Unforgettable by Loretta Ellsworth

watches me. “They’re usually seventy-five to one hundred pounds.”
    I drag myself over to him. “If you’re saying that to make me feel better, then you suck.”
    Brad laughs. He has the same laugh as his dad, who picked us up after school in a dusty black pickup. They both sound like the color gray.
    â€œI should mention that I’ve never worked on a farm before,” I told his dad as his weathered hand grasped mine in a firm handshake.
    â€œLifting bales of hay isn’t rocket science. But you’re in for a good time,” he joked with a hearty laugh. “Nothing builds muscle like farm work.”
    â€œIf he survives,” Brad said, and they both laughed.
    When we pulled out of the school parking lot and drove past the football field, Brad turned his head to look at the empty field, a wistful expression on his face. I didn’t ask him about it, but it’s been on my mind since then.
    â€œIs this what you do every day after school?” I ask.
    â€œThis time of year, yeah. It’s not that bad. We all pitch in.” Brad’s older brother Karl is in the loft above us, moving bales off the conveyer belt. His dad mowed and raked the field a few days ago. He later drove across that same field with a tractor that pulled a baler, a machine that gathers the mowed hay and squirts it out in rectangular bundles. Brad’s mom drove a truck pulling a flatbed rack from the field to the barn. It’s stacked high with the hay bales. I can see his dad still out in the field past the grazing dairy cows, baling more hay, trying to make the most of the warm afternoon sun.
    â€œWhat about sports?” I ask Brad.
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œI’d guess the football coach would love to have you on the roster.”
    â€œ ’Course he would. I played when I was younger. Been too busy the last few years, though. I might play again when I feel like it.”
    I’m not sure why he doesn’t feel like it now. He’d be a sure starter on the varsity team. But he turns away and I get the feeling I shouldn’t press him.
    We unload one rack as his mom pulls up with another one. I cringe at the piles of bales. Counting them would only depress me right now.
    â€œThere are snacks inside when you need a break,” she says to me. “Don’t overdo it this first day.”
    What I really want is to go home. Mom won’t be picking me up for another hour and a half. And the bales aren’t going anywhere, so Brad and I take a bathroom break. We walk through an old porch with cracked plaster and worn tile that looks a hundred years old, but it leads to a remodeled kitchen and living room that look eighty years newer.
    â€œMy grandpa grew up in this house,” Brad says. “This farm has been in our family for over a hundred years.”
    We sit at the kitchen counter and eat homemade apple strudel. The soft apple and cinnamon mixture is still warm and I inhale three pieces.
    Brad pours us glasses of milk. “My mom makes the best strudel.”
    I agree, even though it’s the first time I’ve ever eaten it.
    â€œSo, you coming back after today?” he asks between bites.
    â€œIf my arms don’t fall off.”
    He nods. “Good. I wasn’t sure. I mean, you’ve got that California tan. I thought you might be trying out for the tennis team or something.”
    â€œI don’t play tennis.”
    â€œYeah, well, you seem the type.”
    â€œDo I seem the type to lift hay bales?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    â€œThen why’d you ask me to help?”
    My question catches him off guard. He sputters out an answer. “I thought you might like some extra cash, and having help would make the job go faster.”
    â€œSo you’d have more time for something else?”
    â€œLike what?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know. Football?”
    Brad tips his Vikings cap. “How’d you