Kids These Days

Chapter 17: Ronan

The bathroom door swings open without warning. Finn gasps and lurches backward, tangling his arms in the shower curtain.

Ms. Allen stares at us curiously. "What are you two doing?"

Next to her, Becca mouths, Lie.

"Smoking," I say.

Ms. Allen's eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. "What?"

"He's joking, mom!" Finn finally escapes the shower curtain, scattering complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner across the tiled floor. "I'm not — we're not smoking. We're just talking."

"In the bathroom?"

"I, uh, cut my hand." He holds up the bloody towel as proof. "Ronan was helping me look for a bandaid."

Becca rolls her eyes. I can't help but resonate with her exasperation.

"That looks like a deep cut," Ms. Allen says, her brow furrowing in concern. Then — out of all the people in the room — she looks at me and demands, "How did this happen?"

"He tripped over the curb," I blurt. "There was a broken bottle in the gutter. I think that's what he cut his hand on."

Ms. Allen presses the back of her hand to her temple, muttering something about tetanus booster shots. "Fine. Finn, wash your hands and put on a bandaid. We're already late for dinner with Floyd. You can invite your friends."

I glance at Finn. He shrugs.

"Is it okay if I come to dinner, too?" asks Becca. "My cousin Julia drove me here, and she's not answering any of my calls."

"Of course, dear," Ms. Allen says. She smiles warmly at her, and I almost scoff. I can't believe I'm the one Ms. Allen assumes is a bad influence. "You're always welcome here."

Becca forces a grin. "Thanks, Sally."

They're on a first-name basis too. This is so unfair. I'm the one who's supposed to be charming with parents, not Becca! I know the names of all the Ivy League schools, and I'm practically fluent in German. Also, I'm a pro at small talk. I could chat about the weather for days. According to the adults at Sabrina's corporate parties, I'm a very charming young man.

"Alrighty, then," Ms. Allen says. "Pack up your things. Finn, make sure you wash out that cut. I'm not paying for an emergency trip to the dermatologist."

Finn lets out a heavy sigh as his mother exits the motel. He tosses the bloody towel in the trash, then kicks the bin for good measure. "This dinner is going to be miserable."

"No offense taken," Becca mutters.

"I didn't mean it like that--"

"It's fine," she says, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. "I'll just wait in the car."

Finn watches her leave, a mournful expression on his face. "Damn. I messed that up."

"Not your proudest moment," I admit. "How about you put on a bandaid, and I'll go get our suitcases ready?"

He sighs. "It's a deal."

***

I've never been to a ranch before. I'm not sure what I was expecting — cowboys, hopefully. Maybe a bull riding competition.

Floyd's ranch is a fifteen-minute drive outside of Dusty Valley, tucked away in the foothills of a sandy, low-lying mountain ridge. The wheels of Ms. Allen's Ford Escort kick up gravel as we grumble up the driveway, flanked by split-rail fencing and miles of open, empty desert. I spot a few lonely horses grazing at a hay feeder, but no rodeos. Disappointing.