Seven
SEVEN
Bea
T he night I met the hayloft cowboy was seared into my memory, though it was a moment I didn’t think about very much as a child. When you’re young, you can’t really draw conclusions, because you’re not thinking about conclusions. Only moments, only beginnings.
As I grew, I thought of it more, deciphered more. And I knew, deep within my spirit, that the boy I found was wounded on the inside. And despite our years of deep, abiding friendship, he’d never told me why.
The bright moon illuminated a pair of boots hanging out over the edge of the loft, twitching ever so slightly. Pieces of hay fluttered to the ground from the two-story loft doors propped wide open. The sight of those dusty cowboy boots stopped me in my tracks. One dangled then dropped, airborne for a blink of an eye, it’s thud on the ground startlingly loud in the quiet of a rural Texas night.
My heart thumped in my chest—still riding the high from sneaking out of my family’s cabin. Mom and Dad wouldn’t like me prowling around in the middle of the night, but I was craving quiet time with Glory the Original. And quiet time was literally impossible to find when I was on a road trip with seven other people.
For a second, I thought I was going to be caught. That boot hitting the ground sounded like a stick of dynamite. But the feet above sat motionless, like the person didn’t even realize gravity stole their shoe.
I stood beneath the feet and whisper-yelled up. “Hey! You lost a boot!”
Nothing.
“Your boot is?—”
A soft moan and sniffle choked off my words. I froze. Was that…crying? I listened intently for several long moments, straining to hear new sounds among the din of crickets, until my ears started playing tricks on me.
I tried whispering one more time. “Do you need help? Are you okay?”
I looked up, and the feet shifted, sending hay fluttering down around me.
The adrenaline still pumping through my veins emboldened me. I snatched up the warm boot, marched into the big, dark barn and stumbled to the hayloft ladder.
Whoever lost it needed to get it back in order to come down, right?
The aroma of hay, pungent and irritating to my sinuses, hit me before I’d even stepped onto the bottom rung. With the boot clasped in one hand and my child-sized guitar slung over my shoulder, I took the rungs one at a time, careful not to lose my footing.
A jarring bonk reverberated through the silent night as the bottom of my uncased guitar slammed into the ceiling. It vibrated with an obnoxious sound. I’d have to retune it, no doubt. The loft opening was too small to fit me and my extra appendage. So I shrugged out of the strap and gently lifted Glory through and laid her on a pile of soft hay. Followed by the boot.
I finished the climb, adjusted Glory back over my shoulder, and crawled into what looked like a valley amid the Rockies. Except these mountains were made of tightly packed hay bales. I stood, brushing the flakes from my comic book t-shirt, and began to weave through the valley toward the open loft windows.
When I rounded the last mountain, I found the person I was looking for. A boy. Pale moonlight streamed in, washing his body chest-down. He laid flat on his back, staring at the support beams way above us. He had a faraway look in his eye, like maybe he was searching for something beyond them.
His cheeks were tear-streaked, and his clothes were visibly damp and clinging to his lanky frame. His lips moved with unspoken whispers, and his soft gasping filled my consciousness with the urgency of a heavy downpour.
I knelt close to his face, pieces of hay scratching and poking my legs. When I touched him, I grimaced. His skin was slick with sweat. But I wrapped my fingers around his bony shoulder and shook.
“Hey, hey!” Shook him harder and his head lulled side to side. “ Hey! ”
He mumbled something unintelligible and his eyes fluttered closed. Despite the moon, the shadows were angled, intense. Only allowing me to see basics—shirt, pants, boots, shade of skin and hair.
I could see he was tall and thin, much closer to adult than me. His mess of hair was curly, long, and…I couldn’t decide exactly on color. Maybe multicolored. It fanned out around his face in the hay pile cradling his head.
I leaned over him, grabbing his other shoulder and shaking again. “What’s wrong with you?!”
I tapped his damp cheeks, the tears transferring to my fingers, as I toyed with the idea of bolting back down the stairs to the main house and calling the old lady who lived there or maybe 9-1-1. But that plan would reveal I’d been sneaking around. Surely, I could help him on my own. Right as I had the thought, he spoke.
A gentle murmur escaped his taut lips. “I’m—I’m alright.”
I swiped my wet fingers over my left breast bone, the tears soaking into the fabric over my heart—a thoughtless action at the time.
I whisper-yelled into his face. “Can you see me?”
“Y-yes. ”
“Do I need to call 9-1-1? You’re freaking me out!”
“No—puh.” He stopped and his eyes rolled open, focusing a little on my face. He tried again. “Please d-don’t.”
At his weak please I eased up, prying my fingers off. I launched myself backward, putting plenty of space between us. I swiveled Glory across my lap, allowing my hands to reattach to something they could understand— frets .
I strummed without a pick. Must’ve dropped it on the walk somewhere. Glory was a little out of tune from knocking her around, but I didn’t bother to fix her. I just let the tips of my Windex blue painted nails pinch at the metal strings. A few simple chords to fill the silence. My gaze was riveted to him the whole time as I sat in a semi-crouched position, a constant battle raging between my ears.
Should I run for help?
The moment was begging for a gentle classic. My fingers, almost all on their own, plucked out Cavatina . I played it twice. Halfway through the repeat, his body stopped trembling and he lay, stock still, on the bed of hay. Before, he gasped at the air like he’d just ran a fast mile. But now, his chest rhythmically moved—a slow up, a relaxed down.
I played through a few more gentle classics. Debussy’s La fille aux Cheveux de Lin then Bach’s Minuet in G Major. My fingers ached, but I never stopped. I did the toughest runs without ever taking my eyes off the boy.
Up, down.
Finally, I leaned back against the hay, reassured that he would be fine. Resting against a mountain behind me, I started something new in G# minor. Made it up as I went.
I felt my own heartbeat returning to baseline, my breath slowing. But I still never looked away.
Up, down.
I finally closed my eyes and let my head tip back. The soft vibration of metal strings filled the lingering quiet, and I let my feelings carry the tune. Eventually, when my fingers cramped, the boy moved. He sat up, pushing back from the ledge, sending torrents of hay to the ground below. He searched around in the darkness until his expression lighted on my face.
“Who are you?” His voice scraped, like two rocks rubbing together.
“My family rented one of the cabins.”
“Oh.” He nodded and swiped straw out of his unruly hair. He nodded again as if to confirm that’s right but didn’t say the words.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He ran his hands through his hair several more times before situating that hat on his head. He didn’t respond as he pulled his leather shoe away from where it laid beside me. “Why do you have my boot?”
“It fell on the ground.”
He shoved his foot in without a word. I thought he was going to charge off down the ladder, but he didn’t. He lowered his voice, “Thank you. For playin’.”
“No problem.”
“You’re really good.”
“Been holding a guitar since forever.” I shrugged. “Dad says this is how I talk to the world.” I showed off by flawlessly executing a fancy run.
“Is it?”
“I’d say so. I feel the best with Glory in my hands. That’s her name. Music comes in handy, too. People need music.” I stretched out my leg and tapped his knee with my toes. “You needed it.”
He didn’t respond.
After a few more moments of my strumming, he asked, “What’re you doin’ up here in the middle of the night?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“I live here.” I noticed the timbre of his voice was flowing and sweet, with a gentle southern accent. Couldn’t help but hear music in it.
“I haven’t seen you around.”
“Well, I’ve been here. Me, my brother, and my cousin help Gran with chores.”
“Oh.” There were two other families staying in the cabins. It was possible my path crossed with his when I wasn’t paying attention. My family had stayed pretty busy with activities since arriving at the ranch. “So, why are you up here in the middle of the night?”
“Uh, I uh—” He stammered for a few full seconds before his shoulders dropped, maybe in resignation. “Just had a bad dream.” He shrugged. “I come up here after.”
“Do you have bad dreams often?”
“No, I…” The words fell off until he shook his head. He shifted toward me. The tone of his voice told me he was probably sizing me up, maybe squinting, maybe frowning. “Do your parents know you’re out here? They probably wouldn’t like their ten-year-old up here in the dead of night with a random boy.”
I scoffed, allowing my chin to jut out. “I’m eleven and a half thank you very much.”
“Alright, whatever.” He sighed. “Sorry for scarin’ you.”
“I don’t think I was half as scared as you were.”
He paused and turned his face away, looking through the open loft doors, over the main house and into the miles beyond. The stars were bright here—stunning actually. Looked like another dimension.
“Are you scared like that a lot?”
He draped his long thin arms over his bent knees. His whole body seemed to sag as he considered my question. Something told me…something about him told me the answer was yes .
“I don’t bite, you know. You can tell me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“It’s a perfect reason to tell me. Strangers are easier to talk to.”
He said nothing.
“I love talking to people I don’t know.”
He snorted. Again, no words.
“So what’s so scary up here in the hayloft?” I made a show of looking around and pretending like there was nothing in sight. “I don’t see anything.”
He said hmm in a rather patronizing way.
“What?”
He shook his head. “Just sounds like somethin’ a ten-year-old would say.”
I mentally groped for a response to make me sound more grown- up, more official, but only managed to sputter, “And how old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Not that much older.” I sat up straight. My fingers tensed against the strings, a light metallic squeak breaking the silence. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about what’s making you cry, why don’t you tell me something else about you?”
“Uh, okay.”
He hesitated a few beats, so I prodded him. “Go ahead.”
“I—I can’t think of anything.”
“You can’t think of anything about yourself?”
“I…” He tried again, talking like a big brother. “I—think it’s better for you not to know anything about me.”
I frowned. Wasn’t what I expected him to say at all.
“I’ve seen you with your family. You’re happy.” He lifted his hat and ran his hands through his hair before nestling it back on his head. He tipped his face toward the hay as he twirled a piece around his index finger. “You should stay happy.”
I didn’t understand. “And you’re not?”
“I’m happy sometimes.”
“Tell me about those times.” I peered at him in the dark, wishing I could somehow shine a light on his face. Wishing I could see everything beyond the shadows. “Those happy times.”
“Horses.” He nodded once like it was the perfect answer. “Horses make me happy.” He settled back against the hay, staring at me in the dark. “What makes you happy?”
“Glory,” I said without missing a beat.
“Your guitar?”
I nodded, strummed a few times to drive my point.
“You probably have calluses.”
I held my left hand out to him. I couldn’t see his expression, but I sensed his hesitation. Could almost feel squinted eyes dart from my hand to my face. I shook it a little. “Feel them.”
Slowly he reached out his hand, letting the tips of his fingers glide over mine.
Index, middle, ring, pinky.
He opened his own hand, palm facing up. “I have calluses too.”
“From what?”
“Mucking stalls. Ropes.”
He waited. It was my turn. I reached out and let my own fingers travel over the bumpy calluses on his palm.
One, two, three.
I stopped breathing, holding my breath like I was about to do a cannonball into a cold lake. I glanced at his face. If there was light, we’d be staring into each other’s eyes.
“Callused by the things we love, huh?” He said. I caught a glimpse of a smile, the white of his teeth visible.
“Guess so.” I returned my hand to Glory’s neck, my fingers finding the bar chord B major without being told. “So what else? What else makes you happy?”
“The land. This ranch. What about you?”
“School. Trying new things.”
He nodded. “I like school, too.”
“What about it? What’s your favorite subject?”
He gave a quiet hmm again. “I think I like literature best. We read interesting things, and…I like the writing assignments.” He shrugged. “And P.E. is fun ‘cause we play dodgeball.”
“Ugh.” I shuddered. “I hate dodgeball.”
“Most of the girls in my class hate it too. What do you like about school?”
“My friends, mostly. I mean, the school itself isn’t too bad, but I like socializing. I get detention for talking too much and being a distraction.”
His smile broke with the barest of chuckles. “What’s your name?”
“Nope.” I made a locking motion across my lips. “Not saying. I hate my name. If you only get to know me for a night, you’re not using my name. Whatever you call me will be better. My parents have no taste.”
He hummed in thought. “How ‘bout…Strings?”
“As a name?”
“Might as well call you by something you love.”
Strings .
I tried it on.
Strings.
“I love it. What’s yours?”
He shook his head. “If I don’t get yours, you don’t get mine. Fair and square.”
Seemed reasonable. I rubbed my thumb up and down D string as options filed through my head. “How about I call you…”
But my thoughts dead ended. I couldn’t think of anything. I didn’t know enough about him or horses to come up with something clever. And the last thing I wanted was to throw out a stupid suggestion he hated and look completely dumb.
“Crap. I can’t think of anything.”
“That’s okay. I respond to ‘hey, you.’”
I laughed.
“Do you take song requests?”
“Yeah! But if it’s written after 1999, I probably won’t know it. My family only listens to oldies and classics.”
“Do you know American Pie ?”
I hummed a few bars to jog my memory. “I might be able to figure that one out.” My fingers launched into the song, picking out the melody as I strummed the chords. I stumbled in a few places, especially during the lyrical verses. But he sat back, slipping his hands behind his head and crossing his ankles.
After the final strum, I flattened my hand against the vibrating strings.
His soft wow caused my face to explode with heat.
“You are really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Play one of your favorites.”
“Oh, jeez. I love every song.”
“Then play something new. Something you recently learned.”
My fingers plucked around, waiting for Glory to cue me. “I like Coldplay. Do you know them?”
“Think I’ve heard a few of their songs.”
“I learned Yellow last week. It’s super easy, but I like the words.”
He said nothing, just waited. I played and sang that time, my heart trembling a little, hoping he would like my singing voice. My fingers shook over easy chords, and I closed my eyes as I felt his gaze on me. When I finished, a moment of silence enveloped us. My body tensed, waiting for his response.
He shifted forward. “You gonna be famous one day, Strings?”
I exhaled in relief then shrugged like his asking didn’t faze me. But I wanted to kiss him for suggesting I was good enough to make it big. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to?”
“Maybe. But big stages kind of scare me. I normally just play for the people I love.”
“Are there lots of people you love?”
“Sure. My family. Friends.”
He nodded, falling silent. Then twisted—weaved, actually—hay through his fingers.
“What about you? Are there people you love to share horses with?”
He shook his head, gave a half shrug. “I prefer being alone.”
That was foreign to me. But I nodded like I understood. “Okay, then. Now tell me one thing that makes you sad.”
He huffed. “You’re very nosy.”
“Oh yes, very.”
I waited for his answer as he absently studied the Texas horizon. At last, when the silence was nearing uncomfortable, he whispered, “Rain. Rain makes me sad.”
I loved a good rain storm. “Because you can’t be with your horses?”
He hesitated a moment. “Yeah. Sure.”
“What do you do when it rains?”
“Come up here, mostly.”
My brain immediately imagined him up here, alone and sad, on rainy days. It made me want to cry with him. “I feel like there’s a story. About rain.”
His hands froze, the hay still wrapped around his fingers. Then he glanced at me, his response barely audible. “There is.”
“Ooo.” I played a minor chord progression. “I love stories! ”
“And that’s where you’re better off not knowin’ me, Strings.” He flicked the hay down and drug his hand through for a new piece. “Some stories shouldn’t be shared.”
“I disagree.”
“You disagree because you’re a curious ten year?—”
“ Eleven —”
“—and a half year-old. Got it.” He adjusted his hat, like he was preparing to leave.
“Stories are meant to be told. Even if they’re hard.”
He shook his head. “Stories are more than just words. They’re what make up a person. And sharing them is sharin’ life, sharin’ pain.”
My brain worked overtime to keep up as something flickered in me that I didn’t understand. Years later, I looked back on this moment and wept for him. His heart was begging, screaming, for someone to know him. And for some reason, the universe graciously bestowed a dose of intuition on me—a naive kid.
My heart heard.
He needed a friend.
And I decided right then and there to be the one. “Every person should find someone to share their story with. Every person should be known by somebody. At least a little.”
His hum didn’t sound convinced. “Well, now you know me a little.”
I spread my arms. “And look, I’m still happy.”
“Good.”
“Too bad I’m meeting you a few hours before I have to leave. I wish I could be your friend. You’re interesting. And no offense, but it seems like you need one…a friend, I mean.”
He turned toward me, and I sensed his eyes scrutinizing whatever was visible in the darkness. For a moment, I wondered if he was upset.
But then he softly replied, “I would’ve liked bein’ your friend, too.” With that, he stood and smacked flecks of hay off his jeans. “It’s late. I should go. Do you need help gettin’ down?”
“No.”
He walked to the ladder and dropped his feet through the opening. Before his head disappeared, he called back to me. “Thanks…for helpin’ me.”
I scooted toward the loft doors and let my feet hang into the open air. My heels tapped against the worn wooden barn as I watched him saunter off through the barnyard, his long legs creating a lengthy gait. He rounded the side of the main house, paused at the blue siding, lifted a window, and slipped inside.
When I finally turned back into the hayloft, I realized he left something.
A book.
I scooped it up and held it toward the moonlight.
It was a plain, black and white composition notebook with a cheap pen tucked inside. My heart thumped in my chest as I flipped through the worn pages. The low light mixed with his poor handwriting made me squint at the paper. The oddly slanted letters were impossible to read, but the pages were filled—covered from margin to margin in tiny paragraphs. The binding was falling loose, the cardboard edges frayed. A crease down the center folded the entire book in a weird angle, like he’d stuffed it into a bag or pocket at some point
I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. It smelled like worn paper, dirt, and hay.
The darkness couldn’t hide that this weary notebook was his friend.
I flipped to the next empty page near the end, wrote my mailing address as legibly as the night would allow, and left a tiny note: “I named you Scribbs. Short for your scribbles. Write me. Strings.”
Then I fluffed the hay, careful to leave his treasure exactly how I found it.