Page 2 of Untamed
Come to think of it, he’s been sneaking into my room for the past two years and he’s never been caught. I guess he knows a thing or two about sneaking around.
Dad’s throat clears from the living room. He stands, hands on his hips, eyeing me from head to toe. He doesn’t like when I dress like this. It’s not even that what I’m wearing is revealing, because it’s not all that bad, but it’s the fact that I don’t wear simple covering sundresses like my mom or the other girls around town. I’m nothing like that. I wear statement pendants, long chain multi-strand beaded necklaces and distressed vintage threads that speak to me. Give me reds, rich browns, deep purples, and turquoise colors with tattoo style wings, hearts, and arrows and I’m at peace with my mind and body. Today I chose a black cowgirl hat, a fringed bullhorn top I tied just above my hips and a purple, blue, and white bohemian style long skirt with a belt. Still barefoot, I reach for my Ariat boots in misty turquoise elephant print next to the door, but I don’t put them on. I prefer to be barefoot as long as possible.
Doesn’t exactly scream homegrown girl, does it?
“Where do you think you’re going, Maesyn?” Here’s the thing about my dad. Not only does he rarely smile, but he’s also not kindly asking, “Hey, kid, what are you doing tonight?” Nope. It’s more like, “Where the fuck do you think you’re going and with who?” He’s demanding I tell him, and forgive me here, I don’t want to tell him. Rebellious by nature, and after nearly eighteen years, I’m so sick of his stupid rules. He’s totally that stereotypical helicopter parent, always in my business.
The defiant teenager I am, my first instinct is to ignore him, but I know if I do—because I’ve been there before—it’ll lead exactly where I don’t want it to. It starts with him laying into me about responsibility and ends up being more about respect for your parents and everything a teenage girl who’s dying to get out of the house doesn’t want to hear. I’m all for respecting your parents and authority figures, but it’s starting to feel like a prison here. If a ranch in Ellensburg was a prison. Given my nearly eighteen years of captivity, I’m pretty sure it is.
“Relax, Dad. Just going out.” I try to keep the sarcasm from my tone. “I’ll be back later.”
Maybe tomorrow.
While I’m sure he means well, Archer Calhoun comes from a time when girls didn’t go out and they certainly didn’t spread their legs for boys. Girls were young ladies and said yes, sir and yes, ma’am and never talked back to their parents. Like Morgan. My little sister who’s perfect. I may not be anything like her, but I adore her in every way.
I can see it more and more, the need to control my wild and free spirit, especially in these moments when my dad looks at me with his scrutinizing glare. I bet my dad wonders what went wrong with me. How’d his precious daughter turn into this? For an entire year, from two years old to three, I refused to wear clothes. Not even joking. Would. Not. Wear. Them. Family pictures were interesting. My point is, he should have known the kind of girl I was going to turn into.
I know he wishes I was more like my mother who never makes eye contact with him and waits on him hand and foot. Or like Morgan, the sweetest eight-year-old you’d ever meet. Without a care in the world, she runs around here with a baby bull at her side, convinced he’s not going to grow up. She sneaks animals into her room and swears that if you feed cows chocolate chips, they’ll make chocolate milk.
But I’m not my sister. I’m Maesyn Skye Calhoun, barely five three, green eyes, with loose blonde curls down to my waist, rebel-wild with a gypsy soul. With an insane desire to be anywhere but here, I’m never one to follow. I do what my heart knows to be true, but maybe not always the right decision. I question the rules and refuse to conform to a standard way of life or arbitrary rules. Finding beauty in imperfection, my intuition and heart vow to keep the sparkle in my eyes and it’s not going to be found here.
Still standing by the front door, my focus shifts outside. Up our long dirt road lined with Jeffrey pine trees I hear the faint rumbling of a rusted turquoise ’79 Ford short bed coming to rescue me.
“Where exactly are you going?” Dad’s eyes narrow on me, waiting for the lie he knows is coming about where I’m going. My dad decided long ago I wasn’t trustworthy, but then again, I’ve done little to prove him wrong in that manner.
In some ways, he’s a man in complete denial that his firstborn daughter graduated last month and she’s turning eighteen in six days. Deep down, he’s scared I’m leaving and never coming back. I like to think this overprotectiveness comes from him caring, but I’m not sure anymore. He comes across as overbearing and completely unreasonable.
“Dad. . . .” My attention’s on my phone, checking the time. If I make eye contact with him, he’ll know I’m lying. Born with my heart on my sleeve and a mouth I can’t control, the less I say, the better.
Mom comes to my rescue, peeking her head around the corner where she’s fixing Morgan’s braids before bed. My stare moves to the one smiling at me. Morgan Lee, she’s the cutest kid to ever bless this earth. Free falling blonde curls like mine, she has the most adorable freckled cheeks. You can’t look at her and not smile and sigh that there’s something so perfect and pure in this world. She was born the night my Grandpa Lee passed away and I think she was his gift to our family. “Archer, honey,” Mom says, winking at me, “leave her be. She’s turning eighteen in a few days. Let her have some fun.”
“Bye, sissy!” Morgan yells.
“Bye, Morgy!”
Without looking at him, I reach for my bag by the door and let the screen door slam behind me before he can say anything else.
I’m not quick enough. “Be back by midnight,” Dad orders from the porch, kicking open the creaking door with his foot. I glance over my shoulder as he’s walking back inside the house.
Midnight? The thought makes me chuckle. He’s lucky if I make it home before the sun rises tomorrow. You’d think there’d be some leeway here since I graduated, but not with Archer Calhoun. Rules are rules. Too bad they haven’t stopped me yet.
Outside, the warm summer air clings to my face, the wind kicking up rustling through the ponderosa pines lining the dirt road leading into the Calhoun Ranch I’ve called home since birth.
There’s a rusted turquoise Ford coming up the road. It’s my best girl. Haylee Miller is the girl most steer clear of in fear she’ll kick your ass. And believe me, she will, has before, and will smile while doing so. What I love most about her? She’s never anything anyone expects her to be. She’s tiny, but tough. Sweet, but sassy, and cold, but caring. If you ever want to know what she’s thinking, ask. She’ll tell you and then some. With her sharp tongue and determination, I honestly don’t think I can live without Haylee.
I’ve known Haylee for about two years. She moved here with her mom after her dad passed away from colon cancer. It’s a sad story, and I’ll probably tell it to you here soon, but not yet.
What else can I say about her other than she’s the only person who knows almost every secret I have, and I have more than my share of a few. Probably more than most seventeen-year-olds.
Kindred spirits in more ways than one, she’s my closest confidante in this small eastern Washington farm town.
Her truck comes to a halt in the driveway, gravel skidding under her tires. When I hop in the truck, she tips her cowboy hat at me. “Hey, girl.” Plumes of dirt drift up as she rolls down the driveway before I even have a chance to completely close the door.
Once I’m safely inside, I look at her and know she’s ready to let loose. Another reason I love this girl, we’re the gypsy souls of Ellensburg. Layered beaded necklaces hang from her neck and wrists, she’s dressed in black fringe shorts, a white halter shirt, and her colorful Aztec cardigan hangs off her tanned shoulders. She’s also barefoot. We seldom wear shoes.
“You’ve got that look. Pops givin’ ya shit?” Haylee asks with one hand on the wheel, the other rolling down her window. The handle comes off in her hand. She looks at it, rolls her eyes and tosses it on the floor by my feet.
“Always.”
