Reality Check

ONE

EXCEPT FOR FOOTBALL FRIDAYS, Cody Laredo’s favorite day of the school year was always the last. Now, May 30, final day of his sophomore year at County High, he sat in the back row of homeroom, waiting for the teacher—a sub he’d never seen before—to hand out the report cards. As long as there were no Fs—even one would make him ineligible for football in the fall, meaning summer school, an impossibility because he had to work—Cody didn’t care what was in the report card. He just wanted out.

One more thing, the sub was saying. The principal sent this announcement. The sub unfolded a sheet of paper, stuck a pair of glasses on the tip of his nose. ‘County High wishes everyone a safe summer. Please remember… And then came blah blah blah about alcohol and drugs, tuned out by some mechanism in Cody’s brain, overloaded from having heard the same thing too many times. The sub thumbed through the report cards, called out names in alphabetical order, mispronouncing several. Cody was the only L. A minute or two later he was outside, crossing the student parking lot, warm sun shining down and the sky big and blue. Somewhere close by a horse neighed.

His car—a ten-year-old beater with 137,432 miles on the odometer, an odometer disconnected by the previous owner, one of his dad’s drinking buddies—sat at the back of the lot, open prairie behind it and Coach Huff leaning against the fender.

Hey, coach, said Cody.

Close shave, son, said Coach Huff.

Huh?

Ain’t opened your report yet?

Cody shook his head. The coach already knew his grades? What was with that?

Waitin’ for what, exackly? said Coach Huff, a tall guy with a huge upper body and stick legs, varsity football coach and also teacher of health and remedial English. Sign from above?

Cody slit open the envelope with his fingernail, slid out the report card. U.S. History—C–; Algebra 1—C–; Biology—D; English—D–; Shop—B. D minus: close shave, no doubt about it. He looked up, feeling pretty good.

Good thing Miz Brennan’s a football fan, the coach said.

She is? Ms. Brennan was the English teacher, bestower of the D minus. Cody actually liked her, especially when she forgot all about whatever the lesson was and started reciting poetry, right from memory, something she did maybe once every two weeks or so. Somehow Ms. Brennan, an old lady with twisted arthritic fingers and a scratchy voice, had all this poetry in her head. Poetry in the textbook was a complete mystery to Cody, but in a way he couldn’t explain, the murkiness all cleared up during Ms. Brennan’s recitations, or at least he thought it did. Like: Screw your courage to the sticking-place / And we’ll not fail. Cody was pretty sure he got that one, just from how she’d spoken the words, made his mind picture courage fastened deep to something that would never break, like a huge boulder. But he’d never seen Ms. Brennan at a football game.

Either that, said Coach Huff, or we’re lookin’ at a legit D minus. That the story? It’s legit?

Cody didn’t know what to say, felt his face turning red.

Just razzin’ you, son. Nothin’ wrong with your football IQ, that’s for sure. We’re all countin’ on you in the fall. He pushed away from the car. The shocks squeaked and the whole body rose an inch or two. Stay in shape this summer.

I will, Cody said, thinking: Is there something wrong with my other IQ? Does Coach Huff think I’m dumb?

The coach got a squinty look in his eye. Workin’ with your dad?

Maybe, Cody said. His dad did landscaping in the summer. Landscaping wasn’t bad, and Cody loved being outdoors, but he was hoping to find some other job, almost anything.

Just remember—landscapin’ don’t replace liftin’, so hit the gym.

Okay.

Upper body’s important—put some zip on the ball.

Why, coach? We never throw.

Coach Huff gave Cody a long look, then laughed, a single eruption of sound, close to a bark. Sense of humor—I like that, he said. Just remember there’s a time and place for everything.

Coach Huff gave Cody a pat on the shoulder, started walking away. He met Clea Weston coming from the other direction, report card in hand, and nodded to her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were on Cody. The sun lit golden sparkles in her hair, and Cody thought: The whole summer ahead of us! And what did he have at this very moment? A full tank of gas.

Let’s ride out to Black Rocks, he said. Black Rocks was an abandoned quarry near the bend in the river, the best swimming for miles around.

I got a B in calc, Clea said.

Wow, said Cody. There were two kids taking calc in the whole school, Clea—a sophomore like Cody—and some brain in the senior class. No one thought of Clea as a brain. She was just good at everything: striker on the varsity soccer team, class president, assistant editor of the lit mag; and the most beautiful girl in the school—in the whole state, in Cody’s opinion.

But a real person, as he well knew, capable of annoyance, for example. When Clea got annoyed, her right eyebrow did this little fluttering thing, like now. Wow? she said.

Yeah, he said. He himself wouldn’t ever get as far as calc, not close. Pretty awesome.

She shook her head. I’ve never had a B.

For a second or two, Cody didn’t quite get her meaning; he’d scored very few Bs himself. Then it hit him. All As, every time?

She nodded.

You never told me.

She shrugged. My father’s going to be pissed.

Come on.

You don’t know him.

Maybe not. He and Clea had been going out since Christmas but didn’t spend much time in each other’s homes. Clea lived with her dad and stepmom in the nicest house in town, a house that actually had a name instead of a number: Cottonwood. Cody lived with his dad—when his dad was around—in a one-bedroom apartment over the Red Pony, a dim downtown bar his dad—his parents, actually—had owned at one time, back when his mom was alive.

Then don’t tell him, Cody said.

Don’t tell him my grades? Are you serious? He’ll ask to see my report card first thing.

He will? Cody’s own dad hadn’t seen any of his report cards in years.

He keeps them all in his desk, Clea said, going back to kindergarten.

Whoa, said Cody.

How did it happen? Clea said. I thought I aced the final.

For a moment tears shone in her eyes, and Clea wasn’t a crier. He’d seen her cry only once or twice, and those had been mixed-up tears, partly, even mostly, happy. Cody couldn’t stand to see her upset like this, especially about nothing. He handed her his report card. Scan this, he said. You’ll feel better.

Clea ran her gaze over it. Oh, Cody, she said, looking up, laughing a little laugh, like What am I going to do with you? She reached out, tousled his hair. Cody loved her touch, loved everything about her.

What do you think my IQ is? he said.

Three thousand, said Clea.

They drove out to Black Rocks. The town they lived in, Little Bend, lay at the western border of hundreds of miles of flat-land, the Rockies’ foothills in sight. The quarry, abandoned after World War II, stood at the top of a long rise—the first suggestion of the mountains to come—overlooking the town, spread out from that perspective like an open book. Little Bend had a potash mine, owned for two generations by Clea’s family, and now a year or two left before being worked out; an ethanol plant, just getting started, owned by investors from Denver and run by Mr. Weston; a base that the Air Force was always threatening to close; and a rodeo every summer that attracted ten thousand paying visitors, sometimes more. A pretty town in a pretty place: almost all the kids at County High hoped to end up somewhere else—Denver, Minneapolis, Seattle, California.

Cody followed the curving gravel road up the rise, parked by a sign with a few bullet holes in it: ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING. ABSOLUTELY NO SWIMMING OR DIVING. He and Clea stripped down to their underwear, ran to the edge, and jumped, holding hands. They screamed their heads off on the long fall, then hit the water, not too cold on the surface, icier and icier the deeper they plunged. And darker and darker, too. Somewhere down in the darkness they lost touch, kicked back up into sunshine separately, and came together laughing. They kissed, their lips and faces icy cold, their tongues warm.

The whole summer, Cody said.

Yeah, said Clea. I just wish…

What?

Nothing.

You’re not still thinking about calc?

Clea nodded, drops of clear water falling from the ends of her hair.

Stop, he said. It’s summer. No more teachers, no more books. We’re free—free at last! He shook his fist in the air. Clea laughed.

They swam to a rocky ledge that jutted out from the steep quarry walls, climbed onto it, lay down. The black stone soaked up the sun’s heat, soon warmed them up. It was quiet and peaceful, the only sounds their own breathing, and the quarry water they’d disturbed still lapping at the walls. Cody felt a change in the atmosphere, like the air pressure was rising, bearing down; a change he felt in his stomach, and lower. He reached out, touched Clea’s leg, could tell that the change in the atmosphere was affecting her, too—maybe it was just their own little private atmosphere. Cody moved his hand higher, the world shrinking very fast around him. Willpower, judgment, all kinds of other cerebral things started shutting down, like fuses shorting out in a fuse box. Then, very faint, he heard a car engine. He took his hand away.

Someone’s coming, he said.

I don’t hear anyone, said Clea, taking his hand, drawing it back to where it had been.

Cody sat up, heard the car again, coming up the slope, no doubt about it. He rose, pulled Clea to her feet. She had a funny little pout on her face, the kind of look her teachers didn’t see; maybe no one else got to see it, no one but him.

There’s never any space, she said.

That’s the thing about Big Sky country, Cody said.

Clea smiled. A beautiful, private kind of smile. I like how you think, she said.

Me?

They followed the steep path that corkscrewed up the side of the quarry pit, headed for the car. Another car, kicking up a dust cloud, was coming up the road, two or three curves from the top: a black-and-white car, with blue lights, not flashing, on the roof. Cody and Clea hurried to Cody’s car, started throwing on their clothes. They were just about done, Clea slipping on her sandals, when the cop drove up and stopped beside them, his window sliding down. His gaze, not friendly, went from Cody to Clea, back to Cody.

Sign too small? You missed it? He pointed his chin at the sign. Cody and Clea said nothing. Who wants to read it for me? They remained silent. How about you? the cop said, pointing his chin again, this time at Cody.

We weren’t doing any harm, Clea said.

The cop turned to her. Was I talkin’ to you?

Clea shook her head.

Read the sign, boy.

Cody read the sign in a low voice. Absolutely no trespassing. No swimming or diving.

"Left out that second absolutely, the cop said. Any reason for that?"

Cody thought: Absolutely. He said nothing, just shook his head.

This your car? the cop said.

Cody nodded.

Let’s see some ID. Cody handed over his license. The cop glanced at it, handed it back. Weren’t fixing on swimming down in the pit, were you? the cop said.

Cody didn’t say anything, but Clea had less experience with cops, actually none, and she said, No.

The cop smiled. Then how come your hair’s wet? Some sudden shower happen up here and nowheres else?

Silence. The wind rose, blew across the plain.

Got some ID? the cop said to Clea.

I don’t have my license yet, she said.

What’s your name?

Clea Weston.

The cop gazed at her for a moment; then his eyes shifted. Had he recognized that surname? Get the hell out of here, he said. And don’t never come back. His window slid up and he drove slowly off.

Goddamn it, said Cody. He kicked the nearest tire of his own car, hard enough to hurt.

Clea patted him on the back. He’s just an asshole, she said. Cody thought of his friend Junior Riggins, nose guard on defense, tackle on offense, and the biggest, strongest kid on the team, who said that human beings were all programmed to turn into assholes some time in their twenties—what other explanation was there? Junior was real smart, although no one in charge seemed to know, maybe proving his point. Clea patted him again. Forget it.

But Cody couldn’t, not just like that. His face was suddenly hot, burning red. He turned, and all at once found himself running toward the edge of the quarry pit—

Cody, stop!

—and diving off, headfirst and fully clothed. This time hitting the water reminded him of a moment halfway through the last season, the very first play of his first start as varsity quarterback, a quarterback draw—Coach Huff loved calling the quarterback draw—when the gap had closed in an instant and he’d been rocked from both sides by a pair of all-county 280-pound tackles, one of whom was headed for CSU on a full ride.

Down in the cold and dark, Cody remembered somehow bouncing up off the turf and saying, Nice hit. He swam to the surface, treaded water. Clea was gazing down from the top, her face anxious; and then not. The sun had moved a little, no longer shining all the way to the water, leaving him in shadow, but it backlit Clea in a way that made her shine with her own light. Cody felt better.

TWO

CODY, SHIRTLESS AND BAREFOOT, wearing sweatpants he’d found under a pair of old cleats in the trunk of his car, drove Clea home. She lived in the Heights, the only really fancy neighborhood in Little Bend. The Heights weren’t very high, just high enough to stand over the rest of the town. Cottonwood, a huge stone house at the very top of the top, and therefore with nice views of the river, had broad lawns cut like putting greens, lots of trees, two swimming pools—indoor and outdoor—and a tennis court. Cody pulled into the long circular drive. He cut the engine, turned to Clea. She was gazing at the house, the report card held tight in her hand. Sunlight glared on all the windows. Her mind was on something, exactly what he didn’t know. Cody searched for words that might help out.

Um, he said.

Clea turned to him. Come inside.

Huh? said Cody. He’d been inside only once before, one afternoon not long after they’d started going out, when he’d come to pick Clea up and Fran, Clea’s stepmom, had ushered him in to meet the family, meaning Mr. Weston and the two little stepbrothers. It had taken Mr. Weston what had seemed like twenty seconds to establish where Cody lived, who his father was, and Cody’s future plans, which at that time came down to going to a D-1 college on a football scholarship, and still did.

No one’s home, Clea said. Fran took the boys to Cowboy Town and my dad won’t be back till late.

Cody didn’t move. He doesn’t like me.

That’s not true, Clea said. They sat in silence. He doesn’t even know you, she added after a while. More silence. A little warm breeze sprang up, flowed through the open windows of Cody’s car, ruffled the red roses in the Westons’ flower beds. Besides, Clea said, "I like you. I like you plenty."

Floral smells came wafting in.

Come on, Clea said, touching his bare shoulder.

I don’t have a shirt.

Lots of shirts inside.

Cody reached for the door handle.

They walked around the house until they reached a big glassed-in room the Westons called the conservatory, although Cody had no clue why. This is never locked, Clea said. She opened the door and they went inside. The conservatory had a stone floor with a fountain in the center; water splashed from the mouth of a bronze frog. Clea led him to a door, around a corner, past the laundry room, a room almost as big as Cody’s whole apartment.

Just a sec, she said, darting into the laundry room and returning with a perfectly ironed button-down shirt, dark blue with thin white stripes. Here, she said, tossing it to him. Put it on.

Just from the feel of it in his hands, Cody knew this shirt was much finer than anything he’d ever worn. He checked the label: ANDREW TOTTEN, LONDON. And a smaller label stitched in gold beside it: MADE TO THE PERSONAL REQUIREMENTS OF WINTHROP WESTON. Mr. Weston had his shirts made for him? And in London?

Go on, Clea said. It’s just a shirt. And you can keep it—he’ll never notice.

Keep Mr. Weston’s shirt? Out of the question. But with the A/C running it was a little chilly in the house—no A/C in the apartment over the Red Pony—so Cody put on Mr. Weston’s shirt, too tight on him through the shoulders, too baggy everywhere else. Clea tilted her head to one side and studied him.

A nice color on you.

Blue?

That shade of blue. Navy blue. She took his hand—he noticed that she’d left the report card on the ironing board—and led him toward a staircase, kind of narrow for such a grand house.

What’s this? he said.

The back stairs.

They went up the back stairs, shadowy and smelling of old wood and wax—even a bit shabby, almost like it was a small leftover of some other house, not so grand, the kind of house Cody was more used to—and came out in a beautiful broad hallway lined with Persian rugs, the walls hung with paintings of the Old West. Cody knew nothing about art, but he wouldn’t have minded lingering a bit; another time, maybe. This time, something was leading him along, and not just Clea’s hand in his. She opened a door at the end of the hall.

Ta-da! she said.

Cody had been in only one other girl’s bedroom before this—Tonya Redding’s, almost a year earlier. Tonya lived in Lower Town, a few blocks from the Red Pony, where her mother worked as a waitress. Tonya’s bedroom was kind of girly, with pink walls, dolls on the shelf, stuffed animals on the bed; despite everything, he’d wanted out of there pretty fast. Clea’s bedroom was different: much bigger, of course, and beautiful, with a bank of windows on one side and French doors on another, but there was nothing girly about it. The walls were white, decorated with framed black-and-white photos of Clea on her horse, Bud; there were two bookcases, one filled with books, the other with trophies; the furniture was dark and spare. Clea’s riding boots stood by