Unknown

  “You’re kinda like a hot pepper, too, you know that?” Rylen told me after I jumped on Tater’s back to try and force a pepper to his lips. “Feisty all the time.” He took to calling me Pepper after that. I pretended like it was no big deal, but to be given a nickname, something special that was just between us, was the best thing in the world.

  Rylen never missed a Sunday supper with us. I began to think it was less about the supper and more about what happened after we ate. The dancing.

  Mom was a dance instructor. Salsa and Tango were her specialties, but she could do just about any ballroom style. On Sundays she would turn on her favorite Mexican band CD and her hips would move like POW, POW. Daddy would grab a beer and sit back in the recliner, watching Mom with a grin. Rylen would sit in the corner of the couch, eyes soaking us in with that small smile of amusement. Me and Tater had the moves like Mom. Tater was especially funny because he really got into it. When his hips started to swivel fast, Daddy would shout, “Go, Pit Bull!”

  The three of us danced until we were sweating and out of breath. Mom took turns leading us, spinning us, sashaying us hip-to-hip. Sometimes she would implore Daddy to get up and join, but he’d laugh and say, “You know I’m just a gringo, baby.” Rylen would let her pull him to his feet, but he’d just stand there, red-faced, while we danced around him.

  I still dreamed about those nights, longing for that easy laughter and togetherness. But those days were long gone.

  When Tater had other friends over, I was never allowed in his room. But Rylen didn’t care if I snuck in while they were playing video games. He’d even give me his turn with the controller which really pissed off Tater.

  “You afraid a little girl’s gonna beat your score?” Rylen asked him. This made Tater battle harder.

  “I’m not little!” I insisted. Ry tickled under my arm as I worked the controller, until I wiggled and said, “Leave me alone, you’re messing me up!” I tried to kick him, but he grabbed my foot and tickled my arch, making me fall back on the bed screaming.

  “I won!” Tater yelled, throwing his arms up. “Take that, pipsqueak!”

  I glared at Rylen, but he just grinned in return. I could never stay mad at him. Especially because, as strong as he seemed, I knew he was hurting on the inside. He stayed overnight often, and I always slept lightly those nights, listening. Tater’s squeaky bedroom door would wake me, and I’d come out to find Rylen sitting in the living room by himself, reading one of his incredibly boring looking books on the mechanics of airplanes. I sat next to him and eyed the detailed images and complex words.

  “How can you read that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “What’s wrong with airplanes?”

  “Nothing, but that looks confusing.”

  “It’s aerodynamics. It’s awesome.”

  I giggled at how excited he sounded, and his cheeks turned pink.

  He let me curl up next to him on the couch. When I was half asleep, I felt him start wiggling, rubbing his back against the couch.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Gottta itch right in the middle where I can’t reach.”

  I pulled him forward and scratched with my short nails. Rylen went to mush under my hands, moaning. I laughed at him.

  “Are you gonna kick your leg like a dog?” I asked, scratching harder.

  He started kicking his leg until we both had the giggles.

  I still have a picture on my bedroom corkboard that Mom took when she found me and Rylen asleep on the couch the next morning, snuggled under a throw blanket together. We looked like babies. And it’s funny because I never liked being touched when I was trying to sleep. Only with Ry was it okay.

  I was eleven the first and only time I saw Rylen cry. I’d seen Tater cry hundreds of times, but this was nothing like that. When Ry got hurt and scraped up, he’d grit his teeth and his face would scrunch up tight. He’d breathe real deep while he clutched his injury, and it would pass without a tear. Then he’d shake it off. But this . . . this was different. I came running out of my bedroom at the sound of the screen door slamming, Mom’s hurried murmuring, Ry’s deep sniffling.

  Tater ran out with me, just as Mom and Dad were sitting Rylen in a chair. We stopped short. Tater’s face when he saw his friend crying was as horrified as I felt. They were fourteen now. Even Tater hardly cried anymore. Outside, Roscoe let out a long howl from our front steps.

  “It’s okay, son,” Dad said. He squatted in front of Rylen with a hand on his knee. “You’re safe. Tell us what happened.”

  Mom handed Ry a tissue, and he wiped his nose. His hand was shaking. I was shaking. And then Ry took a deep breath and his tears went away. He turned into his serious self. Only his red eyes remained as proof of his breakdown.

  “My dad was gone the past two days, working out a market delivery. My mom . . .” Rylen’s eyes met Dad’s for a second and then dropped. “She let one of the worker men in the house . . . he was in their room, and my dad got back early.”

  I tried to imagine Mom letting some man in their bedroom while Daddy was away, but it was an impossible thought. It would never happen.

  “Did they get into a fight?” Mom asked.

  Rylen nodded. His face was grim. My stomach began to tighten. I didn’t need to know all the details to know this was not good. And then we heard the sirens from afar. Our heads snapped up to the windows.

  “I called the police and then ran here. I think . . . I think Daddy might have killed him.”

  Oh my God.

  “Stay here. Lock the door behind me.” Dad ran from the house with Mom hollering for him to be careful. She locked the door behind him and turned to us with a face so readable, so grave. It was clear Rylen’s life had just taken a turn for the worse. Mom came and sat by his side, pulling his head down to her shoulder so she could hold him. He gladly let her, but he didn’t cry anymore. Tater and I stood there, stupidly in shock, at a loss.

  That was a long night. The man survived the assault, but just barely. Len Fite was arrested. And while the police were there, they found that Rylen’s uncles and one of his aunt’s boyfriends had set up a meth lab in their largest shed, so they were both arrested too. Triple whammy.

  When Dad got home, he said, “I’ve told Mayella we’ll be keeping Rylen here with us for now. She agreed it was best. She’ll even grant us legal custody if it’ll keep him out of foster care.” We all looked at Rylen, who nodded solemnly at Dad.

  “Thanks, Mr. Tate.” Ry’s eyes were such a deep blue after having cried. He kept his hair, still so blond, cropped in a buzz cut. Unlike when he was a kid, his jeans fit him well now in the length, if not a little loose in his waist, but his T-shirts were still too big for his thin frame. Rylen looked so vulnerable in that moment. I sat next to him and wove my fingers through his. He let me, holding tight, giving me a grateful look.

  And that’s how Rylen came to live with us when he was fourteen.

  That was a crazy year. Mom gave Rylen the guest room. But two months later our grandma Tate passed away in Virginia, so Grandpa Tate came to live with us. Tater’s twin bed went away, and he got a bunkbed instead—one of those kinds with a full bed on the bottom—so Ry moved into his room.

  Grandpa was a quiet, proud man, who needed more privacy than our guest room allowed, so he turned the attic storage room over the garage into his own personal space. It was a good thing, too, because three months after that Papá Antonio had a heart attack in California, and Abuela ended up coming to live with us too.

  That year the house seemed smaller with so many people, but also comfier. Safer. We did a lot of fishing with Grandpa Tate. We’d drive out to Nesbitt or Frenchy Lake, or one of the springs. And then Abuela would make her fish stew or Aroz con Pollo—rice with chicken. In between all of these events, Rylen would disappear home. None of us knew what he did there. Perhaps checked on his mom, the house, the land, who knows? But he always came back in time for a shower, his homework, and bed. Or to watch us dance.
r />   I turned twelve. The boys turned fifteen. Seventh grade, AKA Hell, started for me, and tenth grade started for them. I made my first ever best friend, Remy Haines. She’d been homeschooled through sixth grade, but her mom’s real estate career was taking off, so she needed to work full time. Remy and her dad started butting heads right around that time. Remy said it was because she had boobs now, and her dad, a Baptist pastor, couldn’t handle her growing up.

  Truth was, Remy was boy crazy. And she had fully developed long before the rest of us girls, earning lots of attention, so I could see how it was hard on both her and her father. Funny thing about Remy was that she was a complete dichotomy: super smart with more compassion than anyone I knew, but her two weaknesses, boys and alcohol, were always at odds with the rest of her ‘good girl’ personality.

  Remy ended up spending a lot of time at our house. She and Tater clashed like crazy. When Remy said, “Good lort, your brother is annoying,” I knew we’d be best friends forever.

  Rylen and Tater became somewhat of football stars. Sophomores on the Varsity team. They seemed to sprout up overnight and I suddenly found myself looking way up at them, a fact Tater loved to rub in as he leaned an elbow on my head like an arm rest. But I was now in the perfect position to punch him right in the gut, something that always gave Rylen and Remy good chuckles.

  Rylen became more obsessed with airplanes than ever. He announced at dinner one night that he wanted to be an Air Force pilot, so Dad signed him up for CAP: Civil Air Patrol.

  “You’ll meet two hours a week and one Saturday a month,” Dad told him. “You’ll get to fly in their planes and help the Air Force with recovery of parts and eventually compete for scholarships to get a pilot license.”

  Rylen’s face looked like a golden egg had just split open and revealed a world of possibilities to him. I loved my dad for putting that look on Ry’s face. Remy was at our house that day. I caught her staring at me as I stared at Rylen, and I quickly focused on my plate. Later she cornered me and asked, “You like him, don’t you?”

  “What?” My heart felt like it was in a bouncy-house. “He’s my friend.”

  She eyed me, then gave her all-knowing Remy smile. “Mm-hm.”

  I’d never really thought of my feelings like that until Remy brought it up. After I realized she was right, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Suddenly, everything changed.

  Months later, on a fall day when the leaves were changing on the valley trees, Mom, Abuela, and Tater were sitting on the couch looking sullen when I came in from the school bus.

  “What is it?” I tossed my bookbag to the wall.

  “Rylen’s grandfather died today.”

  My heart sank. “Is Ry okay?”

  “He’s with his mom,” Mom said. “But I’m worried. That whole family has been relying on Mr. Fite to support them while Len’s in prison. He’s the only one who worked the farm. He hired the help and made the sales. When I went over there today, Mayella was crying to Ry about how they’d lose the land. . .”

  Her jaw clenched, and she shook her head. I had a bad, bad feeling about where this was going.

  “Can’t she hire someone?” Tater asked.

  “With what money?” Mom retorted. “Mr. Tate was only able to pay his help once his crops were sold. She doesn’t know the business side of things, and she’s not in her right mind to do it anyway.”

  “I no like that woman,” Abuela said in her clipped accent.

  My insides knotted. “Rylen’s going to try and do the crops himself, isn’t he?” I asked.

  Tater snorted. “He can’t. He’s got school and football and CAP.” The room quieted. The tick tock of the minute hand on our clock echoed until Tater’s eyes got big. “He can’t, right Mom?”

  “I won’t let him quit school,” Mom said quietly. “But I can’t stop him from quitting sports or CAP.”

  Tater stood up, his face reddening. “She can’t do that to him!”

  “It’s his choice,” Mom said.

  “Yeah, but she’s manipulating him! She doesn’t even care about him! The only time she ever calls is when she needs him to come do something for her.”

  Mom’s eyes began to water. “I know, Jacobcito. But I can’t stop him.”

  We all knew Rylen. His loyalty and need to protect what was his was unparalleled. It didn’t matter if ‘what was his’ deserved him or not. He was honor bound to those he cared about.

  “This is bullshit!” Tater stormed to his room and slammed the door, shaking the house. Mom shut her eyes and a fat tear rolled out from each side. She wiped them away. My own throat constricted.

  “Sí, es caca de la vaca,” Abuela said. I nearly choked on a cough and Mom stared at Abuela before looking at me, caught between mirth and sadness.

  “I make fried plantain,” Abuela said, standing. “For Rylen. When he come back.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think Ry’s favorite food was going to fix this.

  Ry didn’t do football that fall or baseball in the spring. He cut his school load down to the bare minimum core classes and signed up for work study to get out early. Eventually, CAP had to be let go too. Rylen went from being a happy athlete with good grades to being stressed and barely scraping by with Ds. Each day he would come over at 5:30 on the dot for dinner, scarf it down to rush home, and be back at 8:30 when it got too dark to work. He took over paying his family’s bills, communicating with produce buyers and workmen. It was like watching a grown man caught in a teen’s lanky body. It seemed that overnight his voice abruptly lowered into somewhat of a rumble, like his dad’s. Hearing him talk on the phone with them, spouting off numbers and being a hardass negotiator, blew my mind.

  Tater stayed quiet, watching with ire in his eyes as his best friend came and went, conducting business, Roscoe dutifully on his heel. Mom bought a dog bed for our covered porch. Tater stopped asking Ry to hang out, or if he was coming to watch the games. The answer was always the same. They didn’t joke around or laugh anymore. The tension was awful, and even Remy stopped trying to goad Tater into arguments when she visited.

  The boys turned sixteen that spring, and Rylen started missing dinners. We’d wait until six and then put his plate in the fridge and reluctantly eat without him. I hated those nights. Nobody talked. It was like we’d lost him, or like he’d lost an irreplaceable part of his youth.

  One of those warm evenings after dinner, I slid my feet into a pair of flip-flops and told everyone, “I’ll be back. Just taking a walk.”

  The sun had dipped behind the mountains, turning the sky into a peach. I knew where my feet would take me, and I didn’t bother to stop them. All these years and I’d never gone on Fite property. At first it had been out of fear, and then out of respect for Rylen’s privacy. But lately I’d been missing him too much. I needed to see him and know he was okay. A perfectly straight row of sprouting potato vines led the way. How many of them had been planted by Rylen’s own strong hands?

  As I got closer to the house, I heard the clucking chatter of chickens, and saw lots of hens and one rooster, all free roaming, pecking at the dirt. Details of the house’s dilapidation became apparent now; paint flecking off, missing siding and roof tiles, drooping drain pipes, tilted half-porch with rotted stairs. Stone slabs had been stacked to use as steps instead. Three old cars sat to the side with long weeds growing up around them. Further down was farm equipment in front of the barn. I felt nervous, like a trespasser. Roscoe came out from between two of the cars and gave a deep howl, making me jump. Then his tail wagged and he trotted over, ears swinging. He’d gone gray in the muzzle. I patted his head, and he rubbed his giant face against me, sliming my upper thigh and the top of my shorts.

  I laughed, and a clank came from near the barn. A familiar figure pushed out from under the tractor, causing my belly to swoop.

  “Roscoe, no.” Rylen’s deep voice made me shake. He stood up and cocked his head at me from afar, taking off his work gloves and tossing them next to the tire. “Amber?” The
muscles in his arms flexed. Ry was nearly as tall as his dad now.

  “Ye—” It came out squeaky, so I cleared my throat. “Yeah. Hey.”

  He walked over, and it felt like I was seeing him for the first time, this new, grown-up version of Rylen Fite. He seemed so much . . . bigger, standing in front of me, appearing worried, smelling of motor oil and dirt with a hint of his familiar soap.

  “What are you doing here?” He glanced toward his house and all around, shifting his feet as if embarrassed. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Yes. I was just checking on you. You missed dinner.” Again.

  Why did I feel so nervous and stupid? Rylen’s eyes slid down to my chest in the tank top. His gaze became like my personal sun, heating me. He blinked and jerked his head toward the fields. I crossed my arms. I was still getting used to the whole boobs and bra thing. Certain bras lifted them up and made them look bigger. Lots of boys stared at school, which always made me uncomfortable, but to have Rylen look made me feel scorched in a satisfying way.

  “I had to drive my mom to the store,” he said quietly.

  “You . . . drove her?” I was so confused. “Is she not able to drive anymore?”

  “She tried to, but ran into the mailbox.”

  Oh. She’d been too drunk. I kicked a rock, still keeping my arms crossed. “But you don’t have your license yet.”

  “You gonna tell on me, Pepper?” His mouth lifted in a small grin, and I couldn’t help but smile a little in return.

  “Just be careful, ‘kay? I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

  “It’s all good. I’m signed up for driving school this summer, so I’ll have my permit and license soon.”

  “Don’t get too big for your britches,” I teased.

  “No need to worry about that. A hick always knows his place.”

  I frowned at his self-deprecation. “You’re not a hick.”

  “Sure I am. It’s all right, though. Someday I’ll get the hell out of this town.”