Caroline Moreton
How Things Are Done Around Here
Step out of the truck slowly. Put your cowboy hat on with one hand like they do in the movies. Kick the gravel with your boots like the other boys do.
It’s one of those evenings on the cusp of spring where it’s crisp but not cold. Still a few months before it’s too hot to breathe. The air in this parking lot smells like horses and gasoline. The sun’s just starting to set.
Take your time getting to the stadium’s gate. Don’t look around for anyone in particular. Walk past the rows of massive pickup trucks just like yours, the men stepping out of them like they own the place. When you’re through the gate, let the woman walking in beside you go first because that’s how things are done around here.
Walk slowly, like you, too, own the place. Make eyes at the rodeo queen hopefuls lined up at the entrance, handing out programs. They look so pretty with their makeup and their perfectly curled hair. Their sweetheart smiles. Smile back. Consider tipping your hat but don’t because maybe that’s too much.
Take a seat on the metal bleachers. Feel the cold through your jeans. For God’s sake, stop looking around for Tyler. Stop thinking about him. You think he thinks of you this much? Forget about it.
People around you laugh. Women with long, curled hair and cowboy hats. Men with large belt buckles and boots. Guns proudly displayed on their hips.
Watch the rodeo clown set up and remember when you used to come here with your dad. Remember how hard he made you laugh. Forget how he looked at you when he caught you playing dress up in your mom’s high heels.
Don’t look at the guy in front of you or his holster. Don’t wonder what he’d do if he found you out. Stand for the national anthem. Take your hat off and put it over your heart. Sing along.
The announcer says, “In this town, we let our boys be boys.”
It won’t be like this in Los Angeles. You’re seventeen. You’re almost out of here.
The rodeo queen hopefuls come parading out on their horses, carrying the American flag. They race around the ring. The rodeo begins.
Look at the boy on the horse in the center of the ring. Tyler. Don’t stare. Hold his gaze but don’t let anyone around you see you smile. Hope they don’t wonder who he’s smiling at.
He loops a rope around a calf’s neck then slams it into the dirt, tying its hooves together. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about last night. Stare at the sun setting over the hills in the west. Those calves haven’t done anything wrong. But that’s just how things are done around here.
Don’t wonder how Tyler can be so rough out there. Don’t think about his friends, the things he lets them say to you. One day you’ll know it’s okay not to forgive people.
Greet your brother with a handshake when he arrives. Hold his hand firm, like a man. Ask him to buy you a beer. Drink it like you like it. Two guys having a beer together.
When he asks, “Isn’t that Tyler?” shrug. Stop checking out Tyler. Remind yourself to text him later that he looks good in that saddle.
The rodeo queen hands out signed headshots. Let your eyes fall down her body the way you’ve seen the other boys do it. Laugh at a comment your brother made like you think that way, too. Like it doesn’t disgust you how he talks about a girl your age. Know that in a year, this will only be a memory.
Picture holding hands with a boy you’re not afraid of, walking down Santa Monica Boulevard. Get lost in that for a moment but only a moment because around here you can’t think like that. Taste it just enough to keep you going then bury it.
Tyler’s out of the ring now.
Say, “He was good” to your brother but say it without emotion. “He puts on a good show, I mean.”
The barrel racers shoot out one by one. It’s only the women’s event, but you think it’s the coolest, how agile they are. Agree with your brother when he says about one of them, “She’s a pretty young thing.”
But tell him to knock it off when he asks the rodeo queen if horses aren’t the only thing she can ride like that.
“She’s sixteen,” a woman behind you kicks his back.
Grab your brother’s arm when he stands. Whisper, “Don’t.”
Hold his arm tighter when he tries to jerk it away. Borrow his language; tell him, “She’s just a woman, what does she know?”
Watch for signs he’ll escalate it. Add, “An old woman.”
Wait for him to sit down then make an excuse to leave. Walk off the pit in your stomach. Tyler’s heading straight toward you. Is he going to say something? Here? In front of everyone? Don’t be surprised when he shoves you with his shoulder. Of course he wouldn’t say anything. Forget about it. He’s sitting with his college friends now. Avoid those guys.
Get a burger from the stand then go back to your brother. Give half to him because you feel sorry for him. He’ll be here forever. The bull riders are about to start and he gets so excited.
Agree with him when he says, “I coulda done that too if Mom had let me.”
Ignore your phone buzzing in your pocket. Tyler always wants you when it’s the most dangerous. Avoid him. He’ll end up married to a girl he grew up with. But you deserve to be more than a stop on a long drive.
Caroline Moreton is an emerging writer based in London. She has an MA in Creative and Life Writing from Goldsmiths College. Her short stories have appeared in JMWW and Timber Ghost Press.