The rough-hewn barn floor planks groan under the weight of the hay wagon as it backs through the wide doorway. Outside, the sky is a cornflower blue with a swirl of cirrus clouds. Inside, the air is hot and thick with dust. Teenage girls with their hair bundled under red and blue farmer’s handkerchiefs stand near a window to catch the light breeze. Their mocking laughter fills the barn as they wipe bits of hay from their faces with their t-shirts. Stretched out on the floor in a shady spot, I finger fresh blisters where the coarse baling twine cut into my skin. My damp blue jeans stick uncomfortably to my legs, and I spit green-tinted mucus.
There are a variety of tasks to be done to get the hay bales out of the wagon and into the hayloft. I prefer stacking because it requires strength and strategy. Sixty-pound bales need to be stacked just-so for stability and airflow. An unstable stack is a safety risk, and damp hay can molder and spontaneously combust. Stacking also gives me an excuse to stay outside of the quicksilver conversations of the other girls. I eavesdrop while I focus on the physics of stacking and the burn of my biceps and quadriceps as I lift, toss, push, and shove bales into place.
One girl wants to dump her boring boyfriend. Another hints at sneaking out at night to meet a boy from another school. They gossip about a girl who got pregnant and dropped out. Some think she had an abortion. Others say that she gave the baby up for adoption. Someone else says the boy forced himself on her. God, no, they can’t believe that about him. They chatter on about hot boys, smart boys, mysterious boys, geeky boys, stupid boys, creepy boys, boys worth fighting for, and boys to avoid.
My friend told me he likes me. He thinks I’m smart and funny, if a little emotional. He told me I would be a great wife because I am a hard worker, honest, and kind. He told me these things in a letter written faintly with a No. 2 graphite pencil on grey composition paper. But, he continued in the surreptitious letter, his friends tease him because I am bigger and stronger than him. I look more like a boy than he does, they taunt. “Why would you like a dog like her? Arrf! Arrf! Arrf!” They laugh like hyenas when I walk by, he explains. It is humiliating, and his only option, he concludes, is to turn his attention to my more feminine best friend. I blink salty sweat out of my eyes and mutely hoist a hay bale onto my broad shoulder.
MICHELLE RAE KISSINGER, Ph.D., is an escaped business manager, independent scholar, and writer. She’s been published in Potato Soup Journal and is currently writing a book about the first female graduates of a residential school for impoverished children. She lives in rural Pennsylvania with her husband and seven cats.