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Pops has kept the running of the ranch tight-lipped, and I’m not going to be the one to spread his business, especially in front of people from TimeLand.
“If you’re talking about transportation to drive the goods across the state, then I’ll give you that,” I respond. “When transportation became more readily available is when my great-grandparents really grew the ranch.”
“That wasn’t the only technology. What about refrigeration?” she asks.
“These are all very old things that were great inventions for their time, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the new addictive devices that everyone carries around in their pockets or the fact thatsome crazy-high percentage of people work, sitting at a desk, behind a computer. That’s what is ruining our society.”
“You do realize you have a phone in your back pocket too,” Dalton snaps back.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around, but still state, “Yes, that I use as an actual phone to communicate with people. I don’t play with all the games and apps.” I inhale a breath. “All I’m saying is, people have gotten away from what really matters. Most people wouldn’t have a clue how to raise, slaughter, and cultivate their own food. When all the technology crashes, what will people do?”
“It’s human nature; we’d figure it out,” Dalton says snidely.
I laugh and turn to him because this is just too good to not see his reaction.
“You? You’d figure it out? Do you think you’re big ole truck will suddenly do the work for you? Have you ever even mowed your own lawn or, God forbid, taken out your own trash at home?”
His face is stoic, and I love that I’ve gotten under his skin.
“If you had to slaughter a pig, would you know what part of the pig you should actually eat?”
Again, he doesn’t respond. He just stares at me as his jaw tics ever so slightly.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
I turn back around. “My point exactly.”
Miss Hernandez goes back to her lesson, obviously feeling the tension rolling off of Dalton from this conversation, and I couldn’t be happier.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dalton
The second week of school started without a hitch, and I’m looking forward to our first football game this Friday.
I park my truck in the back of the school by the football field since that is the first place I am in the morning and the last place before I leave at night. Technically, no one is supposed to be back here, but until they tell me no, I look at it as my own personal parking spot.
Yes, I know my parents are ridiculously loaded, but, no, I don’t drive a fancy car. I love my ’94 Chevy truck that was my grandpa’s when my dad was my age. Of course, we fixed it up a little with new wheels, and we put a six-inch lift on it, but it still has some original parts, including the country-style upholstery that almost feels made out of wool, as well as manual windows anddoor locks. It’s a damn good thing I’m tall, too, because reaching over to unlock the passenger door would be a pain in the ass if I wasn’t.
The one thing I wouldn’t change is the paint. Every dent and scratch were put on this truck by my grandpa so I left them there as my way of keeping his memory even more alive.
Fall might be right around the corner, but it’s not here yet, and under all that football gear, it might as well still be the dead of summer with how hot and sweaty I get during practice.
I toss my pads and bag in the back of the truck before I fling my door open and climb inside. My body aches with every move I make, so I take a second to just sit and let my muscles relax a bit before I reach forward and crank the engine.
The loud roar of the engine piques my senses—that is, until the speaker system I have set up behind my driver’s seat kicks on and really smacks my ass awake again.
Morgan Wallen’s “Last Night” comes over the radio, and I turn it up even louder than it already was. I sit and let the music run through my veins to bring me back to a calm place before I put the truck in reverse and pull out of the parking space.
I mindlessly drive around the school until I’m stopped in my tracks due to a huge trailer parked sideways with dirt everywhere, blocking my only way out.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
I throw the truck in park and hop out to see what this mess is all about.
“Hello!” I yell out when I don’t see anyone around. “I need to get out of here, and you have the entire area blocked.”
I look up just as I see someone sauntering out of the Future Farmers of America, or rather, the FFA area without a care in the world.
