100 Days (14 page)

Tate turns back around, ever so slowly. “I think,” he says, his lips stretched into a taut smile now, “that's he's going to move his piece-of-shit fence back onto his own piece-of-shit property if he doesn't feel like having a nice long chat with my attorney.
Capisce?
”

I cross my arms over my chest and train my eyes on him. Keeping my gaze as steady as I can, I watch as he gets back into the truck and drives away.

 

38

AGNES

DAY 63: APRIL 23

If you look up
Progeria
in old medical textbooks, you'll see black-and-white photographs of miniature, ancient-looking naked kids. I can't say exactly why this bothers me so much. Maybe it's because, somehow, those olden-days kids feel like family to me. Like we're all connected, thanks to a single microscopic protein that decided to go rogue and do its own thing when our bodies were first being formed.

I'm sure the images were useful back then for doctors to see what progeria sufferers (I hate that word as much as I hate the word
victims
, but it's the one people always seem to use) looked like from head to toe. Still. Some of the kids in those old pictures are obviously trying to hide their nakedness, which they were undoubtedly told not to do. I imagine the photographer commanding them to “Stop it! Keep your hands at your sides!” But how could a kid help it? Especially a hundred years ago, when even a healthy adult getting naked for anyone, much less for a picture to be published in a book, was a way bigger deal than it is these days. Then again, maybe those kids were already too worn down from being treated like pincushions and science experiments to care.

I know how they must have felt. When I go to the hospital, I feel like a science experiment, too. But the truth is, I don't have to deal with half of what those kids went through. Sure, people stare at me. Sure, they make ignorant comments, often loudly enough for me to hear. But I'm not hated because of how I look. I'm not in danger. Many of the kids in those old textbooks no doubt ended up in the freak show tents of traveling circuses, or they were hidden away in cellars and basements, a family's shame—if they lived long enough to do either, that is.

Sometimes, my heart hurts just thinking about them.

 

39

BOONE

DAY 62: APRIL 24

The Chevy's out of commission again, but this time it's not because of loose battery connections. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope that it will be another simple fix.

It's all going to work out. It's all going to work out. It's all going to work out.

This is the mantra I force myself to recite in my head when life's pressing down so hard that I'm not sure I can take it anymore. Without those words, I'd just find a corner and start rocking.

Lately, my days are a blur of wake up, get dressed, do the chores, feed Diablo, make sure Mom has something to eat, panic about the fact that
oh shit I forgot to study for history last night and there's a test today
, try to remember to eat breakfast and grab something for lunch, race out the door, hope the truck will start, hope I have enough gas, wonder what I'm going to do if I have to buy gas, stress about payday not being until next week, hope I'm not late to school, race to first period, listen to the hallway insults, try not to kill anybody, worry about the new asshole neighbor instead of focusing on the history test, fail the history test, avoid Agnes and Moira, who (without question) regret getting reinvolved with me and my apocalypse of a life, hope Mom's okay, wonder what I'll do if she isn't, try to remember if we have something in the fridge or the cupboard that I can heat up for dinner, find an isolated spot at lunch, eat whatever I happened to grab that morning, make it through afternoon classes without falling asleep, get the hell out of there as soon as the bell rings, drive home, make sure Mom's okay, feed Diablo, figure out dinner, try to remember to do homework, face-plant onto my bed, wake up the next morning, and do it all over again.

It's all going to work out. It's all going to work out. It's all going to work out.

 

40

MOIRA

DAY 61: APRIL 25

“Hey, that's Boone,” Agnes says, tugging at my sleeve. It's Monday afternoon, and we've just pulled out of the school parking lot. Sure enough, he's standing at an intersection up ahead with his thumb out.

“We should offer him a ride,” Agnes tells me. “His truck must be broken again.”

I stare straight ahead at the road. “He'll be fine.” It's not like he appreciated the last ride I gave him.

“Jeez, Em.”

“What?” I glance over at her. The look of disappointment that's in her eyes now never fails to kill me.

“We can't just drive right past him.”

“Fine,” I say, exasperated. I turn on the blinker and roll El-C to a stop a few yards from where Boone is standing.

Agnes cranks down her window. “Hey,” she tells him. “Hop in.”

“Nah,” Boone says. His eyes dart to my face before he focuses on Agnes again and smiles. “That's okay. Someone'll stop.”

“Okeydokey,” I say to the windshield, my voice fake-cheerful. Of
course
he doesn't want a ride. Not from me, anyway.

Agnes ignores me. “I don't know,” she says, grinning at Boone from her booster seat,
teasing
him like they're regular buddies and not just people who were temporarily thrown together by a random situation in the cafeteria. “You're pretty big and scary.
I
wouldn't pick you up.”

“You don't even drive,” he tells her, still smiling. Whatever this is, this weird little faux-flirty banter, he's keeping it between the two of them. I sigh once more and check the rearview mirror to make sure there's nobody behind us who wants to turn onto this street. Sure enough, a bunch of cars are coming. They're only a block away, stopped at the light. I breathe out slowly through my nose.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Agnes is still grinning. “Camp by the side of the road with your thumb out, waiting for a ride that might never come?”

“I hitched a ride to school this morning,” Boone tells her. “Figure I can do the same to get home.”

“Just get in, Boone,” I finally say to the air in front of me. Someone needs to put a stop to this nonsense. Apparently, I'm the one person present who realizes we're going to have a bunch of road-ragey drivers lined up behind us pretty soon if I don't move the car out of the damn road. I want to floor it instead, just leave him in a cloud of exhaust. But Agnes would never let me hear the end of it.

Boone hesitates at first, but then he finally picks up his grungy, military-style backpack, steps toward El-C, and reaches for the passenger side door. Unfortunately, because Agnes's booster seat is strapped in on that side, and because the car has no backseat, he's going to have to get in through my driver's side door.

“Over here,” I bark at him through the open window. Moments later, I'm standing on the street, keeping an eye on the rapidly approaching traffic. Sighing, Boone meanders toward me and ducks into El-C. As soon as he squeezes himself past the steering wheel and scoots toward the center of the seat, I jump back in, slam the door, and step on the gas.

The traffic light up ahead turns yellow, then red, causing me to brake hard. Both their heads flop forward.

“Whoa,” Agnes says.

Instinctively, I reach my right hand out to brace against her, the way moms do with their kids, but I end up pressing firmly on Boone's stomach instead.
Jesus.
“Sorry,” I say.

He ignores the apology. “If you guys are in a rush and need to get somewhere, I could seriously just—”

“No!” Agnes laughs. “Moira's just being a spaz.” She sort of shout-giggles this last part. The sound grates on my nerves, which makes me feel guilty. Feeling guilty always makes me angry, so there's that, but what was Agnes thinking, throwing me under the bus the way she did?

The light turns green, and I touch the gas as lightly as possible this time, easing El-C forward. For the next few minutes, I drive at turtle speed without saying anything, like a seething grandma. Out of the corner of my eye I see Agnes staring at me.

“Sorry if my boots reek,” Boone announces after a while, breaking the silence. We've just turned onto the dirt road that leads to his place.

“Ew,” Agnes says, laughing again.

“I was out mucking the paddock this morning and forgot to change them. I'm pretty sure Ms. Chavez was this close to kicking me out of history today.”

Agnes turns toward him in her booster seat. “You still have horses?”

“Just one now. My mom's gelding.”

“Oh, Boone, can I ride him?”

Boone hesitates. “You mean today?”

With a wild grin on her face, Agnes nods.

This has gone far enough. Glancing at her, I shake my head:
No.
The strap across her right shoulder looks like it's digging uncomfortably into her skin. I make a mental note to loosen it.

“Uh, that's probably not the best—” Boone starts to say, but Agnes cuts him off.

“I'm not allergic or anything.”

“Seriously,” I tell her. “You've never even been interested in horses. Plus, we'd really need to ask your mom first if—”

“Pleeeeeeeeeease? I'm interested in them now!” Thankfully, I'm getting more used to driving on this road. Otherwise, I'd have to pull over just to look at her and go,
What the actual hell, Agnes?
Eventually, the long dirt driveway leading to Boone's house comes into view. “Should I let you off here?” I ask him in the sweetest voice I can muster. Part of me is perversely interested in seeing just how long he thinks he can keep pretending I'm not in the car.

“I want to see the horse!” Agnes insists yet again. God, she's been acting like a caffeinated toddler since we picked Boone up. Usually, it's not too hard to get her to change her mind about something by simply reasoning with her. Every once in a while, though, she'll dig her heels in. Clearly, this is one of those times, and I know better than to fight it.

“You can see the horse if you really want to,” Boone says, quietly capitulating. “If it's okay with Moira.” He sounds miserable, and he won't look at either of us, but at least he's finally acknowledging my presence.

Again, I sigh. “Are you sure?” I ask him.

“No,” he says, staring hard at the dashboard. “I'm not sure. I'd rather you guys not see where I live from even this far away, to be honest. But Agnes wants to see the horse, so…”

I wasn't expecting that particular answer. It never occurred to me that he was embarrassed about having us out here. I stop the car at the end of the driveway and nod without looking at him.

“I'm sure your house is fine,” Agnes assures him.

Boone smiles a little. “It's not, actually,” he says. “It's really, really not. But let's go ahead and get this over with.”

I turn in to the driveway and keep going until we reach the end of it. Without saying anything more, Boone points to a parking spot near the horse shelter. A few hundred yards away, a little house sits on a bare patch of ground looking sort of small and sad and like it has seen better days. The three of us get out of the car, and the first thing I notice is how quiet it is out here. There are no traffic sounds, no sirens. Just the cry of a far-off hawk and the rustle of leaves as a breeze moves through the branches of a big old oak tree near the horse paddock.

There's a ruckus as Boone leads us toward the shelter. I can see the horse standing next to a steel water trough. He's holding a stick between his teeth, and it looks like he's sword fighting with an invisible opponent. There's a demented look in his huge brown eyes, like he's demanding satisfaction.

“Look at him!” Agnes laughs.

Now it's Boone's turn to sigh. “That would be Diablo. I think he may have been dropped on his head as a foal.”

Every once in a while, the horse whacks the stick against the trough and then lifts his head up high to reposition the weapon in his mouth.

“Wanna try him out?” Boone asks. It takes me a second to realize he's talking to me.

“Right, whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Oo! I do!” Agnes is standing on her tiptoes, waving a hand in the air, practically jumping in place.

“Like I said,” Boone tells her, “you can ride him as far as I'm concerned.” He turns his attention back to me. “Why ‘whatever'?”

“Um, hello? Silk dress?” I look down at the black vintage smock I got for a steal at one of the thrift stores in town. They didn't know what they had. Puffy gray crinoline was sewn in between the silk and the lining when I bought it, but I ripped it out right away. The last thing I need is a bulk-enhancing underskirt.

Boone's watching me, apparently not convinced by my lack of proper riding attire. Even aside from the dress, me riding that horse is an absurd thing to consider. Horses are gargantuan and unpredictable. I've heard they have brains the size of walnuts. I can easily see myself getting bucked off and becoming one with the ground below, my dress hiked up, displaying God knows how many unmentionable parts of my body. Agnes is watching me now, too. Do they actually think there's a chance in Hades I'm going to say yes? Rolling my eyes again, I reach down and grab some of the silk between my hands. “Silk. Dress,” I repeat.

“Those tights you're wearing really don't look all that different from breeches,” Boone says. “It's totally doable.” My face feels hot at the thought of his noticing my tights. My chunky legs. True, I've always kind of liked my strong calves and my ankles, but … God, I never should have gotten out of the car. We should have just dropped him at the end of his driveway and taken off like I originally planned.