Grows That Way Page 6

  He leaps to his feet when he sees me which makes me feel pretty happy but then he slows and strolls to the bottom of his driveway so casually that I have to doubt he’s meaning to meet me at all. I feel confused, and am inclined to pedal on past him, except that Logan might know a good hiding place for Pinky. I decide to stop. I wait beside Pinky at the edge of the road. As Logan approaches I catch a whiff of that horse liniment smell. Could Franco be around? I peer around Logan but can’t see Franco anywhere, and as Logan draws closer I realize that he is the source of the smell. Of course it’s not horse liniment, I know that. Maybe it’s some other medicated product, such as shampoo. The whole Losino family could have some sort of contagious hair condition, like dandruff. If Logan wasn’t so much taller than me I could check.

  Logan stands in front of me, bouncing on his toes. “You’re riding this way to school now?” he says. He hasn’t even noticed the hideous Pinky. He must be colour blind. I remember from one of my mom’s gender difference lectures that this is much more common in boys than girls.

  “My dad bought me a new bike,” I say. I don’t want Logan to feel self-conscious about his colour blindness, so I steer clear of mentioning the ghastly pinkishness. “Obviously it’s meant for a six-year-old. Amber and Topaz…” My voice catches unexpectedly and I can’t finish the sentence but Logan nods understandingly so I say, “I have to hide it somewhere. I’m not taking it to school.”

  Logan doesn’t even take time to think, and he doesn’t assess the bike at all, he just takes my word for it. It’s as though he’s been presented with some sort of once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and doesn’t have a second to waste. “Put it in our garage,” he says urgently. “You can hide it there every day. I’ll show you the side door.”

  Logan grabs my bike, vaults onto the seat and pedals up the driveway. The bike is so small for him that his knees come up around his elbows and he has to hunch over the handlebar. He looks like a cute circus bear.

  He’s almost at the top of the driveway up by the house when Franco comes out the front door. Franco has his gym bag in one hand and a math textbook in the other. He must be doing remedial math because it’s the same one I’m using. Franco takes one look at Logan and goes crazy. “You stupid fairy! What do you think you’re doing? If I ever see you at school on a pink bike you’re dead!” He flings the book and it hits the front wheel and breaks in two down the binding. Loose pages flutter across the driveway. I can’t say I’ve never wanted to do that to a math book, but still I find Franco pretty scary.

  “It’s not my bike, you moron,” says Logan. “It’s Sylvia’s. I’m hiding it in the garage for her.” He reaches to open the side door of the garage, but Franco stops him.

  “She’s not going in there,” says Franco.

  Logan looks at Franco and shakes his head. “Oh here we go again. Fine. I’ll put the bike in the shed.” Logan goes out of his way to drive over a page, then disappears around the back of the house, calling for me to follow.

  I give Franco a wide berth and manage to time it so he’s bending to pick up some pages when I slip past.

  I find Logan around the corner tucking Pinky in beside another bike in a garden shed. I take off my helmet and loop the chinstrap over my bike’s handlebar. Pinky looks even more ridiculous in comparison with the other bike, which is black and red, has no sparkles, and the frame is so thick it looks like it could carry an elephant.

  “This is my mountain bike,” says Logan. “It’s full-suspension.” He shows me the front shocks and the heavy-duty spring in the frame. “You wouldn’t believe what I can do with this baby.”

  “You don’t ride it to school?” I ask.

  “No way,” says Logan. “It’s not a road bike. It’s made for trails and jumping off cliffs. Besides, someone would steal it. I had to save for months to buy it.” He checks his watch. “We better hurry if we want to get to school on time.” He grabs my hand, and together we run back to the driveway—where Franco is waiting for us.

  chapter

  eleven

  Franco has the pieces of the book in one hand and he shakes them at Logan. “Look what you made me do. I’m going to be in big trouble with Brumby over this, you little fag.”

  Logan’s hand vibrates in mine.

  “You did it yourself, dumbo,” says Logan.

  Franco looks from Logan to me and gives me a thorough once-over, from head to toes and back again. It’s as though he’s never really seen me before. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he never noticed me whenever he was with Taylor.

  “This is my girlfriend, Sylvia,” says Logan.

  My eyes almost pop right out of my head. His girlfriend? I am? Well, perhaps only to deflect Franco, who apparently believes that Logan is gay. I think of all the times that Logan has come to my rescue.

  I clear my throat. “Yes,” I say.

  Franco looks me up and down again and scoffs. “Are you sure that’s a girl?” he says. “How old is she—five?”

  I feel Logan’s grip tighten. He won’t understand that I’m used to these sorts of comments. I don’t want him to confront Franco on my behalf. I give his hand a tug. “Come on, Studly,” I say, because that’s what my mom used to call my dad in the good old days.

  “Studly?” says Franco, laughing. He picks up his gym bag and swings it over his shoulder. “Now I’ve heard everything.” Shaking his head, he swaggers away down the driveway.

  Logan stoops and picks up a rock.

  “No, Logan. He’s not worth it.”

  Logan studies the rock in his hand.

  “You’ll only make him mad,” I say.

  “Not if I kill him first.”

  “You can’t play pro ball if you have a criminal record,” I remind him.

  He turns to me and smiles. “You remember me saying that?”

  I tell him of course I remember.

  “I suppose there are smarter ways of taking revenge,” he says, tossing the rock under a shrub.

  We run together down the driveway, along the road, past lumbering Franco, and finally when I can’t run any more I make him walk. He continues to hold my hand. When we reach the corner by Amber and Topaz’s house I expect him to let go, but he doesn’t. It’s as though he’s proud.

  Even when we’ve stopped running, my palm keeps sweating. I like holding hands with Logan and at the same time I don’t. I mean, what’s next? Is he going to want to put his arm around me? Is he going to try to slide his hand up under my shirt? I sneak a look at his face, as though this might give me an idea about his intentions, but he’s smiling at me in the friendliest sort of way, reminding me of all the years I’ve known him in school, and how he’s always been nice to me, and always been a jokester, and really he’s pretty cute even though he’s having a little trouble with some acne at the back of his neck. But what the heck does he see in me? Franco’s right about that. I figure Logan could hold hands with any girl in school, and instead he picks the shrimp who still wears an undershirt instead of a bra. I don’t understand. I hope he doesn’t want to kiss me—I’m not ready for that. My mom has warned me about boys, how they are propelled by testosterone to only think about one thing, which I take to mean sexual intercourse, and I’m really not ready for that.

  I wonder if there’s such a thing as a pulley rein stop for boys like there is for runaway horses—not that Logan is running away with me. Something more subtle could work. Kansas says that sometimes horses just need a distraction from what they’re thinking about. I remember the article I have about Ardipithecus.

  “Logan, can I talk to you about something?” I say.

  “Anything,” he says.

  “You have to promise not to laugh.”

  “I promise,” says Logan and he crosses his heart with his free hand. Maybe kissing him wouldn’t be so bad, though not right now.

  I make myself focu
s. I take in a deep breath and let it out. I square my shoulders the way Kansas has taught me to, lift my sternum and feel the balance in my feet. “I saw something, when I was riding,” I tell him. “I thought at first it was a bear, but it wasn’t. I think I saw an extinct ape.”

  Logan doesn’t laugh, thank goodness. He squeezes my hand. “Wow. Have you told anyone else?” he says.

  I shake my head, then remember. “I had a hypothetical discussion with Dr. Cleveland.” I’m not sure about telling Logan that Dr. Cleveland is my former therapist, and decide that saying anything about this now would only confuse the matter. “She’s a psychiatrist who has a horse at my barn. I told her I thought I saw a were-ape, but that was before I found out about Ardipithecus—though I guess it could be either. Anyway, she thinks maybe I’ve deceived myself into believing I saw something because I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what? I didn’t think you were afraid of anything…except maybe for Amber and Topaz.” Logan is making a little joke, but I don’t mind. It actually feels kind of nice that he knows me so well.

  “I could be subconsciously afraid,” I say. “Though that sounds like something my mom would think. She’s a psychotherapist.”

  “Cool,” says Logan, which almost makes me drop his hand.

  “You have no idea,” I say. “And my dad’s a financial planner. They’re both obsessed.”

  Logan shrugs. “All adults are obsessed about something,” he says.

  “Even your parents?”

  “My mom’s a teacher. There’s nothing worse than having a teacher for a parent, unless it’s having a parent who’s a teacher at your own school. Fortunately I don’t have that to deal with. As it is, I can’t get away with anything. When she asks ‘How was school today?’ she really means it.”

  I imagine what it would be like if one of my parents was a teacher, and have to agree with Logan: nothing would be worse. At least I enjoy some peace for a few hours a day, and I can brush off questions about how school is going because they don’t have a clue.

  “What about your dad?” I say. “What’s his obsession?”

  Logan hesitates so long that I start to think I shouldn’t have asked, that maybe his dad has a top secret profession such as a spy, or an undercover law enforcement officer.

  Eventually he clears his throat and tells me his dad is a biologist, which doesn’t sound strange at all, and I want to ask Logan what the problem is when he says, “My dad’s always going on about global warming and climate change and how humans are a scourge on the face of the planet and Earth would be better off without us.”

  “That is harsh,” I say.

  “How do you know you saw an extinct ape?” asks Logan.

  “I found an article on the computer with a drawing of a skeleton and a ton of text. I think it describes what I saw, though I don’t understand all of it.”

  “Let me read it,” says Logan.

  I slip off my backpack and we’re digging through the front pocket for the article when Amber shows up.

  “Looking for her flea powder?” she says.

  “Nope,” says Logan. “Bear spray.” He stands and faces her with one hand behind his back. He’s holding the article rolled up in his fist, but of course Amber doesn’t know that. She looks at the place where his arm disappears, then searches Logan’s face, looking for a sign, perhaps of Logan’s usual humour and good will.

  Logan doesn’t flinch.

  “Oh I was just kidding,” says Amber, backing away. She scampers around us, laughing in a forced way. “I’ll see you at school!” she says over her shoulder.

  “Not if I see you first,” says Logan under his breath. He puts a smile on his face and he waves, so I wave too for a few seconds, then I stop. I don’t like this fakeness. I don’t like pretending to be friendly when I’m not. It worries me that this is how people have treated me all my life, pretending to accept me but believing I’m a weirdo misfit midget.

  “Logan,” I say, “we don’t have to do this. Let’s go.” I take his hand. I take his hand. I can’t believe it, but I do. It frightens and excites me, thinking what I might come up with next.

  chapter

  twelve

  School is pretty boring, all day, though any time I bring my hand near my nose, I can smell Logan Losino, so that’s kind of fun. Plus I tell myself I’ll never get dandruff on my palm which is a good thing, and it makes me laugh inside even when Mr. Brumby continues his reign of terror by springing a surprise quiz on us in math class.

  Logan is waiting for me at the front door after school. For a change there’s no sign of Amber or Topaz, so I guess they have dance lessons. Logan walks me back to his place where Pinky is stashed. There’s no sign of Franco either; he’s probably at the gym learning how to bench-press small children.

  I’m buckling on my helmet when Logan says, “Can I come with you?”

  I freeze with my fingers stuck on my chinstrap. “It would be boring,” I say.

  “No, it wouldn’t. Not as much as homework.”

  I can’t see how I can get out of this. I wonder if I should tell him that Kansas has a No Boys policy at the barn, but that would make Kansas sound sexist and I don’t want to do that.

  “It’s boring watching people ride,” I tell him. “I stay in the arena during the week. I go around in circles. I’m not even jumping Brooklyn yet.” Truly, I don’t want him to come. I don’t want to have to split my attention between Brooklyn and Logan. I don’t know how to tell him this. He sees my hesitation, and looks down at his toes. I’ve hurt his feelings. He’s been so nice to me, and I’ve been mean to him. I feel awful.

  “How about another time?” I say.

  His face lights up. “On a weekend? When you’re not in the arena? We could explore the trails. My bike can go anywhere a horse goes.”

  “Sure,” I say. “That’s a great idea.” Though it isn’t of course. For one thing, bikes can’t jump fallen trees. For another, I don’t intend to do another trail ride for the rest of my life.

  Declan’s truck is parked beside Kansas’s beater near the barn, but there’s no sign of them until I open the tack room door, and there they are, necking, shirtless (both of them!), in a panic of motion when they hear the door squeak on its hinges.

  I could die, I really could.

  Kansas isn’t even wearing a sports bra. She’s got some frilly pink thing on, that hardly has her covered at all. Pink. I can’t believe it.

  Declan turns his back and pulls a black T-shirt over his head. He saunters past me without a word.

  “Ooops—sorry,” says Kansas.

  “Couldn’t you have gone to your trailer?” I ask. This would have been so simple. The trailer is mere steps away, behind the barn.

  “We got a bit carried away,” says Kansas, as though this is an explanation. “I didn’t plan on it.”

  “If you weren’t planning on it why weren’t you wearing your sports bra?” I ask.

  Kansas stops buttoning her shirt. “There’s no need to be mad at me,” she says.

  “I’m not mad,” I say. Then I think about it, and realize I am, a little bit, though I couldn’t say why. It’s not that I’m jealous of Kansas’s attentions. It’s more like I feel she’s betrayed me. What’s that about?

  “This is my barn,” says Kansas.

  Sure it’s her barn. She has every right, that’s not the problem. Still, I’m feeling really upset with her, plus upset with myself because I can’t figure out why. I’d like to punch something—hard.

  Kansas finishes doing up her shirt except for one section where two buttons are missing, then she stands there looking at me sheepishly, as though she thinks she’s done something wrong too. I can tell she feels guilty, which somehow makes me feel more upset, and so even though it’s not very nice of me, I find myself taking advantage of t
he situation. “Can you give me a riding lesson?” I ask. “I’d like to do some jumping.”

  Kansas has been reluctant to help me start jumping with Brooklyn. She wants us to perfect our flat work first, something that could take the rest of my life at the rate we’re going. I know Kansas loves dressage, I know that flat work is important, but I want to jump.

  Kansas is ready to roll out her usual objections. She shakes her head and I see her mouth open to say no.

  I say, “My parents think it’s okay. They trust you. They think you’re very wholesome and provide a safe learning environment.”

  Kansas looks at the floor for a moment and then sighs. “Okay,” she says.

  “Not just ground poles,” I tell her. “I want to really jump something.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  When I’ve tacked up Brooklyn and led him to the ring, Kansas is out there, pacing out the distances between the jumps.

  We do our usual flat work for ten minutes to warm up. Brooklyn is a slug. It’s all I can do to get him moving forward. He is so bored with this. Like me.

  Finally Kansas tells me to shorten my stirrups two holes and we review how to balance in a forward seat with weight in my heels. Kansas tells me I’m a natural. She says it like she’s not entirely happy about it, like it would be better if I was a slower learner and needed to spend more time on the flat. I’m thrilled anyway, and when she tells me to, I ride Brooklyn through a grid of ground poles with a one-foot jump at the far end. Actually, it’s not big enough to be called a jump. Even Kansas only calls it a bounce, but it’s a start.

  Brooklyn clears it by a mile, then brings his head way up, tosses it and pulls into the bridle, much like he did on the trail ride.

  Kansas tells me to circle him until he slows down. After about the twentieth circle she says to stop him and wait while she finds a running martingale in the tack room. I hope Declan hasn’t crept back there or I’ll be waiting forever. His truck is still in the parking lot. I don’t know where he’s gone.