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Authors: Catherine Gilbert Murdock
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to watch the games.
Saturday afternoon I called Brian to see what he was up to, if he wanted to hang out that night or anything, but he didn't pick up and I didn't bother leaving a message. That's one great thing about cell phones. They keep track of who calls so you don't have to talk.
He came by Sunday morning at least and helped a bit with a bigtime barn clean-out we were doing, changing the wood shavings and all. He didn't once rub in how badly Red Bend had lost. "It would have been different if you'd been playing," he said at one point, which was really nice of himâone of those examples of what a great guy he can be.
"I called you yesterday," I said, working right next to him because it was so satisfying being in his body zone, "but I didn't leave a message."
"Well, leave it now," he grinned. "'It's Brianâbeep.'"
"Uh, hey, it's me," I started, and Brian immediately cracked up because even faking it I sound pathetic. I'm sure if there was ever a contest for the worst messages in America, I'd make the semifinals at least. "I was, you know, just wondering, you know, what you're up to."
"You have to press the off button," Brian pointed out. Which I faked, which made us grin. "Okay,
now
I got your message. I was just hanging out."
"Doing what?"
"A bunch of us guys went to the movies. It was dumb, though. We left halfway through."
"Oh," I said, and there was this little awkward pause and then Dad talked about barn cleaning until Brian had to go home to watch the Packers game. I didn't walk him out, though, because I was trying to figure all this out. I mean, I'm not saying Brian should abandon his friends once the two of us, you know, started kissing. And I sure appreciated the time he spent with me, pretty much every Saturday day, and Sundays sometimes, waking up really early just to drive over to Schwenk Farm. That's a lot. But that's the thing: wouldn't two people who spent so much time talking and playing with blowtorches and eating Dad's food, and making outâwouldn't you think that once in a while they'd want to go to the movies together, something like that? Instead of Brian going with his bozo Hawley friends?
Sunday night I was supposed to be doing homework, especially this Spanish paper about what I would visit in Madrid, which I'm sure I'll never go to so why bother. But all I could do was think about Brian, going around and around in my head how much it bummed me out that he'd been with his friends instead of me. Then I'd get mad at myself for being a total selfish whiner like some of Bill's girlfriends who insisted they spend every possible second just the two of them together. God knows I don't want to be that kind of girl, not ever. But I couldn't understand why, just once, we couldn't take a break from farm work and do something fun. Only maybe
I
should ask
him,
right? This isn't the Dark Agesâa girl can ask a boy out without it being a federal crime. Not that I had one clue how to do this. Brian was much more that kind of person, the kind who can ask someone out without needing CPR. So why didn't he ask me? And then I'd start right back at the beginning and cycle through all these thoughts again.
Finally I decided that if I wasn't getting anything done I might as well take a real break, and I headed downstairs for a pop. I must have come down pretty quietly, or maybe they weren't listening, because just as I got to the bottom step I heard Mom sigh, and there was something about the way she did it that made me freeze for a second, even though it was totally none of my business, to hear what she was sighing about. And this is what she said:
"We can't keep this place running on my paycheck."
Dad made this noise of rubbing his chin, all the stubble there, and said in a really tired voice, "Maybe milk prices will come back."
"The government doesn't care about farms this size." It wasn't nasty, the way Mom said it, just sad.
"I'm not selling to a developer," Dad said.
"We've got
Saturday afternoon I called Brian to see what he was up to, if he wanted to hang out that night or anything, but he didn't pick up and I didn't bother leaving a message. That's one great thing about cell phones. They keep track of who calls so you don't have to talk.
He came by Sunday morning at least and helped a bit with a bigtime barn clean-out we were doing, changing the wood shavings and all. He didn't once rub in how badly Red Bend had lost. "It would have been different if you'd been playing," he said at one point, which was really nice of himâone of those examples of what a great guy he can be.
"I called you yesterday," I said, working right next to him because it was so satisfying being in his body zone, "but I didn't leave a message."
"Well, leave it now," he grinned. "'It's Brianâbeep.'"
"Uh, hey, it's me," I started, and Brian immediately cracked up because even faking it I sound pathetic. I'm sure if there was ever a contest for the worst messages in America, I'd make the semifinals at least. "I was, you know, just wondering, you know, what you're up to."
"You have to press the off button," Brian pointed out. Which I faked, which made us grin. "Okay,
now
I got your message. I was just hanging out."
"Doing what?"
"A bunch of us guys went to the movies. It was dumb, though. We left halfway through."
"Oh," I said, and there was this little awkward pause and then Dad talked about barn cleaning until Brian had to go home to watch the Packers game. I didn't walk him out, though, because I was trying to figure all this out. I mean, I'm not saying Brian should abandon his friends once the two of us, you know, started kissing. And I sure appreciated the time he spent with me, pretty much every Saturday day, and Sundays sometimes, waking up really early just to drive over to Schwenk Farm. That's a lot. But that's the thing: wouldn't two people who spent so much time talking and playing with blowtorches and eating Dad's food, and making outâwouldn't you think that once in a while they'd want to go to the movies together, something like that? Instead of Brian going with his bozo Hawley friends?
Sunday night I was supposed to be doing homework, especially this Spanish paper about what I would visit in Madrid, which I'm sure I'll never go to so why bother. But all I could do was think about Brian, going around and around in my head how much it bummed me out that he'd been with his friends instead of me. Then I'd get mad at myself for being a total selfish whiner like some of Bill's girlfriends who insisted they spend every possible second just the two of them together. God knows I don't want to be that kind of girl, not ever. But I couldn't understand why, just once, we couldn't take a break from farm work and do something fun. Only maybe
I
should ask
him,
right? This isn't the Dark Agesâa girl can ask a boy out without it being a federal crime. Not that I had one clue how to do this. Brian was much more that kind of person, the kind who can ask someone out without needing CPR. So why didn't he ask me? And then I'd start right back at the beginning and cycle through all these thoughts again.
Finally I decided that if I wasn't getting anything done I might as well take a real break, and I headed downstairs for a pop. I must have come down pretty quietly, or maybe they weren't listening, because just as I got to the bottom step I heard Mom sigh, and there was something about the way she did it that made me freeze for a second, even though it was totally none of my business, to hear what she was sighing about. And this is what she said:
"We can't keep this place running on my paycheck."
Dad made this noise of rubbing his chin, all the stubble there, and said in a really tired voice, "Maybe milk prices will come back."
"The government doesn't care about farms this size." It wasn't nasty, the way Mom said it, just sad.
"I'm not selling to a developer," Dad said.
"We've got
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