POWER BACK

Chapter 11: Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)

Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)

Jack, October

This whole dance thing is stupid. The cheerleading squad has choreographed a dance with the senior football players, and we're supposed to perform it at the homecoming pep rally this morning. It's a Western theme, so we're dancing to "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" by Big and Rich. Here I am, wearing my Ropers and cowboy hat, waiting to make a complete ass of myself in front of the entire school. Lucky for me, I do have some rhythm, but there's this part when I have to flip Bree over my arm. It seems like she's in a mood today, so I really don't want to drop her.

The cheerleaders are doing their routine alone first before we come in. I'm looking around for Peyton among the other varsity players watching from the gym floor. I spy Marshall ducking out the back door, then I see her little shaved head following shortly after.

Part of me is relieved she won't see this shit show, but the other part of me is wondering where the hell they're going.

Around here, homecoming is an elaborate ordeal. Don't even get me started on the whole mum thing. You wouldn't believe me even if I could explain it. Suffice to say that Bree's mum is bigger than she is. I hope she has strong neck muscles. We're sitting in floral design working on our corsages and boutonnieres. She had to remove her mum just to see the worktable. The mum now has a chair of its own over in the corner.

She's chosen white roses with gold and silver ribbon for my boutonniere, but she's getting testy trying to bind everything together with floral tape. She throws the thing at her desk and puts her head in her hands.

"How you doing, Bree?"

She shakes her head. "I suck at this shit." Her voice is muffled. "I suck at everything."

"Now, you and I both know that ain't the case," I tell her. "Besides, I don't give a shit about wearing some stupid flower."

When she lifts her head from her hands, she's got tears in her eyes. Again. She pushes herself away from the table and stalks over to Pickle's desk. They're whispering about something, then Pickle hands her the restroom pass. Any other teacher would have a regular hall pass, like a badge, but not Ms. Pickle. Hers is a giant green cardboard pickle, about the size of a small child, that says, "Pickle's Potty Pass." Students in this class don't go to the bathroom unless it's an emergency.

So, as I'm sitting here wondering what the emergency is, I flash back to third grade.

We were taking a math test. Her desk was next to mine every class—Chaplin and Barnes—the alphabet dictated we would always be close to each other. She kept taking these deep breaths, like the way a girl does when she's trying not to cry. I looked over at her as she gazed out the window. Nothing to see but a cold, bleak winter sky. Suddenly, she pushed her chair back and hurried to the front of the room. I couldn't hear the whispers that came in a rush, but the teacher was shaking her head. She sighed, stared at Bree for a few beats, then called my name softly. "Jack Chaplin?"

"Yes Ma'am?"

She crooked her finger, motioning for me to come to her desk. I got up reluctantly, wondering what I'd done.

"Can you please walk Bree to the nurse?" She whispered.

"Why me?" I glanced over at Bree who was staring at the floor.

"Because Bree asked for you," she said, handing me a pass as we left the room, Bree walking briskly, two steps ahead.

"You gonna throw up?" I asked as the door closed behind us.