The Natural History of Us (The Fine Art of Pretending #2)
Rachel Harris
MONDAY, MAY 12TH
3 Weeks until Graduation
?Senior Year
PEYTON
FAMILY AND CONSUMER SCIENCES 1:30 P.M.
They say that once rodeo gets into your blood, you’re never the same.
The scent of sunbaked dirt and salty popcorn, the thunder of hooves pounding the earth. Dust circling the air and coating your tongue, wind biting at your cheeks. It becomes a part of your DNA. Supple leather reins leave their mark on your fingertips, and regardless of where you are or what you’re doing, you can simply close your eyes and hear the crowd scream as you make that final turn. Ghosts from riders past whisper in your ear, daring you to give it everything you’ve got, to push yourself to your very limits.
It’s exhilaration and devastation. An addiction, really. Rodeo used to be my entire life, and I was awesome at it.
Heck, some even said I was on par to becoming one of the best barrel-racers in our circuit. But that was before. Three years ago, my weak body forced me to admit what I’d feared and fought ever since I rolled out of the hospital a few months before—it was all over.
Well, until now, that is.
As classmates stream through the open door, dropping backpacks and gossip about their fun-filled weekends, I copy the words I just read on Rodeo America’s website into my notebook:
Barrel racing clinics are a growing trend. Day camps for professionals and fans on the rise. Businesses boasting HUGE profits.
Those last two words? Yeah, they pretty much glow in flashing neon. In fact, they’re the only reason I’m not completely freaking out about Mom’s idea, frantically scouring the internet for a different option. Any other option.
After a quick glance around the room, making sure no teachers are about, I grab my phone and pull up my messages. Countless conversations about dog food, horse shampoo, and YouTube scroll across the screen. Faith thinks it’s absolutely vital to alert me whenever inspiration hits for her popular web channel... even if it’s three A.M.
When I find the last group text, my frantic S.O.S. from this morning, I type with shaking fingers: Crap on moldy toast. This time, Mom’s onto something.
I eagerly wait for a dose of positivity, a little “Hey, this ain’t so bad” from the two people who truly understand, who get my fears, and startle when a thunk comes from the desk behind me.
“Where were you all weekend? Didn’t see you at any parties.”
I choke back the retort that jumps to my tongue: Maybe because I wasn’t invited to any?
My New Year’s resolution was to end senior year with less snark, so I spin around, choosing instead to share the fascinating details of Sparky-the-carsick-Doberman dousing me in doggy-phlegm.
“Somewhere better than another vapid rager,” Lauren Hays replies, beating me to the punch.
Okay, so clearly, Melissa wasn’t speaking to me. Evidence being that she never speaks to me, and she’s currently staring at Lauren. Usually, prolonged contact with the dance captain/class president/girl-half-responsible-for-decimating-my-heart-freshman-year is something I avoid at all costs, but I can’t help grinning at her word choice.
Vapid. Now there’s a word that doesn’t get enough play.
Lauren catches my smile and curls her lip as if she’s smelled something foul, which you’d think would make me look away. It doesn’t. I smile wider and she rolls her eyes, leaning back against the desk as she adjusts the waistband of her uniform skirt.
“My sister invited me out to Padre,” she says, raising her hem an inch.
At the mention of the elder Hays and former head Diamond Doll, Melissa’s eyes go wonky wide. As the two begin rehashing their weekend exploits (who they hooked up with, who saw it happen, and what drama erupted because of it), I turn back around.
My family’s broke, we’re seconds away from selling our ranch, and the one thing that can save it—save us—happens to involve my worst nightmare. Any more drama and my freaking head may explode.
I glance down and stare at my phone, willing it to buzz with a message. I’m in serious need of Faith’s balls-to-the-wall confidence and Cade’s perpetual optimism. When it stares back, dark and silent, I blow out a breath and clench my hands into tight fists under the desk.
Inhale, two, three, four. Unclench. Exhale, two, three, four.
The exercise has become my security blanket. Working my muscles, clenching and unclenching them into submission, reminds me that I’m strong. That I do have some control. Even when it feels as though my life is spinning out of it.
No one admits it, of course, but I’m the reason for our financial crisis. My medical bills cut a bleeding hole through my parents’ savings and it’s obviously getting worse because they’ve been at it every night, huddled around bank statements and steaming mugs of coffee. They’ve talked about selling my great grandfather’s land, downsizing the boarding business, even making career changes. But when they brought up the rodeo school last night, it was the first time I heard excitement in their voices. Of course, they had no clue I was eavesdropping. They prefer keeping me in virtual bubble-wrap, not wanting me to worry. But I do listen, I am worried, and I can’t let any of those things happen. Not when we can do something about it.