“That was my plan, but I picked the wrong girl up.” I shake my head. “She stood there with this attitude and I was like, ‘what’ and she pointed out that she was Savannah and not the other girl who I kept calling Savannah. Then she goes and tells me to call her Vanna. Can you believe that shit?”
“I can’t believe you picked up the wrong girl. That’s some mean shit, Ty.”
I shrug. “Yeah, well, she sure showed me what her big city attitude is like. Girl needs to remember where she came from.”
Jeremiah laughs and beckons for a refill. “You gonna show her?”
I nod. “Bobby says she needs to work on the ranch. I guess she did some shit that her momma ain’t too happy with. Little Miss Savannah is gonna have to sling some shit.”
“I’ll be there to watch that. There’s nothing like a fine ass chick bending over to pick up some manure.” Normally I’d disagree with him, but knowing I’ll be watching her get dirty is pretty exciting. “What’d’ya say we take these two behind me out and
show them a good time?”
I look over my shoulder at the two girls behind us and wink. A good time is exactly what I need to get my mind off of Savannah.
Savannah
My eyes squint, trying to block out the bright sunlight beaming through the windows. I can’t cover my face with a blanket or pillow because it’s too damn hot and I’ll suffocate. I’m going to have to ask Uncle Bobby to take me to town to buy some blackout curtains because I’m not going to be able to sleep once the sun rises.
I roll over toward the wall and open my eyes slowly. This was my room when I was little and nothing has changed. The bubblegum-pink walls are dull in color and in desperate need of being revived or painted a different color. My basket of My Little Ponies still sits in the corner from when I was seven. They were my most prized possessions and Tyler always tried to steal them from me. Why Aunt Sue kept them is beyond me. She had to know I was going to grow out of playing with plastic horses with multicolored hair. Unless Tyler still likes to play with them. That thought alone makes me giddy.
I can hear the dull buzz of a mower off in the distance. It’s something I don’t hear in the City unless I’m walking through Central Park or am at a friend’s summer home. Can’t say if I’ve missed that sound or not, around here it means work and that means Uncle Bobby and his ranch hands are already working the fields. Last night we didn’t talk about what chores I’d have to do. If I had my way, the list would be non-existent. It’s bad enough that I have to do homework and mail it in once a week. “Homeschooling” is what they called it when my mom was filling out the paperwork to send me here. It was the only option, because I refused to start a new school. If she’s going to send me away, I’m going to make it difficult on her. I thought I had outsmarted her until she told me that I have to pass the rest of my classes with flying colors or I wouldn’t be allowed to go to Paris in the fall, and I so want to go to Paris.
I throw back the sheet and blanket that’s covering me. It’s blazing hot and there’s no air conditioner in my room. That’s another thing I’m going to have to ask Uncle Bobby about. I don’t know how anyone can sleep up here with this stifling heat. Sleep evaded me last night because of the humidity and the noises from the outside. I’m used to horns honking and sirens every half hour, people yelling and gunshots being fired, not crickets and coyotes howling at the moon. I don’t want to be here and it’s not because I don’t love my aunt and uncle, it’s because this place isn’t for me. Maybe at one time I fit in, but that was another time. I’ve adapted, changed. I don’t know anything about haying or working a ranch and I definitely don’t have the necessary wardrobe to be here.
My feet touch the hardwood floor and I relish in the cool feeling of the old wood. I could sleep on the floor. I could move my mattress down here or even sleep outside on the covered porch like I did many times when I was younger. Uncle Bobby never liked that though, and would sleep out there too, always afraid of a wanderer coming onto his land looking for a place to sleep or a day job to make some quick cash. No, I can’t imagine he’d agree to me doing that now, not after what my mom told him.
As soon as I’m halfway down the stairs, the smell of freshly baked muffins makes my stomach growl. I haven’t had a home cooked breakfast in years. Cold cereal or a bagel from the corner coffee shop is how I usually start my mornings. Lunch is cafeteria food or, if I’m feeling brave, the corner bodega when I shouldn’t be leaving campus. Dinner is also a solo affair. We’d have random maids who made sure something frozen was available, but the sit down dinners we had after church when we lived here ceased to exist once we moved to New York.
“Mornin’, Savvy,” Aunt Sue calls out with her back facing me. I stand in the doorway and watch her for a moment. She’s still as short as I remember. I used to ask Uncle Bobby how she could reach the top of the cupboards and he used to tease, saying that she was magic. It’s the same magic that fixed me when I had the flu or my teddy bear had a rip that needed to be sewn. Part of me still wants to believe she’s full of magic and can fix anything. Except for me, that is. According to my mom, I can’t be fixed. I’m on the path to self-destruction and the only cure is going to come from hard manual labor.
The kitchen isn’t like I remember. It seemed smaller when I was a kid, but now it’s a large open space with a lot of natural light coming in. The counter tops that used to be robin’s egg blue are now wood and shiny. The cabinets are white, but don’t reach the ceiling. Resting on top of the cabinets are knickknacks and old mason jars. A huge bay window affords whoever is standing at the sink an opportunity to look out back. I used to have a swing set out there when I was little, but I’m sure that’s long gone. I can barely see the top of the white picket fence that divides the yard from the pasture from where I stand. I have a feeling I’ll be out there by lunchtime doing who knows what and complaining about it. Maybe if I’m lucky, my schoolwork will be the only chore I have to do.
“Good morning.” She turns and smiles, until her eyes take in what I’m wearing. I cross my arms over my mid-section and look away. Everyone is always judging.
Aunt Sue shakes her head. “You don’t want to be dressing like that around here, missy.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, defiantly. No one has cared about the way I dress for as long as I can remember. Why should they start now? Even my very expensive private school mandated that we wear skirts and the ones that were issued were short. They dressed us like every pervert’s fantasy. This is common attire for girls my age, a cami and boxers. Heck most of my friends wear less to bed.
“Them boys outside are girl crazy and you’re ripe for the pickin’.”
“I’m sure they’re far too old for me, Aunt Sue.”
“Mhm,” she mumbles and turns back to the counter. “Uncle Bobby ain’t gonna be too thrilled to see you waltzing around here with no britches on.”
“These are my pajamas. What am I supposed to do, come down dressed to the nines every morning?”
She turns around and wipes her hands on her apron. Every memory I have of her is in this kitchen. Aunt Sue cooks for everyone and for every occasion. “Now, no one says you have to be gussied up for breakfast, just covered is all.”
I try not to roll my eyes, but I can’t help it. Everyone has something to say about me, whether it’s my grades, the way I dress or what I do in my free time. I pick up the carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass before walking to the window and looking out. It looks gorgeous outside and I can see myself lying out in the sun today, catching some rays.
My glass stalls at my lips as Tyler walks past. He doesn’t look my way, but stops by the window and yells at someone. I set down my juice and watch him. He takes off his hat and wipes his sweat with his forearm. I don’t know if Tyler is the guy my mom slipped up about or not, but he’s definitely giving me pause. Not that I’d let him in on that little fact. I lean forward as he pulls the neck of his shirt over his head. The muscles in his back move in fluid motion and all I can think is that guys do not look like this in the city. Of course, guys in the city play soccer in their free time but guys out here lift hay bales for fun and race tractors. I sigh as he tucks his shirt into the back of his jeans and walks out of sight.
“Tyler…” his name escapes from my lips before I realize what I’m saying.
“Savannah,” I turn at the sound of my name to find a shirtless cowboy in the form of Tyler standing in my Aunt’s kitchen. She snickers and scurries away. I swallow hard and try not to stare, but I can’t help it. He grew up nicely.
“What are you doing here?” I already know the answer to my own question, but I need confirmation.