“It’s okay, Big Red,” I say, brushing his hair. “It’s gon’ be okay.” I don’t even know if he’s the one who needs to hear this or if it’s just for me, but saying it brings a little calm to the hurricane trapped in the pit of my gut.
He neighs like he’s saying, “I know.” And my heart shatters a little bit. I distract myself by looking around, blinking back tears, scanning the farm to see if anything needs to be done, like picking up goat poop or stopping two hens from squaring up—anything to give me a reason not to think about Big Red not being here anymore.
A sadness creeps on me that’s more than just the idea of Big Red dying. It’s also imagining what it’d be like if things were different for me. If I could actually show happiness for things that I’m happy about. If I could live out the things I’ve been dreaming. If Momma and Daddy would put away their Bibles and see the real me. If I could believe—just believe—they’d love me the same if I told them who I really am. If I told them the truth about who Tank Robinson really is.
This farm, these fences, this life. It’s all I’ve ever known.
Acres of land in the middle of nowhere—a plot adjacent to the Smith family, who’ve hated my family since the last North Salem Horse Race. There’s a ditch as wide as Dad’s truck that stretches for yards between our properties that my dad filled with bricks, a literal red line separating the exact spot where the Smiths’ territory ends and ours begins. Personally, I think the feud is ridiculous, but I can’t say nothing about it without the risk of getting my ass whooped. (Momma’s ass-whoopings ain’t nothing to mess with.)
The Smiths think we cheated when we won the last race. But I know that’s not what it’s really about. They have Confederate flags hanging outside their house. To my parents, the Smiths are racist atheists who need Jesus and don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.
Though our farm is only a few dozen acres and feels like a fenced-in backyard to a medium-sized house in the city, it’s a lot of hard work. Last night, after collecting the eggs from our chicken coop, I lay out in front of Big Red’s corral shelter wrapped in a couple blankets and gazed up at the stars, squinting at them, using my fingers to trace their shapes. Then, I heard a familiar voice—all sweet and low. It was my neighbor’s son, Skyler. Skyler Smith.
“Tank.” He called my name softly, like a whisper. “I brought you something.”
He had a couple of cans of IPA, stolen from his dad.
Standing on the other side of the large crater between us, he tossed me one.
Hesitating, never having drunk anything, I opened it anyway and took a slow sip.
I probably made the world’s most unattractive face, and I hoped that he didn’t see it, until I looked at him trying desperately to suppress his laughter. If I was on the other side of the divide with him, I would play-punch him, but I can’t. I’m stuck over here.
I ran into him one night a few weeks ago while doing chores out in the pasture, and we’ve been meeting at the ditch secretly since then, mainly to talk about the stupid beef between our families. But it started evolving into something else.
I’m standing in the exact same spot we’ve been meeting, waiting for him to show up tonight. I look at the time on my phone. He’s late and suddenly, I’m worried.
Four, five, six minutes slip past and I watch Skyler in the distance come closer, the sun almost completely out of the sky yet still shining enough for me to see the freckles on his face and arms.
I walk over to the edge of the ditch, facing him on the other side. He gives me a small smile and then nods at me. “Sorry I’m late. Big fight with my parents. What’s up over there?” he asks.
“Nothin’” is all I say, my head hanging low. I can’t look at him in the eye for some reason. I’m trying and trying, but I just can’t. “Fight? You okay?”
“Oh yeah. And I’m peachier than the finest Georgia peach.” He’s smiling, but it isn’t reaching his eyes.
“Sure?” I can only speak in short sentences. Hell, they’re not even sentences. Just bits and pieces of my running thoughts. It’s hard forming the right words when I’m around him.
“They’re just so stupid,” he says, sighing. “In addition to this stupid, racist feud they have with your family, they’ve got all of these Make America Great Again posters plastered over our windows, and while we were in the living room watching a movie together, they just kept making really shitty homophobic comments. And I had enough.” He sighs again. “And you know, they had the nerve to threaten me, saying if I cost them the race tomorrow, they’ll send me to Texas to live with my grandparents.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer. There are so many other things I want to say to him.
“It’s okay. I just don’t know how to deal with their ignorance,” he says. “I kinda just laid some news on them, and now my dad is inside consoling my mom, who’s crying.”
“News?” We face each other.
He takes off his cowboy hat, showing his thin, short, curly blond hair. My gaze shifts and follows the tiny red freckles spaced out like constellations from his chin down his neck against his ivory-white skin. I watch him slide down onto the ground and then stretch out across the grass, his half-buttoned baby-blue plaid shirt probably getting a little muddied. But he doesn’t care.
I follow his lead and lie down on my side of the divide.
He changes the subject. “Ever think about how weird the sun is? It’s literally a giant dying star, but it’s still so full of light and never leaves the earth.” A pause. “Look at how beautiful this sky is.”
I furrow my brows trying to keep up. I look at the sky and nearly gasp. The sky is a gorgeous mural of oranges and yellows and pinks.
Last night when we met, we talked about simple things, like how online school is working out for me and how homeschooling is going for him with his dad as his teacher and all. We talked about mosquitoes and heroes; horses and our dreams; our obsessions and fandoms—mine being all things Britney Spears and his being country music and making up his own tunes with his acoustic guitar. We talked about how we both really wanna go to college—maybe someplace far away from North Salem. Tonight, despite everything going on with him and his parents, he’s wanting to just escape in the sun. Here. With me.
“I think it gets lonely sometimes though. That’s why it goes into hiding,” he says, still staring up at the sky.
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
He turns to me and lets out a small, playful giggle. There’s a pause. I watch him squint and point up, making shapes with his hands. “This is one of the only things I love about being out here in the country—how crazy, insanely beautiful the sunsets are.”
“Yeah,” I say. I can only think of one-word answers. I’m just so nervous.
“I’m having way too much fun,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, nearly blushing, picking at the mud stain on my pants. “Not to be weird, but I think hanging with you is my favorite part of the day.”
He grins and I can see his dimple showing from across the ditch. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re not like anyone else?”
“No. Is that something I should aspire to be?”
“Not necessarily. But you are. You ever feel like it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. What about you?” I ask.
“I do. Every time I look at myself in the mirror.” He says the word mirror like it’s just one syllable. “I’ve realized that I’m a lot like the sun—the way I hide myself in the darkness. I’m tired of hiding.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . .” He lifts up and I can tell he’s trying so desperately to reveal something by the way he pauses, looks at me, and then looks away. “I like boys. And only boys. And I like you.”
A gasp nearly slips out of me.
Here I am, wearing a white hoodie and tube socks, wrapped in blankets, and I feel suddenly cold.
“That’s what I told my parents. There’s no more lying to myself or to them. I’m taking back my happiness.”
“I think I might like boys too,” I say back to him quietly, like I don’t want God to hear me say such a thing out loud. “I mean . . . at least, I like you. That, I’m sure.”
I’d only discovered this desire two weeks ago, after the first night we hung out at the ditch, when I dreamed about him and woke up with the world’s hardest erection and sticky boxer briefs. I’m slowly starting to accept this new fact about myself, contemplating why I’ve only ever dated girls. (Well, just two girls. Both from middle school.)
I plugged in some Britney Spears, listening to the Glory album for hours on repeat, danced along to the choreography of the music video to “Toxic,” and then I realized that I had dated girls just because of what people expected of me—what people told me was right for me—what was godly. My whole life people had been telling me who I should be, who I should like, and even where I should put my dick. But I wasn’t listening to them anymore.
We stay on the ground, staring up at the sky together. Everything is so still and feels so perfect for this little while, I can almost feel the whole world move in front of us.
Eventually, he says, “I wish I could hold your hand. But that would be too soon. Right?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not too soon. I really want that.”
“This stupid ditch.”
My phone rings so loud in my pocket, buzzing against my thigh. It’s Momma. I press the button to silence it.
“I gotta go,” I say to him after a brief pause. “Meet here at midnight?”
Skyler agrees and we hold each other’s gaze for a moment.
Walking up the hill toward home, I replay everything that Skyler told me in my head, holding on to the feelings for as long as I can, a smile probably stained to my face. Then it hits me as soon as I see Momma coming from the direction of our house. No matter how magical the last forty or so minutes felt, he’s supposed to be my enemy.
No matter what my heart feels like, I have to remind myself that tomorrow he’s my competition and I’ll have to do everything in my power to win the race and bring home this year’s trophy.
I stop by the pastures to check on the horses for a moment. Momma’s with my nine-year-old little sister, Natasha, who’s eating a hot dog, mustard all over her face.
“How’s Big Red lookin’?” Momma asks, and zips up her purple jacket. “Poor thing. Lord have mercy on his precious soul.”
I shrug. “He’s okay. He’s as good as he can be right now, I guess.” Maybe this is just a lie that I believe, but the words fly out my mouth fast.
“Well, I was just talkin’ to your father and he . . . well, he thinks we should put him down so he ain’t suffering and all.”
“What!” It feels like someone just punched me, and I want to throw up.
“We ain’t got the money or the space to keep him around,” Momma says, cupping my chin in her palm. “And waiting for him to die is too damn hard on all of us. Big Red was a nice horse and he’s had his run. Gotta let him go, son. It’s clearly what God wants.”
God?
An awkward pause.
God?
Why would they talk about this without me? I hurt all over. I’m pissed—way more pissed than when Momma and Daddy told Natasha and me that we didn’t have the money for Big Red’s medication a couple months ago.
God?
“Anyway, I came to tell you that dinner’s ready, if you want some,” she says. “I made something easy today—hot dogs, so I can make a big feast tomorrow after we win.”
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. For the longest time, I stand still, watching her walk away in the distance, holding Natasha’s hand as the moon slides into the sky.
When I get back inside the house, Natasha’s already gone to bed and it’s just Momma and Daddy sitting at the dinner table with glasses and a bottle of golden-brown alcohol in front of them, the Holy Bible on the table between them.
One look at each of their facial expressions and I can tell they’ve been waiting for me.
“Your father has something to say,” Momma blurts out, sipping on some of the golden-brown alcohol in her glass. “Say it, Victor.”
“Lisa.” I watch Daddy roll his eyes a little bit, lifting from the table, his beer gut hanging over his belt, leftover relish still in his long beard from the hot dogs he had for dinner. “Listen, son. Take a seat.”
I sit at the table. I don’t know if this is about the race tomorrow or about Big Red, but the way they’re acting makes me feel like they’re about to tell me Grandma G just died or something.
My palms are clammy and I brush them on my camo pants. “Yes?” I look into Daddy’s big, dark-brown eyes.
He walks around the table and closer to me, placing his hands on the table. “You know what tomorrow means to your mom and me, right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I say. It’s all they’ve talked about this whole week. Hell, it’s all they’ve talked about since the last race three years ago.
“Good. It’s as important to us as Big Red is to you. And it seems like you’ve been distracted lately, so we wanted to make sure you’re goin’ into tomorrow with a clear mind.” He coughs a little. “We don’t want you to mess this up for us, son. It’s tradition. This would be our sixth trophy since you were born. We need to get out there and show them white folks what we’re capable of, that we belong ’round here. They can’t keep treating us like we ain’t a part of this town. Your granddaddy used to say, ‘White folks can’t hold you down if you’re coming up.’ And look at how good another trophy would complete our trophy case in the living room.”
I just nod.
“Big Red will go to a better place. He’ll be back in the Kingdom of God, where he was once with Adam and Eve.”
I roll my eyes, still nodding.
“Speaking of, uh, Big Red . . . I just got a text from Dr. Lonnie.” Dr. Lonnie’s been taking care of our animals for years. He’s a short, old fella from the Midwest whose beard is probably longer than Moses’s was after walking in the desert those forty years. “After we bring the trophy home, we’re gonna have Dr. Lonnie come and put him down. We’ll let you pick where he’s buried at in the backyard and all that.”
Tears cascade down my cheeks and dry at my chin. I feel like I want to scream, but I don’t. Natasha’s sleeping.
He picks up the Bible, flips through it, and reads a passage. “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things become new.” At this point, I’m just so numb, so shocked. It’s like my feelings don’t even matter to them at all, like always.
Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck whatever they just read from the Bible.
I want to throw up.
I don’t. I can’t. All that can come out of me are these hot tears. I just lift up from the table and storm upstairs to my room. I’ve never done this before, but it feels kind of nice. It feels kind of needed, and though I can’t place any of my thoughts, I know what I have to do tomorrow for me, for Skyler, and for Big Red. For all of us to finally break free.
I pull all my blankets over myself and plug in my headphones, blasting Britney Spears, listening to her sing about what freedom means and what it looks like to be stronger than yesterday. Britney calms my nerves enough for me to think rationally about everything. But I’m still excited to see Skyler. I count the minutes, no, seconds until I can sneak out and hopefully see him. He’ll understand how I feel.
Midnight finally comes around. I slip into my hoodie again and I leave out my window, heading down the hill to wait at the ditch. The air is stale and smells like a blend of poop, freshly cut grass, and flowers.
I watch the time go up on phone, staring at my lock screen, which I changed to a picture of Big Red earlier today—then suddenly, I look up and see him. Skyler is walking toward me.
Instantly, I lose my breath. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop getting so nervous when I see him. There’s just something about the feeling I get in my gut when I’m in his presence. I forget the world.
“Hey,” Skyler says softly.
I wave and stammer. “H-h-hey.”
He puts his arm behind his head and I look away. A pause lingers between us.
I’m supposed to hate him. But I can’t stop imagining his touch, his taste.
“Everything okay?” Not sure where this comes from. Maybe he senses something on my face. “Did I freak you out earlier?”
“No, no,” I say, swatting away mosquitoes. I explain to him everything that’s happening with Big Red and my parents.
He just nods, and in his deep Southern accent says, “Well, I’m just sorry to hear all that, T. I know how much ole Red means to you.”
I nod thanks.
“Y’know, I really know how hard it is to lose something so close, like a childhood companion,” Skyler says. “Ruby was my pet pig. I got her as a little tiny baby, played with her, grew up with her, everything. Then, one day, my parents put her up for sale, she got bought during one North Salem animal showing competition, and became bacon months after, last I heard.”
“That sucks” is all that comes out, even though there’s so much I want to say, so many words I want to offer.
He walks closer to the edge. “If I could help, I would.”
Having him here to walk me through this is enough. Skyler plus Britney Spears sounds like the perfect combination to get me through this broken moment in my broken life—the dread knotting in my chest of having to put Big Red down.
“I need to be with you right now,” he mutters. I watch him take more steps forward and my heart is beating so hard in my chest. His toes dangle on the edge.
Oh my God. He’s crossing over the ditch. He’s crossing over no-man’s-land, showing the kind of bravery I used to pray for. I blink back the shock, my heart thudding in triples now. Suddenly, he’s on our side of the divide. He’s standing in front of me—so close I can reach out and touch him.
“Can I hold your hand?”
I nod at him.
His hand grips mine and the warmth is everything.
“I’ve been wanting to do this.”
“I have too,” I say softly.
His hands move to my cheeks and his lips are so close to mine, but he pulls back just to look me in the eye, my chest heaving. “Tank Robinson, can I kiss you?”
“Please,” I say, my heart feeling like it’s about to pound its way out of my chest.
He presses his lips against me, soft and easy at first and then hard and firm. Everything in my head goes quiet, and I feel like I’m floating on a cloud far, far away from North Salem. When we pull apart, the taste of his cherry ChapStick is left in my mouth and I can’t help but smile at his smile.
If Momma or Daddy came out to see this, they would kill me. Hell, they would kill the both of us and then blame the Smiths. And I don’t know why, but I’m also suddenly realizing that part of me actually doesn’t care. Part of me kinda wishes one of them came out and saw us. It would make things easier for me. I would no longer have to think about how to come out to my God-fearing parents and especially not have to think about explaining how the first boy I’ve ever kissed was their enemy’s one and only son.
I kick at a fly buzzing around my legs, taking in everything, not wanting this night to end.
Before long, Skyler tells me he has to go and get some rest for tomorrow. I watch him walk away, still feeling like I’ve been split at the seams and stuffed with rays of sunlight. I do a last-minute inspection of the horses. Tomorrow I’ll be racing Lima Bean, who’s just plain gorgeous, with her white, silvery hair. I end up letting Big Red out of the shelter to run around in the open field.
Ignoring the coyotes singing in the distance and shielding the glowing full moon from my face, I watch him go so freely under the expanding night sky, how happy he looks, not knowing what’s going to happen to him.
I wake up the next day with his name repeating over and over again in my mind. The dream I had last night was about him and it’s too embarrassing to talk about right now, but I’m gonna need to change my boxers for sure.
I end up showering, grabbing a bowl of Cocoa Puffs with Natasha, and helping Daddy load his pickup truck and trailer for the race today. The sun is so bright and yellow, pinned in the bluest, stillest sky I’ve ever seen. Something about it is like a reminder of hope, a reminder of Skyler.
Suddenly, I look up in the distance and Skyler’s helping his folks load their trucks, too. Sheep, goats, and hogs getting loaded in the back of one. Horses in the others. It’s all actually kind of adorable, but the tension that lives on this road kills away all of that feeling after a while, with Momma and Daddy side-eyeing the Smiths so damn hard.
After they’re all loaded, I look over and watch Skyler’s parents drive away, leaving him there. He calls me over sneakily.
I take a deep breath and tell Momma that I’ll be right back. Daddy’s in the back of one of the trailers.
She waves me off.
I walk behind the house and down the hill in our backyard to the pasture. I stand in front of the ditch, feeling electric volts run through me, like I’m one and the same with the earth’s center or some shit, thinking about crossing over the ditch for the first time. Sure, it’s a great fuck off to my parents, but the adrenaline is overwhelming. So overwhelming, I can feel my heart beating in my chest. It’s my turn. I should be able to cross this ditch, like Skyler did last night.
Then it hits me—what Skyler said about taking back his happiness. This isn’t about Momma or Daddy. This is about me and what I want. This is about having the courage to tell myself that it’s okay to love him. It’s okay to be strong and brave and daring in the name of love.
He’s waiting at our usual spot, a slight grin easing on his face.
I take a deep breath and jump over the ditch, like I’m crossing through the golden gates of reality into a brand-new life or something.
“Hey, you,” he says so sweetly, hugging me tight. “You smell ready for today.”
“You too,” I reply, grinning.
I take a whiff of myself. He’s right.
Somehow we end up going to his house and he takes me upstairs, almost giving me a minitour of it. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be inside the place where someone as interesting and different as Skyler lives. His parents own Confederate flags and MAGA posters, but Skyler has reminded me that he doesn’t believe in any of that, that he knows his parents are racist and have been contributing to the hatred of me and my family in this town since we’ve been here. He makes it a thing to remind me that he’s not like that, that he’ll always be here to stand with and for me, never against me.
We laugh small laughs. “Why did your parents leave you?”
“I told them I would meet them there. I told them I had some last-minute things to do before heading out to the race. Truth is, I just wanted to do this.”
He leans in and kisses me soft on the lips.
Instantly, I feel like there’s a lit match in my gut. I half smile.
I’m supposed to hate him. But when my lips touched his for the first time and we collided, every butterfly in a hundred-mile radius fluttered in my stomach. And I felt at home for once. And all of this just happened again. Just now. Wow.
Days ago, I imagined kissing him for the first time.
Yesterday, we actually did.
Right now, in this moment right here.
It hits me. One thought repeating in my head, squeezing past every happy thought I can have right now.
My parents would kill me if they knew I was here in the Smiths’ house. They would bring me back to life and kill me again if they knew I had kissed Skyler. Skyler’s parents would do something drastic, too, like force him never to leave his room or send him hundreds of miles away to Texas, if they knew he liked and kissed someone with my skin color—dark brown like somewhere between umber and cocoa. That’s the nature of this town.
I end up sneaking back over to my side, hearing my name being screamed. “Tank. Tank. Taaaaaank!” I know that tone, that voice, whenever I hear it. And it’s a pissed-off Lisa Renée Robinson.
Turns out, I accidentally left the pen open and the goats got out.
It’s usually a tradition for us to eat at Mother Mal’s Pancake House before we go to the race, but not this year. This year, we go straight to North Salem Park, where the race and animal showings are hosted every three years. Maybe this is my parents’ way of showing me just how serious they were about me winning this race for them? Maybe this is their way of saying they don’t really care about my feelings toward this race, just winning? I don’t know, but I’m only salty I don’t get those signature hash browns that I like with the sautéed onions.
At first, the air smells like shit and tastes kind of dirty and bitter once I get out of my dad’s truck, where I have headphones on listening to Britney’s “Hold It Against Me,” avoiding what could’ve been the most awkward ride of my life. I look down and realize that I’m stepping in a fresh, mushy pile of horse crap in my brand-new boots.
Fuck.
I keep walking, wiping my feet as I go, going across a parking lot and through a series of barns. I end up stomping my feet on a concrete slab near the registration table as we get signed in. I see the medium-sized gold horseshoe-shaped trophy that looks like this year’s updated version of the trophies we already have at home from previous years. It’s cool to look at. Some white, bald man in a gray suit, who looks as if he’ll be dying of a heatstroke in a matter of time, shows us where our assigned spot to set up is.
If everything indeed has a bright side to it, like Britney’s “Stronger” and “Break the Ice,” then I guess the bright side to being here at the North Salem Park for this year’s race and animal-showing competition is that there’s a lot of free food. The air smells like pizza and funnel cake and everything reminds me of a carnival, except without rides, just animals behind tiny fences and trailers full of hay.
There’s a fan blasting near the area where we get set up at, saving us from this blazing heat as we start unloading Lima Bean from behind the back of the truck, and then we unload all the other animals for the showing.
I look left and right, then right again. Conveniently for me and inconveniently for our parents, our main competition is setting up next to us. Skyler waves and smiles, like he doesn’t care at all that he’s been caught with me. His mom catches him and swats his hand away, giving him the dirtiest look and then giving the same one to me.
Skyler looks away, focusing back on brushing a horse—probably the one he’s using to race with. He’s a really tall, all-black horse with one silver stripe going around the top of his head like a crown, like he’s royalty and destined for victory. He’s a beauty.
I remember seeing speakers all over the place, and suddenly a loud voice starts blaring out of all of them. “The triennial North Salem Horse Race will start in approximately seven minutes.” The voice is low, smooth, and relaxing. The whole time, my eyes don’t shift away from Skyler.
“Tank!” Momma and Daddy both call out for me in different tones, reining me back in from my daze.
I turn around to walk over to them.
“Lima Bean’s all ready to go, son,” Daddy says to me. “If we win, we’ll buy you a new horse that looks exactly like Big Red. Maybe you can name him Little Red.”
I don’t say anything back, just look into his eyes and feel how strangely detached we both are in this moment.
He places a hand on my shoulder, leans in, and kisses me light on the forehead. “You got this.” An uncomfortable, tight-lipped smile. “You got this.”
Do I?
I don’t want this.
Momma comes over and kisses me on the forehead, too, kissing into the creases of it how proud she is of me.
The two of them stand at my sides, and out of nowhere, they begin reciting a prayer. They pray for my heart, they pray for my mind, they pray for Lima Bean, and they pray for victory.
An overwhelming wave of nausea hits me, and my hands get really clammy.
The same loud voice comes over every single speaker in this open park again. “Attention, all horse racers! We’ll begin in approximately one minute.”
“Hurry, son, go get him,” Daddy shouts in a voice somewhere between excitement and anxiety.
I get saddled up and ready on Lima Bean, nudge her at her sides lightly in the direction of where everyone’s lining up for the race. There are individual lanes drawn on a field that I didn’t even see when I got in. I don’t know where Skyler is now, since there are over thirty racers, but I hope he’s out here and I hope he wins.
So many thoughts flood my brain and I’m having a really hard time sorting them. It’s like I’m two halves of something. Part A of me wants to win this, get my parents the trophy, so they can stop bugging me about it for the next three years. Part B of me, though, wants to do everything I can to have Skyler win, and then I can finally stand up to my parents and also to his.
Last night, I spent a lot of time thinking about this and talking to my three Britney Spears posters about it as well. To win or not to win? I know if I gave this my all with a clear mind, I could definitely win. Especially now that I’m looking at some of these other horses that look like they’ve been starving for months. But I’m not sure if I want to.
The same bald white guy in a gray suit stands in front of all the horses with his hands behind his back. I can barely hear him, but he’s explaining all the rules for this race, things I grew up reading and hearing about from Daddy.
My whole body clenches, and I feel the muscles in my legs and arms rise up, the same muscles I use to control thousands of pounds of thundering horseflesh.
I almost forget I’m wearing a hat. I pull it down over my low fade, so it feels tight and secure. I don’t wanna lose it. It was a birthday gift from Grandma G.
The bald man whips out his hands from behind his back and I see a gun. I gulp as he points it into the air. I watch him so closely, licking his lips. I look around and grab onto the reins around Lima Bean.
“On your mark,” he says.
I swallow hot spit.
“Get set.”
I lean in forward a bit.
And then, BOOM! “Go!”
We’re off and I’m tied for third place. Not sure who the two are in front of me, but I know that their horses look like they won’t make it past the first lap with how hard they’re working them.
I jerk my head back, the wind slapping me in the face hard—so damn hard. I end up passing everyone by the time it gets to the second-to-last lap. I’m in first.
Big Red dies today. The thought enters my head in the most fucked-up way. I don’t even realize I’m fucking crying, until everything blurs and I feel Lima Bean go off the track a little. I wipe my face on my sleeves and suddenly, I’ve gotten passed by two people. One of them, I think, is Skyler.
It starts drizzling a little bit, giving us all some temporary relief from the heat.
I try to get Lima Bean to go faster to catch up. After a while, it’s just Skyler and me neck-and-neck. I can see the finish line approaching and I can tell by the look in his eyes that no matter how this ends, we will have each other.
It’s in this moment that I finally man up, something Daddy’s always telling me to do, and I pull Lima Bean back. Skyler crosses the finish line.
Once Skyler wins, my stomach flips, but I’m smiling hard. The crowds of spectators all erupt in a series of different sounds. Some of them are cheering, like they’re really excited that he won. Others are not. I can feel the anger coming from my parents and I can’t even make them out in the crowd yet.
We all get off our horses once everyone crosses the finish line and walk through the crowd to our stations.
When I get to mine, Momma and Daddy have huge scowls on their faces.
Daddy walks over to me sternly. “What the hell was that?” The anger is leaking from his voice.
Skyler comes over with the first-place trophy and sets it down. “It’s for you.”
Everything stills. Daddy takes a step back. Momma holds his arm.
“Skyler—”
He interrupts me, walking past me and toward my parents with the trophy in his hands, giving it to them. What the hell is he doing? “I know how much this means to you.”
“Why?” Daddy says on repeat even though Skyler just basically explained why.
I walk over to Skyler, to stand at his side, and he says, “I have something to say to you. I know you won’t like it, but—”
“We kissed.” I finish his sentence, wanting to have this moment. My heart is pounding so hard in my chest and now the rain is picking up. I hug myself.
Momma looks shaken. Natasha smiles while eating cotton candy.
“You kissed?” Momma asks, giving me a strange look, like I just said I killed someone.
“Yeah.” I look away to sort through my thoughts and stop being an anxious mess. I breathe in and out, repeating my favorite Britney Spears lyrics in my head.
“I know you won’t like it or whatever because of God or the Bible or because the world thinks all boys should like girls or whatever, but—”
I’m interrupted.
“Absolutely not,” Daddy goes. “Jesus. God. No, no, no, no. What have you done to my son?” He approaches Skyler and Skyler takes a few steps back, flinching.
I jump in between them.
There’s the longest pause that lingers between all of us.
The Smiths arrive to get Skyler, but he tells them that he’s staying right where he is.
Momma chews on her lip, then nods, her head in her hands, and she’s now crying, holding her hands together like she’s about to begin praying, asking God for a cure for me.
Skyler’s dad grabs him by the arm forcefully and pulls him back. He yells so loud, everyone at this competition probably knows what’s going on. “We’re going home, packing your bags, and you’re going to spend some time with your grandparents in Texas!”
“No!” A yelp emerges from my gut. “Leave him alone,” I shout at his parents, my voice inching higher as the words come out. I feel a rush of adrenaline shoot up my neck. Things slow.
Skyler reaches for my hand and I give it up, lacing my fingers with his.
Speakers blare to life in all directions and an announcer’s low voice booms, robotically, “One minute until the triennial group competitor photo. I repeat, one minute until the triennial group competitor photo.”
“We have to go,” I say, walking away toward the track where all the horse racers are gathering for the picture.
The rain finally stops and the sun comes out from hiding behind the clouds, shining rays of light on us.
We walk away, and the whole time, I make sure not to let go of him.