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  "That's not what I meant." Though it kind of was.

  "Me and Curtis, a couple of morons. Wouldn't your mother have fun with us."

  "Come on, stop it. What happened?"

  I kicked another stone. "Nothing. I was supposed to write these papers and I didn't because I was so busy with the farm, and I flunked."

  "If you wrote the papers could they change it? The grade?"

  "They say they can, but I'm not writing them, so it really doesn't matter, does it?"

  "I'll write them if you want," he offered like it was the most casual thing in the world.

  I stopped and stared at him.

  "What?"

  "You don't even know what they're about."

  "It doesn't matter. You just sling it the right way. The words, I mean," he added.

  "I know..." It just knocked me out, that Brian could just write a paper like that, just "sling it" when the only thing I knew how to sling was cow poop. Maybe I was a moron.

  "Hey," Brian offered, "at least you don't have Jimmy Ott telling everyone what a bum you are."

  And that cheered me up—it really did. It reminded me of how Jimmy sent Brian over in the first place, and how much Jimmy liked me and all of us Schwenks even though we don't talk much and can't write about Shakespeare.

  At that moment what I really wanted was for Brian to put his arm around my shoulders the way they do in TV ads. But that pretty clearly wasn't going to happen, so instead I punched him, right there at the bottom of his deltoid where it felt nice and solid, and then Smut came tearing down the road to see us and Brian left for the day. For his big senior year college trip, while I stayed on the farm doing nothing.

  I kind of figured that once he left my brain would go back to the I-am-a-cow business, and sure enough it did. It started right away at dinner, when I noticed how tired Mom looked. Now that I thought about it, she was a cow too. Just as much as me or the checkout ladies at the supermarket. She didn't want that extra job, but when they asked her to do it she took it without even thinking she could say no. She walked right into that milking stall of a principal's office.

  That made me really depressed, as depressed as the thought of me as a cow, I guess because it didn't give me much to look forward to. It's one thing thinking that you're a cow when you're a teenager or a farmer, or a checkout lady. But Mom had a real job, with a real office—at least until they hired the permanent principal—and a real classroom she taught in, and her life sounded even worse than mine. She'd had all that time to find something to do with her life, and this is what she ended up with?

  So you can see how cheery I was.

  Then in bed I started thinking about Win and Bill and their lives, what I knew about them, anyway. It sounds stupid at first, but when you think about it, football players don't have it much better. They do what you tell them to do, they stand where you tell them to stand, and the whole point of it is to produce something for other people. No one plays football just because they love the game. I mean, they do love it, but anyone could do that, even guys who stink. Football players play so people can watch them and get excited and buy tickets and clothing and stuff. So people will have something to talk about on Monday mornings. And it's not like football players get treated any better than cows do. Sure, they get doctors just like cows get vets. But when they're old and hurt like my dad is, there's not some big old wallet of money from people saying, Thank you for feeding us all that excitement and tickets and stuff to watch on TV Last year Bill was friends with a tackle who tore up his knee, and they kicked him right out of college. He couldn't feed them anything anymore. If that's not the same as leading a cow into a cattle dealer's truck, I don't know what is.

  Then I started thinking that maybe everyone in the whole world was just like a cow, and we all go along doing what we're supposed to without complaining or even really noticing, until we die. Stocking groceries and selling cars and teaching school and cashing checks and raising kids, all these jobs that people just one day start doing without even really thinking about it, walking right into their milking stall the way that heifers do after they've had their first calf and start getting milked for the first time. Until we die. And maybe that's all there is to life.

  And that's what I thought about all night long. All this stuff you never hear on Oprah Winfrey, which you can understand because if I got on the show and started talking, everyone in the audience would probably kill themselves.

  15. Epiphany

  As you might imagine, the weekend went downhill from there.

  The next morning when I came in from milking, Mom and Dad were rushing around like the house was on fire as Curtis sat there in his baseball uniform eating breakfast. I guess I should have mentioned before now that his big state Little League quarterfinals were today. And that this was a big deal, and someone had sent over a bunch of good luck balloons, and that my folks were planning to drive to Green Bay in a caravan with other families and fans. The whole thing. But you know what? This isn't Curtis's story, it's mine. And by this point I was pretty sick of Little League. Because if it weren't for baseball he and I would be managing the farm just fine, and then Jimmy Ott never would have sent Brian over to help us out and so I wouldn't know that my life and everyone's life was just like a cow's, and I wouldn't have to think about Brian's Oprah Winfrey mother and whatever it is she says about Curtis never talking, and all in all my life would be a whole lot simpler.

  "Aren't you going to wish Curtis good luck?" Mom asked. Dad gave me a look.

  So I said, "Hope you win," just wanting them gone so much.

  But when they left I felt like I was on a deserted island or something, I was so alone. I couldn't even nap. I kept thinking about Brian on his fancy college tour, and eventually just to torture myself I went over to my desk and read through the letters I'd gotten.

  It's not a desk, really, it's my Grandma Joyce's sewing table, but we took out the sewing machine to make room for my legs. I'd kept all my letters from college basketball coaches. Most were just computer-printout letters they'd sent a thousand girls. But I got a few just to me from coaches who'd come to my games, asking me to keep them posted about how I was doing and my upcoming year and everything. And then one letter, the worst one, was from a coach who I guess had called the school later, and she wrote saying that she was sorry but because I'd quit she couldn't look at me anymore because there were so many other good players out there who could at least finish a season. That was her point, anyway.

  So there were my prospects for college, all shot to pieces.

  And then because I wasn't feeling bad enough already, I dug out all the stuff from Mrs. Stolze's English class, the list of papers I never wrote and her letters about how much trouble I was in. At the back of the file were some letters she'd sent Mom even, saying maybe we should go to family counseling.

  I sat there for a long time trying to figure out how counseling would have helped. I didn't need to talk; I needed to write those papers. The more I thought about it, the more I thought that someone like Brian's Oprah Winfrey mom wouldn't be able to help our family one bit except make us feel bad, and seeing how bad I already felt, I didn't think I needed to feel any worse.

  Eventually I went to bed and Smut lay next to me even though she's not supposed to be upstairs, but I sure was glad to have her, her head on my belly, looking at me with sad eyes while I just felt worse and worse, so bad that I wanted to talk to Brian even though I didn't want him to know any of this stuff, and anyway I was thinking about him too much, and if nothing else it just reminded me that he was looking at colleges and I never would.

  I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing I knew it was time for milking, and then after milking because I couldn't think of anything else to do I drove the pickup into town. There was a huge banner up saying "Good Luck Red Bend Expos"—that's Curtis's team—and signs in some of the store windows and all sorts of garbage. I didn't know what to do, so I went over to Jorgensen's Ice Cream Stand where Kari worked
and hung out with her for a while. We talked about the upcoming volleyball season, which you can tell I care about a whole lot because whenever I bring it up I say how much it sucks. We don't have that great a team and I don't like our coach at all. Plus we kept getting interrupted, families coming in just like cows for their little family treats, getting just the flavors you'd expect them to get because no one ever thinks about doing something different for just one night.

  So I was in a great mood.

  Then Amber came in, and she was in a great mood. You think I'd be thrilled to see her seeing as she's my best friend, but I wasn't, I guess because I'd been thinking how we weren't really that close. We talked but we never talked like Talk Back talk. I'd wanted to tell her so much about all my thoughts about people being stuck in their roles just like cows, but the minute I opened my mouth she just squashed me down.

  So anyway, she right away started telling Kari and me about the wedding she'd just worked, some born-agains who didn't drink or smoke or dance or anything so everyone went home right after the cake was served after gobbling down every bit of food because they were all so bored. Normally I'd love this story and Amber would tell it a couple times just to get it right. But that night I didn't care. I mean, in the whole scope of existence, does it really matter if you have beer at your wedding? Will it change when you die, or how important your life will be when you look back on it?

  Right about then someone came in with the news that the Red Bend Expos had lost their game, which you'd think I'd want to hear but I didn't. So I went home and lay in the dark until I heard Mom and Dad and Curtis come back. Mom looked in at me but I pretended to be asleep so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone.

  The next day, Sunday was even worse.

  When I came in from milking, Mom was getting all ready for church, hustling around Curtis, and Dad was arranging brownies on a plate and telling Mom what the ingredients were in case anyone asked. They really wanted me to go with them, but that wasn't going to happen. I just went back upstairs to bed. When I came down later after a nap that didn't help one little bit, they'd come back from church and Dad was taking a big casserole out of the oven.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Chicken."

  "What are those black things?"

  "Prunes." He shot me a warning look not to say anything.

  So I didn't. But there was no way on this earth I was going to eat prunes and chicken mixed together. And that set the stage for Sunday dinner.

  During dinner Mom kept talking about all the people at church who'd congratulated Curtis, which kind of doesn't make sense because Red Bend lost. But it was a big deal, Red Bend making it to the quarterfinals, and I guess Curtis played well. Plus Dad had brought his brownies to the game and everyone loved them, plus they loved them at church too, even though by this time I'd had enough brownies to last me a couple years. But Mom was saying how she could write out the recipe in her handwriting and copy it for everyone who wanted it, making it sound like no one in the entire town of Red Bend could survive for even one more day if they didn't have Mom's brownies that were really made by Dad.

  Then there was this little silence and Mom looked at me. "D.J.?"

  "Yeah?" I said, eating all the rolls because I wasn't going to touch those prunes.

  "There's an awards ceremony in two weeks in Madison. For Little League. And, well, I've got a board meeting and you know Dad can't drive. So we were hoping you could take Curtis."

  Curtis, hearing this, tried basically to crawl under the table.

  "I don't know," I answered. But I was thinking I'd rather die than sit with one-word-a-month Curtis in our crappy old Caravan for ten hours driving there and back, just to be stuck in Madison around a bunch of smart rich kids from the University of Wisconsin, which I couldn't get into in a million years, to listen to an assistant coach for some minor league team in Iowa tell a roomful of really bored kids how important teamwork is while their parents all sat there wishing they served beer at these things.

  "I don't know," I said. "Who's going to milk?"

  "I can handle it," Dad said. "Me and Brendan could do it."

  "Brendan?" I put my fork down. "His name's Brian. Brian Nelson. Is that so hard? Listen: B. R. I. A. N. Can you manage that?"

  "Darlene Joyce," Mom said in a warning voice.

  "Why don't you get mad at him? Why don't once in your life you get mad at him!" I stood up.

  "You sit yourself right back down, young lady," Dad said.

  "You can all—" I was going to say "go to hell," but, you know, even when you're angry, there's this line you don't cross. Not on Schwenk Farm. So I just stomped out instead.

  I spent the afternoon out in the north hay field. Smut came with me. She's so great. If I had to choose between driving somewhere with Curtis or with Smut, she'd be so much my first choice. So what if she can't talk, at least she can show that she likes you and that she's listening to you, and that she's happy or sad. It occurred to me, sitting there, that I had a little brother who wasn't even equipped to be a dog.

  It wasn't that I minded so much about going to the awards thing. I'd been to about a million awards ceremonies for Win and Bill, and for me too. It was going to Madison and having it rubbed in my face that I was poor and stupid and ugly and just not cool at all. It's one thing knowing that in Red Bend. But it's another thing in a real city with a bunch of people who aren't, and who never were, and who never will be any of those things, and who probably never thought about how they were cows, and who if you analyzed their lives probably weren't.

  After a while I got hungry, but there was no way I was going back inside. So I went down to the road, the long way that doesn't go past the house, and found a half-dozen tomatoes someone had left in the mailbox. The first couple were okay, but then it turned into a whole bunch of tomatoes that I had to force down without salt or anything.

  Then I went in the barn from the other side so no one would see me and set up for milking, and let the cows in and got the milking done, hoping like anything that no one would come out, and the good news is that because my family doesn't ever talk about anything, no one did, and I wasn't forced into an Oprah Winfrey moment or anything awful like that. Then I let the cows out and cleaned the barn and waited in the hayloft, totally bored by now, for all the lights to go off so I could go back inside.

  And when I did I was so hungry, I ate all the leftover chicken. Even the prunes. And if there'd been another whole pan I would have eaten that too.

  You'd think that I'd be really happy to see Brian on Monday morning, seeing as I tended to be happy when he was around and unhappy when he wasn't. But I sure didn't want to talk about his college trip or his therapist mother or anything at all, really. So we didn't say anything when he showed up and he just started on his weights. Then Dad and Curtis headed out to PT so we could start our workout right away, which was good because if I'd had to paint for a couple hours I don't think I would have survived.

  I hadn't done anything all weekend unless you count sulking, but I guess my body needed the rest. So after we jogged up to the heifer field, we started this thing where I'd stand behind Brian and run out to his passes. You'd be surprised how well this worked. Plus Brian's aim seemed to be getting better, or maybe I was just moving to the ball more. He'd call out how far I had to run and I'd race off.

  We started with five- or ten-yard passes and really got into a rhythm. It reminded me of when I played receiver against Bill. He'd let me catch about half of Win's passes so I didn't get demoralized. Then he'd tackle me. But I got pretty good at catching a football. Besides, it's not that hard. I'd watch how Win, or Curtis later, released it, and it's pretty obvious where the ball is going to end up. It's not going to swerve mid-flight or anything like that. All you have to do is make it to where the ball's headed at the same time the ball does, preferably without your huge older brother getting there first.

  So I'd catch the ball and jog it back to Brian, and we'd do it again. And it was the strangest
thing, but every time Brian passed me the ball I felt a little better. Like one of those films of the little seed growing out of the ground and its leaves uncurl and then it grows a flower. Which isn't a very good description because if you think about it long enough in terms of football you kind of picture the flower getting smushed. But that's how I felt. Maybe it was remembering how much fun I used to have with Bill and Win. Or that I was getting off my butt, finally. Brian was in a good mood too, I think because I was catching his passes.

  "Okay," he said with a grin, setting me up for a big play. "Ready? Thirty-five yards. Line up ... Hut one—hut two—hut three—Go!" And I took off sprinting, glancing over my shoulder just enough to see where the football was headed way down the field, and I started to run. And as I ran I had this wonderful memory of the 4 x 100 back when I was a freshman, when I was anchor leg and standing there on the track all nervous waiting for the gun to go off, and then when it did watching the first leg start, and the first baton handoff, and the second, all the time wanting so bad to run myself and feeling so nervous but less nervous the closer and closer the baton got, until I could see Amy Hagendorf coming around the far turn pumping away with all her might, her hair going everywhere and her face screwed up like she was trying to remember something really important, and she'd get closer and closer to me, that baton in her hand, and I'd turn with my hand out behind me, waiting for her, and with all her breath she'd gasp out, "Go!" and I'd start to run—not too fast even though my legs wanted to take me out of there—until I felt that cold baton hit my hand, and my fingers would curl around it and just then, just at that moment, I'd stop worrying and just start flying, my legs pumping away without me even thinking, straight for the finish line.

  That's what I was remembering as I ran down the heifer field, and thinking how this was even better because my legs didn't have to wait, they could stretch out as much as they wanted with that feeling like I could run forever. And I looked up, right at the perfect moment, and there was the football coming down. And I put out my hands and caught it like the raw egg at an egg toss, caught it like a little baby, and tucked it under my arm, and then because I was feeling so good I just kept running as fast as I ever could right to the goal line. I sprinted right over it and banked into a turn and jogged back, feeling ... perfect. Like life, no matter how much it sucked, every once in a while came together and was just perfect.