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  "Huh," said Brian as I tried to breathe. "You know, you're right. It would get a lot easier with the base I've got. It's a real good idea."

  I nodded. Which was stupid, seeing as he couldn't see me.

  "But you know, I just got this lifeguarding job, and it's every day."

  "Lifeguarding?" I asked. I couldn't believe it. Lifeguarding? "Well, you know, that's ... good. That'll really help out with football."

  "Is D.J. Schwenk being sarcastic?"

  "No, I just ... well, yeah, I was."

  "Because you have to watch out. You keep making comments like that and sooner or later you'll have a sense of humor. And then you'll really be in trouble."

  I smiled. I couldn't help myself. "Yeah, well. At least you'll be tan."

  "Oh, don't you start too. Mom's already all over me about sunblock. She wants me dressed in a snowsuit or something."

  I laughed. "Well, just thought I'd try. The training thing and all."

  "Thanks for calling. Working with you was fun. Except for the parts that sucked."

  "I thought it all sucked." I grinned.

  "Nah, just parts. Thanks for calling."

  After I hung up I sat on the bed still in my towel, thinking how nice that conversation had been. That's the thing about having someone to talk to. It's fun. I hate to compare Brian to Amber, but she and I didn't have conversations like that, at least not lately. Amber was pretty good at making fun of other people, but Brian—well, he did make fun of other people, like me not being able to talk or his mom and sunblock, but it wasn't mean. It was just fun. If I had to make a list of the very best qualities someone could have, that would be right at the top. Being nice-fun instead of mean-fun.

  So I went to bed, and that nice feeling I'd had from talking to Brian, from talking, basically, slowly wore off as I realized I wouldn't have anyone to talk to. Or train. I couldn't go to Jimmy Ott and ask if he had any other football players in need of a workout. It'd taken everything I had just to call Brian. And there was certainly no one in Red Bend to go to and say I was a dumb girl farmer who'd flunked English and now wanted to be a sports trainer. Oh, they'd line up for that. The only person I could possibly come up with was Curtis, which wouldn't work for reasons you'll understand if you've ever had a brother.

  Basically what it came down to was that my life sucked. It sucked even more than it had before Brian showed up, because now I knew it.

  13. Talk

  Monday morning I decided that if I was going to spend my life as a cow, at least I'd be in good company. Besides, I like cows. Every time I changed the milking machine I'd rest my ear against the cow I was working on, listening to all that gurgling, and think to myself, This isn't so bad. And every time I'd convince myself a little bit more that it wasn't.

  And then just as I was hooking up Tim Brown, named after a University of Notre Dame wide receiver, I heard a noise that didn't come from Tim's belly at all, and I looked up and almost jumped out of my skin, because there was Brian Nelson.

  "Jeez!" I croaked. "What are you doing here?"

  "Good to see you too."

  Great beginning, D.J. "You just spooked me a little."

  "I'm pretty spooky."

  I couldn't think of one thing to say. Tim Brown flicked her tail in my ear just like a whip; I guess I'd given her a little tug without realizing it.

  "I changed my mind," Brian said finally. "About training."

  "Oh."

  He kicked at the barn floor. "I started thinking you were right about lifeguarding."

  "Oh," I said. Again.

  "Aren't you going to say anything?"

  "Um ... I guess you should start with weights."

  "That's not what I—" He sighed. "Okay." He picked up a curl bar.

  I kept my head against Tim Brown, trying to figure out what just happened. I sure didn't want to make a big deal out of it—it was Brian's decision, after all, and I wasn't going to get gushy or anything. But boy oh boy, once it started to sink in...

  "Brian? This'll be okay."

  "Don't give yourself a heart attack or anything." But he smiled when he said it.

  After milking, Brian walked the cows out with me, tossing Smut's football to her because she was giving herself a heart attack, she was so happy to see him. He sighed. "You know, there is one thing. It shouldn't bug me but it does..."

  Uh-oh, I thought to myself, thinking of a million things he could name off.

  "It's just—I know it's some passive-aggressive thing—but the silent treatment thing really bums me out."

  "The passive what?" I had no idea what he was talking about. I guess when you're smart like Brian is and you get good grades you're allowed to go around using words that no one understands.

  "You know. I say something and it's not what you want to hear so you wait and wait until I say the right thing."

  I had to stop walking, I was so surprised. "What?"

  "You do it all the time. Like just now when you said that I'd spooked you. I tried to make a joke, but you just waited and didn't say anything until I'd apologized."

  "I—you think I did that on purpose?"

  "Yeah. I mean, who else just sits there waiting like that?"

  "You think I'm waiting?" This was getting old, me repeating everything he said. "It's because I don't know what to say! Or I'm trying to figure out what to say but by the time I get around to figuring it out you're talking again."

  "Really?" Brian looked like he didn't believe me.

  "Yeah! I mean, you talk like I'm smart or something, but really, you know, I'm ... not."

  That made him laugh.

  "I'm serious."

  "So when I say I hate weights and you don't say anything, you're really just trying to figure out how to tell me to shut up?" He grinned.

  "That would be mean. I'm supposed to say encouraging things."

  "Yeah, and I'm not supposed to be a jerk."

  "You're not a jerk. Most of the time, anyway." I grinned.

  "Huh. So how do I know when you're really mad at me?"

  I thought so long that Brian rolled his eyes. "I guess," I said finally, "I'd make you clean the barn floor."

  "I promise I won't make you mad," Brian said, so seriously that I cracked up.

  I so, so, so wanted to show Brian my new football field, but because Dad was still around we had to paint instead. Which Brian didn't seem to mind too much, remarkably. He even went to work painting all that detail work around the windows. He was still super slow, but at least he didn't drip paint all over the glass the way I would have.

  All of a sudden Dad came thumping into the barn with his cane, startling us both. "How do you two feel about walnuts?"

  "Walnuts?" Brian asked.

  "Yeah. In brownies." Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  "It really doesn't matter," I said quickly, trying to get Dad out of there.

  He ignored me. "What do you think, Rob?"

  "Ah, sure, I love walnuts," Brian managed.

  Dad sighed. "I'll have to pick some up." And he tapped his way out.

  Brian looked so confused that I had to explain. "He got in a fight at church with some old lady and so now he's trying to prove that my mom makes better brownies."

  "Does she?"

  "No, she never makes them! So Dad's going to do it and say she did it because he doesn't want anyone to think a guy bakes."

  Brian laughed. "They might be okay."

  "Have you tasted my dad's cooking?"

  "Maybe he'll add some of that Texas barbecue sauce, give them a little zip."

  We both laughed at that.

  When we went in for lunch, we were nearly knocked down by the thick warm smell of chocolate.

  "Oh my God," Brian moaned.

  Dad grinned like it was nothing. As soon as he brought the brownies to the table, though, you could tell there was a problem because he was serving them in bowls, which you don't normally encounter with that particular food. They oozed.

 
Brian dug into his so that brownie guts dripped down his chin: "These are great."

  "What do you think?" Dad asked sharply, seeing my face.

  "They're good. It's just ... they're a little runny."

  "Can I have another one?" Brian asked.

  So Dad put the pan in the middle of the table and all three of us went to work with spoons until the pan was empty and we looked like a bunch of dirty-faced kids.

  "You know what I think?" Brian frowned as he licked his fingers. "This really has to be a scientific process. You need to test a bunch of recipes, find the best one."

  Dad nodded to himself. "You know, you're right."

  "Oh, come on," I said. "You're kidding—"

  Brian scowled at me, and, stupid as I am, I finally figured out what he was getting at. Recipes don't just need test bakers; they need test eaters too. And if I had to spend the next week eating brownies with a spoon, well, that was a sacrifice I was willing to make for my father.

  "Don't forget the walnuts," Brian added helpfully.

  "You really think so?" Dad thought about it.

  "I've always felt walnuts are crucial to any baking project," Brian said, so seriously that I choked on my milk.

  Curtis finally showed up, disappointed that we hadn't left him any brownies, but that's what you get for sleeping at someone else's house until whenever it was he slept. The second he and Dad left, I raced for the heifer field. "Come on! I have something to show you!"

  Boy, you should have seen Brian's face. Bright green grass three inches high, lines sharp as rulers, corner flags fluttering away ... pretty as a postcard. Except for the yearling pooping right there on the thirty-yard line.

  "Norm, you moron!" I yelled. "Get off the field!"

  Of course Brian cracked up, which I guess he had every right to do because I was laughing too, and then he gave the heifers a long lecture on where they could poop and where they couldn't. It was the funniest thing I'd ever seen, Brian standing there waving his finger like he was some kind of professor and all the heifers eyeing him, flicking the flies off their ears, like they were really paying attention. Until they pooped.

  "You cut that out, Norm!" I shouted. "You do that somewhere else!"

  "What's that cow's name?" Brian asked.

  "The heifer? Norm Van Brocklin."

  "Who's that?"

  "The first Vikings coach. Back in the sixties."

  "How about that one?"

  "Jerry Burns."

  "I know him! He was a Viking coach too." Brian seemed pleased he knew that.

  "That's what Dad wanted this year. Vikings staff."

  "Why'd he use coaches instead of football players?"

  I shrugged like I didn't know the answer. "I remember one year I showed a heifer named Lee Roy Jordan."

  "You what?"

  "You know, the 4-H fair? You must go sometimes for the carnival rides."

  "You showed cows?" Brian looked amazed.

  "Well, duh, look where we live. Lee Roy Jordan was some University of Alabama tackle from back in the sixties. These old farmers would pass by and see that name and light up. 'Remember the Orange Bowl? Remember that play?' I heard more about that one game..."

  And that was how our days went. We painted and worked out and trained, and Rick Leach (Michigan) and Sidney Williams (Wisconsin) both calved, so we had little baby heifers to feed, which is more work but they're so cute it's worth it. Dad named them Max Winter and Bert Rose after the Vikings' first president and general manager from 1961 when Dad as a kid decided that a start-up team like that would need a player like him someday, which is how all us Schwenks ended up not being Packers fans. Brian brought a whole bunch of those little triangular flags from his dad's truck dealership and strung them around the field to keep the heifers off the grass, which made our football field look extra great. But mainly what I remember is talking. Eating brownies, lots of them, but mainly just talking. Being with Brian, it was like I was practicing something I'd never known I needed but I might need again sometime, so getting it down—figuring out how to talk—would probably be a good idea.

  14. Talk Back

  I say that's how the week went, and it was pretty great in the beginning. But then things began to get a little intense. For one thing, Dad and the brownies—well, let's just say I never knew baking powder was so important. And then there was the subject of Curtis.

  On Wednesday, Dad and Curtis had to go back to the dentist. Curtis had a cavity even though he flosses every night, which I find kind of unusual for a kid who's not all that big on personal hygiene. Dad was disgusted. "It's microscopic, for Pete's sake." He kept popping his teeth out to make the point. Which was something I really wanted Brian to see.

  "It's important" was all Curtis would say.

  Once they left we went out to work on Brian's arm. Again. As he passed me the football he asked, "How come Curtis never talks?"

  "He talks," I said. "He talks to his friends, I think."

  "You think?"

  "He's not retarded," I said defensively.

  "Of course he's not retarded! I didn't say he was retarded."

  "They keep testing him at school. But he's not. There's nothing wrong with him."

  Brian eyed me. "Why do you think they're testing him, then?"

  "Move your feet more," I said for the millionth time. We passed the football for a few minutes, me not saying a word while I thought about all this.

  "Never mind," Brian said finally. "Forget I said anything."

  "So what do you think is wrong?" I asked.

  "Nothing. I don't think it's anything. It's just, my mother..."

  "Your mother thinks there's something wrong with Curtis?" I couldn't believe it.

  "She's with this group called Talk Back. She goes all over Wisconsin talking to church groups."

  "Talk Back? That's really what it's called? You're supposed to walk into some church basement and say, 'I'm here to learn how to Talk Back?'" It was a little mean, I know, but it made me mad, the thought of Brian and his mom sitting around talking about how screwed up Curtis was, and the rest of us too, probably.

  "It's a stupid name, I know. It's just to get families communicating and stuff."

  "Does it work?"

  Brian shrugged. "I don't know. She's so busy helping families that she's never home. It's kind of funny, actually, that part of it." But he didn't look like he thought it was funny at all.

  And then there was this long, awkward silence.

  "Is that how you know about that passive thing you called me?" I had to ask.

  "What, passive-aggressive? Yeah, I guess so."

  That made me feel better, knowing there was a reason he knew fancy terms like that. He'd picked them up from his mother. "So is your mom like Oprah Winfrey?" I asked. Because that was the only person I could think of who would do stuff like trying to get families to talk to each other.

  Brian nodded. "Yeah. In fact, my mom is Oprah Winfrey."

  "She is not," I said. "Oprah Winfrey doesn't live in Wisconsin."

  At that we both cracked up.

  "So is your mom ever on her show?" I asked.

  "Oh, all the time. They're like best friends."

  Which made us laugh even more.

  Once that whole Talk Back thing came out, though, I couldn't get it out of my mind. That image of Brian and his truck salesman dad and Oprah Winfrey sitting around the kitchen table, talking through family problems—sheesh. That was hard enough. But it also seemed like Oprah Winfrey was rubbing off on us too, and all our talk.

  Friday morning as we were painting Brian said, "So, your brothers are working at a football camp, right?"

  I shrugged.

  "What's with you?" He waited but I didn't say anything. "Okay. Is this one of your 'I'm waiting for you to say something' silences or one of your 'I'm trying to figure out what to say' silences or one of your 'I don't want to talk about it' silences?"

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  "Okay. I just thi
nk you might want to talk about it. In our family we talk all the time."

  "About my brothers?" I asked sarcastically.

  "About problems. That's what you do in a family—you talk about things."

  "And all that talk makes you happy?"

  There was a bit of a silence. "Drop dead," he said.

  And we didn't say anything else until lunchtime, when things kind of went back to normal.

  Jogging that afternoon, Brian asked what I was up to for the weekend and I said, "Nothing," which pretty much summed it up, and then just to be polite I asked what he was doing.

  He sighed. "Colleges. We already went out a couple of times, but I'm narrowing it down now, and I want to talk to coaches before the season starts..."

  Silence.

  "Why aren't you saying anything?"

  "What? It's great, your looking at colleges. That's real important."

  "Why? Aren't you thinking about that stuff?"

  I had to laugh, but it wasn't one of those laughs like it was funny. It was one of the laughs like it wasn't. "A, we can't afford it. B, I'm only going to be a junior, and C..." I didn't want to bring up C.

  "What do you mean, you can't afford it? Your brothers are going."

  "Yeah, on football scholarships. Which if you haven't noticed I can't get."

  "There's basketball. You should be able to get something, at least."

  "Yeah, well, they don't like it too much when you miss your sophomore year because your dad won't get a stupid operation. And they also don't like too much those big fat F's on your transcript." It's funny, part of me didn't want Brian to know in a million years about my failing, but the other part felt it was really important to tell him.

  "They'd understand about your dad—wait, an F? You flunked a class?" Brian was so surprised he stopped running. I kept walking, at least, because I had to do something.

  "Yup. Sophomore English." I kicked a stone out of the road.

  "But you're not—come on—"

  "You mean I'm not a total idiot?"