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The Best Boy Ever Made
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The Best Boy Ever Made
By
Rachel Eliason
The Best Boy Ever Made
Copyright©Rachel Eliason 2013
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 0988573059
ISBN 13: 978-0-9885730-5-5
All rights reserved. This a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters of actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to Transformations Iowa, the support group I have been part of for many years now. It is particularly dedicated to the trans men I have met from that group, who informed and inspired this book. Thank you all.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter One
Hi, my name is Alecia Mueller and I will be your narrator for this story. Let me start by telling you a little about myself. I am five foot five, not tall by any stretch of the imagination but not short, either. I have long blond hair. I usually wear it braided into pigtails, even though my sister tells me it makes me look like I am twelve. I don't really care what she says, it's both pretty and practical at the same time.
If I had to describe myself in two words it would be those two: pretty but practical. I am very feminine but I don't let that stop me from doing stuff I want. Now my best friend Sam (she's the tall girl leaning up against front of the school next to me, the skinny six-foot girl with the short dark hair. She's reading a book if that helps), well let's just say that if you wanted to describe Sam you'd just use the word practical.
Sam and I have been best friends for most of our lives. We are country girls. That might not mean much to the city kids at the school, or to some of the readers, but to Sam and me it's important. Country kids aren't quite like town kids. It's little things, but sometimes the little things are important.
Take the way we dress. City kids wear faded torn blue jeans. They actually go out and buy jeans that have been purposely worn and faded. Country kids wear faded and torn jeans, too, but we buy nice clean blue jeans. The tears and fade marks are put there by our lives. I have a huge scuff mark and tear on the rear thigh of these jeans, well below the butt crease (I am not trying to show anything off). I took a spill while helping my uncle break horses a couple of weeks ago and that's how the scuffs got there. I got up, dusted myself off, got back on that horse and broke her, too.
Sam's got a huge tear on her right knee. If you look closely you can still find the matching thin scar. She got her leg caught up in a downed barbed wire fence. One of her dad's cows was stuck in the fence. Sam was wading in tall grass with a pair of wire cutters when it happened. I was there, too, talking gently to the cow so it would stay still while she worked.
“Hey girls, I was hoping I would run into to you,” Mrs. Terrance said at my left. Mrs. Terrance teaches Algebra 1 and 2 as well as coaching the girl's track team. She has dishwater blond hair and a round face. Her body is thin, a runner's body. It does not match her face at all. She was wearing a green track suit, a whistle around her neck and was holding a clipboard. “Are we going be blessed by your presence at tryouts?”
“Sorry, Mrs. T,” Sam replied, putting the book down for a moment. It was The New Goat Handbook; figures. “We would love to but it's almost time for the kidding.”
The thing about Mrs. Terrance is that she was born on a farm not far from here. She understands us country kids because she is country, too. She didn't miss a beat. A city teacher would have thought we were the ones kidding. Mrs. Terrance knew that by kidding, Sam meant our goats were about to give birth to their young, or kids.
She also knew we weren't trying to duck tryouts. We had responsibilities. That's a fact of life when you are a country kid. We both wanted to go out for track, but 4-H came first.
She nodded and made a mark on her clipboard. “Okay, well hopefully they'll drop and we'll still have time for a few practice runs before the first meet. Keep me posted.” Sam assured her we would.
With that she went on her way. You might be thinking that she gave us special treatment because she was biased in favor of country kids. I know some of the town kids felt that way but it wasn't like that at all. She understood that our responsibilities came first. Besides, she knew we weren't going to be sitting around inside playing video games or something like that. We'd be working and when we found time to make it to track, we'd be in great shape as always.
Okay, maybe there was a little favoritism going on. We were her two best distance runners by a long shot. Sam set the school record last year, as a sophomore. I was hard on her heels when she did it, too.
That was another difference, a pretty big one. You ask a city kid to run a mile and they act like that's so far. I mean come on. Sam's parents live a solid three quarters of a mile down the road from my home. I must have been five the first time I looked up and saw Sam running full tilt down the gravel road. She pulled to a full stop inches from me, nose-to-nose.
“Lambing,” she said, a smile spreading across her face, “First ewe is about to drop.” With that she was gone, back down the gravel road at full tilt again, me hard on her heels. It had been like that ever since. God knows how many times we tore back and forth on that strip of gravel, to see the birth of calves, lambs, baby chicks or to watch the vet give shots or the farrier trim the horse's hooves. So our fateful run at the end of last year had been the result of more than ten years of running, me chasing my friend, Sam.
“Hey,” a man's voice said. I looked up. It was Jeremy, so scratch that, a boy's voice. He was my boyfriend of the last three months.
“Hey,” I replied.
He nodded towards the distant track field. “Boy's tryouts don't start til tomorrow. Want a ride home?” Jeremy was a city kid. He was quarterback of the football team and he was fast, for a short distance. He ran four hundreds and did some field events, mostly to keep in shape for football.
He asked me to the winter dance and I said yes. We'd been going together ever since, casually. We weren't going steady, yet, and he'd not gotten past second base. I wasn't that kind of a girl.
I looked at the field, weighing my options. The bus was awfully slow. You had to stop at every farmhouse with a kid so it took almost an hour to make a less than fifteen minute drive. That extra forty five minutes meant I could be finishing chores by the time I would have normally been starting.
“Sure,” I replied. “Come on, Sam.”
Sam cocked her head at Jeremy. He gave her a sour look. She shrugged. I knew the two of them didn't like each other.
I also knew that Jeremy had only intended to ask me. But you know what? That's rude. Sam lives right along the way and there is no good reason to give me a ride and not her. Besides she was my best friend and she was willing to play nice with him for my sake. If he couldn't do the same, he'd become history. I know where my loyalties lie.
#
So here I am in the kitchen, the huge spacious kitchen with the island. The kitchen my dad made special for my mom, who like never cooks. Nice try, Dad.
This morning I had thrown some whole wheat in the bread maker (another
gift to Mom) and on my way in from grooming Audrey, my horse, I picked some spring greens out of the garden. I was intent on having a cheese sandwich on warm, whole wheat bread with fresh greens. I had my sandwich made on a small white plate, poured a big glass of skim milk and was making my way to the dining room when I heard the door bang open.
My sister has made an art form out of expressing herself through door closing. This particular bang expressed the sentiment, “I just can't be bothered to do things quietly right now, not with all the stuff I have on my plate.”
Britney is two years younger than me, a freshman this year. She is an inch taller and quite a bit thinner. I am a healthy weight for my height, don't get me wrong. But I am not obsessed about my weight the way Britney and Mom are. Plus, I like being a little bit curvy. Britney's thinness shows in her face, mine is rounder, hers is narrow with a sharp chin. We both have the same bright blond hair and light complexion.
Britney huffed into the room. “I don't know why he's always after me. He's got it out for me.”
Mom entered the room. My mom is a beautiful, graceful woman. I've always liked to watch her enter a room. She knows how to do it right. We girls get our blond hair from her and hers is always styled impeccably. She is thin and has a gorgeous complexion. She has small crows feet at the corner of both eyes. I think they give her some dignity, but she has tried about a dozen bottles of this or that lotion in an attempt to make them go away.
“He's only doing his job,” Mom told Britney. “In fact, he's doing you a huge favor.”
They were arguing about Mr. Harvey, Britney's math teacher. “Extra homework? Some freaking favor! With friends like this...” Britney said and broke off.
“Patricia put him up to it,” Mom said, “and you'll thank him next fall.”
By Patricia Mom meant Coach Harvey, or Mrs. Harvey. She taught Social Studies to the dumb kids and coached the cheer leading squad. Britney qualified on both accounts. It's not that my sister is dumb, mind you, but she's never seen the value of a good education as I do. So she got herself put on the dumb track, for the kids that aren't going to college. She's more interested in her social life and in cheerleading so she doesn't pay attention in class. So, even though she's taking the easy classes she's still barely pulling C's. She's in danger of being put on academic suspension if her math grade doesn't improve.
Mom's right, Patricia probably put her husband, Mr. Harvey, up to it. But Mom probably put Patricia up to it. Mom and She had been cheerleaders together when they went to high school. She always used coach Harvey's first name to emphasize the fact that they were on first name basis.
“Fine,” Britney conceded. “I'll thank him next fall. Until then I hate him.” She flopped down at the table next to me.
“You'll thank him double,” I told her, looking over at the practice sheets. “Math is mostly rote memorization. This will not only help your grade, but the practice will make math easier next year.”
“Mom, she's eating weeds again,” Britney shot back, gesturing at my sandwich.
“You could take a little more after your sister. She gets straight A's,” Mom said with a look that said I could do the same, and show a little more of Britney's interest in cheerleading or social standing. So not going to happen. A quick glance at my sandwich informed me that weed eating was one thing she didn't expect Britney to pick up on, either.
“A letter came for you.” Mom set a white official looking envelope in front of me.
“Is that real cheese?” Britney asked looking at the sandwich.
“Swiss, two slices,” I said. I grinned and took a big bite. Britney's got some issues about her weight, which is totally ridiculous but you know how girls can be. She and Mom snip at each other about calories and stuff and I know Britney and her friends get vicious about it sometimes. Like, “how could she eat that?” sort of stuff. It just irritates me. If I insist on real cheese, I am sabotaging her weight loss. If I talk about the health benefits of whole wheat bread, or the greens, I am implying she's fat.
Britney disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a container of low fat yogurt. “Can I go to Shelley's?” she asked Mom.
“After chores,” Mom said from the living room, “and homework.”
“I already fed and groomed the horses,” I called to Mom, “and fed the chickens. All that's left is to put out food for Duke and the cats.” Duke was Dad's hound. The cats were farm cats and too numerous to have individual names.
Mom wandered through and looked at the clock, frowning.
“Jeremy gave me a ride home from school,” I explained. Britney made another sour expression. She had a thing for Jeremy and considered him too good for me.
“So what was the letter?” Mom reminded me.
“Oh, it's from the All Star Debate committee,” I said opening the letter. I had been selected, out of all the debate team members in our entire district, to represent my school on the All Star Debate team. Next fall I would be sitting in front of a huge auditorium on stage with some of the best and brightest minds in the state of Iowa, kids who most would have full-ride academic scholarships. We would be debating the merits of... I unfolded the paper and scanned down the page, “gay marriage.”
“Eww,” Britney said.
“What?” Mom asked.
“That's the subject of the debate,” I said. I read aloud. “Each participant will be given five minutes to speak about why they either believe or do not believe that same sex marriage should be legal. Then the pros and cons will face off in a debate.”
“Huh?” Mom said, “is that really appropriate for a school debate?”
“It's like one of the biggest issues of our time period,” I said. Because it is.
“Better go ask Sam. I'll bet she knows about gay marriage,” Britney said.
“Shut up,” I snapped. Jesus, just because a girl doesn't date much.
“Britney!” Mom snapped, “that's a terrible thing to suggest.” To me she said, “Well, at least it's an easy one. Who can argue against two thousand years of tradition?” She was being dead serious, too. We were a good Catholic family, I don't think Mom even knows that there are people out there in favor of gay marriage.
“I should get on my Macbook and do some preliminary research later tonight. Never hurts to get an early start,” I said.
“Never hurts to get an early start,” Britney mimicked. “Miss Perfect.”
She was just venting, blowing off some steam from her day. I knew that. Well, I knew that in the back of my mind, anyway. “So how's putting everything off working, then?” I sneered back.
I'd give you a blow by blow account of our fight but honestly, I don't remember everything that was said, other than that it was all ugly. It's like that between us, sometimes. I don't know why, but once we get started every single slight or insult of the last fifteen years of sisterhood gets dredged out.
By the end of it Mom was screaming at us to knock it off. Britney was nearly in tears and scowling at me. I, being the practical one, got up and stormed out.
#
Remember how I said a mile isn't far to a country kid? Well I stormed out, down the road, past Sam's house and all the way to the next corner before I stopped fuming. I don't know why I let her get to me like that.
She's just jealous and it shows. She calls me “perfect girl” because I have confidence. She calls me “goody two shoes” because I have enough sense to understand the value of a good education. She calls me a nun sometimes because I won't put out for just any guy. But mostly she accuses me of being boring and predictable because I know how it's going to be. I've always known how it's going to be when I grow up. Even as a little girl I had a really good idea what I wanted my life to be like. What's wrong with having a dream? Or even better, a plan?
This is how it's going to be:
I am not quick to put out for any old guy because some day I am going to meet “the one.” He's going to be totally awesome and perf
ect for me. He's going to get me without me having to explain every little thing. He's going to be kind and caring. He's going to be tall, wiry and strong. Most importantly, he's going to be a country boy.
We are going to get married. I know, traditional plain old marriage may not sound that exciting to some girls, but it's what I want. We are going to stay country, too. I am not that picky, I don't care if he's a rancher, a grain farmer, or whatever, as long as it's country living.
I am going to be a farm wife. City kids might mistake farm wives for stay at home moms, but nothing could be farther from the truth. While my man is out doing his farm thing, I will have a huge acreage. I will raise my own organic garden, for our table and the farmer's market. I will have chickens (I already have chickens). I will have a small orchard. I will probably have a few bee hives, as well. In short, I will be one busy woman.
Not many kids my age have such a clear vision of how they want their life to be and that's okay. But I know what I want. I am the only kid in school with a subscription to Mother Earth News, and a complete set of Foxfire books. Everyone can think what they will. This is who I am and what I want. To heck with Britney or anyone else that stands in my way.
Oh, and then there's Sam. Sam's part of the plan, too. We made a promise, a long long time ago, that we would never live more than a mile apart. That way we can keep seeing each other. That way, when she meets her “one” and settles down, our kids can run back and forth over the gravel road to see each other, just like we did. That way my daughter can know what it's like to have a friend as loyal as Sam.
That's the one part of the plan I worry about. We made those promises so long ago, when we were little girls. I still want that, but we haven't really talked about it in awhile. It's just been... different. There's been a distance between us, lately. I don't know what's going on. I wish I did.
Speaking of Sam, I was passing her house again on the way back when I saw her father, Mr. Oleson, coming out of the small red barn that is just to the left of the house. Not the big metal barn that houses the hundreds of cattle they raise for meat, but the wooden one that houses the special animals: the pure bred Angus cows that Sam shows at fairs, the Dexter cows (a rare breed) that Mr. Oleson raises in his personal herd, the sheep and, of course, our goats.