What had I really accomplished these past couple of months besides getting my heart broken?
I finally roused myself enough to trudge into the boys’ room to check on Mikey. Pete was right—I had to stay strong for my brother. From what I could gather from the words slipping through the hiccupping sobs (I cringed, remembering that’s exactly how I sounded last night), Mikey was so upset because nobody had bothered to wake him up to say goodbye.
I knew just how he felt. Nobody had bothered to wake me up either, and I’m guessing that was no accident. I glanced at the nightstand shoved between their twin beds; Spiderman’s eyes glowed 10:02. I calculated they were mid-air, in route somewhere between Arizona and California. I pictured them, kicked back in first class, drinking celebratory mimosas. Pete, I was sure, was very relieved to finally be leaving the Ponderosa for good.
Holy cow!—the calves needed their breakfast . . . and so did we for that matter. I hug-walked Mikey to the living room and plopped him down in front of the TV, then went to the kitchen to get breakfast going. Life’s needs must be met even in the direst of circumstances. Mama’s death taught me that grumbling hunger could worm its way into a young boy’s stomach, even during the darkest hour of mourning.
While I was getting some fortification for our systems, the blinking light of the answering machine caught my eye. Despite the fact it was probably just Mrs. Hildebrand wondering why we hadn’t come by for fresh milk the last couple of days, I felt compelled to listen to it—right away. I pushed play, slipped some bread into the toaster, then froze when the message came on. It was Pete’s voice, crystal clear even through the scratchy recording and staticky background of what I surmised to be the Lubbock airport.
Kate . . . I asked your father to leave a note for you but wanted to follow up, just in case. The animals are already taken care of and will be until Friday, with the exception of Blue. A hired-hand of the Hildebrand’s is coming, so do not do any outside chores or heavy lifting—not even a laundry basket for the duration of the week.
If you don’t have any further complications like blackouts or severe headaches, then you can gradually resume physical activities next Monday. Make sure you read the information pamphlet Dr. Shaw sent home regarding concussions. Follow the instructions and guidelines exactly. Do not blow it off! Returning to your normal physical activities too soon could result in permanent damage. So don’t do it!
Hopefully, you’re feeling better this morning. I gave you a Vitamin B cocktail last night to help jumpstart your system. I . . . A few seconds of static ensued where I could hear a boarding call in the background. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to you this morning. We left while it was still dark outside so decided not to wake you. Please tell Mikey I said goodbye and give him a high-five from me. Kate . . . Another long pause. Take care of yourself.
Tears sprouted from my eyes like a faucet turning on. I instantly replayed the message just to hear his crisp, commanding voice again. Why did I have to feel this way? A burning desire for someone I couldn’t have was torturous, not to mention impractical . . . and I was nothing if not pragmatic.
Wasn’t fair. He’d come and stirred up all these dormant feelings I had, like desire and the possibility for something more than my own life had to offer. Then disappeared, leaving me reeling and unable to cope with the whirlpool of feelings left churning around inside of me.
Mikey and I spent the whole day crying it out together in front of the TV. After binge-watching mind-numbing cartoons and replaying Pete’s message eighty-eight times, I finally deleted the message and snapped off the TV to fix us some supper. I found, upon closer inspection, that someone had thoughtfully restocked the fridge and pantry. My throat felt full again.
Monday and Tuesday came and went in much the same fashion. I made phone calls to the schools and Norma to inform them of my situation; everyone was real understanding. The calls I made to Daddy’s cell phone, however, went unanswered. The fourth consecutive time it went to voice mail, I started chewing on my thumbnail. Normally this wouldn’t faze me, because Daddy often neglected to pick up the phone when I called, or even call me back. But since they were presently in the confines of that academy, being strong-armed into signing their souls to the devil, I was fraught with worry.
Tuesday evening, after putting Mikey to bed, I tried again and got the recording again. Drumming my fingers on the kitchen counter, I recalled there was a number in the brochure. But it was after hours so the office would be closed. I huffed out some pent-up air and began pacing up and down with Blue at my heels, looking woefully up at me for answers. I could call Pete’s number. An instant giddiness bubbled up inside me at the thought of hearing his voice live.
Something told me he didn’t want me to call. For one, he didn’t once say, “Call me.” But he never said not to either. Before I could change my mind, I grabbed the phone and dialed the number he’d rattled off to me that afternoon. My palms were the sweaty of a girl calling a boy for the first time, only multiplied by a thousand on account of what kind of boy I was calling and the reason I was calling. On the third ring someone picked up, and my chest swelled with expectation.
“Hello?”
My lungs deflated. I sank to the floor like a grounded kite. “Um, Can I…”—throat clear—“Is this Pete Davenport’s phone number?” That feeling I tried to ignore was mocking me.
“I’m sorry,” the man on the line said. “You must have the wrong number.”
“Oh.” I was already near tears again when I heard click. “Sorry,” I whispered to the dial tone.
I just held on to the phone, staring into space, until that obnoxious noise that lets you know the phone is off the hook molested my ears. Another lie—I knew I didn’t get the number wrong. I wondered, yet again, if the cadet I’d given my heart to was one of the good guys . . . or a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Daddy finally called Wednesday morning to let us know they were coming home Wednesday night. That’s all he would say though. So in our boredom and hiatus from school, we made a huge Welcome Home! banner. While Mikey colored it, I fried some chicken for supper. We welcomed them back home with much fanfare. I gleaned the visit went well by the way they rushed-talked over each another in their haste to tell us everything. The campus, the state-of-the-art facilities, the cadets, even the “amazing” drive over the Golden Gate Bridge was relived in vivid detail.
What I really wanted to know about was the meeting. I had to be patient for that bit of news. At last, I got my answer. Not the one I was looking for, although it was the one I was expecting. Yes, as a matter-of-fact, Daddy did go ahead and sign the paperwork. Andrew was officially in the International Elite Academy admissions process. Now we were all just waiting for their official acceptance in the form of a letter or phone call, or trumpeting foot soldiers . . . somehow they weren’t exactly sure.
Job well done, Cadet Davenport, I thought acidly as my stomach boiled. Did he put me to sleep so I wouldn’t intervene? I considered what I could have done anyway. Sugar in the gas tank, the best I could come up with. I comforted myself with the knowledge that it would’ve only bought a couple of days at the most. Did he really even recommend that Andrew not be admitted? Or was it just another lie my lie-detector didn’t detect because my heart was running roughshod?