bull!
Come on !”
I try to hold her back, to bribe her with the promise of fried ice cream and coffee, but when Jayla Heart sets her mind to public disaster, nothing can stand in her way.
Eight seconds later, I’m shoving quarters into a metal box, praying to the God of Tourist Attractions that my sister has decent medical coverage and that Cantina Blue is void, at present, of Jayla Heart fanboys, CelebStyle paparazzi, my Lav-Oaks classmates, and—just to be safe— anyone with a mobile Internet connection.
“Let’s do this, Toro! Yee-haw! ” Jayla squeals as the bull jerks and grinds to life. The quarters get her five minutes 114
and an “authentic” cowgirl hat for the ride, which she’s currently pressing to her head with one hand, the other gripping the saddle horn.
A half-dozen men and little kids gather, everyone encouraging her from the sidelines to “hang on” and “ride hard” and “get ’er done, darlin’!” After three minutes, convinced she’s got both Toro and her audience entranced, Jayla whoops, tossing her hat in the air. “Go, cowgirl, go—
ohh!”
In a tangle of arms and legs and flip-flops, my sister is on the safety mat, laughing as the bull clinks to a stop above her.
“Screw you, Toro. Screw all you . . . stupid . . . bulls.” Flat on her back, Jayla’s flipping off the bull, laughing, and a few more curious heads pop up from the surrounding booths. One of the busboys has his phone out, thumbs working the screen, probably uploading video to Blue Cantina’s Drunken Cowgirl Wall of Shame. Behind me a mother hushes her child, calls for their waitress to bring the bill.
We’re about one customer complaint away from an
“everything all right here, ladies?” visit from the manager.
I kneel on the mat beside her. “Time to go, Jayla.”
“Call me Cowgirl !” She grabs the discarded hat and flings her arms out, two limp noodles around my neck.
115
“Time to go, Cowgirl. Lose the hat.” I get her on her feet and lead her back to the booth. Aware that we’re still being watched and possibly filmed, I slap a wad of Jayla’s cash on the table and hastily collect our things. We’re almost to the exit, me balancing our shopping bags and purses on one arm, my sister on the other, when Jayla goes boneless.
“Lucy! It’s horrible!” she wails, a blond puddle on the fake tile floor. “I’m a terrible parent!”
“You’re not a parent.”
“I’m not setting a good example,” she says. “I’m fiscally irrespicable. Sponsible.”
With tired eyes, I take in the pile of Jayla, the salsa stain on her thigh, the cowgirl hat–shaped lump inside her hoodie. “Oh, you’re an awesome example.”
“If Ms. Zeff saw me, she’d call social services. They should lock me up and throw away the keys! Do prisons still use keys, or is it, like, electronic? Do you think social services will send me to jail? I’m awful!” More waterworks.
“Jesus, Jay. How the fuck did you get so wasted?” I set down the bags and loop my arms around her waist. “Help me out here, Cowgirl. I can’t—”
“Lucy? Last name Vacarro?”
I stand and turn around slowly, plastering on a festive 116
smile. “Marceau! Hey! I’m . . . um . . . my sister’s contact lens . . . Have you been here long?”
Jayla moans from the floor.
Marceau’s eyes are warm and kind, and with no more judgment than a playfully raised eyebrow, he says, “Let me help, chéri .”
He grunts as he hauls Jayla to her feet, letting her use him as a human kickstand while I scoop up the bags. “I’m here with my host mom,” he tells me. “She says I’m not allowed to leave Colorado without trying the Miles High nachos.”
“Mile High,” I say. “Just the one.”
“Nacho?”
“Mile. It’s the altitude,” I explain.
“Welcome to Denver!” Jayla blurts out. “One mile above the sea.”
Marceau smiles. It’s basically award-winning. “At home we would say ‘one point six kilometers high
Come on !”
I try to hold her back, to bribe her with the promise of fried ice cream and coffee, but when Jayla Heart sets her mind to public disaster, nothing can stand in her way.
Eight seconds later, I’m shoving quarters into a metal box, praying to the God of Tourist Attractions that my sister has decent medical coverage and that Cantina Blue is void, at present, of Jayla Heart fanboys, CelebStyle paparazzi, my Lav-Oaks classmates, and—just to be safe— anyone with a mobile Internet connection.
“Let’s do this, Toro! Yee-haw! ” Jayla squeals as the bull jerks and grinds to life. The quarters get her five minutes 114
and an “authentic” cowgirl hat for the ride, which she’s currently pressing to her head with one hand, the other gripping the saddle horn.
A half-dozen men and little kids gather, everyone encouraging her from the sidelines to “hang on” and “ride hard” and “get ’er done, darlin’!” After three minutes, convinced she’s got both Toro and her audience entranced, Jayla whoops, tossing her hat in the air. “Go, cowgirl, go—
ohh!”
In a tangle of arms and legs and flip-flops, my sister is on the safety mat, laughing as the bull clinks to a stop above her.
“Screw you, Toro. Screw all you . . . stupid . . . bulls.” Flat on her back, Jayla’s flipping off the bull, laughing, and a few more curious heads pop up from the surrounding booths. One of the busboys has his phone out, thumbs working the screen, probably uploading video to Blue Cantina’s Drunken Cowgirl Wall of Shame. Behind me a mother hushes her child, calls for their waitress to bring the bill.
We’re about one customer complaint away from an
“everything all right here, ladies?” visit from the manager.
I kneel on the mat beside her. “Time to go, Jayla.”
“Call me Cowgirl !” She grabs the discarded hat and flings her arms out, two limp noodles around my neck.
115
“Time to go, Cowgirl. Lose the hat.” I get her on her feet and lead her back to the booth. Aware that we’re still being watched and possibly filmed, I slap a wad of Jayla’s cash on the table and hastily collect our things. We’re almost to the exit, me balancing our shopping bags and purses on one arm, my sister on the other, when Jayla goes boneless.
“Lucy! It’s horrible!” she wails, a blond puddle on the fake tile floor. “I’m a terrible parent!”
“You’re not a parent.”
“I’m not setting a good example,” she says. “I’m fiscally irrespicable. Sponsible.”
With tired eyes, I take in the pile of Jayla, the salsa stain on her thigh, the cowgirl hat–shaped lump inside her hoodie. “Oh, you’re an awesome example.”
“If Ms. Zeff saw me, she’d call social services. They should lock me up and throw away the keys! Do prisons still use keys, or is it, like, electronic? Do you think social services will send me to jail? I’m awful!” More waterworks.
“Jesus, Jay. How the fuck did you get so wasted?” I set down the bags and loop my arms around her waist. “Help me out here, Cowgirl. I can’t—”
“Lucy? Last name Vacarro?”
I stand and turn around slowly, plastering on a festive 116
smile. “Marceau! Hey! I’m . . . um . . . my sister’s contact lens . . . Have you been here long?”
Jayla moans from the floor.
Marceau’s eyes are warm and kind, and with no more judgment than a playfully raised eyebrow, he says, “Let me help, chéri .”
He grunts as he hauls Jayla to her feet, letting her use him as a human kickstand while I scoop up the bags. “I’m here with my host mom,” he tells me. “She says I’m not allowed to leave Colorado without trying the Miles High nachos.”
“Mile High,” I say. “Just the one.”
“Nacho?”
“Mile. It’s the altitude,” I explain.
“Welcome to Denver!” Jayla blurts out. “One mile above the sea.”
Marceau smiles. It’s basically award-winning. “At home we would say ‘one point six kilometers high
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