Blaine lived in a brick victorian house on the corner of First South, and his parents took good care of their place. It had a little pig shed in the far western side of the yard, plus an old barn where they parked some equipment and a corrugated steel garage, not a single weed on the place. His dad, Cheryl had heard, ran the local orchard operation. But the best thing was, Cheryl could see down over the Chedisters' side yard from her bedroom window and if she caught the moment just right, they could talk over the back fence of his yard when she was standing on the corner of her driveway.
On the Sunday evening before the first day of school, Cheryl had gone back to sit in the car and listen to the radio to get away from Mom, and she'd started feeling sorry for herself. Soon, little teardrops had turned to big, heaving sobs and her makeup was a mess. She'd had to turn the volume up on the radio very loud to drown out the noise. Then someone had said,
"Hey!"
Cheryl had looked up to see this boy, Blaine, dressed in a white tee shirt, all sweated up, with his hair dripping wet and the muscles in his arms flexing as he held the handle of a spade in his hand. He was chopping at the tall grass around the equipment shed.She'd inhaled all her tears and swallowed them fast, and wiped under her eyes with a dry knuckle. As soon as she could, she'd said,
"Hey back."
He'd cocked his head a little and looked at her again, and said,
"You look like you're a long way from home."
Cheryl's temporary composure crumbled.
"What's it to you?..." she'd sobbed. Then Blaine had hopped the fence and stood by the open car door, and he'd asked her questions about herself until she felt like he really understood her. By the time the conversation was over, Cheryl was feeling better and then Blaine had nodded goodbye to her, then back over the fence he went. Blaine was now the only person in Goshen who really knew her--the only one who could hurt her.
She hoped she could trust him. In turn, she'd never give away her secret about him-that he was a sensitive guy and not just the big man on campus, head of the football team, golden boy of Santaquin High. At school, she completely ignored him, and he ignored her, and that was the way it had to be.
Cheryl intended to become nothing more than an island of stone. A beautiful, cold island. To that end, she decided that if she was going to stand out in these shit-kicker clothes, she'd have to do something with that light brown hair of hers. And so she'd had her mother help her go to the store, pick out, buy, bring home, and apply a box of Clairol Platinum Blonde number 23. Let the kids talk. And boy, did they talk. Shannon McCoy was the worst.
On the Sunday evening before the first day of school, Cheryl had gone back to sit in the car and listen to the radio to get away from Mom, and she'd started feeling sorry for herself. Soon, little teardrops had turned to big, heaving sobs and her makeup was a mess. She'd had to turn the volume up on the radio very loud to drown out the noise. Then someone had said,
"Hey!"
Cheryl had looked up to see this boy, Blaine, dressed in a white tee shirt, all sweated up, with his hair dripping wet and the muscles in his arms flexing as he held the handle of a spade in his hand. He was chopping at the tall grass around the equipment shed.She'd inhaled all her tears and swallowed them fast, and wiped under her eyes with a dry knuckle. As soon as she could, she'd said,
"Hey back."
He'd cocked his head a little and looked at her again, and said,
"You look like you're a long way from home."
Cheryl's temporary composure crumbled.
"What's it to you?..." she'd sobbed. Then Blaine had hopped the fence and stood by the open car door, and he'd asked her questions about herself until she felt like he really understood her. By the time the conversation was over, Cheryl was feeling better and then Blaine had nodded goodbye to her, then back over the fence he went. Blaine was now the only person in Goshen who really knew her--the only one who could hurt her.
She hoped she could trust him. In turn, she'd never give away her secret about him-that he was a sensitive guy and not just the big man on campus, head of the football team, golden boy of Santaquin High. At school, she completely ignored him, and he ignored her, and that was the way it had to be.
Cheryl intended to become nothing more than an island of stone. A beautiful, cold island. To that end, she decided that if she was going to stand out in these shit-kicker clothes, she'd have to do something with that light brown hair of hers. And so she'd had her mother help her go to the store, pick out, buy, bring home, and apply a box of Clairol Platinum Blonde number 23. Let the kids talk. And boy, did they talk. Shannon McCoy was the worst.
