Then the three of them went out to the barn while I tried to sort this out. Dad hadn't even asked me. Normally—like every other time in my life up to now—he'd just dump all the farm work on me. Like last summer. He'd never call someone for help. Dad asking for help is right up there with Smut flying. That's what made it so amazing—trust me, I wasn't complaining or anything, I was just stumped—that he'd done it now. Without forcing me to argue about how important basketball is, and then feel bad about quitting like I'd had to do last winter after Dad's hip conked out. It was pretty nice of him, actually. Pretty darn thoughtful. Maybe meeting those two D-I coaches turned his head, too.
Or ... Mom was in trouble. That was it. Really, it was a marvel she'd lasted as long as she did with Win. No one else could have done it. But finally she'd snapped too.
Still, I couldn't get over Dad calling those farmers. People might think helping is hard, but really that's the easy part; just look how good it makes people feel. Look how happy all those Red Bend ladies were about chipping in. It's the asking that's so painful. It takes real courage, real strength, to say you're not strong enough to do it alone. Mom must really be hurting for Dad to be so brave.
That night I refused to talk to Win. No matter how Dad glared, I didn't budge. My insides felt like a bunch of drinking glasses all stacked up, just teetering there, and I knew Win first thing would knock them down. I could hear Dad answering Win's questions—getting kind of irked himself, which was nice to hear, someone getting mad at Win besides me—saying he didn't know what I'd said to those coaches to make them so generous.
Which I didn't know either. Because hadn't I made it clear I wasn't interested? I'd been complimentary, sure, but I'd never said I was dying to go there and just couldn't wait. Those words never came out of my mouth once. It was probably because the coaches felt sorry for us, because of Win and all. Maybe that's how strong Win's brainwashing is: he can even convince a school to offer up a ton of money just like that. It was almost worth calling the coaches just to ask what the heck they'd been thinking. Almost, but not quite.
Instead I listened to Dad reassuring someone—Mom, probably—that those farmers were fine and he'd be leaving right after morning milking. Poor Mom. She had all of Win's garbage to deal with, and all of Dad's as well ... She definitely needed this break.
Only when we got home from practice the next day, there she was, puttering around the kitchen just like she always does, trying to figure out where Dad hid the frying pan.
"Well hello, honey," she said, giving me a big hug before I'd even had time to take off my coat. "Would you like some cocoa?"
"Ah, sure," I said, watching Curtis scoot upstairs to grab the shower.
Mom put two cocoas on the table and sat down. That in and of itself was weird. Normally she doesn't sit because she's too busy scooting. "So. I feel like we haven't caught up in a while."
"Yeah," I said, wondering when she'd turned into Oprah Winfrey. "Um, how's Win?"
"He's talking about going back to Seattle in June—can you believe it? And don't tell anyone, but I think Maryann is going to move out there too." She beamed. "Not that she's saying it has anything to do with him. Now, how are things with you?"
As far as weirdness goes, this conversation was already off the charts. "I'm not dating my physical therapist," I offered finally. If Mom wasn't going to bring up the scholarships, I certainly wasn't going there either.
Mom chuckled, then sighed. "Curtis is so worried about you, honey..."
"Curtis?"
"That boy ... he insisted I come home. Really put his foot down. Isn't that something?"
It was all I could do not to burst into tears—burst into tears again—at the thought of Curtis looking out for me like that. Not that Mom would be able to help, but still, it was awfully considerate.
She squeezed my hand. "I heard Beaner asked you to the dance."
Great. Now I felt like crying twice as much.
"Don't you go worrying now. Dresses are always stressful."
"That's not it! Um—why, did you stress out about them?"
"Oh, yeah. I had shoes dyed to match for the senior prom. Had to go back three times to get the color right, you know." She sighed. "And then..."
"What? What happened?"
"Oh, nothing. Norman Boockvar—he was a basketball player, not that that matters. Anyway, he'd had a bit to drink, you know, and ended up throwing up on them."
I grinned—my first smile in days. "No way."
"Oh, yeah. And were they uncomfortable after that."
"You kept wearing them?"
"Well, I'd had them dyed. I wasn't going to just stop—"
"You danced in barf shoes? That's disgusting!" Man, did it cheer me up, hearing this story.
"And you know what? Last I heard, he was working in a shoe store." Which made me crack up even more. "So you see? We'll find you a dress now."
And—poof—my cheeriness was gone. I sighed. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know."
"Like what?"
"Like ... so hard."
Mom had to smile. "You mean life is hard?"
"Yeah! I always used to think things like boys and scholarships, you know, and dances and stuff, that they were easy. That only lucky people got those. But I don't feel lucky at all."
Mom gave me a squeeze. "Welcome to growing up."
"You mean it's always like this?"
"No. It gets easier after a while. But you'll manage. Most everyone does."
***
Only that's not how Win acted when I finally worked up the courage to speak to him.
Apparently it had been driving him so crazy that he ended up calling the coaches himself. And both of them said, at least according to Win, who's not like the most impartial person in the world, that they were really impressed with Mr. Jorgensen's tapes, how versatile I was and how I could take post or wing and was always willing to assist. How I was getting better at calling plays. How I got a bunch of girls to work out every day after practice. How I'd played football, and had been a total role model at football practice, which Coach Peterson told them when he called, which I hadn't even known he'd done, and talked their ears off even more than Coach K. Not to mention how us Schwenks are all so into sports, into helping each other and stuff, because apparently family support really matters even when the kid's not living at home, which is something I'm still having trouble figuring out. And both coaches heard, somehow, that I really wanted to go to their school.
"What?" I interrupted. "I never said that—" Win snorted. "You can't go telling two different schools you like them best. How many times did I tell you that? Come on, D.J.! It's a real kick, I'm sure, getting these offers, but it's not right to lead them along like this."
For a while I just sat there gaping. "You think I said that? I never promised anything!"
"Of course you did. You told the Badgers coach you were really impressed with his program and that anyone would want to be part of it. He wrote it down. Your exact words."
"I was being nice!"
"That's not what people say when they're being nice. 'Great T-shirt'—that's nice. Saying 'I want to be part of your program' is something totally different—"
"That's not what I said at all! I would never say that!"
"So you were just jerking him around?" Why did Win do this? Take everything I said and turn it around like that?
"I wasn't jerking him around! I was just trying to say whatever I could ... Listen, I don't even want to go to those schools. Okay?" There. It was scary, saying those words, but it was a huge relief too, to get if off my chest at last.
"What are you talking about?"
"Madison? Minnesota? I don't want to play D-I! I just want to go to some little school where hoops don't matter and there won't be any pressure—"
"Of course you want to play D-I," Win interrupted.
"Of course I don't. Just thinking about it makes me freak. There are tons of better girls—"
"Oh, yea
h? You just had two coaches drive to Red Bend to offer you scholarships. You think they do that for everyone?"
"Win, you don't get it. I don't want to play D-I."
"Jeez, D.J., could you stop being such a wuss?"
Which is why Mom walked in on my crying again, even though Win was still on the line. She took the phone away from me and shut herself in the office. Five minutes later she came out.
"Your brother is going to back off for a while," she announced. Guess Win's not the only bossy one in our family.
Which was one relief at least, one little tiny spot of good news. Because at the moment I was feeling about as bad as a human can feel and still manage to produce a pulse.
14. Beaner
THAT NIGHT I CALLED BRIAN. He was on my mind so much! I just needed to hear his voice. And—well, I wanted to hear a bit more. Find out if he really meant, you know, that thing about him changing.
So I called his cell, which I'll have memorized forever, and he picked up after only one ring. "Oh, man! It's so great you called!"
"Hello, this is D.J. Schwenk. Is Brian there?"
"Ha ha, very funny. Mucho congratulations, dude."
"For what?"
"For the scholarships! Listen to you, you're all like, 'Oh I've got so many offers I can't keep track of them all...' So where you going to go?"
I sighed. "I have no idea. I have no idea what I'm going to do."
"Because Madison and Milwaukee are really close, you know. We could hang together."
"'Hang together'? Who is this?"
Brian laughed. "You know what I mean. So. Have you, you know, made any decisions?"
"I told you, I have no idea."
"That's not what I was talking about," he said quietly.
"Oh. Listen, this is really hard for me..."
"What is?"
"You know. Being liked." I started to cry. I couldn't help it.
"Hey, it's okay..."
I gulped, trying to talk and sniffle and bawl all at the same time. "Do you know how many people watch D-I? I'd barf my guts out if I had to do that."
"That's not a good reason not to do it, though."
"Yeah, it is! People can die from barfing, like that thing you get when you're pregnant and you throw up so much that you die —" Which we'd just learned about in A&P and was now another thing I had to freak out about, whenever I ran out of all the normal subjects.
"No one dies from barfing, not anymore. They have IVs now and stuff."
"Like I'm going to go out on the court with an IV"
"Huh ... Would knocking over an IV pole be considered an offensive foul?"
"Oh, totally. But you could use the pole to set one heck of a screen—"
"Uh-uh. Six inches max between player and pole."
"Six inches? You really think so?"
And that's where our conversation went from there, thank God, both of us laughing our butts off at the thought of a hoops game between two teams on intravenous fluids. Which makes absolutely no sense at all; I know that. But that's why it cheered me up, because it was so absolutely stupid. It cheered me up more than I'd ever thought I'd be cheered up again.
We had a game Friday of course, which we won no thanks to me because I was so hyperaware of how everyone in the stands was probably thinking that those two schools had both made a huge mistake. Plus I couldn't stop wondering whether there were any other college coaches in the crowd, sitting there all ready to judge me or talk to me or something. So my shooting went completely to pieces and don't even ask about my leadership. Then Saturday night Beaner and I went out with a bunch of kids. Beaner was in a great mood of course, and he was joking up a storm. The whole time, though, I couldn't help thinking about Brian. I so wished I could talk to him, talk right that second. Which was some kind of wishful thinking seeing as I was next to Beaner, his arm around me but nothing more. Which meant something. How could it not mean something, that I used to make out with Brian every chance the two of us got, but now I wouldn't let Beaner lay much more than a finger on me?
A couple times Beaner asked what was wrong, and Kari too, because I must have looked pretty bummed. And I was, I was totally bummed, because it was becoming so clear that Beaner and I weren't working out.
How do you say that? How do you tell a guy—a nice guy, not one of those guys in country songs who takes your guitar and your cowboy boots and your second-best dog—how do you tell someone who's sweet and funny and affectionate, and good to his little sister, and never ever mean, that every time you look at him, you're really thinking about someone else?
Would I want to hear that? No, I wouldn't. But I also wouldn't want someone looking at me with someone else on their mind, and in their heart. Just the thought gives me the shivers. Because you know what that means? It means that the person is dating you out of pity. And as low as I feel sometimes, I never want to get to that.
Finally I couldn't stand it anymore. I didn't know what exactly I was going to do, or when, but hanging around all those happy people, sitting next to happy Beaner, was just making me worse. So I said I was beat and my mom wanted me home, and headed out.
Beaner came along, walking me to the Caravan. "You okay? Really?"
I shook my head. "No. You, um, want to hang out a bit?"
So we sat together in the Caravan, our breath making clouds as we waited for it to warm up.
"I'm sorry about that crack about Minnesota," Beaner said. "If you want to be a Golden Gopher, go for it."
"No, it has nothing to do with that—"
"It's just—I mean, it is a funny name. 'Golden Gopher.'"
I couldn't help a smile. Beaner always makes me smile "It is. It's just ... Oh, I don't know how to say this."
"Say what?" he asked, serious for once.
I studied the steering wheel. How do you possibly say it in a way that doesn't sound completely awful. I really like you, but... That's a lie. Because if you liked someone, you obviously wouldn't be breaking up. Or I hope we can still befriends. Yeah, right. Who'd want to be friends with someone who just broke up with you?
"If you can't find a dress, you know, don't sweat it—"
"No," I said. "That's not it. It's ... I don't think I can go to the dance with you."
"Because you can't find a dress?"
"No! No, because ... I don't think we're the best people for each other."
"What are you talking about? We have a great time together."
"Yeah, I know. I know we have a great time together. But I don't think we should see each other anymore."
"That doesn't make any sense," he said.
"I know it doesn't. I'm so sorry!" I started to cry. One of these days my eyeballs were going to just float away, I was crying so much.
"You don't like me?"
"No—I mean, yes, I like you. I like you a lot. I just don't ... I don't like you that way. And I—and you deserve someone who does. Who likes you in that way too."
Beaner drew squiggles in the fogged-up windows. "You're serious."
"Yeah. I am." I wished I had some toilet paper. Where was Curtis when you needed him.
Beaner laughed a fake laugh. "I guess that explains why we never got very far."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"You know, you're making it really hard for me to be mad at you."
I sobbed harder. He was so wonderful. For him to be joking, even at a time like this...
"Guess you don't have to buy a dress after all."
"Yeah." I sniffled. My sleeves looked like Smut had drooled all over them, they were so soggy.
"Okay. Guess I'll have to find someone else."
"I'm sorry," I said in a small voice.
"Yeah," he said. He climbed out of the Caravan. "See you around."
You know that feeling Christmas morning, when you wake up and tell yourself it can't be true because you've been waiting so long, days and weeks and months, and then you realize that this time it really is Christmas, and you leap out of bed because you can't
wait to get downstairs? Well, now imagine the exact 180-degree opposite of that. That's how I felt Sunday morning. Oh, I felt awful. Plus now Beaner was going to have to find another date to the semiformal.
Jumbled in all that misery, though, was one other thought: at least now I wasn't faking it. Yes, I'd hurt him, but I no longer felt guilty about us going out. It wasn't a good thought, really—I mean, how can it be good to think you're no longer guilty? It just reminds you of how guilty you used to be—but it was different at least. Different enough to tweak the pain a bit.
I lay there for I don't know how long, feeling a tiny bit relieved but mostly just sorry for myself, picking at last night's conversation the way you'd pick at a scab, when my cell rang: Brian.
"Hey," I answered. Even the thought of Brian couldn't cheer me up.
"Hey yourself. I'm sorry about last night."
"What...?"
"That guy. Breaking up."
Well, that got my eyes open. "How did you find out?" I managed at last.
"My buddy Carl Dietz. His cousin dates a friend of yours, Carrie something—"
"Kari." Tyler Dietz. Of course. Why should I even be surprised the news would travel so fast, considering that everyone's life mission around here is to poke their nose in everyone else's business.
"So. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay..."
"Thanks. It was awful, you know. I never want to do that again as long as I live."
"I know. Although you know what my mom says? She says you're not truly human until you've had your heart broken and you've broken someone's heart."
"That makes me feel so much better."
"I know, it sounds pretty lame. But you know, I think she's right."
"I'll get back to you on that one." But already I did feel better, just a tiny bit, talking to him.
"So..."
"So...?"
"So, were you—I mean..." He swallowed. "How are things, you know, between us?"
"I dunno. You tell me."