The Cow Ate My Homework

3. My Friend Who Is a Girl

Getting back to this morning, I go about my morning farm chore routine for a bit longer—I know all that is so very interesting, you're totally wrapped up in it and not at all dying to know about this friend who is a girl. So I'll take my time here and describe it in painstaking detail... not. The most interesting part of this particular morning is that my jam comes on a couple minutes after Mom's profanity interrupted Kenny Chesney.

I can't help but get carried away and totally lost as Florida Georgia Line's latest single begins. Before I know it, it's like I'm not even in the stall barn anymore—I'm lost in thought, on a stage somewhere. There's a huge crowd cheering as I play and belt out the words, then back away from the mic to work the crowd as a female voice takes over on the verse—

"Caleb! What're you doing?"

I'm totally startled out of my daydream, dropping the rake from how I'd been using it as a guitar, because my dad is staring at me in confusion. And a bit of exasperation.

"Sorry," is the only explanation I offer, zooming back to work before he decides to express the irritation he probably feels about me goofing around when I'm supposed to be working.

Because I'm definitely supposed to be working right now, as a good only son slash future farmer would do, the kind of kid who takes pride in preparing to eventually inherit and take over all this from his adoptive parents.

My dad doesn't pursue it, just shakes his head and limps on past to a new task, his knees killing him from decades of working a tractor clutch and all the other hard labor he's put them through.

That years-ago low-key bonding over country music may have started us off to a decently happy family life. But, if I want to sound like a typical angsty teen for a moment, I might have to admit that he and my mom don't completely get me these days.

Can't have everything, right? I shouldn't be too greedy, considering where I once was. I almost say so out loud to the cow watching me. Never know who might overhear, though. So instead I just sing the chorus of the song that's still playing to her. And even she turns and walks away from me.

#

I won't say that it's because of my epic lip-synch performance that I'm running late, but only because I don't wanna do the math on that.

I don't even realize how late I'm running for the morning until I trot down the steps into the milking parlor pit to head home.

My mom is milking. She wears a big rubber apron and latex food-prep gloves, dipping teat after teat on the cows lined up on each side of our double-six-herringbone parlor—that's more or less a farmer-style way of saying that the cows are staggered, six on each side, eating out of automatic grain-feeding bowls, their feet at about my mom's waist height as she stands below them in a lower pit area.

She rapidly wipes the iodine off teats on the last cow in line, zipping back to the front to pop the milking machine onto the first cow in line now that that cow has had a chance for her milk to let down. My mom could do all this with her eyes closed, and she practically does as she sees me and double takes at the clock hanging on the front parlor wall.

"Date prisa! It's almost seven, the bus'll be here!"

I shoot a glance at the clock over my shoulder as a I grab one of the hoses that hangs from the ceiling and start using it to rinse the crap off my rubber boots. "I know I know," I mutter, wincing as I hit a boot edge with the water at the wrong angle and make crap-filled water fly. My mom dodges the spray distastefully but has more important things to instruct me about: "Don't forget about moving that bitchy psycho heifer later. Your dad'll try to do it himself if you're not here, so no playing after school."