Saginaw, 1977

Clydes, all four of them, stand loosely tethered to the post. Braided horsetails swat at flies and miss. The usual preshow solemnities, no big deal for you or your sister—who didn't even bother hiking it back from some conquest on the midway—but Kim didn't want to miss it.

Dad calls out your name. He must have seen you slip behind the tented stable.

You wave Kim closer to the wood slat walls. As if you can hide behind the rough boards, with these gaps in between, and not be sucked into braiding manes.

This impossibility you hold onto until the old horse trainer lumbers past, moving as much side to side as he moves forward. Kim nudges you, you nudge back. Helmer swears Effing Christ even before tying the other bag of molasses-laced oats to the fencepost.

Dad calls again. Louder.

This time you go.

He's under the elms with Duke and a bucket of sulfur. Yellow powder everywhere under the elms and all over Duke's hind legs, while Mr. Skog-land's geldings across the way still have mud caked on their young backs and upon their fetlocks.

You pretend you don't know what Dad wants, act as if you came for the small talk.

See how raggedy Skogland's team looks this year? you say. Those roans, so second class.

Your dad grunts as he crouches by the five-gallon bucket and scoops out another handful of powder. Sweat trails down his t-shirt, but it isn't that hot out. Duke's front legs are so snowy white you can't tell anymore which one had black feathers on it. Your dad won't say, either.

You ask if there's anything he wants you to do, hope there's not.

He rubs powder up and down Duke's leg—hard—and works it through the ends of the horse feathers. You need to look after your sister, he says.

But she's four years older, you think.

He towels off his hands. She's hanging out with that Vince, he says, not looking at you. I hired him to handle my horses, not my daughter. You wonder if he really meant to say the last part aloud. He bends down to work the legs again. Just keep an eye out, okay, Lisa? he says.

Okay, you say. Because you have to.

He asks for some water.

Around the corner of the tented stable is the trailer. It's an oven inside, worse than a parked car, but you climb in to get some water and leave Kim lingering outside.

You try not to spill what's in the glass for your dad. He rocks back on his heels and takes a swig. He tosses the rest over the top of his head. Duke shifts his weight, and a muscle moves in his flank. Your dad stands and leans against the horse to get the dark bay to shift back.

No need to see the rest, you've seen this a million times.

Kim wants to hang out in Helmer's trailer, even if it is stuffy and smells like straw from him staying there all week. At least it's private.

The door is closed to his bedroom in the back of the Airstream, so you squeeze onto the benches in the kitchen area to talk. She asks how your whole family fits in when you go skiing, and you show her how the table pulls apart, how the benches slide together to make another bed. You click the seats upright again and wiggle the table back into its footing.

You ask Kim if she wants a pop. There are still a few left in the crusty fridge, so you skid a glass bottle across the table to her.

When you sit down again, you pick at the fabric at the bottom of your rib cage. When you let go, it definitely disappears under what you can call curves now. You ask Kim if your boobs show in the t-shirt you are wearing.

Put your shoulders back...