tiny space behind the driver’s seat. Now, sitting in the driver’s seat with Mr. Schwab behind me, I feel like a king. Mr. Schwab takes a long time explaining the four pedals on the floor to me. There is something called a clutch on the left, two brake pedals on the right, and the throttle all the way over on the other side. By the time he lets me insert the key into the ignition and start the engine, the sky is a pale purple. My hands are trembling with excitement.
“Just take her real easy,” Mr. Schwab says as the engine roars to life. “Dorothy responds best to a nice, gentle touch.”
My face burns as the tractor lurches and chokes to a stop under my tentative direction, but Mr. Schwab keeps talking to me in a low, steady voice, and a few minutes later Dorothy is rolling smoothly over the soft dirt.
“Yeah!” I scream. “Look at me! I’m driving a tractor!”
Mr. Schwab throws his head back and laughs. “I’m glad you like it. You’re good, too, Honey. A natural. There’s still a bit more work to do, though. Can you turn her to the left now?” I follow his instructions as he leads me to the far end of the field. An hour passes like a heartbeat as I lower the sod till in the back and let Dorothy drag it up and down the neat rows. The smell of warm dirt fills the air as the sky around us gets darker and darker. I can’t remember ever feeling so happy.
And then Mr. Schwab goes and blows it.
“Boy, if your folks could see you now!” he shouts as I make the final, narrow turn down the field. He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Right?” Mr. Schwab doesn’t know anything about my parental situation—or more accurately, my lack of it—and so I know his comment is completely innocent, but something inside of me deflates anyway. I nod quickly and then look away. We drive in silence for a few more minutes until the last row is finished and then I turn around.
“Thanks a lot,” I say quietly. “It was fun. Winky and I should be getting back, though. It’s almost time for evening prayers.”
Mr. Schwab nods his head knowingly. He doesn’t ask us very many questions about Mount Blessing, but he knows wehave weird rituals like evening prayers and Ascension Marches. “Okay then,” he says. “Let’s go get Winky and get you guys back.
The walk back is a long one, especially since it is dark and Winky and I are pushing wheelbarrows filled to the brim with Libby’s special compost. Although mine feels like it weighs two hundred pounds, the weight in my chest feels heavier. Winky walks alongside me for a little while, watching me out of the corner of his eye. He points out a cluster of White Admiral butterflies flapping around a chokecherry bush, and then two Silvery Checkerspots who seem to be mating atop a budding stalk of purple dragon flower. But his voice sounds far away. I don’t answer him. The night air, edged with just the whisper of a chill, makes the hair on my arms stand up. My mouth feels dry. When we come to a fork in the road, Winky turns sharply and I tilt my wheelbarrow too fast, trying to keep up. Suddenly the whole thing tips over, spilling compost in every direction. A horrible smell, like cow manure and rotten eggs, fills the air.
“Shit!” I yell, sitting down hard next to the pile of dirt. George digs into the soft part of my thigh inside my pocket. Furious, I reach inside, pull him out, and throw him as hard as I can into the trees across the road. He lands with a soft plop behind a mound of bushes.
Winky stares at me for a minute and then lowers his wheelbarrow. “What’d you go do that for?” he asks. Suddenly I realize what I have just done. Without waiting for an answer, Winky plods across the road.
“Don’t bother!” I yell, feeling like a three-year-old, but notcaring, either. “Leave him! I don’t want him anymore! Just leave him, Winky!”
He ignores me. I watch with dull eyes as he pushes back brambles and tall weeds, sinking to his knees
“Just take her real easy,” Mr. Schwab says as the engine roars to life. “Dorothy responds best to a nice, gentle touch.”
My face burns as the tractor lurches and chokes to a stop under my tentative direction, but Mr. Schwab keeps talking to me in a low, steady voice, and a few minutes later Dorothy is rolling smoothly over the soft dirt.
“Yeah!” I scream. “Look at me! I’m driving a tractor!”
Mr. Schwab throws his head back and laughs. “I’m glad you like it. You’re good, too, Honey. A natural. There’s still a bit more work to do, though. Can you turn her to the left now?” I follow his instructions as he leads me to the far end of the field. An hour passes like a heartbeat as I lower the sod till in the back and let Dorothy drag it up and down the neat rows. The smell of warm dirt fills the air as the sky around us gets darker and darker. I can’t remember ever feeling so happy.
And then Mr. Schwab goes and blows it.
“Boy, if your folks could see you now!” he shouts as I make the final, narrow turn down the field. He looks over at me and raises his eyebrows. “Right?” Mr. Schwab doesn’t know anything about my parental situation—or more accurately, my lack of it—and so I know his comment is completely innocent, but something inside of me deflates anyway. I nod quickly and then look away. We drive in silence for a few more minutes until the last row is finished and then I turn around.
“Thanks a lot,” I say quietly. “It was fun. Winky and I should be getting back, though. It’s almost time for evening prayers.”
Mr. Schwab nods his head knowingly. He doesn’t ask us very many questions about Mount Blessing, but he knows wehave weird rituals like evening prayers and Ascension Marches. “Okay then,” he says. “Let’s go get Winky and get you guys back.
The walk back is a long one, especially since it is dark and Winky and I are pushing wheelbarrows filled to the brim with Libby’s special compost. Although mine feels like it weighs two hundred pounds, the weight in my chest feels heavier. Winky walks alongside me for a little while, watching me out of the corner of his eye. He points out a cluster of White Admiral butterflies flapping around a chokecherry bush, and then two Silvery Checkerspots who seem to be mating atop a budding stalk of purple dragon flower. But his voice sounds far away. I don’t answer him. The night air, edged with just the whisper of a chill, makes the hair on my arms stand up. My mouth feels dry. When we come to a fork in the road, Winky turns sharply and I tilt my wheelbarrow too fast, trying to keep up. Suddenly the whole thing tips over, spilling compost in every direction. A horrible smell, like cow manure and rotten eggs, fills the air.
“Shit!” I yell, sitting down hard next to the pile of dirt. George digs into the soft part of my thigh inside my pocket. Furious, I reach inside, pull him out, and throw him as hard as I can into the trees across the road. He lands with a soft plop behind a mound of bushes.
Winky stares at me for a minute and then lowers his wheelbarrow. “What’d you go do that for?” he asks. Suddenly I realize what I have just done. Without waiting for an answer, Winky plods across the road.
“Don’t bother!” I yell, feeling like a three-year-old, but notcaring, either. “Leave him! I don’t want him anymore! Just leave him, Winky!”
He ignores me. I watch with dull eyes as he pushes back brambles and tall weeds, sinking to his knees
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