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

from one of its big white horns, and it waves in the air every time he turns his head. It looks easy enough to get ahold of, but the trouble will be getting close enough to do it. The music changes to a heavy metal song I’ve never heard before. I keep my eyes glued on K. J., who stays near the back of the group. She wipes sweat from her brow and crouches lower, like she’s ready to dart in either direction should the bull come her way.

Please, God, let her be fast.

The bull stops pawing and finally makes a move, taking off toward a pudgy guy in black jeans and an oversized belt buckle. The man tries to dodge left, but he doesn’t stand a chance. The bull flings him through the air like an oversized rag doll. Mom screams, but the sound is drowned out by more cheering. I don’t know how, but my heart is pounding even harder, and I’m really starting to sweat. Are these people freaking nuts? The guy jumps to his feet, pumping a fist into the air like he’s just scored a touchdown.

The bull goes after another man, but he’s quicker than the pudgy guy and darts out of the way in plenty of time. No one has even tried to get the ribbon yet, and I can’t really blame them. The bull pauses, seeming to survey his opponents, and K. J. moves in closer.

The music changes again. “We Will Rock You” is blaring through the speakers now and people start stomping their boots on the wooden floorboards of the bleachers in time to the beat. The sound grows until it becomes almost deafening. Psycho turns a circle, eyeing the crowd and looking more agitated by the second. He aims at another human target, paws at the dirt, and takes off.

Mom covers her eyes. “I can’t watch this!”

A guy trips over his own feet and goes down, but Psycho is already focused elsewhere.

“He’s okay, Mom.” At least he’s back on his feet. I want to tell K. J. to get out of there, but she just inches closer to the bull.

“One minute remaining,” the announcer says. “Who’s it gonna be this year? Psycho or one of you brave souls?”

K. J. tenses and then makes her move.

“No!” I shout, but my voice is lost in all the excitement.

She steadily creeps toward the bull, who’s temporarily distracted by the crowd and, with one arm outstretched, she leaps toward his head. Psycho ducks and moves away, recovering with lightning speed. In the next instant, he rams smack into K. J., knocking her to the ground and trampling her before he turns his attention to another contestant.

“No!” I scream again, jumping to my feet. My pulse throbs in my temples as I push my way down the bleachers, running to the arena fence. K. J. lies in a crumpled heap in the dirt.

The announcer’s voice has replaced the cheering, but his words are just background noise. They don’t seem to register in my brain. Other people are in the arena now: a rodeo clown, who steals the bull’s attention away from the other contestants, and two men, who run to kneel by K. J.’s side. I start to climb over the pipe fence when someone grabs my leg, pulling me back down.

“Not yet,” the man says. “Wait until they get the bull out of the arena.”

Guilt burns inside me. Why didn’t I talk her out of this? I should have put up a bigger fight. It seems to take an eternity, but as soon as Psycho is lured back into the pens behind the arena, I clamber over the fence. I nearly trip on a clump of dirt as I run to where K. J. lies. Two medics tend to her, while several other people form a circle around her. I stand on my tiptoes to peer over their shoulders, terrified of what I might see. She’s covered in dirt, but there’s no blood. That’s got to be a good sign, but I also notice she isn’t moving. My breath catches in my chest as I push my way in closer, praying that this is just unconsciousness.

“Is she okay?” I ask in a breathless whisper, but the medics don’t answer.

“Your friend?” a man standing next to me asks.

I shake my head, tears pooling in my eyes. “My sister.”

He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Probably just knocked out is all.”

I desperately hope he’s right, but my stomach twists into knots of doubt because what if she’s not all right? What if she dies like Ricky did?

The seconds drag on and I’m only aware of K. J.’s motionless body and the medics moving about in front of me. Her face is so pale.

“Is she going to be okay?” I ask, louder this time, because I can’t seem to stand here in silence.

Again, no one answers.

The announcer is still trying to smooth things over and assure the crowd that everything is under control, but he seems to be running out of things to say. It’s not until they finally have K. J. on a backboard and I’m following them out that I realize the crowd is still watching intently. Several wide-eyed young kids stand next to the fence, their fingers curled around the pipe. As they’re putting her into the ambulance, someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s the same man who’d spoken to me earlier.

“I’m sorry,” he says and hands me a phone. It must have fallen out of K. J.’s pocket back in the arena. “Hope she’ll be okay.”

I nod as a tear escapes down my cheek. They shut the doors, and the ambulance drives forward, lights flashing, but no sirens. Mom and Tim appear by my side.

“What’s going on?” Mom asks, worry lines creasing her forehead. “Is she hurt bad?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. Can you take me to the hospital?”

“Sure,” she says, handing me my backpack,