Masterson called Bobby Ray into the office three times a week, and three times a week, Bobby Ray got around the probing questions. Exasperated, Bobby Ray lost his temper. “You’ve got everything in the file.”
“I’m not looking for facts, Mr. Dean. I want to know how you think. I want to know what’s going on inside that impressive brain of yours.”
“No, you don’t.” Bobby Ray had no intention of unlocking that door.
“I’ve been watching you. You do a lot of listening. Talking to someone who cares can help you understand where you’ve come from and how to get where you want to go.”
“I deal with my stuff my own way.”
“And how’s that working for you?” Masterson shook his head. “The truth is, you don’t deal with anything. You’re pushing it all down where you think it’ll stay buried. It’ll eat you alive.”
Susan Masterson was harder to deal with than Chet. A blonde, blue-eyed Texan, she wore her long hair in a ponytail and dressed in jeans, Western shirts, and cowboy boots. The boys all had crushes on her. “Stick with me, and you’ll know your way around a kitchen. Give me guff, and you’ll be mucking out the stables.” Bobby Ray balked and found out she was a woman of her word.
Blistered after using a shovel all day, he tried reason. He’d fended for himself for as long as he could remember. He could make sandwiches and ramen noodles, mac and cheese. He could boil hot dogs and scramble eggs. What more did a guy need?
Susan faced Bobby Ray, hands on her hips, and told him that by the time he left the ranch, he’d know how to cook a four-course meal, iron his own shirt despite living in a perma-press world, do his own laundry, and make a bed so tight he could bounce a coin on it. He’d even learn to clean the toilet and remember to put the seat down. “A future wife will appreciate that!” She raised her voice so Chet could hear in his back office.
“Did you say something, darlin’?” Chet called back, laughing.
“Whoa!” She put her hand over Bobby Ray’s. “Peel a potato that way, and you’ll skin your thumb. I don’t want any blood in the mashed potatoes.” She demonstrated and handed the peeler back. “Only fifteen more to go.”
He balked again when she took him to a cabinet and told him he could pick out something better to wear than what he had. “You’re free to take whatever you need. Most of our boys arrive with little more than one set of clothes.” She reached in and pulled out a couple of ironed, neatly folded shirts. He said no thanks, he liked T-shirts and hoodies, preferably in black.
“This isn’t the end of the road, Bobby Ray. You’re going to college or you’re going to work. Either way, you have to learn to be comfortable in clothes that will get you a job. You need to look the part for whatever career you choose.”
“There’s no dress code for dealing dope.”
“Don’t be a dope. El que no arriesga, no gana.”
“Say what?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She shook her head and hollered. “Hey, Chet. What happened to our boys learning Spanish?”
“Jasper’s teaching Mr. Dean Latin.”
“Latin!” Susan laughed. “Oh, my. Jasper finally got his wish!” She gave Bobby Ray a malicious grin. “Lucky you.”
Like everyone else, Bobby Ray did his time mucking out stables and pitching hay. José spent every minute of his free time with the horses. He rode every day. Bobby Ray tried not to like his roommate, but a relationship grew despite his resolve. He could see a world of hurt coming. Right now, it had to do with José and his love of horses. Bobby Ray wanted to warn him. “They don’t belong to you, bro. Blaze Star or Nash might be in a horse trailer tomorrow and out of here. Ever think about that?”
“Sure I think about it. I’m not stupid.”
“So why get attached?”
“You see me ever getting a chance like this again? I’ll probably end up like my old man, serving time. I’m going to enjoy this until I’m eighteen.”
At eighteen, they’d be out of the program, off the ranch, and on their own. That’s the way the system worked.
Bobby Ray kept to himself, kept to his studies. He had to remind himself over and over he shouldn’t make friends or count on anybody. It always led to heartache. Sometimes when the guys were all talking and laughing together, Bobby Ray would have to go outside to get his head straight. Often, against his better judgment, he’d talk with José after lights-out. One night, José told him a joke and Bobby Ray laughed so hard, he felt tears coming and had to shut himself down before he made a fool of himself.
When José announced during a family meeting that he was planning to join the Marine Corps, Bobby Ray knew it was time to leave the Masterson Mountain Ranch. As soon as lights went out, he stuffed his clothes into his duffel bag and made for the door. José followed, pulling on jeans as he tried to catch up. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here!”
“I turn eighteen next month. We all have to leave sometime, man. I’m trying to do the smart thing.”
“Just shut up and go back to the house.” Starsky and Hutch appeared, and Bobby Ray swore.
“Suit yourself.” José headed toward the house, calling the dogs. They didn’t come.
Starsky sat on one side of Bobby Ray, Hutch on the other. Shifting his duffel bag, Bobby Ray looked down the long driveway to the gate and the dark line of road along the fence. Where would he go? Back to San Francisco? He didn’t have any friends there, not anymore. Should he go to Sacramento? He’d have to live on the streets. What were his alternatives? He spit out a four-letter word, then another, louder. After a few more minutes, he returned to the house. He dropped the bag beside his bed.
Chet called Bobby Ray for a counseling session the next morning. Since it was a day early, Bobby Ray figured Chet knew about his attempted escape. He sat, wondering how many days he’d be mucking out stalls this time.
Chet took the seat behind his desk. “Glad you changed your mind last night.” He leaned back. “Care to talk about what made you want to run?”
Bobby Ray stared, stone-faced, at nothing.
“Silence is your standard modus operandi, isn’t it, Mr. Dean? Okay. This time we’ll just sit here until you start talking.”
Minutes passed. Chet Masterson looked as relaxed as he had when they entered the office. Bobby Ray grew edgier. He’d always been the one to use silence as a weapon. Sit long enough and the other person always said something, usually enough for Bobby Ray to use against them. Chet didn’t look bothered.
After fifteen minutes of silence, Bobby Ray shifted in his chair. He snarled a couple of words and got up.
“Sit down.” Chet Masterson spoke quietly, but with steely calm. “We have an hour.”
At least there was an end in sight. Thirty minutes had Bobby Ray’s nerves in knots. Maybe he didn’t have the guts to run, but he knew how to get kicked out. All he had to do was find a can of spray paint. He let his mind focus on what he’d put on a wall. After the full hour had passed, his blood had cooled to a steady simmer.
Chet looked grim. “Impressive.” His smile held sadness, not respect. “You can go, Mr. Dean.”
That evening, he spotted a black marker in the dry-erase board tray and felt a rush of adrenaline. Slipping it surreptitiously into his pocket while the others lounged and watched a baseball game, he headed for his bedroom. He could hear the guys cheering over a hit.
“Hey! Why don’t you join us?” José stopped just inside the door. He uttered a four-letter word and stood staring. He went out again, closing the door behind him.
Bobby Ray felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach; then the rush returned, dimming the pain, focusing the anger. Tense, he kept working.
He heard the murmur of voices from the living room as the nightly meeting started without him. No one would miss him when he was gone. After a while, he heard the television again. The door stayed closed.