Chapter Forty-One
Mask Off
Jordan
Just as I’d come into town with every single item I could have possibly needed, I pack my bags full trying to round it all up.
I pull clothes from hangers and shove them into suitcases all willy-nilly, hoping that once I sit on the bag real hard, it’ll zip right up.
Who knows how Dad packed his whole life into three bags and got the heck out of Dodge.
Probably because he was a man. Easier to rip and run.
I use all my might to press the tops of the suitcases shut and zip. I line them all up against the wall, and that’s that. I thought it would have been harder. Unpacking is the easy part. Packing is the test. But I’ve never been more anxious to leave a place in my life. Despite everything.
The guest room in Rebecca’s is near empty.
It’s as it was when I moved in: frilly white bedspread, pink portraits of flowers on the walls, a cross hanging above the bed.
All the crap I’d left lying everywhere – charger cables, shorts and socks, hair ties, drawings from the campers – is nowhere to be found, tucked away in haphazard packing cubes.
I can, however, still see myself lying under the covers, face to face with Rod. He says something dumb, and I slug him in the shoulder before laughing. He presses his lips to mine. I’m eager to curb the laughing and kiss him right back.
Not much longer, I tell myself. It’ll be over soon. My flight is this evening. I won’t be staying for fireworks. As soon as I get the chance, I intend to move on with my life.
I swallow hard as my eyes skate across my lined-up luggage bags, one more time. I sound like him. I really do. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that leaving like this isn’t much different, either. Not from the way he did it.
He was impatient with me yesterday, but I got up at six in the morning today, anyway.
I’ve been in the ring for the past two hours.
I got on the horse myself at some point, and now, I finally have him at a slow clip.
We trot around the ring in leisurely loops.
The sun begins to hang higher in the sky.
Momma, who had a long day yesterday, is probably still asleep.
The foreman will take care of morning duties, and in maybe thirty or so minutes, Momma will emerge from the house and yell because she’s already made breakfast and it’s getting cold.
But until then, I go round and round with my horse, watching the sun rise.
I am determined to prove Daddy wrong, to get real good at it so I can rodeo, just like he used to.
Behind me, the sound of the Ford starting makes me jump. I look backwards. My cowboy hat almost flies off my head. My horse nickers and slows to a stop.
Daddy throws big luggage bags into the bed of the truck before strapping them down with a cable. He’s gone on trips before, so I am not surprised he will make another one.
‘Ben!’
Momma’s voice cuts through the silence. The door to the house opens, and my mother, still in her pyjamas, fists balled to her sides, cries, ‘Not like this!’
There is no stall in Daddy’s step when he rounds the truck to the driver’s side, gets in, and slams the door shut.
The truck roars out of the driveway as my momma curses a woman called Penny up and down.
It rattles down the dirt path, off our property, and disappears beneath the wooden Wild Hawk Ranch sign. It never comes back.
My stupid eyes well when I realize I can still remember it as clear as day, as much as my mom insists it’s in the rear-view and we ought to leave it all behind.
Leave it all behind. Leave town. Leave before it gets too deep.
We’ve gotten so good at leaving. I’ve gotten so good at leaving.
At some point, it became second nature. Leaving is so much easier than facing the music.
But as I step out the door of the barebones room, I can’t help wondering if – after spending my entire life promising I wouldn’t become my father – it’s like a curse I can’t shake.
Maybe we’re more alike than I think. Because leaving is easy. And I hate that I don’t have the heart to do the hard thing: stay.
A red, white and blue banner above the entrance to the lacrosse field reads PACK THE PARK – FOURTH OF JULY CROSS-CAMP. I can only chuckle at how literally this town has taken it.
The field bleachers are totally full. It looks like people are shoulder to shoulder, with no hope of squeezing in between.
Anyone who didn’t get a bleacher spot – which is a lot – is set up in a lawn chair around the perimeter of the field.
The lawn chairs, of course, extend well beyond said perimeter, numbering in hundreds and hundreds, keeping in mind we’re accounting for the Bostonians as well as our Whittaker folks.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think this was a college game – on steroids.
Every single spectator is decked out in the colours of the flag, bead necklaces and bouncy headbands every which way.
People have brought decorated signs. Hell, there’s a family with their kids’ heads blown up to posterboard size.
I smell barbecue: is someone fucking barbecuing at nine in the morning?
It’s an all-out foofaraw, which I should have expected, because when you give people in a small town something to celebrate, they will take it and turn it into a rager.
I find it slightly hard to believe that a year’s worth of funding and the fate of this summer camp relies on the outcome of this kiddie lacrosse match.
‘What’s going on?’
Benny’s voice snaps me out of my trance. I shake my head, toss my bag back onto the ground just in front of the bleachers, careful not to clear someone’s aunt’s feet. He just raises a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Did you guys have some kinda falling out?’
I think it was more like Rod had a falling out with himself, but that’s not my business to tell. I bite my tongue. ‘I guess.’
Benny nods matter-of-factly, and glances up at our enormous presiding audience. It almost looks like the kind of crowd that rodeos draw back home. These poor kids have to be sweating bullets, because I know I am. ‘You guys will have to truce for today. Declan’s here.’
Shit, anyone but that little weasel. Obviously, we’d be seeing him at some point today, but I was kind of hoping he’d get stuck in some gnarly traffic on the way out from Boston and end up here by the second half, at least.
Which isn’t even accounting for the fact that he’s Charlotte’s brother.
I mentally kick myself when I remember what Benny told me that night in the bar – why Rod hates the guy so much.
I wonder if Charlotte herself has stuck around long enough to come by today or not.
It’s more than unpleasant enough that I have to see Declan’s face.
Speak of the devil. As I look out to the other side of the field, I spot him immediately, at the foot of the also-packed bleachers in which the Bostonians have taken up residence.
He’s running the kids through some kind of pep talk complete with hand waving, but stops to shoot me the world’s smarmiest grin.
I swear there’s malice behind those beady blue eyes.
Ugh. I turn away immediately, but then my eyes fall on my next struggle of the day.
He’s at the goal end coaching the warm-up, and he, unlike Declan, doesn’t expect my gaze to find him.
He lifts his line of sight for just a moment, and the emptiness is suddenly replaced by fear.
The look of a wild animal being stalked by a predator, right before the kill.
Rodney Wilson looks more afraid than I’ve ever seen him.
It drives a stake right through my heart.
‘Will you?’ Benny’s voice pulls me out of the depths of Rod’s sad eyes.
I shake away the lingering chills that crawl across my skin. ‘Will I?’
‘Call a truce.’ Benny rubs his arm awkwardly, which then reminds me of just how painful all our personal issues must have made this entire thing for him. He’s still locked in on winning this game, on keeping Whittaker Lax Camp alive. We are conveniently messing it all up.
‘Yeah.’ I sigh, a breath filled to the brim with guilt, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and into my ponytail. ‘You know what, I’ll-I’ll go talk to him. Thanks, Benny.’
He nods, giving me a sympathetic smile, the kind you give someone who lands themselves in a hospital for something dumb, like not wearing a helmet before BMX biking off a cliff.
I press a palm to my forehead and draw slow circles at my temple as I walk over to Rod. I stretch that walk out as long as I possibly can. Funny how you can go from unable to function without one another’s company to afraid to strike up a conversation.
My neon pink cleats crunch in the grass, and I eventually near him: the inevitable. He’s holding his clipboard, all engrossed in plays. At least one of the two of us is locking in, honestly.
‘Hey.’
He looks up. Vacant, yet again, with just a tinge of that scared look. It darts into his eyes and then leaves them before I’ve had a chance to really clock it. ‘Hey.’
Quickly, he flips a page of his clipboard down, but I catch a glimpse of what was underneath. The plays we made for the kids – together. Some of the X’s are in my handwriting. Some of the arrows are in his. It’s a symphony of minds. The only evidence that we ever gelled together so well before now.
‘I know … the way things are between us …’ I clear my throat awkwardly. ‘It’s not great. But Benny … I just talked to him and I think he’s a little worried we’re a loose cannon. So … can we truce? For the kids?’
Rod swallows hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, but he nods. ‘Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.’
‘Cool.’ I tip my chin towards his clipboard. ‘What play was that?’
‘I, um …’ He still speaks in a monotone, still sounds exhausted. ‘I wanted to start aggressive. It’s the only way we’ll be able to cut through Declan’s squad. Same way that the U16 was so hard to crack. So I propose we try this move forward …’
He begrudgingly reveals the play. I’m certain it is both our handwriting on the paper now: mine, more messy and untamed; his, neat and font-like.
It almost makes me smile, until I examine the play in closer detail, and my eyebrows draw together in thought.
In my experience, at least, I don’t agree.
This is too direct. It will put the kids in trouble, and instead of scoring, they’ll lose the ball, and we’ll get scored on.
‘Frankly …’ I tap the paper in thought before looking up. I don’t quite meet Rod’s eyes. ‘I don’t think this is our best option. Can I see the plays?’
Now, his brow furrows. Emotion – frustration – fills his face. Does he think I’m trying to undermine him? ‘Why?’
‘I think there may be a better way.’
He doesn’t say anything, just moves the clipboard in my direction.
I gingerly flip through the pages until I find the one I’m looking for. This is more defensive, and will focus on keeping Declan’s team away from our goal rather than trying to blast through them right away. ‘I like this.’
‘Well.’ He purses his lips. A series of hazy thoughts flicker behind his eyes. ‘I actually … don’t think that will work.’
‘Defence is our best option,’ I push. I would push anyone like this.
If it were May, I would do the same thing.
This isn’t some deep-rooted resentment, some need to be right.
Is it? ‘I’m telling you, we don’t want the kids in a difficult position where they’re attacking and they get absolutely slammed right around the crease there.
They’ll be exhausted. We don’t need first blood. We can hold off.’
‘Jordan, we do.’ Rod’s voice is insistent.
I’m partially glad there’s some bite in him again, but I’m not so glad it’s directed at me.
‘We do need first blood. You haven’t played this guy’s team before.
They’re ruthless. If we don’t attack first, he will, and it’ll be the beginning of a blowout loss. ’
‘Were we not supposed to truce?’
‘Not when I think what you’re suggesting is arguably worse for our team, and thereby for the whole camp.’
‘I think we should be a bit careful when we are deciding what is and is not best for other people.’ The ice in my voice shocks me.
I didn’t think I was – I never have been before – capable of that kind of plain meanness.
I’ve dealt with my own anger all my life, and I’ve never once let my handle on it slip enough to hurt someone else.
Now, though, it comes out as if I’d been rehearsing the line, smooth as butter.
Rod visibly recoils, the wounded animal appearance returning to his eyes.
‘Great.’ Rod matches my tone: no pity, no mercy. He pulls the clipboard from my hands and tucks it underneath his arm before facing back towards the kids as they run the end of their warm-ups. ‘Let’s just stay out of one another’s way, then.’
‘Rod.’ Shit, shit, shit. I’ve screwed up. I wipe the sweat from my palms on my running shorts. ‘That was out of line. I apologize. We can play attack—’
‘I don’t need your sympathy.’
Now, I am the one who steps back. It’s a taste of my own medicine, of course. I just struggle to understand how things became so bitter over the course of minutes. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he beats me to the punch.
‘We’ll play attack. Not because you’re letting me. Because I know that’ll be the right decision.’ He doesn’t look back at me. In fact, I don’t know that he’s looking at anything.
I take that as my cue to head back to my corner of the field, well away from Rod, far enough that we can’t screw up one another’s frames of mind during this game.
But it’s too late for damage control. My brain is already a twister of thoughts, and I don’t know what I’ll have to pull from to make it through this in one piece.