Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (android based ebook reader TXT) 📗

driving with no destination in mind, but the farther I head east, the more I realize I do know where I want to go.

I pull into the Decatur Round-Up Club at eight forty-seven and hand five bucks to a man at the gate. Luckily, I had some cash on me since I totally forgot about having to pay. Trucks and trailers and horses and hillbillies litter the rodeo grounds. I find a parking spot near the back and start toward the arena with my Dr Pepper can still in hand. Country music blares from speakers near the announcer’s box and several girls ride past me on horses. They wear fancy western shirts covered with fringe and straw cowboy hats, making me wonder if they’re barrel racers or rodeo queens or something like that.

The stands are spilling over with spectators, and I’m lucky to find a seat on the bottom row on one end. Someone will probably be returning from the bathroom to find I took their seat. Oh well, their loss.

I’ve only been to one rodeo before, but it looks like they’re doing the calf roping right now. A guy swings a lasso over his head while riding his horse down the arena, chasing a black and white calf. He misses, and the crowd lets out a collective groan. I turn and scan the bleachers for Becka, but she could be anywhere in this sea of faces.

“Alrighty, folks,” the announcer says with even more twang than normal for this area. “The calf ropin’ is wrapping up, but we’re ready for some more amateur fun: goat milkin’s up next.”

Cheers erupt from the crowd, and I swipe at the beads of sweat that have formed along my brow line. Wish I’d thought to change out of my work shirt and jeans before I left.

Several goats are led into the arena and tied to a row of stakes about halfway down. Some are bigger than others, but it’s obvious by the way they waddle around at the end of their lines that they all have overly full udders just begging to be milked.

“I like the black one!” a little girl exclaims a few seats down from me. She runs to the fence, grasping the railing with both hands in order to watch. She’s skinny with short, curly brown hair, and I wonder if that’s what I looked like at that age.

“Are the contestants ready?” the announcer asks. I peek around the girl to see a line of people holding metal pails near the arena entrance. I recognize Becka’s blond ponytail bobbing among them.

“Now wait for my cue,” the announcer continues.

A murmur of excitement rises from the crowd.

“Ready. Set. Go!”

Everyone takes off running full throttle toward the goats, who jump around at the end of their lines. This should be interesting, I think, as I lean forward, keeping my eyes trained on Becka. She’s the only one wearing shorts and tennis shoes, which was probably a smart move. It’s no surprise she’s one of the first ones to get to a goat—the black one the little girl declared as her favorite. She immediately falls to her knees and grabs the lead rope, and though it takes a little while for her to persuade the goat to come near her, it finally stops protesting and stands still. She stuffs the bucket beneath it and starts milking. How does she even know how to do that? She was scared of riding a mule, but she somehow knows how to milk a goat?

Most of the contestants are still trying to get ahold of their rowdy goats, but a few have begun filling their own pails. People around me laugh after a goat tries to head-butt one guy. He jumps backward, splashing the pail of milk all over his shirt. I let out a snort of laughter. This definitely beats watching Carter and Dax play Call of Duty.

“Sixty seconds left,” the announcer says, which only increases the frantic activity in the arena. Three contestants still haven’t even touched their goats, much less milked them. Becka’s got her serious face on—maybe it’s her game face, I don’t know—but she’s definitely in it to win it.

“Thirty seconds.”

One contestant scrambles around to the other side of his goat, tripping over the lead line in the process, and falling face-first into the dirt. The crowd howls with laughter as the announcer begins the final countdown. A buzzer sounds.

“Time’s up!”

A judge makes his way down the line, inspecting the pails. He pauses at Becka’s and compares the contents of her pail with someone else’s. He then jogs toward the announcer’s box and shouts something up to the people inside.

“We have a winner, folks! Becka Cowles!”

From somewhere behind me, someone gives a squeal of excitement. I turn and notice Aunt RaeLynn and the man who must be her husband cheering about five rows above me. But unlike the last time I saw her, I’m not stricken with the same surge of bitterness. Instead, I feel nothing except a small pang of jealousy. She’s here supporting her daughter. My mom would never do that.

“All right, let’s clear out to get ready for the team ropers,” the announcer says, drawing my attention back to the arena.

I need to pee, so I head toward the row of porta-potties I’d seen coming in. On the way there, I spot Becka. She smiles and waves at me before seeming to remember our last conversation. Her face becomes blank, but I wave back. My cheeks warm as I think about how nice she’s been lately and what a jerk I’ve been. Becka was right, I was being a pain in the ass just to spite my mom.

“Nice job,” I say, approaching her. “I figured you had it in the bag from the beginning.”

She stares at me for a moment before giving a reluctant smile. Dirt is smudged across one of her cheeks and the tip of her nose. “Thanks. It was actually pretty fun.” She peeks back over her shoulder