Dairy Queen (25 page)

And I realized there were a number of things I could say. Like about the game—which I wasn't sorry we won, actually—or about what I'd said about his dad, which was just too much to even go into. "I didn't start out wanting to play football. It just sort of happened. And then I didn't tell you..." I thought about this for a while, trying to figure out how to explain it, to myself if nothing else. I'd thought about it a lot these past few weeks, trying to figure out what my crazy brain was really up to. "I didn't tell you because I really liked what we had, and I didn't want to screw it up."

Well, that hung there on the front porch for about ten years.

"Jimmy Ott said I had to come here," he said finally, like he hadn't even heard me. "He said I had to thank you."

"Oh," I said. "Don't worry about it. I really liked the training. It was fun."

Brian waved me silent. "Not for that. For the game last night."

"Oh. I didn't mean to, you know, upset you so much."

"Duh. I know that at least." And he couldn't help cracking the tiniest of smiles. But even that smile, microscopic as it was, changed the mood a bit.

So we stood there experiencing that little change of mood. Smut wandered off to find love somewhere else.

"You know what Jimmy said?" Brian said to his shoes. "He said that if I walked off that field, I'd quit like a boy. But if I stayed I'd be playing like a man."

"Wow. That's pretty intense."

"Yeah. I think he practiced it beforehand."

We grinned at that just a bit.

"You were, though," I offered. "At the end, you were someone else."

Brian frowned. "That stuff the Red Bend guys were saying to me—"

"I didn't put them up to that!"

"I know you didn't." He studied his shoes some more. "But it's good you didn't run into me last night."

Just then I heard Dad whistling in the distance. Oh, God, the last person in the world I wanted to see was Dad. Without even thinking I asked, "You want to walk up this way?"

Brian shrugged. But he walked next to me in double time as we circled the house and headed up the hill. We didn't say much for a while, just walked. Smut even caught up to us, carrying her football, hopeful I guess that we'd had brain transplants or something by this point and were all ready to play with her.

It occurred to me that I should say something. I'd spent a lot of time this summer learning how to talk, for the first time really, and now was the time for me to put it to good use. "You know," I said, my voice cracking with fear, "you know, I really missed you these last two weeks."

Brian looked at me. Not studying me or anything like that, but for the first time really looking at me. "I missed you too."

We didn't say anything more. It was pretty weird, walking the path we'd taken a hundred times up to the heifer field, Smut trotting between us hauling her football, watching us like eventually we'd break down and throw it for her.

"There's this girl," Brian said finally. "Kris. We started going out last summer. She wasn't too happy about me working here, getting all stinked up and everything. She sure doesn't like you."

I listened to this, no idea where it was going, but it just about killed me to hear it.

"I guess she got tired of it, me being so crazy. Like, I kept ragging on you but whenever she said anything about you I'd jump down her throat. Anyway, that's why we broke up." And then to break the tension or something he tossed Smut's football, so I guess she was right in the end, the way she always is.

"How's your arm?" I asked, I guess because that's what you do.

"It hurts. How about you?"

"Oh, I feel great. Just great." We both grinned.

"They really worked you over, didn't they?"

I shrugged.

By this point we were at the heifer field. There were the flags flapping away, and the football field needed a mowing, the lime lines barely visible.

"Dad saw it," I said. I wasn't up for addressing the whole Kris breakup thing.

Brian whistled. "What happened?"

I traced the top of the gate with my finger. "Nothing, I guess." I thought about it some more, how Dad showed up at practice on Thursday, our conversation. I thought about his brownies, and those enormous sandwiches he made for lunch. The way he put cinnamon in French toast. That chicken and prune dish I'd gobbled down that one night that I wouldn't admit was totally delicious. I'd just been too pigheaded to see it before, to notice that my old man was turning into a really good cook. "It was okay, actually. My dad's okay."

Brian looked over the field. "You know what I miss the most? Waiting for you to say something."

"Oh, great."

"Really. When you finally got it out, you always had something to say." All of a sudden he blurted out, "You ever date a football player?"

I thought about going to the movies with Troy Lundstrom. "Not really."

"Me neither," he said, looking off over the trees.

I laughed because it was so funny, but he didn't, and it took me a minute to figure it out. "What? You mean like us?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. It'd be hard, the whole Red Bend–Hawley thing."

"Yeah. Like what do you call it? Romeo and Juliet."

He grinned at me. "I thought you flunked English."

I blushed and then threw the football for Smut just to collect my thoughts. It wasn't that bad a pass either, for me, anyway. "I don't know," I said. "I'd probably end up breaking your arm or something."

Brian laughed. There was this really nice bit of quiet between us.

And right at that moment Mom came puffing up the hill in sweatpants and headphones, looking like she was about to take on Mount Everest. She nodded as she passed like it was the most natural thing in the world for us to run into each other right there in the middle of nowhere. She didn't even slow down.

"What are you doing?" I called out, loudly so she'd hear over her headphones.

"Getting in shape ... like everyone else ... in this family," she shouted, heading off over the horizon toward the hay meadow.

We watched her pass.

"Jeez," I said. It was all I could come up with. It was pretty cool, actually, the thought of Mom losing some weight. Maybe now with only one job she really could.

"I should take off," Brian said. But he didn't say it in an I'm Disgusted way. More like an I'll See You Later kind of way.

"Sure," I said. We headed down the hill.

"I told Dad to bag the law suit." He sighed. "We'll probably have to talk about that a bunch more."

I considered what he'd just said. "Was this before Jimmy told you to come here, or after?"

"Oh, Jimmy told me that last night. Said I couldn't come back to practice until I'd seen you." Brian grinned at me.

"Wow." I thought about it. "You know, when we were kids Jimmy used to tell us he was our fairy god-uncle. I guess ... I guess he was right."

Brian smiled to himself. "I guess he was."

We walked all the way back to the Cherokee without saying another word, and then when we got there Brian said, "So, I'll see you around?"

"Yeah. I hope so," I said.

And then because I couldn't figure out anything better I messed up his hair, and then without us even thinking about it he pulled me over and kissed my forehead. And you know what the best part of it was? Neither one of us made a crack about bloody noses. I really appreciated that. I appreciated that a lot.

And he drove away. I stood there and watched him go, Smut sitting next to me, looking back and forth between us like she was waiting for something more to happen. And then after he was gone I scooped up her football and tossed it across the driveway, another pretty good pass for me, and she brought it back, looking all proud the way she always does, and we went inside to see what Dad had made us for lunch.

So now I bet you're wondering what happens, and all I can say is get in line because I'm wondering too. I can't tell you if Red Bend beats Hawley in the big game, and I can't tell you if I end up going out with Brian or even end up friends with him. I can't even tell you if I'm going to be playing football this season, because today is only Labor Day and school starts tomorrow and then they'll make the decision about me playing and all. We're heading out for the Labor Day picnic in a couple minutes, and Dad is downstairs now making a huge racket because he can't find the shredded coconut.

But you know, I think Brian and I will be friends, if we can keep talking. It's pretty weird, us being on different teams and all, but I just have this feeling it'll work out. That was the most amazing part of this summer. Well, meeting Brian and getting to know him was pretty huge. But even more than that, when I really think about it, in terms of life lessons and all, is learning how important it is to keep talking. If you'd asked me back in June what Big Thing I was going to deal with this summer, I sure wouldn't have put that at the top of the list. But when I think about Curtis on that ride back from Madison, or Mom sitting on my bed discussing our family, or that phone call I made to Bill that got him to come see me, or my conversation on the field with Amber and how we're talking again now, or even my complimenting Dad about his cooking ... all that stuff is important. It really is. It really, really is.

You know, I started writing this thing thinking that it was going to be about football. And describing the scrimmage, and Bill's game two years ago, and all that training I did with Brian, well, that sure covered football enough. But what really surprises me is how much I wrote about other stuff. Because as it turns out—and I'm sure this won't be a revelation to anyone out there with half a brain, even though it was to me—that life isn't all about football.

So anyway, Mrs. Stolze, I hope you like this. It's been pretty amazing, actually, this assignment. When I started two weeks ago I thought I wouldn't have that much to write and that I'd be done in just a couple paragraphs. But it turns out that even if I don't talk a lot, when it's something that matters I still have a lot to say.

Maybe Curtis should try flunking English.

Find out what happens next in D.J.'s life
in the sequel to
Dairy Queen,
The Off Season.

• The Schwenk family isn't very good at talking about problems. How does this affect each family member? How do you think your family would handle the kind of problems the Schwenks are facing?
  
• D.J. does a lot of growing up over the course of the story. How do the other characters in the book grow up? What role does she play in this development?
  
• Is D.J.'s father a sympathetic character? Why or why not?
  
• D.J.'s mother is absent for much of the story. Why do you think this is? How would you react in her situation?
  
• D.J. often identifies herself through her physical appearance. Do you think she has a healthy or unhealthy body image?
  
• In what ways does Brian match and break the stereotype of a popular high school boy? How did your impression of him change over the course of the story?
  
• Brian and D.J. both begin the story with very strong views of the world. What are some of their initial opinions, and how do these change over the course of the book? How do D.J. and Brian challenge each other?
  
• D.J. and Brian are about to resume high school. What are some of the obstacles they'll face? What strengths and weaknesses do they each have in facing these obstacles?
  
• Amber has a minor but critical role in
  Dairy Queen.
  How does her presence affect the story?
  
• What do you think will happen to Curtis in eighth grade and high school?
  
• Is D.J. an appropriate role model for fifteen-year-old girls? If she attended your school, would you consider her a role model?
  

How did you come up with the idea for this book?

It always sounds goofy, but I really did have a dream about a girl playing football against a boy she loves passionately. When I woke up, my first thought was "What an amazing premise for a story!" Followed by "Babe, you don't know one thing about football." But that kernel stayed with me, just kept growing in me for days, as I thought about it and worked it—dream or no, the story idea was just a lump, and I had to do a lot of shaping.

The reader learns a lot about life on a dairy farm—did you have to do much research?

My mother grew up on a dairy farm, smaller than D.J.'s but with that same feel of family labor (and family tension). When I was a kid we lived up the road from the sweetest, cleanest
dairy farm I've ever seen. My sister and I would bike down to buy their amazing ice cream, we'd hunt for kittens in the hayloft and feed the calves, climb a perfect maple tree outside their back door. As I was writing the first draft of
Dairy Queen,
I kept a long list of dairy-related questions, and then I visited Art Webster—he's the dairy farmer, retired now—and quizzed him for several hours. He couldn't have been nicer or more helpful. He's one of the people I dedicated the book to; he's always been a surrogate grandfather to us.

Communication is hard for everyone in the Schwenk family, and the reader sees only D.J.'s thoughts. Is it a challenge to write about characters that don't say much?

The bigger challenge was explaining the characters from D.J.'s point of view. Her feelings for her father are so complicated that they really obscure his identity. For example, he's a good cook—burnt French toast notwithstanding—but we readers don't learn that until the end of the book when D.J. finally figures it out. I had the same trouble with Brian; I had so much trouble getting inside his head because I was too busy seeing him through D.J.

Did you always intend to include Oprah Winfrey in the story?

Meaning, did I dream about her on the sidelines, cheering my girl on? No. But she was so easy to integrate—her role came so naturally, much more smoothly than most of the other characters'. D.J.'s family might be tough farmers, but they can't
identify or even give credit to their feelings, and it's destroying them. The family is collapsing. D.J., by trying in her own inarticulate way to tap in to Oprah, recognizes—or begins to recog—that talking about emotions and pain and resentment, all those hot buttons, isn't self-indulgent or whiny, but essential.