Bull Rider Read online

  “I’m not hungry,” I told her, although my stomach was growling. I was afraid I wouldn’t keep the food down. And I was afraid something I did or said would spill the beans.

  “Spill the beans,” I said out loud. Then I asked Grandma, “Where do you suppose that phrase comes from?”

  “Let the cat out of the bag, that’s what I’d say,” Grandma said, flipping a quesadilla. “What’re you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She gave me a long look that made me figure she knew more than she possibly could about my day. “Well, whatever you’re up to, just remember if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his butt hopping.”

  “Rivet, rivet,” Lali called from the other room. She hopped right up to the stove. “Grandma, there’s a carnival in Winnemucca today. Can we go?”

  “Ask your mother, sweetie.”

  “You can’t go,” I snapped.

  “Why not?” Lali demanded. “Mom, Mommy!” She ran off.

  I followed her to Mom’s office.

  “Mommy, I want to go to the carnival in Winnemucca and Cammy says I can’t.”

  Mom hugged her. “Dad’s taking you to your first T-ball practice today. Remember?”

  “Can we do both? Cammy, come to T-ball with me.”

  Mom answered. “No, we can’t do both. But you could go to her T-ball practice, Cam. That would be a nice thing to do.”

  “No thanks,” I mumbled. “I’ve got plans.” I hurried out before she could ask again.

  About one thirty, I went in the new downstairs bathroom and threw up.

  “Are you all right?” Mom called through the door.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I’ll get a thermometer,” she said when I came out.

  “I’m okay, I just ate something wrong.”

  “Well, what? You didn’t eat lunch, and we all had the same breakfast. Are you catching the flu?”

  “I had some cold pizza in my room,” I lied.

  “Cam, you can get really sick eating food that isn’t refrigerated. And with summer coming, you’ll draw ants upstairs. What possessed you to have pizza in your room?”

  So there I was, two hours from “borrowing” my first car and probably ending life as I knew it, and I was lying about why I’d taken nonexistent pizza to my room and eaten it, when I couldn’t have ate it at all ’cause it never existed in the first place. “I don’t know. I like pizza, and I didn’t want Grandpa to eat it,” I said.

  “Grandpa wouldn’t eat your pizza. Where’d you get it?”

  “From Mike.”

  “You boys have to use your heads,” Mom said. “We should take your temp anyway.” She went for the thermometer and I ducked out the back door. I saw dust down the ranch road coming toward the house. I watched the car come closer. It was Mike’s dad’s old Volvo. I walked out to meet him. Favi was in the car too. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “We came to take you to Winnemucca,” Mike said.

  I stared at Favi. “Why would I go to Winnemucca?”

  “Oh, shut up,” Mike said. “Favi told me, and we’re going to be there if you need some protection from your mom.”

  “Or a ride to the emergency room,” Favi added.

  “I’ve got it covered,” I said, thinking of my gear stowed in Grandpa Roy’s truck.

  “No, you don’t. How are you getting there?” Favi asked. “Go tell your folks we’re going to the movies and come on.”

  “I hadn’t planned this. How will I get my cowboy hat? Why’d I need a cowboy hat at the movies?”

  “You worry too much. Just go get your hat, ask your mom if you can go to the movies, and come on,” Favi said. She scooted over to make room for me next to her in the front seat.

  I went to the truck, pulled out my gym bag, and handed it to her. “I’ll be back.” I did just what she said. I picked up my cowboy hat and while I was at it, I stuffed the good luck packet Grandma Jean made me into my jeans pocket. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little O’Mara salt with me.

  “Mom, Mike and I are going to the movies,” I called.

  “Not before I take your temperature.”

  “I’m feeling good now. Honest. I’m going to the movies, okay?”

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” She felt my forehead with the back of her hand. “Well, you feel cool enough.”

  “Mike’s waiting,” I said.

  She peeked out the window. “They’re already here? Sure, have fun.”

  Grandpa Roy looked at me funny and asked, “You have money for that movie ticket?”

  “No.”

  He handed me a twenty. “Don’t spend it all in one place.” He winked at me.

  I ran outside before I lost my nerve and jumped in the car.

  We drove down to the fairgrounds. It wasn’t like fair day, with hundreds of cars pulling up to the parking lots. But there was a goodly amount going on with stock trucks, and the radio station had set up a tent. People pulled in to go to the cheesy carnival the Boys and Girls Club was holding for the occasion—the one Lali wasn’t going to, thanks to T-ball. The Junior Rodeo was doing a mutton-busting demonstration before the Ugly Challenge, and all the moms and dads were hovering around with their five-year-olds in their boots and bicycle helmets, waiting for their ten seconds of fame.

  “Whose idea was this?” I asked.

  “Oh, can it,” Mike said. “We’ve lived through this bull-riding stuff with you for months, and you’re still set on making a fool out of yourself right here, so go do it. We’ll keep an eye out for anybody you might know.”

  They dropped me by the south gate, and Favi gave me the gear bag and squeezed my hand. “Good luck,” she said. “Do it for Ben.”

  “Thanks.” I squeezed her hand back and turned toward the arena. I followed the string of people making their way toward the stands. Really, whose fool idea was this? I looked around and I didn’t see anyone I knew. That was a blessing. And a surprise. I hoped Mike could do what he said and keep any Salt Lick folks away until I was signed in and ready to ride.

  That was the first time I’d honestly thought about the ride that day, I’d been so fixed on how to get out of the house and down to the fairgrounds. Not that I hadn’t pictured it in my head a thousand times. There was Ugly and there was me, sitting on him, knocking around but keeping my seat, riding, winning. But I hadn’t pictured that today, and now that I was close enough to smell him, well, I broke out in a sweat. Maybe I should try a taste from the packet of lick salt in my jeans. I wiped the back of my neck and said out loud, “It’s for Ben.”

  “What’s for Ben?” a cowboy asked. He carried a bull rope and wore a tall buckaroo-style hat. That made him local, and I figured he was my competition.

  “My ride,” I said.

  “You mutton busting, kid?” he asked, laughing. “You’re awfully big for that.”

  I turned my back and walked toward the table where the cowboys were signing up. I was almost in. All I had to do was sign my name and hope they didn’t ask for any proof. That was the catch. A couple of cowboys were already filling out their insurance waivers. They left the table adjusting their numbers. I needed a bigger crowd. I waited till a guy came up with all his family—wife, four little kids, the whole deal. I crowded in right behind them.

  “Name,” the man said to me.

  I looked up. “Adam Carl, sir,” I said, cool as could be.

  “Let’s see your ID.”

  “I lost my wallet yesterday. Haven’t had time to replace it,” I said. I think my voice shook.

  The man held my registration papers up and looked them over. “Too bad about your wallet,” he said.

  One of the cowboy’s kids started crying and another one was whining to get a cotton candy. I shifted my weight to my other foot.

  The man smiled again. “You don’t look nineteen, son.”

  “It’s the Indian in me.” I smiled.

  I wished the kid would throw a real fit and push this along, but instead he set
tled down and the family left. It was just me and this man. “Can I go on in?” I asked.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I have to check this out.” He left the table and climbed the bleachers to talk to a silver-haired man in a John Deere cap. This was not good. I thought about leaving. Then someone yelled, “Hey, Cam!” I turned before I thought to stop myself, and there was Darrell walking up behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  What are you doing here?” Darrell asked.

  “I’m signing up to ride this Ugly bull, same as you,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “My cousin, Cam, told me about the challenge.” I practically glued my eyes to his, hoping he’d get it—and quick before the official came back. “He said to come on up from Hawthorne. I’m signing in, see?” With that, I shoved my entry form in his face, pointing at the name and age.

  “Huh?” he said again. Then he eyed me. “Adam Carl?”

  “That’s me. I’m just older than my cousin, Ben.” I pushed the paperwork into my gym bag. He started to say something, and I had to stop him. “Ben’s the reason I’m here,” I said. “I heard my cousin could use a lift and maybe some of the prize money to get his life going again. You’re friends with him, right?”

  Darrell took in the two old guys who were still talking in the stands. “Right,” he said. “But you aren’t leaving with the prize money.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I said.

  Darrell spit out of the side of his mouth. “You’re something else,” he said. And the two of us waited for the officials at the table.

  The man talked to me first. “Son, this looks a little fishy to us. I’m afraid you’re going to have to have some proof of age.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Something that will convince us,” the official said.

  I looked at Darrell. He could get me kicked out or he could stand up for me and help me get in. He didn’t do anything. It was like he’d never met me. I said, “I’ll find something.”

  The little kids were lining up for the mutton busting, and a stream of folks came through the gate and climbed into the stands. I sat on the bottom bench and put my head in my hands. I didn’t have anything to show them. Maybe Mike and Favi could tell the man I was Adam. I jogged to the gate where they were staking out the parking lot. “I’m sorry, Cam,” Mike said. “Darrell just went right by and there’s a bunch of guys from Salt Lick who came with him.”

  “Darrell’s riding, what else would he do?” I said. “Come on, don’t worry about watching the gate anymore. I need you guys to say you know me and that I’m Adam Carl.”

  “I’m not lying to the officials for you,” Favi said.

  “I’ll do it,” Mike said, glaring at Favi. He followed me back to the registration table.

  “This is my friend, Mike Gianni,” I said. “He knows who I am.”

  “This guy’s Adam Carl. He’s from Hawthorne and comes up this way to mess around with us,” Mike said.

  “So how old is he?” the official asked.

  And that’s when Grandma Jean trotted up, breathless, pushed in front of Mike, and set her rose-covered bag on the table with a thump. The man jumped back a piece and I froze. “He’s nineteen if he’s a day and I ought to know. That’s my grandson you’re bothering.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” the man said, staring at Grandma. She smoothed out her red knitted poncho.

  “That’s my grandson,” she repeated. “Adam Carl. He lives with me down in Hawthorne. Do you want to see his baby pictures?” And just like that, she opened her bag and dumped it on the table. From the pile of rubber bands and candy bars, she picked out the little lavender photo holder she kept with Adam’s pictures. I couldn’t watch. She handed them to the man and said, “You can see the family likeness, I think. Some kids don’t change from baby to adult.” And then I looked down and sure enough, from those pictures, I could pass for little Adam if he’d actually grown up. “Now are you going to let my grandson ride this darned bull so we can see a real cowboy?” she asked.

  The man shook his head. “Well, you do look young.”

  The silver-haired man said, “He looks big enough. The kid’s probably nineteen.” He turned to Grandma Jean. “How do we know those baby pictures are him?” That was a good question. I held my breath.

  “Land, you are stubborn,” she said. She opened the back of her wallet, unfolded a piece of paper from it, and laid it in front of the official. “There. That’s his birth certificate. I had it copied, just in case you wouldn’t believe him. He doesn’t look his age to some folks.”

  The man read it and looked at the pictures she’d spread on the table. “Sorry, ma’am, we have to be extra careful.” Then he turned to me. “You’re number thirteen, third to ride tonight. Get in the lineup.”

  I started to say something to Grandma Jean, like, “What are you doing carrying around Adam Carl’s birth certificate?” but she shook her head at me and grabbed Mike’s arm. She turned him toward the stands and marched him away.

  I walked behind the chutes. The cowboys had a space set up for their gear in a big tack room. I spotted Darrell standing in the middle of piles of protective vests, helmets, hats, and some cowboys’ lucky jeans. He had his back to me and was zipping up his vest. “Hey,” I said, “thanks.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” he said. “It’s you that’s gonna get yourself whooped tonight.” The cowboy in the buckaroo hat turned and looked at me.

  “That mutton buster’s riding bulls?” he asked Darrell.

  “He’s actually pretty good at it,” Darrell said.

  “Well, they keep looking younger. I must be getting old,” the guy said. He picked up his hat and left.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “They’re out at the arena, or they rode earlier in the day. With fourteen riders signed up, they divided us up into groups. We’re in the last bunch and ain’t nobody rode him yet today. They had to stagger the rides or that poor bull would about wear out.”

  “Worn out sounds good,” I said.

  Darrell smiled. “Yeah, worn out or mad. And how did you get in here?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said. “And call me Adam.”

  “Then tell me—how exactly is your riding this bull helping Ben?”

  I zipped up Ben’s vest and pulled the glove and pine tar out of my bag. “I made him a bet. Just like I did with you and the skateboarding. If I ride this bull, Ben has to get up in the morning and do something for himself. If I don’t ride him, well, he’ll just say there ain’t no reason to hope for the impossible. And with the prize money, we’re gonna set him up with a business he can do, give him something to wake up for.”

  Darrell looked at me. “That so? Well, you got to beat me first.”

  I knew that.

  There were only four of us riding Ugly that night. Turns out the rest of the cowboys were there for the show—either team roping or riding the other bulls the stock men had brought over. And the kids had their mutton busting. They were spacing the four of us through the other events. I was number thirteen. Darrell was number fourteen. I had my shot before him, but it wouldn’t matter much, since the way they’d laid this out, any of us that rode Ugly in the Winnemucca Challenge would split the prize.

  I paced around the tack room and tried to pray. The Christian bull riders on TV, they always pointed skyward or knelt to give thanks when they came off a bull. It seemed like some good insurance to me, but I couldn’t get the prayers going when I was so wound up. Everything seemed pretty dusty and down-here-on-earth to me.

  I went outside. The sun was setting and the lights were on in the arena. The announcer called, “And now for our youngest cowboys and rodeo gals. Here they are, ready to rock and roll and ride, ride, ride on the meanest bunch of woolly sheep we could find in Humboldt County. Give a big hand to the little mutton busters.”

  I climbed the fence and looked around. Eight kids were lined up in their helmets. The oldest looked about seven.
The announcer went on. “Here’s a big cowboy, all of six years old, Taylor Graham.” A dad opened the gate on the sheep pen and the kid shot out, arms wrapped around the sheep’s neck. He rode till he slipped over to the side and lost his grip. He landed on the ground and started to cry. “That’s a great ride for Taylor, let’s give him a hand.” He wiped his eyes and walked over to his parents. The second and third kids rode. So far, Taylor was the only one who lost it. I could so get how he felt. I wanted to cry and I wasn’t even on the bull yet. They gave a big girl in blue cowboy boots the first-prize ribbon. She grinned like she’d won the lotto.

  “Well, cowboy up, ’cause we’re going to bull riding,” the announcer said. “Our first sirloin jockey is Manny Rodriguez from Bend, Oregon. He’ll be taking that challenge on Ugly. And what do you say, are you thinking it will be a cold day in August before our bull, Ugly, let’s a cowboy stick eight seconds? Good luck, Manny…and here he comes.”

  They opened the gate and I got my first look at Ugly, with Manny bumping around on his back. The bull was bigger than any I’d ever seen. He wasn’t as fast as some, but he was strong. Some bulls are turbocharged. This one was like a Hummer. He just kept tossing and taking big long rolls left and right. He pounded all four legs into the ground with a thud, Manny lost his hold, and that was that. “Okay, no score for Manny Rodriguez and another one down for Ugly. Now for some demonstration team roping.”

  Ugly trotted back toward the pen. I walked around till I could get a better view of him. His shoulder was above my chin. He was brown, with some white dapples on his rump. The wattle under his neck was as wide as my arm, and it swung back and forth making time to his steps. He didn’t have a hump like a Brahma but was set more like a short horn in the front, with thick, stubby horns. His ears were fuzzy. Strings of slobber hung from his lips. But his eyes, that was what caught me. They were yellow, not gold or brown, and clean around them was a white ring of eyeball. What gave a bull eyes like that? Was it a natural craziness or was he born mean? He snorted and shook his head like he was thinking of ways to smash cowboys. Watching him pace in the pen, I wasn’t thinking he was “Ugly.” No, I’d have named him Bull-Dozer. Or better, I’d name this one Terror-Bull.