Kids These Days

Chapter 23: Finn

I find Becca on the porch reading Gravity's Rainbow. (I think Sarah loaned it to her -- my sister hoards books like Smaug hordes gold.) Becca slides her bookmark into place and looks up at me, dark curls falling into her eyes. "How was dinner?" she asks.

"Shit," I tell her. "Absolute shit."

"I figured. At least they're trying."

"Well, I wish they would try harder. And I wish they would stop interrogating me about --" I stop myself just in time, heat creeping into my cheeks. "Never mind. You know how tricky families can be. I don't need to explain myself to you."

"No, I suppose you don't." Becca's face takes on a carefully neutral expression, like she's preparing to deliver bad news. Her fingers drum restlessly against the cover of the book. "Ronan is back. He said he spent the day with Andy and Talia. He also said something about Floyd's ranch, but he wasn't making a lot of sense. I told him to talk to you."

"He did."

"Yeah? How'd it go?"

"You ask that like you don't already know the answer," I say, and she half-smiles. "It was also absolute shit. All I can say is I'm glad he didn't get possessed by a ghost."

"The bar is so low."

"Knowing Ronan, he'll find a way to limbo even lower."

The screen door slams shut behind us. Ronan slouches out onto the porch, dressed in a typical Megadeath t-shirt and his white Chucks. He yawns. "Alright, Finn, what's the big reveal? Did you buy a yacht? Please tell me you didn't buy a yacht."

I ignore him and turn back to Becca. "There's something I want to show you two."

"I get the feeling it's not a yacht," Becca says. She raises her eyebrows at me, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. (Sometimes I can sense when she's doing her psychic-thing. The air feels different, charged, like it does before a lightning strike.) "Have you asked Floyd yet?"

"Yeah. He said it's fine." I shrug my arms into the flannel I found tucked away in one of the wardrobe drawers. The fabric is well-worn and soft, and it smells like pine shavings. Perfect for chilly nights in the desert. "This way."

"Oh, boy," Ronan mutters. "Let's follow the Amityville Horror into the desert at night. Because that worked out so well last time."

I lead them up the gravel road to where Floyd keeps the stables. He rents most of the stalls out for extra cash, but owns three horses of his own -- all rescued from local auctions. I learned how to ride Western in the rings here. Floyd taught me how to steer with the reins in one hand (like a "real cowboy") and even though my mom wasn't thrilled about the idea, my dad, strangely enough, said he was proud to see me picking up the family mantle like a good son should. (Sarah is still a better seat than me. I wonder if she rides English now.)

"They're bigger than the ones in Central Park," Ronan says, eyeing a palomino with apprehension. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Becca fights back a smile. "At least it's not a yacht."

I help them tack the horses and get into the saddle. Becca says she's been riding before, so she has no trouble finding her seat, but Ronan turns pale every time his horse makes a sound. Watching him trying to conceal his panic almost makes me feel bad for snapping at him earlier. Almost.

"This thing is going to eat me," Ronan says, after his horse shies away from a fly.

"Faulkner is a vegetarian," I tell him. (Floyd names all his horses after writers -- he thinks he's clever.) "Just stay calm and let him know who's in charge."