looking at the dirt ground of the stadium, the guys in colorful outfits on horseback.
“Bullfight,” said Mr. Vieira.
“I thought those were illegal.” I had no desire to see someone get gored, no desire to see an animal fall to the ground, life draining out.
“They make exceptions for us Portuguese.” Mr. Vieira snorted like a bull.
“It’s bloodless,” Ben assured me. “It’s all done with Velcro.”
The brass band walked into the center of the stadium; everyone stood as they played the national anthem, then
“A Portuguesa.”
A great cheer rose up afterward, people stomping the metal bleachers so hard, my teeth rattled inside my head and Quinn grabbed onto me for dear life. Then a single trumpet let out a blare, and a man on horseback trotted into the ring to more cheering and stamping. His outfit rivaled the
festa
queens’—he wore a bright yellow embroidered matador suit with hot pink kneesocks; his horse was decked out, too, with flowers and streamers and feathers.
Quinn grabbed onto me harder as a bull lumbered into the arena. Its horns were topped with leather caps—they looked like adrenal glands capping long, curved kidneys. The bull was massive, its enormous body shimmering with each step, saliva streaming from its mouth in ropes.
“I want to go, Eema,” Quinn said into my arm as the bull snorted and barreled across the dirt.
“In a bit,” I said. The matador chucked a long streamer-bedecked spear at the bull. Its Velcro tip landed on the Velcro pad strapped to the bull’s shoulder and wagged back and forth. The band blasted a short triumphant tune.
“I want to go now!” She screamed so loudly, some people around us stopped cheering and turned to look.
“Okay, okay,” I said, and together we squeezed past the Vieiras and the other people in our row and made our way down the bleacher steps, Quinn crying hysterically.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked as we walked through the fairgrounds. “I thought you were having a good time.”
“The monster …,” she started.
“It’s a bull,” I said. “A normal animal.”
“I know!” she yelled, as if I had said the most offensive thing in the world.
“So what were you going to say?” I asked, but she walked faster so she’d be a few steps ahead of me.
“I’m sorry, Quinn.” I ran to catch up. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t say anything, but slowed down enough so we could walk in step.
Ben pulled up in the truck when we got to downtown Comice. “Need a ride?” he asked. My heart started to pound at the sight of him.
It wasn’t a far trek back to the farm, but Quinn looked exhausted. “Thanks,” I said. We climbed up into the two-row cab. I let Quinn sit in front.
“Where are your parents?” I asked.
“I’ll go back for them,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you two were all right. Bullfights can be pretty intense. Even without the blood.”
Quinn took a deep shuddery breath. “The food was good, though,” she said.
“The best,” he said.
“Do you want to go swimming again when we get back?” I asked her. Maybe that could become our evening ritual—a way to cool off, relax.
She shook her head, face clouding again. Of course she wouldn’t want to go swimming, not if she thought there was a monster in the water. I touched her arm and was relieved she didn’t try to shrug it away.
T HE NEW ENGLAND REGIONALS WERE BEING HELD AT their home rink—a big advantage. They knew each inch of the ice, could draw upon the energy of all of their practice sessions.
The place felt different on competition day, though. Vendors in the lobby had set up booths full of skating dresses and tights, books and DVDs, lots of jewelry featuring little silver skates. New skaters, new coaches, new parents, milled about, sending their nervous energy into the air. Plus all the groupies had descended.
Karen had seen Nathan’s groupies before, but not since they had been skating together. They were
“Bullfight,” said Mr. Vieira.
“I thought those were illegal.” I had no desire to see someone get gored, no desire to see an animal fall to the ground, life draining out.
“They make exceptions for us Portuguese.” Mr. Vieira snorted like a bull.
“It’s bloodless,” Ben assured me. “It’s all done with Velcro.”
The brass band walked into the center of the stadium; everyone stood as they played the national anthem, then
“A Portuguesa.”
A great cheer rose up afterward, people stomping the metal bleachers so hard, my teeth rattled inside my head and Quinn grabbed onto me for dear life. Then a single trumpet let out a blare, and a man on horseback trotted into the ring to more cheering and stamping. His outfit rivaled the
festa
queens’—he wore a bright yellow embroidered matador suit with hot pink kneesocks; his horse was decked out, too, with flowers and streamers and feathers.
Quinn grabbed onto me harder as a bull lumbered into the arena. Its horns were topped with leather caps—they looked like adrenal glands capping long, curved kidneys. The bull was massive, its enormous body shimmering with each step, saliva streaming from its mouth in ropes.
“I want to go, Eema,” Quinn said into my arm as the bull snorted and barreled across the dirt.
“In a bit,” I said. The matador chucked a long streamer-bedecked spear at the bull. Its Velcro tip landed on the Velcro pad strapped to the bull’s shoulder and wagged back and forth. The band blasted a short triumphant tune.
“I want to go now!” She screamed so loudly, some people around us stopped cheering and turned to look.
“Okay, okay,” I said, and together we squeezed past the Vieiras and the other people in our row and made our way down the bleacher steps, Quinn crying hysterically.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked as we walked through the fairgrounds. “I thought you were having a good time.”
“The monster …,” she started.
“It’s a bull,” I said. “A normal animal.”
“I know!” she yelled, as if I had said the most offensive thing in the world.
“So what were you going to say?” I asked, but she walked faster so she’d be a few steps ahead of me.
“I’m sorry, Quinn.” I ran to catch up. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t say anything, but slowed down enough so we could walk in step.
Ben pulled up in the truck when we got to downtown Comice. “Need a ride?” he asked. My heart started to pound at the sight of him.
It wasn’t a far trek back to the farm, but Quinn looked exhausted. “Thanks,” I said. We climbed up into the two-row cab. I let Quinn sit in front.
“Where are your parents?” I asked.
“I’ll go back for them,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you two were all right. Bullfights can be pretty intense. Even without the blood.”
Quinn took a deep shuddery breath. “The food was good, though,” she said.
“The best,” he said.
“Do you want to go swimming again when we get back?” I asked her. Maybe that could become our evening ritual—a way to cool off, relax.
She shook her head, face clouding again. Of course she wouldn’t want to go swimming, not if she thought there was a monster in the water. I touched her arm and was relieved she didn’t try to shrug it away.
T HE NEW ENGLAND REGIONALS WERE BEING HELD AT their home rink—a big advantage. They knew each inch of the ice, could draw upon the energy of all of their practice sessions.
The place felt different on competition day, though. Vendors in the lobby had set up booths full of skating dresses and tights, books and DVDs, lots of jewelry featuring little silver skates. New skaters, new coaches, new parents, milled about, sending their nervous energy into the air. Plus all the groupies had descended.
Karen had seen Nathan’s groupies before, but not since they had been skating together. They were
Similar Books
