Page 18 of Snowballed

I’m all for easier. I tug away, but I’ve lost the knack already. Zoe patiently demonstrates once more and then I try again. I’m milking the goat, but only tiny squirts are coming out.

Rayme seems completely oblivious to my fumbling. “She has no idea that a noob is working down here,” I say.

“I thought a guy like you would have more experience with teats,” Zoe says.

“Umm,” is all I say because I’m shocked. She’s back, the fiery woman who shoved me out of the car. I nearly laugh, but my sense of humor is still on Pacific time.

Zoe covers her mouth like she wants to pull the words back in. Her face flushes red. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”

“It’s okay.” But what I really want to say is:please, be real with me. Is it because I don’t feel I deserve her cheerfulness and kindness? Or because I find her positivity a bit fake? Or is it because I was raised in such a competitive home that all the niceness sets me on edge?

I turn back to Rayme’s udder and yank away. After ten excruciating minutes—probably twice the time Zoe would have taken—the milk dribbles off.

“I think I’m done,” I say.

Zoe looks over and shakes her head. “Look how full she still is.” She reaches down and smacks the udder a couple of times.

Rayme doesn’t seem bothered, and sure enough more milk comes out.

“Did you clear out a clog or something?”

Zoe laughs. Maybe I’m confusing goat udders and radiator hoses. “No, I’m just mimicking nature. That’s what a kid would do to his mom to let down more milk.”

“Did you always live on a farm?” Zoe hasn’t kept still for one moment while I’ve been doing the longest goat milking ever. She’s moving around the barn, tidying, refilling, washing up, and sweeping. I feel like a sloth next to her. I’m finally done, and Rayme’s udder looks properly drained. Zoe gives me a nod of approval, and I stand and release Rayme. I look at all the milk in the bucket. It is kind of satisfying to see the results of your work.

“We moved here when I was ten,” she says. “It was my father’s dream.”

“Did he work full-time here?”

“No. He had a job as project manager on construction jobs in Burlington. He worked hard, but it’s always been a hobby farm. Before the farm was much bigger too. We had more animals and farmed our fields too. Now we lease them to the neighbor.” She scowls.

“I don’t know how you do all this and still go to school and play hockey,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “It’ll be fine, Noah. My brother, Derek, plays hockey, and he managed all his chores. Besides, I’ll do most of the work—except when I’m on a road trip.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do my share. It’s a learning curve, right? I’ll get better.”

I flex and extend my fingers, which are already sore from squeezing. I catch Zoe staring at my hands.

“Iambetter with human tits,” I assure her.

She flushes pink and hurries off to get another goat.

6

Noah

Two days on the Meyers farm, and I’m sore in places I didn’t know I even had muscles. I’m an athlete, but there’s a difference between hockey muscles and farm muscles. Besides milking the goats, I help Zoe stack hay bales, clean various pens and paddocks, and repair fences. I hope all the work will count as cross training.

I should have come here a week earlier to get the hang of all the farm stuff instead of waiting until the last minute. But I waited because I hoped that my dad might relent, and we could make up. Ever since I was a kid, I hated being on the outs with anyone I love—from family to friends. This feud is a constant irritant that makes me second guess all my family interactions. But I’m a big boy, and maybe this will all work out. I wanted independence, and now I have that.

“Ready for the first day of school?” Zoe asks me with her usual blinding smile. The Energizer Bunny is toughest to handle in the morning. Even after the goat milking, she’s flying. She hands me a large cup of coffee. Breakfast is eggs, bacon, and toast with jam. My father would be freaking out about the lack of pure proteins, but after all the morning chores, I’m starved. I can’t get over how good everything tastes here. Turns out that Zoe is right: fresh eggs make regular eggs taste bland. The thick bacon is addictive, and even the toast is so damn good. The golden butter melts as I spread it over my toast, and I add a big dollop of strawberry rhubarb preserves. Take that, Dad’s diet.

“Did you make this bread?” I ask.

“My mom did,” Zoe says. “I made the jam though.”

There’s a weird dynamic in this house. Zoe does so much more around the house than her mother.

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