"Take me down..." Darrell sang, moving around his room. Guns N' Roses was blaring, and he was jamming out. Mama insisted he clean up, and anyway, his comic book memorabilia was getting dusty. The things he did for his Mama and Captain America were astounding. Astounding:causing a feeling of great surprise or wonder. Darrell's mind pulled up the SAT flashcard for astounding in his brain with a disturbing speed. He need to stop studying, but it was yet another thing he did for Captain America and his mother. But mostly his Mama, as Captain America was a chill sort of guy, who did not mind the dust or paying for silly endeavors like college. Darrell thought some dust gave the room patina, but Mama said it gave her headaches. Darrell sniffed, wondering why dust bothered her, but the overwhelming smell of lemon was just peachy with her. She wouldn't pronounce a room clean until the smell was strong enough to knock her over when she came in.
The dust rag was moving over the wood, and Darrell took a moment to rely on his talents with the air guitar, even if his fingers did slip on the imaginary strings because they were wet. Finally, the song switched and the dresser was clean. He turned up the volume as Alex Turner's voice came through the speakers. He knew who the Arctic Monkeys were, yes he did, and he loved some of their stuff. The Last Shadow Puppets were also on his YouTube list, but nobody but Dora knew that. By the time his nightstand was dusted, the song ended. He started to jam out again, "...my blood runs cold..." and gathered up his laundry, wondering how socks got that stinky.
"It's okay, I understand; This ain't no never..." Darrell sang, moving his hips to the rhythm, turning his comforter up, over clean sheets. He did tucked the covers down, preparing to continue grooving around his room, the music stopped. The iPod was silent, having come to a halt, and Darrell whirled around. He hated when Mom paused his music just as he was getting into his groove. Was that really, really needed? Darrell whirled, planning to give her a piece of his mind, when he fell, tripping over his own feet into lump on the edge of his bed.
Jake Ely stood next to his dock, and was smiling as widely as some people laughed. Darrell stood, hoping that his Beetles t-shirt would give him some cred. I'm McCartney. I'm cool, like McCartney. Jake spoke, "What's this?"
"Why'd you pause my song, man?" Darrell groused, shifting to sit more correctly. "I was cleaning."
"Why?" Jake asked, with that look of his, the one that told Darrell he wasn't buying what he was selling. His friend was trying not to laugh. He laughed, sometimes, like when when Quinn had put all of one of their brother's furniture on the roof, once, so clearly Jake thought something was funny.
"My mother." Darrell explained. He was old enough that it wasn't right to call Mama 'Mama' with a guy in his room. There were lines. "Wants this clean for the Supper Dance."
"You're...going?" Jake asked, with a bit of look on his face. He looked like he was trying to figure out which Twix bar was the right one, and which one was the left, so that he could enter the contest. Darrell thought the company should have done a top and bottom instead of the left and right ones, because you could easily flip the package.
Jake had that look on his face, the one that meant he'd rotated the Twix package in his mind. Darrell understood, then, what Jake was not saying. Darrell barely bit down on the urge to curse. "You mean to tell me you're not?" Still? They'd been having this conversation for weeks. Weeks.
Jake merely raised an eyebrow. That didn't scare Darrell. He raised one back.
Jake said, "Why should I?" He seemed in a hurry to get out of the room. Good, let the idiot sweat a little.
"Why should you..." Darrell trailed off, a prayer in his heart. He was a failure. He had not done one thing, taught Jake one thing about how to treat girls. Poor Sam. Poor, poor, Sam. "Don't you want to go?"
"No." Jake said. "Can we go, alright? We're late." Jake left the room, then, but Darrell dogged his heels.
Darrell knew better than to let this go, as he headed down the steps, tilting a frame on the wall, because it wasn't right unless it was crooked. "Does Sam?"
"Why should that..." Jake broke off, when he saw the look on Darrell's face, as he turned on the landing, "What?"
"Don't what me, I swear!" He left the room, calling, "Mama! Listen to this business!"
"What, Dare?" Mama replied, from the living room. Darrell marched right over to her, knowing Jake was behind him.
Oh, Mama would hand it right to him. She was a good mother, she would make Jake do this, because it was good for him. That's what good mothers did. Eat yours, peas! Clean your room! Take your Flintstone gummy, it's good for you, Dare! "Jake here doesn't want to go to the Supper Dance."
"Wh-?" She broke off, looking up from a novel, "Oh. Dare, you leave them be...Your cousin mentioned..."
Darrell rolled his eyes. Jake didn't need to know anything about Hughey Dewey and the fact that Darrell intended to march to the Bishop and have his freakish cousin defrocked for being a blabbermouth. "Look, it's important, right?"
Darrell smiled because Jake was resigned to his fate and listened to Mama as she said, "I mean...I never got to go. I always wished I had gone, you know. Everybody wants to feel pretty, hang out with their friends, let their hair down..." She trailed off, "But I wouldn't trade you for a million proms, Dare."
"I know, Mama. We're going to go out, okay?" He asked, moving forward to grab a jacket from the back of the chair. "Got to see a man about a car."
"Don't overpay, boys!" Mama replied, as they left the house. Jake said something to her, but Darrell didn't hear, and he didn't care, so long as Mama set Jake on the straight and narrow.
Darrell flopped back on the seat, "Stop at the gas station on the way out, okay?"
"Why?" Jake said, with a glance towards the fuel gauge.
"I want a Twix bar." Darrell turned on the radio. At least Jake had gotten him out of cleaning his room, and even if he couldn't figure out where he'd gone wrong with his buddy, at least he could figure out which was the left bar and which was the right. Maybe.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Damn it all." Darrell shut the truck door, and grabbed the gold wrapper. Jake gave him a look that said it all, and Darrell tramped towards the house. He hadn't figured out which bar was which. Again. He added an angry letter to his to-do list. Maybe Nabisco would hire him to fix their messes once he told them how to solve a problem they created. Or was it Hershey's? Or Cadbury's? Twix's were British, right, so it must be Cadbury's. His mind began to race as he made his way into the house, composing a letter in his head.
Mr. Cadbury. You might have your eggs, and your bunnies, but you know nothing of common sense! Why else are there no Kinder Eggs in the States and-
He could hear Mrs. Ely speaking, so he stopped composing his letter, and slid into the entryway to listen. Sam was holding a large tote bag with fabric stuffed into it, and Mrs. Ely was holding a dish, drying it, as she wasn't too far from the kitchen. "Of course, I'd be glad to help you, Sammy. I think it's a wonderful project."
"You're sure?" Sam sounded uncertain, and Darrell was equally so, hoping that he hadn't been seen. He didn't even know why he was eavesdropping. It seemed the thing to do. It was sort of like when you spilled salt, and you threw some over your shoulder. When Darrell Lucas overheard a conversation, he listened in, even if it wouldn't do anything in the long run, much like throwing salt. And anyway, if he always did it, he would never need to know what happened if he didn't.
"Certainly, honey." Mrs. Ely smiled, and Darrell inched closer to the door, keeping flat against the wall, being careful not to knock a photograph of a teenage Adam off the wall. Trust Adam Ely to get his way, he thought, as he frantically steadied the wobbling frame, "I'll keep my lips buttoned and leave them in a basket for you."
"Thanks, Max." Sam paused, and Darrell prayed in his head that she hadn't heard him, using every bit of Catholic School attending Alter Boy Latin he knew. God would understand his urgency better, because Sister Mary Patrick had always said God spoke Latin, and that's why he had to learn it. Darrell had told her that Jesus hadn't spoken Latin, but the good Sister hadn't cared, and had continued lecturing. He'd had to clap erasers, after he'd stood on his desk, and intoned, "Vescere bracis meis!" He'd gotten his revenge, though, because he'd written "Sentite aciem acrem ensis mortiferi, o larvae putidae, o bustirapi nefandi!" on the board, using up the whole board and a whole stick of chalk. Sister Mary Patrick had not been pleased, but at least the Latin had been better than usual.
Sam was speaking as Sister Mary Patrick's angry face floated out of his mind, thank God. "You're sure he won't be mad?"
"It's a lovely suprise. I can't think of a single reason he wouldn't love it. At the very least..." The phone began to rang, and Darrell used the fact that (who was not Max, ever, not even his mind) turned away from Sam to jump out, quickly, from behind the arch of the doorway.
"Darrell!" Sam said, tucking the bag behind her. Amateur, Darrell thought. Amateur: Not professional; unskillful. He wanted to tell her that if she was trying to hide something, the last thing she wanted to do was call attention to it. Poor girl didn't have basic life skills. Well, it didn't behoove (to be worthwhile to, as for personal profit or advantage) him to enlighten her right now.
"You're wanted in the barn. Jake is muttering about being behind on chores." Darrell watched as she blushed, and turned to Mrs. Ely who was talking softly into the phone at the other end of the room.
"Oh. Er, Right." Sam shifted, and kicked the bag under the table. "I'll be along. I have to stop in the laundry..." She trailed off, awkwardly. Darrell could have laughed. Sam was the world's worst liar. "Right. I'm going."
Darrell, luckily, watched as she tripped out of the room. He slowly, walked to the trash can, trying to peek in the bag as he did. There was a small bark of a cough from the woman left in the room, and Darrell knew he'd been caught. He tossed the crinkled wrapper into the can, and fled, wiping his palm on his jeans.
After lugging a million bags of God knew what around the barn, the reason hit him. Sam had fabric in the bag, that he knew. Fabric for what, that was the question, though? A dress! A dress? A dress because she wanted to go to the Supper Dance and because she made most of her clothing. He owed Sam one, and if she was working on a dress for the Supper Dance, he would do his level best to get her there. After all, every Sophomore wanting to go to the event needed a fairy godmother to get her there. Darrell needed his notebook. No. It was time to pull out the big guns. He needed Dora. Turning off his SAT prep audiobook, he began to type. This list needed to be an outline.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Two weeks later, Darrell was about ready to throw in the towel, both with Sam and with the SAT's. This fairy Godmother stuff was hard, harder than the vocab prep work he was doing with the giant green book in front of him. SAT Success his behind. The book was a torture device.
Anyway. He'd started hanging out with Sam, a little bit more, to try to get it out of her. He needed to see the dress, or at least hear her talk about it, but every time he showed up, she came out of the dining room at River Bend with bits of thread in her hair, and a furtive look on her face. Darrell paused to write down furtive in his SAT notebook. Furtive: attempting to avoid notice or attention, typically because of guilt or a belief that discovery would lead to trouble; secretive. Mama had insisted on the class. Anyway, she was hiding in the dining room with Jen quite a bit.
One day, he'd gone over, to find Mrs. Forester, Grace, not Brynna, talking to Sam about making sure she ironed her seams. Jen had whistled, and the girls had swept their project under the proverbial rug before he could really see anything than a flash of dark blue fabric. Proverbial: referred to in a proverb or idiom. Darrell stretched his head.
What in the hell's bells was an idiom again? He turned to the dictionary he'd been given in the fourth grade by Mrs. Heisenberg, the only Conservadox English teacher at the Catholic School, who'd told that Darrell that he could write, but he could spell for beans. Its yellowing cover was well worn, and bore the markings from where he'd tried to erase the lewd graphic freak boy Wendell had drawn on the cover. It was gross, and an affront to the English language, even if it was technically anatomically correct.
Ah. Here it was. Idiom: an expression whose meaning is not predictable from the usual meanings of its constituent elements... At that, Darrell's eyes glossed over and he stood, ignoring the protests of the chair, and made his way to the car. He had to get to River Bend. This was enough. He would get it out of her, one way or another, and they'd come up with a plan, together.
Darrell burst into the kitchen of River Bend. "I have decided, Sam, that things can't go on as they are. You must allow me..."
"To tell you how ardently I admire and love you?" Pepper quipped from the table.
"Wha-" Darrell gaped, out of breath from the bounce in his step. "Pepper! What the hell- o, Mr. Forester!" The men were all crowded around the kitchen table, not just Pepper. Nice save, he thought, Lucas. Nice save. Mr. Forester would never suspect what he had been about to say.
"It's Jane Austen." Pepper said, like that was supposed to mean something to Darrell, "Sam's not here. Save the speech for later."
Mr. Forester was holding a Scrabble tile, and glanced at his foreman, who was grinning. "Something you want to tell the class, Darrell?" The cowboy waited with a widening smile.
What was he to say? I know, this time. This time I know that Sam wants Jake to do something, and this time, things are going to go they way everyone thinks they should because that's what matters, and I need information because I need, need, need it. Darrell swallowed. "No, sir."
"Really?" Mr. Forester drawled, as Dallas shook the tile bag, "Seems odd, you busting in here, after dinner, to talk to my daughter. What can't go on?"
"Global warming?" Darrell shifted, and reproached his question into a statement "Global warming, sir. It's a real problem."
"Really now?" Dallas replied. He wasn't even bothering to try not to smile. What, Darrell wondered, was so darn funny about the fact that the polar ice caps were melting and penguins had to wear little sweaters now? But wait. If it was getting warmer, why did the little dudes have to bundle up with knitted sweaters that ladies at Church made? Darrell only knew about the sweaters because Hughey Dewey had practically forced him to sit with Mrs. Guntherman's annoying daughter, Diana, who was a member of Greenpeace or whatever. She wasn't annoying because of her environmentalism, but rather because she didn't like The Rolling Stones. That was a mortal sin, surely.
"Yes, sir." Darrell looked to Mr. Forester, "Can I speak to Sam?"
"Can you?" It was Pepper who replied. What was this? Did Pepper have some sort of crush on Sam that he was being so silly, repeating what Darrell had said? No, sir! He'd not busted his rumpus for months, months, to get Sam and Jake together only to have Carrot Top Cowboy mess it all up.
"May I?" He ground out, glaring at Pepper, who chortled.
Mr. Forester placed a tile on the board, and Dallas counted up the points, before he spoke, "She's somewhere, with Ely, probably avoiding arrest for some scrape or another with that horse and his mare." At that, the windblown man ran his fingers through his cropped hair.
Mr. Forester glanced at Pepper, and said, "You may call his phone." Ah-ha! So they were in cahoots! They were! Mr. Forester was trying to match Sam up with Pepper! That they would mess with his carefully laid plans so made him indignant. Still, he weighed his options and came to a decision.
"No thanks, Mr. Forester." Having Jake up in this would just mess it up, "I really need to talk to Sam."
Pepper snorted, "Jake won't like the secrets."
"What secrets?" Darrell returned, wondering how Carrots seemed so in the know. What was going on with him and Sam? Why, if he found out anything was, he, well, Darrell didn't know what he'd do. His boots were new, and he didn't want to get blood on them, "Sam can't keep a secret for beans."
"I wouldn't say that, son." Mr. Forester mused as Pepper spun the board triumphantly, "That project of hers is coming along. I may be able to eat a meal in my dining room sometime in the next decade."
Darrell was on that like white on rice, before Pepper could shoot his boss a hesitant look. "What project?"
"You don't know, Mr. Researcher?" Dallas tapped his chin, "Well, now, let's keep it that way, huh?" They were baiting him! Of all the horrible tricks!
"Dal, what's say we give Darrell here a shot?" Mr. Forester turned to face him, carefully shielding his tile rack from view, "Why do you need to know?"
"According to my Priest, I have a deep-seated issue with not knowing things. My mother says I'm precocious." Darrell rattled off. No. Not that. "I..."
Mr. Forester took pity on his case of verbal vomit. "How about we tell her you stopped by?"
As Darrell turned to leave, there was a question from the taciturn man. "Mr. Lucas, do you play Scrabble?"
Darrell pulled up a chair. It was the best kind of SAT practice, anyway. After he set about trouncing Pepper, he didn't even care that he had to leave before Sam came home. Trounce was worth 9 points. Double letter score on the C, for a total of 6 points. 15 points! Carrots was going down in flames brighter than his hair.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Another two weeks flew by. He took the SATs for the first time, woke up on a random Saturday with blurry eyes, ate a too large breakfast, drove to the school, and wrote about I Love Lucy in the essay portion of the exam. Stopping at River Bend to see if he could meet up with Jake, Darrell watched as Sam walked into the barn, mud caking her boots. Mr. Forester called out to her, "Sam, you're going to be late."
"Jeez." With that, Sam turned on her heel, and bounded for the house, the dog following her. "Thanks Dad." Darrell followed after he talked to Pepper. Had Carrots really been trying to bust up all of his hard work? He was one second away from disliking the guy.
Darrell later found Sam fixing her hair with dextrous fingers in the hallway mirror. Her hair was in its normal ponytail, but she quickly dug a pocket and looped hair around, creating some kind of bun. He had no clue. "Oh, hey, Darrell." She spoke around a clip in her mouth.
"Hey." He replied, "Seen Jake?"
"He's out, today." Sam said, removing a smudge of dirt from her cheek with her fingers, "I'm actually running late, Darrell, so I'll see you, okay?"
"Okay, sure, but..." Darrell tried to speak, when Mrs. Forester came down the stairs that opened into the living room.
Her grandmother surveyed her with a disdain that amused, rather than unkind. "Samantha, you go on and take the Visa out of my purse."
"Gram, I am not buying anything." Sam replied, finishing her hair, and finding a coat on the rack. She smiled at Darrell, and he hoped he might get some pie for his troubles. Cake would be fine, too. He was anything but picky.
"You may change your mind once you're there, Sammy." Mrs. Forester extended her purse to her granddaughter, "Take it, please."
Darrell was shocked when Sam frowned. "Gram..." Her grandmother was giving her free money, and she didn't want to take it? Why? Where was she going?
"I won't be talked back to in my own home." Mrs. Forester decreed. Darrell knew she wasn't really mad. He knew anger, and this wasn't it. The woman only was set on getting her way. "Darrell, can I interest you in some pie?"
"I wasn't..." Sam muttered, taking the card. Darrell didn't spare her a glance as he followed Mrs. Forester into the warm kitchen. He could always find out what Sam was up to later. The pie, at least around here, was apt to be gone sooner.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Darrell loved afternoons in the city with Mama. It was bustling, and he got such a buzz from seeing all of the people. It wasn't New York, or anything even remotely like it, not even a suburb by most standards, but there was a Denny's and a comic book store, and that was city enough for him in comparison to Darton. He remembered all his life coming here to Cathy's Comics. Cathy was a Marvel fan, too, so her store was awesome. It was cluttery, but she knew every inch of her stock.
He thought that perhaps Mama liked to come here when she missed the City. She said that she often got in a New York State of Mind, and started to sing the song and talk wistfully about friends from schools, and days at Rockaway. She had insisted they come after he got home from River Bend, but privately, he thought she was just antsy on her day off. Anyway, he was glad to go. Maybe Mama would have some advice as to what Sam was up to.
"Mom?" Darrell had an armload of stuff, and Cathy was at the register. He wanted to show his mother some stuff he'd found and ask her opinion. Asking her opinion meant that she'd offer to pay. He'd decline, and say that he was too old, but traditions were to be honored. After this, they would go to dinner. He'd let Mom pay for that, because she always insisted. "She's outside, Darrell." The rotund lady spoke to him as though he were a little boy that had lost his mother. In comparison to her advanced years, though, perhaps he was.
Darrell paid quickly, using a coupon Cathy had sent out last week, which had made Mom insist he come and spend some money after both Jake and Sam had better things to do than hang out with him. Frankly, he thought there was nothing cooler than hanging out with him, but whatever. He wondered, as Cathy passed him his receipt, and a dum-dum, why Mama had gone outside.
Darrell pulled open the door, only to find it stuck. He pulled, and pulled, and finally, he pushed. The door opened easily, and he went outside, hoping no one had seen him pulling at a pushed door. Mama, it seemed, was standing in front of another shop, talking to some woman. Darrell was going to the car, when he saw another girl come out of the shop with a large, white, zippered bag in her arms. Her blonde braid brushed the bag as her long fingers shoved a pair off metal frames up her nose. Darrell knew those glasses anywhere. Jen Kenworthy was holding a garment bag, and Sam was holding another regular shopping bag. Sam was the first girl, and he nearly had passed her by. This he had to see, if only to see what was more fun than hanging out with him.
His Marvel comic was forgotten in his bag as he made his way towards Mama. "Hey, Sam."
"Darrell." Sam said, awkwardly, and not just because of the bag she was holding.
"What do you have there?" Darrell asked, gesturing to Jen's bundle.
"A dress." Jen replied carefully, "For the Supper Dance."
Darrell nodded, as Mama thankfully continued on with conversation. The Junior-Senior prom wasn't like the proms everyone saw on TV, with wild dancing, and spiked punch and boys getting past third base in the gym. No, Darton High, held something that was a relic of the 1950s and no one was allowed to call it a prom, not that it even was. "And, I was telling Dare, the Supper Dance is so adorable." Mama gushed, as only women can when standing in front of a dress shop.
Adorable, yeah. It was something hellish. Jackets and ties were required to get in the place, not to mention shoes that had to be shined with tears. There was a formal sit down dinner, complete with foods he couldn't pronounce and silverware he didn't need, followed by dancing. THe dancing was new, though, and hadn't been allowed until 1998. The more conservative people in town had insisted that dancing was horizontal foreplay, and one pastor in town decried it as the Devil's Playground. To keep everyone happy, the school board kept the dinner as it had been going on forever, and added the dancing after, which was chaperoned, and totally optional.
Darrell only knew this because two days ago, an assembly had been called. Darrell had known, the second the voice had come over the loudspeaker. The upper three years in the school were to report to the gym. This time, Darrell wasn't facing a discussion of VD and hellfire, he was facing Nona's dream. He blew off the reminder, and skulked to the library. He needed a new novel anyway. That day, though, the old gal at the desk had been wise to his game, and shipped him off to the gym after he'd gotten a good look around the empty place. A local restaurant had set up round sixtops with silverware, but no food. It was sadism at its finest.
Mrs. Frell, the FCS teacher, looked ticked that her profession was being relegated once again to table settings and how not to eat like pigs at the Supper Dance, which would also be hosting people who didn't know what a discredit to the name swine highschoolers really were. He'd found a seat with Ally, who was sitting with Jake, and some random other people. Now that he thought about it, Jen and her boyfriend had been there, too. Sam was not in sight. "Where's Sam?" He said, uncaring that he was supposed to be learning how to pass food. He shoved the empty bowl at Jake.
"Library." Jake said, rolling his eyes, "Let's get out of here."
Sam wasn't in the library. He'd just been there, and the place had been vacant. It was a mystery he was determined to solve. With that in mind, he enacted escape plan #7. Jake played along.
"Dare?" Mama was looking at him. A car drove by the shopping mall's fire lane, and Darrell wondered if they knew that their inspection was expired.
"What?" He said, coming back to the present.
"Don't worry, Carrie, he was only thinking about food." Sam replied, and Darrell didn't like that he was the butt of some joke that everyone was in on but him.
"Are you certain you can't join us?" Mom pressed, as though she was asking again, just be sure. Darrell realized that he'd tuned out their entire conversation.
"Yes Ma'am." Jen said, "We have to be going, but thank you, all the same."
As Mama bid the girls goodbye, Darrell pushed his nose up on his face, to make a pig snout. He mouthed, "Suck-up!" to Jen, who scowled good-naturedly. Sam smiled, and shook her head as they walked away, clutching a bag of mystery goods. Darrell enjoyed the evening with Mama, but he'd be a liar if he didn't admit at least to himself that he wasn't distracted. What on earth had they really been doing in the city?
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The next day, he did the honorable thing, and rushed to the rectory with his notebook. "Hugh!" Darrell rapped on the door, "Hugh!"
Fr. Earwax opened the door, "My boy, whatever is the matter?" The priest was wearing gardening clothes, his gloves in his hand. "Are you well?"
He hadn't slept much that was true, but as usual, Earwax was being a drama queen. "I need to see Hugh." He corrected himself, "Where is Fr. Hugh, Father?"
"The Sacristy, Mr. Lucas." The older man paused, "May I be of service to you?"
By the time the words had left the waxy Father's mouth, Darrell was already rushing towards the church. He burst through the front door, and wished that he had had the forethought to use the side door, because now he had to cut through the narthex and the nave, meaning that he would have to pause to remember his baptism. He didn't have the time, but he would make it. Darrell ran until he got to the font, and dipping his fingers in the water, he made the fastest cross possible. God understood his haste, that Darrell knew.
Once he'd passed the warm wooden pews and made his way quickly through the side door, he ran again, his feet padding quickly against the brick floors that had replaced the carpet and wood. "Hugh!" He called, "Hugh!"
His cousin poked his head out of the Sacristy door. "Darrell?"
Darrell entered the room, and shut it. The vestments were laid out, and his cousin was steaming them. The air puffed out of the steamer as it did from Darrell lungs. "I figured it out. At first, I thought she was making a dress, but then, I realized. The dress wasn't for Jen, it was for her!"
His cousin shut off the steamer, "What?"
Excitedly, Darrell thrust the notebook towards Hugh. It contained everything. They'd seen Mama, he knew, so that's why Jen had the bag by the time he came out. The project was something else, not a dress, but he didn't know what. He'd googled, and evening dresses were really hard to make, and so he'd come to the conclusion that most people bought them. At least that's what the internet said, and everyone knew that the internet never lied.
The rector flipped through the notebooks worn pages, "Darrell, you're sick."
"No, no. I just haven't slept is all." Darrell waved off the concern, "Do you think my conclusion makes sense?" He sat down on the top of some wooden box, to which Hugh scowled.
"Off." Darrell shrugged and hopped down, "I've told you that I won't get into this anymore, Dare."
"I have an actual moral question!" Darrell insisted. Why else had he driven here? Hadn't Hugh read the last page with all of the decision matrices on it? Obviously, he hadn't, and people said Darrell was unobservant. "You hold the key, Hugh!"
His cousin sighed, and looked heavenward. Were all Priests such drama queens? "Alright, but you help with the work, and don't sit on the burse."
Darrell flipped on the steamer and explained everything as Hugh listened, "So. Do I tell Jake that Sam's into the supper dance, or not?"
"Oh." Hugh, folded back a wing of one of the vestments, and Darrell ran the steamer over the fabric.
"Yeah, see, because he thinks they don't want to go." Jake had insisted that it was Sam who didn't want to go, who thought the whole thing was dumb, but Darrell knew differently, now. Darrell turned to get a hanger as Hugh broke the silence.
"What do you think you should do?" Hugh asked, taking the hanger and sliding the vestment over it.
Darrell thought, "I don't know."
"Have you prayed?" Hugh asked, knowing the answer.
"Prayer isn't a magical formula, Hugh." Darrell said. God was a genie who magically gave people everything they asked for. Rather, Darrell knew that God, through his Grace, was the only reason people had the strength to go after the things that mattered to them.
"It seems to me that you don't want to take the time to do it." Hugh spoke as he ran the steamer over the front of another robe, "Go. Seek the Lord. I'll come get you when I'm done. We'll talk then."
"You just want to work in peace." Darrell smiled, moving towards the door.
His cousin passed him a prayer book from a shelf, "Maybe I just want you to find some."
"You're a good man, Hugh." Darrell replied, running his fingers over the spine of the book.
His cousin met his eyes as he replied, "I serve a great God, Dare."
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Days later, Darrell couldn't find peace, even after he came to the hardest decision he'd ever made. He had other things to do, and every time he thought that his decision to not tell Jake was the right one, something came along to make him question it. Being silent was the hardest decision he'd ever come to, but he knew it was right. It wasn't something he was doing of his own accord, or else he would have blurted out everything much sooner but he knew his choice was the right one. He was hanging out at River Bend. When he settled onto the swing with the baby, Jen and Sam were on the porch, babysitting Cody, and playing with shoes. Sam was not a shoes type of girl, he knew. And yet, there she was, going on about how to break in shoes. Jen goggled as Darrell held Cody, "What?"
"Smack them against the stair." Sam directed, taking a shoe and hitting the sole against of it against the step. "I'm not going to break your shoe, Jen, don't pass out." They were new shoes. It was official. Sam had lost it.
Darrell watched in glee as Sam was interrupted, "What are you doing?" Jake was inside the house, obviously having come in from working with the horses through the back door. He put down a glass of water when he stepped outside.
Sam rolled her eyes, "Breaking in shoes." She went right back to doing what she was doing, and Darrell sighed in relief as Jake took Cody from him. The little guy was fun, but he was even more fun at a distance.
"You're going to rip the suede, Sam." Jake cautioned, and Darrell wondered how she would hurt sedge when the shoes weren't even made of that material.
"Cool your jets. I can't find the sandpaper and they're not dancing shoes anyhow." Sam grinned devilishly, "You should see what people with pointe shoes do."
Jake frowned, and stretched out the expression for the baby. The baby gurgled. Jen asked, "What do you mean?"
Sam looked at Darrell, "I've helped people run over new pointe shoes with trucks to break them in."
"Really?" Darrell said, "Sign me up!" That seemed totally and completely rebellious in a way he never would have expected, and more James Dean than Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli. Or was it Arthur Murray that had the dancing schools? Or was it Madame La Zonga?
Sam turned her feet out, and pushed up onto her toes, briefly. "It's not all fun, Darrell. Your toes end up looking like rotten hamburger meat, not that I ever did it enough to get that way."
"Darrell, we should go." Jake put the baby back on his blanket with the donut fabric thing to hold him up, "See you, Dude."
"'Bye, little man!" Darrell said, loping down the stairs. Now was his shot, and he knew it. Jake, though, for once, was in a relatively talkative moods about his clothing.
He tried to tell Jake, then, but his friend started complaining about not finding any of his clean t-shirts, which distracted Darrell for some reason, even if he could not pinpoint it. He was, thereby, convinced that he shouldn't say anything. On and on it went, like Napoleon Dynamite. That movie drove him crazy, and he wasn't even in FFA. They didn't wear their jackets correctly in several scenes and wouldn't any person in FFA know that Tina wouldn't have eaten ham? For someone committed to the future of agriculture, Napoleon didn't seem all that interested in living out the qualities a member should possess.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
He was again confronted with the idea that maybe he should tell Jake when he caught Sam skulking around Three Ponies. She was whispering with Mrs. Ely, and when he and Jake came into the room, Mrs. Ely shot Jake a look that Sam caught, and Darrell knew that Sam was dying to tell him what they were talking about.
After that, he knew he had to tell Jake. It was a a still and, yet, stormy evening after dinner, and Darrell felt like Ichabod Crane from the excerpt section in SAT Success. It wasn't raining, but Darrell knew it would any second. He dashed into River Bend and found Mr. Forester reading. Mrs. Forester looked up from where she was sitting on the floor with her son, and smiled, "Oh, Darrell. Hello."
"Hi. I, uh, is Jake here?" Darrell felt tongue tied at interrupting family time. Mrs. Ely said he would be when he stopped there, and he'd rushed off because she was in the middle of grading and didn't look pleased with him for some reason.
"Not yet." Cody's Grandmother said, "But he should be bringing Sam home from the Ely's soon." Her knitting needles clacked.
"Wh-?" Darrell broke off. Sam wasn't there. No one was, not even Quinn.
Mr. Forester caught his slip-up, "She's not there, is she, Darrell? The math homework, that was just a cover?" How was it that fathers with daughters always seemed to have razor sharp hearing whenever he spoke? Did he give off some sort of vibe? No, Darrell decided, it was just that he was so captivating that people couldn't help but listen.
He knew the bro code. "Sir, I can't..."
"No need. You just did." The cowboy put his hands on his knees, "Bryn, I think she's out with the Phantom."
"I'd stake my life on it, Wyatt." Mrs. Forester replied, shaking a toy over the baby, "She's safe."
Her husband was silent. "The weather was like this the last time she..."
"She's going to come home fine." Mrs. Forester assured her son from where she was knitting. "But you ought to talk, Wy."
"I should go." Darrell started to go towards the door. He did not want to be here for any discussion Mr. Forester had with Sam. The last time he'd been around and there had been a discussion, he'd ended up writing his own epitaph, and the time before that, Jake had nearly killed him for telling Mr. Forester that he was interested in Sam. Even though Darrell had lied about his intentions so as to get points in his game, he knew that this time was no game. Mr. Forester was furious.
"You'll stay, and you'll look her in the eye when she tells us all why she's put her friends in the position of having to lie for her." Her father said, and Darrell was shocked. He wasn't furious. He was scared. What was going on?
"Sir, I really..." Darrell wanted to leave, but he sat. He sat and sat for hours, as the wind picked up and the rain started to pour. Darrell got antsy as Mr. Forester never left the spot by the window and Mrs. Forester took her son to bed. He became uncomfortable as the elder Mrs. Forester bid him goodnight with a sigh. He was floored when Mr. Forester told him he could leave, and surprised himself when he found himself saying he'd stay, not because he wanted information, but because he wanted to know that everyone was okay.
He was terrified when he heard the clatter of horses into the yard, and was flabbergasted when he looked out the window and saw them both, drenched to the bone, laughing in the pouring rain not long after they put their horses up for the night. Sam was spinning in circles in the downpour. Jake picked her up and they spun together, laughing towards the sky. The electricity and joy was as palpable between them as the sulphur in the air.
Their spell was broken with a clap of thunder, and they ran to the porch. Through the window, he heard Sam say, "I will never forget tonight, Jake, never."
"That foal's going to make a fine leader one day." Jake agreed, "He's a fighter." Jake was still talking, but Darrell could not hear them as Mr. Forester strode toward the door, his jaw tight.
Darrell jumped as Mr. Forester pulled the door open. Sam jumped, "Hi, Dad."
Mr. Forester was silent and Darrell wished he'd left when he could have as he slipped through the living room into the dining room to observe. His friends didn't even see him as they went into the living room. He peered through the edge of the partially opened dining room door. They were both sopping wet, dripping on the floors. Sam's hair was a curly wet mess, and Jake's hat was nearly soaked through. There was a dark substance on their clothing. Sam shoved her dripping wet hair behind her ear and grinned. The action seemed to send a shock through her father.
Sam dropped her coat, and picked it up quickly as water splattered everywhere. Her father asked, "Why is there blood all over you?"
It was blood? Blood? Darrell really didn't like blood. His head felt like it was filled with helium as he looked at the ground. There was blood. Blood. Sam looked to Jake. He spoke, "The Phantom's lead mare foaled tonight. A healthy colt." Jake's voice rang with the pride of a job well done, of a man coming off of an emotional high.
Sam's voice was filled with light as she added, "He's beautiful, Dad. You should see Spectre. He's wonderful."
"The birth necessitated your involvement, how, Sam?" Mr. Forester's voice had shifted from scathing to resigned, and then back to a level displeased tone that all parents had. Darrell thought maybe it came with the parenting manual people got when their kids were born. He sank down in the chair along the wall near the door. No one saw him, as he tried to be silent.
"We were...watching, and she was distressed, Dad." Sam said, dripping on the rag rug. Despite that, Darrell thought that her waterlogged jeans didn't take away from the warrior princess glint in her tone. "We had to help her."
"Another one of your ideas, Sam?" Out of the sliver of the room he could see, Darrell saw that Mr. Forester took two towels from the laundry basket on the stairs directly across from the door that hid Darrell and passed one to Jake, and one to Sam.
"It was a choice we made together, Wyatt." Jake corrected the man, whose shoulders tightened. Jake's, however, never waved. Darrell wondered if this was what he had be missing. It did make sense, the fact that Sam had come back form a long ride dusty and grinning. Perhaps she had been with the pregnant mama horse, whatever they were called, then. Perhaps that day that she had blown off the seminar, she had been doing something horse related. Did horses get baby showers?
"It never occurred to either of you that a mustang in labor is dangerous?" Mr. Forester spoke as Sam used her towel to wring out her hair. The water that was stripped from the long length nearly soaked the towel. When wet, her hair was much, much longer, and Darrell suddenly understood the wavy nest that was her hair was as bulky as she always said. Her wet hair brushed her waist.
"We considered it, but she asked for help." Sam said. Darrell wondered how a horse could speak to Sam, but Mr. Forester seemed to know. Jake bit back a smile, Darrell could see, when Mr. Forester sighed and moved so that his view was inhibited.
"Sammy." Her father sounded resigned, and fearful. Darrell knew that he needed to thank the man for moving, but now he wanted to see him again. He needed the information that only his expression could provide.
"Daddy." Sam replied with a confidence, a knowing, that Darrell had never heard from her. Darrell shifted to his left, and from there, he could see everything much better. Sam glowed with joy, and Jake looked keyed up, and yet, satisfied. Mr. Forester looked between them, and he saw something that even Darrell could not.
"I'm sorry, Sam." Mr. Forester said, after a long time, "There has to be consequences for this. The supper dance is out for you, this year." In that instant, Darrell's stomach hit the floor. He felt badly that he had told the man, just an hour before, how much he'd found that the Supper Dance meant to Sam. His whole rationale had come spilling out. It was all Mr. Forester's fault. His silence had been so unnerving that Darrell had nearly tripped over himself to fill it.
Sam swallowed. Was she trying not to laugh? Why did Jake look so pleased? This was a punishment, but Sam didn't sound chastened as she said, "Okay."
"Okay?" Mr. Forester was as flabbergasted as Darrell was.
Sam swallowed, and spoke through a small smile, "The horses were worth much, much, more, I mean. I would do it again in a heartbeat." She flicked a glance at Jake, "We both would."
"I am sorry." Mr. Forester said, as he left the room, "But actions have consequences. I hope you can live with them." He paused, coming back in, "Feel free to wait out the storm, Jake. Downstairs."
He left the room, and Darrell nearly passed out as Sam started to laugh again. Jake started shushing her quickly. "Shh! You're going to get us caught!" Darrell knew that he had to stay hidden, to see more of the lighthearted Jake and bubbly Sam.
"What would make him think we wanted to go to that stupid party?" Sam breathed through her laughter, "I'd rather eat lead."
Jake rocked back on his heels and grinned, "I don't know, but you got off easy, Brat. A new foal, and we both got out of that dance. What do you think Darrell'd say?"
"I don't know, but now we have an excuse. I think he's got a plan." Sam whispered. Darn right he had a plan, only now, it was blown up. Hadn't she wanted to go to the Supper Dance?
Her grandmother came down the stairs and Sam did her best to school her expression. "Oh." Mrs. Forester paused as Darrell sank back farther into the dining room, "Did Darrell leave?"
Darrell dashed into the kitchen as he heard a gasp. "Sammy, you're white as a sheet! It serves you right, going out all night."
Sam spoke, as Darrell edged down the hall, "He's in the dining room, isn't he?" Darrell hadn't noticed anything amiss, other than a quilting frame, but why would that bother Sam? It wasn't as though she was growing pot in her dining room. He didn't know, but he knew that when he stepped out into the foyer, he planned to enter the living room and play dumb until Mrs. Forester left. THen, he'd let them have it. They thought they could get one over on him, well they couldn't.
Except, he realized, they had, and it was all he could do not to start making a list on the wallpaper. He needed a list, and a plan. He was the man with the plan, except, now, he didn't have one, and footsteps were squelching as they approached him. Who knew that waterlogged boots could strike cold fear into his heart?
I know this update is a long time in coming. I hope you liked it.
Remember, you're only seeing Darrell's side of things, and as such, he's left out of the horse related things. Nevertheless, the subtext was that both Sam and Jake were anticipating the birth, and wound up involved, because come on, this is Sam. He thought she wanted to go to the dance, because he thinks all girls are like his mother, basically.
It's been a long, long time since I wrote in Latin, but the translations I'm going for are as follows. My Latin teacher taught us lots of insults. He probably shouldn't have as I can insult people in the language, but never mind anything useful. I didn't google for help. Apologies if I should have.
Vescere bracis meis = Eat my shorts
Sentite aciem acrem ensis mortiferi, o larvae putidae, o bustirapi nefandi = Feel the keen edge of the sword of doom, no good, stinking, corpse eating, tomb-ghosts.
Is anyone having problems sending PMs? I can't reply to anybody!
A special thanks to Katrina the Unicorn, who reminded me that people do enjoy this series. She urged me to take this posting from a rough scribble into what you see here.
