Last thing I need is to add making roadkill of an antelope on a dark Wyoming road to my list of accomplishments today.
“That was really deep, Mom,” Junie says quietly. “I didn’t know you had that much self-awareness.”
Leave it to a teenager to think they have the market covered on self-awareness.
I stifle my smile and let only a small one curve my lips. “Thank you.”
“But do you mean it, or are you just saying that?”
“Coach Jackson would need a personality implant before I’d consider dating him.”
She takes a long suck off the juice box while I pull the car back onto the highway, and then she falls silent for a few miles.
And when she finally says something again, it’s not good. “He’s a really good coach. I know there are the weird things with him being pissed that he can’t use the ranch the way Uncle Tony let him, and I don’t like the way he looks at you—it makes me want to throw up in my mouth and kick him in the balls—but he’s never treated me any differently because of any of that.”
My biggest issue?
I agree.
Maybe not about the kicking him in the balls part—not so keen on my teenager doing that unprovoked—but definitely about him not treating her any differently than he treats the other kids. “People are complicated. They can be good coaches and teachers and want things in conflict with what we want and also be attractively unattractive to the parents of the kids they coach and teach.”
“Vivian told me that Coach Jackson dated her aunt a few years ago and left her a total disaster. Like, she had to move to Rhode Island to get away from him. And then Abigail was like, Oh my God, my neighbor too. And apparently he was a total ass when he was in Mr. Simmerton’s class back in the Stone Age when he was in high school, but I don’t think anyone should be judged on who they were in high school.”
I smile at her. “So you wouldn’t judge me on who I was in high school?”
And there’s another eye roll. “I would. Partly. But not all the way. Some people are still finding themselves in high school, and they’re hurting and hormonal, and they don’t understand the damage they’re causing. But if they get therapy and do the work and overcome their traumas, I think they can be good people too. But only if they do the work, you know?”
These are the times when I think teenagers could do a better job of running the world than we adults do. And also when what they learn on the internet scares the crap out of me.
I can’t imagine using the phrase overcome their traumas back when I was in high school.
“Normal isn’t real,” I say. “We all have things we need to work through.”
“Like being raised and trained by embezzlers?”
Don’t twitch, Maisey. Do. Not. Twitch. “Grandma was a good mom in all the ways that count. People can be good at relationships but bad at following the law. Or they can be good at following the law but bad at relationships. Case in point? My marriage. Though for all that my marriage to your father ended poorly, I’ll always be grateful that I met him and went into business with him young enough that he could correct my misperceptions about how books, billing, and payroll are handled.”
Yeah.
There were signs young that Mom wasn’t the best role model in business.
And she gets a gold medal, I can hear my therapist friend saying.
But Junie snorts. “If that’s the best you got out of your relationship with Dad—”
“I got you. You’re the best part.”
“Ew, sappy.”
“Ew, teenagers being uncomfortable with truth.”
“Would you jump Coach Jackson’s bones if you didn’t get off on the wrong foot with him after you got him thrown off his horse, and if he wasn’t my teacher and coach?”
“Can you please save some of these questions for when I’m not paranoid that an elk or an antelope or a wolf is about to cross the road in front of us? And there are other cars on the road that I shouldn’t swerve into.”
Nope. She can’t. “Even I know it’s really dumb to put yourself at risk of a lawsuit by having kids working on fixing fences and playing in a falling-down barn on your property. I don’t get why he’s being such an ass about it.”
“It’s complicated, Junie.” I don’t tell her not to say ass, because if cussing is the worst of her rebellious ways, I’m totally fine with that.
“Mom, I know that means I’m going to pretend it’s complicated because I don’t want to talk about it right now, but you actually nailed it, and you’re right, Coach Jackson is being an ass about that.”
Time to deflect. “You want to have a driving lesson this weekend? If you don’t want to drive the truck, I think I can afford a slightly used sedan with really great airbags for you.”
Doesn’t work. She grunts. “I’m counting the times Dad says he’s going to come visit. He’s said it like seventeen times already. But do you know what he hasn’t said? He hasn’t said When’s your next soccer game, hon? I’ll fly out for the afternoon and heckle your coach until he lets you play. And you know he could. He just signed a contract for like five million dollars for his new show.”
“Juniper Louisa Spencer, I love you. And I don’t know if I can love you enough for both of the parents who are supposed to be here for you and all of the grandparents you never got to know or who got themselves sent to prison, but I love you. And I will put you first until the day you leave my house as an adult, and for the record, I don’t mean the day you become a legal adult and leave. I mean the day you feel like enough of an adult to spread your wings and fly on your own.”
She doesn’t answer.
I slide a peek at her and find her watching me, straw from the juice box in her mouth, but she’s clearly not sucking on it.
“You’re a big dork,” she finally says.
I’ll take it. Especially since she’s not making a fuss about me feeding her toddler food, or insisting that we talk more about if I want to date her coach, or about any of the rest of our family.
“It’s hereditary,” I tell her. “You’ll be a big dork one day too.”
Don’t have to look to know she’s rolling her eyes again.
“Deer,” she says suddenly. “Deer. Deer. Horse!”
I hit the brakes once more as I process why she’s shrieking about deer-horses.
Her cookie pack goes flying and hits the windshield.
We both jolt in our seat belts.
I mentally berate myself for giving her more driving trauma that’ll keep her from wanting her own license for another several months.
And a massive elk steps into the road about ten feet in front of us.
“Oh my God, it’s huge,” Junie says.
Two more follow.
And then three more, plus a little one.
“A baby,” she squeals. “Are baby deer supposed to be that big?”
“It’s an elk,” I tell her. “You can tell by the big white butt.”
“In Europe, this is a deer. Only moose are called elk over there.”
I glance at her.
She’s not being snotty.
She’s enthralled.
“Mom, there are three thousand of them,” she whispers.