I Am Chris Read online

  Barney Fife opened the sides of my unzipped vest and made a big show of looking around. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said.

  Stupid? This entire past year’s been full of stupid! And moving to this town? Stupid! I needed to get out of small town idiocy. I needed to get free of my stepmama’s insanity. And I couldn’t. Not yet. That’s what was stupid. This cretin? He was nothing. Soon to be a thing of my past.

  The truck door groaned on its hinges when I wrenched it open. An old gear bag waited on the bench seat. I stuffed my bull rope, chaps, and vest into it. Then I tucked the brown sack of change in the glove box. After I stripped my spurs and glove, I slammed the heavy door shut. It wouldn’t hold intruders out, but if no one stole my gear, the stuff would stay dry.

  “Do you even have a license?”

  I don’t.

  At the hospital, the sheriff escorted us past the emergency room and into the critical care unit. Luce ran toward a bed where her mama lay. The nurse had already prepared us about the coma. Needles and tubes sprang from her arms. Monitors were attached to her chest and middle finger. She had a tube strapped under her nose.

  I couldn’t work up a tear for her if I had to fake it. Maybe the antiseptic hospital smells could bring on a watery redness, like cutting onions, if I absolutely had to show some emotion. But I wasn’t feeling it. Not for her. I felt…relieved.

  I mean, for once, I knew exactly where she was. And I didn’t have to worry about her wandering off, drug-addled, to somewhere else. The not knowing, and the frantic searching, had been difficult. And then, it was always a surprise as to what I’d find when I found her.

  I skimmed my fingertips over the stitches closing the ragged gash on my cheek. To say I was relieved might be mild. I was almost giddy.

  It was Luce’s sobbing that wrenched my heart. I couldn’t stand to see my little sister so miserable. Her face was scrunched in horror. Her nose drooled slime onto her top lip. And spittle ejected from her mouth as she screamed at the nurse to let go of her arm.

  I stood in a daze wondering if this was a good time to take up smoking, or some other obnoxious habit to while away the time.

  The sheriff crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the doorframe. Monitors beeped a steady rhythm in their boredom. A doctor came and went. Nurses finally gave in to Luce’s fight and let her stand by the side of her mother’s bed.

  Luce’s knuckles went white in twisting the bed’s blanket. Her wracking cries settled into hiccupping sobs. And all of it seemed a million miles away, like I was watching a movie on late night TV.

  Daddy would want me to forgive her. My stepmama. Truth was, I hadn’t yet forgiven him. She could take a number. It was going to be a long wait. I’m not the forgiving type.

  A deputy stepped in. A woman in a tight skirt and loose blouse trailed after him. She stopped beside the sheriff. She and the sheriff put their heads together whispering.

  The deputy plucked a can of Skoal from his breast pocket and thumped it repeatedly on his palm. He must have seen me staring. He offered me some.

  I looked into his eyes. They were a pale blue that seemed too clean and too honest to work for the sheriff. His eyebrows were strained with concern.

  If my own brows lunged together, they wouldn’t affect concern. Their intent would be anger. I pinched Skoal from the proffered canister and stuffed it between my cheek and gum as I’d seen done by the good ol’ boys. The deputy handed me an empty Mountain Dew can to spit into. Though I did, I was green in minutes.

  “You look like you could use some air,” the woman said. Her hands fussed with the handle of a briefcase that she held like a shield in front of her. Her shoulder was overburdened by a heavy purse. “Why don’t we step out?” It didn’t take much to discern that she was a social worker for child welfare.

  My gaze turned to Luce. My little sister had climbed onto the bed and huddled against her unresponsive mama like a mewling kitten. The deputy was slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair, thumbing an outdated issue of People. The sky outside the window was black with night.

  “Chris, is it?” The social worker touched my arm with chilly fingers that I felt through my long-sleeve button-down. “Chris, why don’t you come help me with this paperwork. It seems to show that your mother has two girls?”

  Chapter Two

  I looked past the pens to where Luce had stood last weekend. She wasn’t there. I knew she was safe with the foster parents, but it didn’t change the fact that I wanted to see her face. Even if she was highly irritating most times. She was a good kid. She was nine. Irritating came with the age.

  Luce didn’t enjoy the bulls. Every time she had watched Daddy ride, she gnawed on her bottom lip with too much worry and choked the panel rails with white-knuckled fists. I noticed her doing the same last weekend when she watched me ride. She was happier staying with the foster folks. Still, I missed her.

  Thundering Bunny snorted at my approach. He bobbed his lopsided head. He was the only familiar face in the crowd. “Hey, Thunder.” I hadn’t drawn him. That was a mix of disappointment and relief. He had bucked off a cowboy in less than three seconds yesterday. He had unsettled the guy first when he slammed backwards in the chute before making his big leap out. That was a new addition to his bag of tricks.

  “Luck today,” I said to him. We were all athletes.

  He perked his overlarge ears and watched me intently.

  I really like the bulls. I was just as confident in front of them as on their backs.

  As cowboys passed by, they slapped me on my vest. The Velcro over my shoulder stayed put under its heavy layer of black duct tape. With worry, I checked it time and again. All good.

  My rope hung over my forearm. It was sticky with rosin. A common work glove was taped tightly about my wrist. I’d stove-piped my jeans and tied the shafts of my boots on, then strapped my worn-out spurs to my heels. Having the jitters, I got stuck in a loop of buckling and unbuckling my chaps, over and over again. But I was ready. Too ready.

  Sweat pooled between my shoulder blades. I could feel the sticky wetness sop my binding. My stomach lurched at the smell of hot dogs and deep-fried dough mixing with the odors of freshly manicured arena dirt and even fresher cattle manure. I breathed through my mouth.

  My draw, Rambo, was loaded into a bucking chute. I climbed onto the platform to dangle my rope down his heart girth. The hook caught hold of it. I cinched it onto the black bull and climbed away. The waiting wasn’t long now, but the minutes crept along forever.

  Chute men surrounded me with support. My rockin’ ride yesterday had gained me some popularity. The seated crowd stomped and clapped in anticipation. Music blared over the loudspeakers. Cowboys slapped my vest or chucked my shoulder. Too many lined the platform to help me. They joshed with each other or bantered about the bull. Their enthusiasm was claustrophobic.

  The previous evening, Nuclear had taken me on a wild ride. I barely made the eight. The buzzer sounded in the same moment as I was catching a lot of air between me and that bull’s back. The bull’s score bumped me high enough to be a threat to the hometown heroes, even if my half didn’t rate well. The leading bull riders kept an eye behind them now, with their own mixed bags of feelings for my ascent.

  Everyone wanted that prize money. Some for bragging rights. Some for the standings. Some because they’d made bull riding an occupation. But I plain out needed it. I was desperate.

  Winning was everything. Anything else was failure. It sure as heck wasn’t a game to me. I needed to win to live. I had Luce to think of. Foster care was only temporary. And I still had hopes for college.

  I climbed down into the chute. Rambo was the biggest, heaviest bull I’d ever seen. He probably tipped the scales at fifteen hundred pounds. A chute man had to shove a two-by-four between him and the panels to lever a space for my leg.

  I tied myself on, leaned toward his hump, and nodded.

  The gate swung open.

  Rambo lumbered into the arena begrudging the fact that he’d have to put exertion into his few seconds of work.

  I had anticipated that the huge bull would make a huge exit. So I was too far forward when he stumped out sorry. His head stayed too high to have given his kick massive power. But he swung his mammoth poll up to whiff past the brim of my hat, threatening me to sit back where he could take advantage.

  I didn’t sit back.

  Rambo settled into a gentle spin after a couple of blundering hops.

  I pinwheeled my free arm and spurred him in an exaggerated show. At least my half of the score would be high for form. Maybe. If the judges didn’t tell me to get a circus job. Can I get an A for effort?

  I made the buzzer. Inertia, equivalent to a slow mudslide, slung me off when I opened my hand.

  Bull riding wasn’t supposed to be easy. Everyone would be doing it if it was. But my kid sister could’ve stayed on this Rambo. He wasn’t headed for a big career in the business. Any of Daddy’s homegrown bulls would have put this Rambo to shame. I think we even had a Rambo who was more keen to the work. After that movie came out, everyone seemed to have a Rambo. We might have even had two.

  My daddy bought bucking bulls to practice on. He’d coach me after his rides. But I was never going to make a bull rider, being born as a girl.

  My wandering attention was reined in as I heard a latch squeal and thunk. The bull rider to beat was gripped onto Thundering Bunny as they vaulted into the arena. If that cowboy made his eight-second ride, it wouldn’t matter the score. He’d be the winner. He already had the points he needed.

  Thundering Bunny went out with a fury that fueled his spring-like jump. He shot straight into the air and caught a lot of breeze beneath his toes. Thundering Bunny landed on all four hooves simultaneously. It w
as his signature move: tight, straight legs hammering down hard.

  I’d already been acquainted with that spine crunching shock.

  In less than four seconds it was over. Buck off.

  I moved into first place with no other bull rider near enough in the points to threaten me.

  Rolling my winnings into a wad, I wandered back through the chutes. Thundering Bunny blew snot and pawed the ground inside his pen. He was the only genuine friend I had at the rodeo. If he was a friend at all. We had talked. Well, I’d talked. He was a good listener. And we knew where each other stood. We were opposing wrestlers. So no hard feelings.

  That was friendly enough for me.

  “No big score on Rambo,” I said to Thundering Bunny. “He kinda wandered out of the chute.” I scraped at my gloved hand with a wire brush to remove old rosin. “I did my best to make a good showing. I spurred him when he tucked into a spin.”

  Thundering Bunny watched me. His ears swiveled in my direction. He bobbed his head and snorted. I’d like to think he approved. I dared hope he’d be proud to know me one day. Proud of me.

  I wished my daddy were here. But then, I wouldn’t have been riding the bulls. He would’ve. With me watching. And wishing all the time Daddy’d seen me as man enough to compete.

  Daddy knew. He was pretty torn up about it. During summers, he liked having a son to train with him on bulls. But fall would come and he’d ship me off to boarding school as a girl.

  It didn’t matter now. He didn’t matter now.

  Thundering Bunny’s pen gate rolled open in the back. With another bob of his head, he turned and climbed onto a stock trailer.

  I nodded in agreement. Yeah, I do kind of feel like I won this one by default. But heck, it wasn’t that easy. “If it was easy, everyone would be doing it,” I repeated to no one.

  I wiped my feet before climbing the couple of steps to the foster parents’ house. I shucked my boots off on the covered porch and hollered, “Hey, I brought pizza.” Then I stuffed the tip of a big slice of cheese and pepperoni into my mouth as I went in. The screen door threatened to slam behind me. I was extra careful to ease it closed.

  “Pizza! Pizza!” Luce came dancing down the stairs in the front hall. She was full of energy this past week. Her cheeks were pinked. The sallow look she’d been carrying had melted away. She brimmed with health and enthusiasm. “Pizza!”

  “Well, don’t I get a shout out?”

  Luce slammed into my midsection and wrapped her skinny arms around my waist. The two large pizzas teetered on my palm as I raised them from her crash. “Did you win again, Chris?”

  “Sure I did. The next one’s an even bigger payout. I’m telling you, Labor Day weekend is my event. You’ll see.” I took my cowboy hat off, propped it on the banister’s post, then finger-combed hair out of my eyes.

  “Maybe they’ll keep us,” Luce said as she let go of my waist.

  And I could only hope. For her sake. It was a good place—small, but good. Luce and I shared the attic room. In fact, we shared the bed. Nothing new.

  “Chris, did you hear me? Maybe they’ll keep us cuz we’ve been here a week and they’re nice like grandparents and they don’t care if you go to the rodeo and the sheets are clean and there’s food. We sit at the table for family dinner. Real family dinner. Like when Daddy—”

  “Luce.” I didn’t want to hear it. “Take a breath.”

  They weren’t our grandparents. They could get rid of us at any moment. As enamored as they were with Luce, they couldn’t quite accept that I was part of the package.

  I was doing everything I could to ingratiate myself for Luce’s sake. The foster parents were nice. But I didn’t know how long they’d put up with me. Foster parents didn’t sign up for teenagers. I was trying, though. I was really trying. If I wasn’t a burden, maybe we could stay.

  My monkey girl raced down the hall and set a stack of plates on the table before I got there. She fussed napkins from the lazy Susan and dashed to the dish drain for cups.

  “It’s not seemly,” I heard Margaret, the old lady caring for us, say in exasperation. She and her husband liked to sit in the backyard late evenings. They’d watch the sun go down. “A teenage boy should not be sharing a room with a nine-year-old, little girl.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Rupert said. “He mowed the lawn early this morning before going out to that rodeo. It was no easy job, mind you. That dang lawnmower’s been broke since last year. He had to fix it first.” His chair creaked. I heard him sigh.

  “Just for another few days?” the social worker pleaded. I wasn’t sure it was solely on my behalf. “It’s difficult to find a placement for the two of them together.”

  “What will the neighbors think?” Margaret gasped.

  “He’s a good boy,” Rupert reiterated.

  “But he must go. Tonight.” Margaret declared my departure with a finality that wouldn’t be argued further.

  He must go. So they’d be willing to keep Luce.

  I dodged from the kitchen as Luce wrestled a milk jug from the fridge.

  “What’s wrong, Chris?” she called in my wake.

  In our bedroom, I slapped the few things I’d had into a green garbage sack. I’d go. I’d go willingly. For Luce. She deserved nice things. She needed a proper home. And folks who could offer her stability.

  “No,” Luce shouted from the doorway. “We can’t go.” Her face got red. She was on the brink of tears. “I like it here. I like Mrs. Margaret and Mr. Rupert. I want to stay.”

  “You will stay. But I have to leave.”

  She marched over and began emptying my trash bag of clothes. I caught her by the hands and hugged her to me. “Hey, I want you to do me a big favor.” Her breathing was short and rapid as if she’d just run a race. “Will you keep hold of the winnings? I know it’s a big job—”

  “I can do it, Chris.” She yanked away from my embrace. “I can do it.” Tears burst. They ran over her red cheeks. She clutched my roll of cash to her heaving chest.

  We walked down the stairs to where Margaret, Rupert, and the social worker were already waiting. I kept my hand on Luce’s shoulder. I’d miss my little monkey. We hadn’t slept a night apart since Daddy’s death.

  I dropped my garbage sack to the floor then squatted. “Look, Luce, I’m going to see you real soon. Hang tough.”

  “Daddy used to say that,” Luce said as her tears started again.

  “That’s right. And what do you say back?”

  “Be dangerous.” Luce lunged on to me, almost toppling us both to the floor.

  I sprang up, carrying her with me. “It’s okay, Luce.” But it wasn’t. None of it was okay. Not since Daddy was killed. I buried my face in her strawberry-blond hair. She smelled of the apple shampoo that she insisted on using “so horses would like her.”

  I had told her over and over that there was nothing and no one that wouldn’t like her.

  The social worker wrapped her claws around Luce’s skinny arms and attempted to pry her from me. “I think it’s best if we get going,” she said to me.

  “Don’t make a scene,” I whispered in Luce’s ear. “You’re Daddy’s girl. Buckshot Taylor. The greatest bull rider there ever was. Hang tough.”

  “Be dangerous,” she replied into my shoulder where her tears and runny nose had already sopped my shirt. When she hit the ground, she turned to cling to Rupert’s waist.

  I stuffed my hat on, then ruffled her hair. “I love you, monkey. Don’t forget.” I picked up my trash sack and walked to the street to get into the social worker’s car.

  My heart pounded in my chest. It felt like a fifteen-hundred-pound bull was sitting on me. I couldn’t breathe. I clenched on to the plastic sack and twisted it in my fists.

  “I love you, Chris,” Luce screamed like a scalded cat. Margaret held her from scrambling after me. “I love you!” Through her jagged crying, she shouted, “Don’t forget”—she struggled on a gulp of air—“me.”

  I wanted to get out and run back to her and scoop her up and keep running and never ever stop. I wanted to protect her and keep her safe and never let anyone or anything hurt her ever again.