Dairy Queen (10 page)

When I came in, though, he and Mom barely looked up. "You've been busy there" was all Mom said.

"How about this one?" Dad asked her, holding up the Betty Crocker cookbook.

"I'd stay away from marshmallows," she answered.

"What are you doing?" I had to ask.

Mom sighed. "At church your father got in a fight with Connie Ingalls—"

"A discussion," Dad interrupted. "They were
dry.
"

"You hurt her feelings, you know," Mom said.

"I didn't
say
they were dry. I just said—"

"Anyway, Dad said that I could make better brownies and he'd prove it." She and Dad had clearly been through this a couple times.

"But you never make brownies."

"I'll make them," Dad said like it was obvious.

"You'll make brownies for Mom?" I was confused.

"Your mom's too busy."

"But—if you're making them, then they're
your
brownies."

"Men don't make brownies," he sniffed. "How do you feel about chocolate chips?"

I looked at him sitting elbow-deep in cookbooks, recipe cards everywhere, ajar of corn syrup—my corn syrup, my birthday corn syrup—right in front of him. "Whatever," I said, and went upstairs to take a shower.

Curtis was at a sleepover so I couldn't even joke with him about Dad. I couldn't really talk to Amber about it. She and Dad don't get along too good in the best of circumstances. She'd make some crack about how you don't need boobs to make brownies, which is true but still. It's one thing to call your own father a moron but it's different when someone else does it. And with Amber not having a dad and all, it was even harder. Because I couldn't point out her own father's mistakes except for that one about him leaving before she was born, and that I wouldn't do.

You know who I really wanted to talk to about the brownie thing? Brian. Because he'd find something to joke about, some way that was funny but not mean so even Dad would laugh. And thinking about that made me really miss Brian. Because, well, maybe you haven't figured this out yet, but I don't have a whole lot of people in my life to talk to, and Brian was someone I could. Even when we didn't talk, which was most of the time, I felt okay with him. And then I started thinking about his training and how the worst part was over, and how if he kept it up it would only get better and he wouldn't be so sore. Plus it would really impress Jimmy Ott that he'd decided to keep going.

And then right away before I changed my mind I dried off and went into Mom and Dad's room where the phone is and closed the door so no one could hear me because that would be the worst, and I looked up Nelson in the phone book and they were listed, thank God, because I didn't have a solution if they weren't, and called him.

The phone rang four times. One more ring, I decided, and I'd hang up.

"Hello?" a woman answered.

"Yeah—hi." I swallowed. "Is, um, Brian there?"

"Brian!" she called. "There's a girl on the phone for you!"

I blushed deep red. Okay, I know I'm a girl and that I was calling him, but I wasn't
that kind
of girl. He must get a hundred calls a day from girls. They sure called his cell phone enough. I should have called his cell phone—then I wouldn't be interrupting his mom. But I didn't even have that number. And if I did call it, that would make me seem even more like a girl on the phone—

"Hello?" Brian said.

"Hey. It's, um, D.J."

"Hey, how are you?" At least he didn't sound angry.

"Okay." I tried to think of something to say, but all I could think of were all those girls who called him and how they probably were much, much better at this.

The minutes ticked by.

"You want to put Curtis on, let him talk for a while?" Brian asked.

I cracked up, because I was so nervous but also because it was funny. And then, all at once so I wouldn't stop myself, "Last week was real hard but it's going to get easier so maybe if you wanted we could keep going with the whole training thing."

"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.

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.