The Country Boy

Matilda woke up to a loud noise. It was a rooster. She didn't know roosters were real. She thought they were just in cartoons.

But there it was, screaming outside her window. She pulled the pillow over her head. It didn't help.

The sound went right through. She groaned and sat up. The clock on her phone said 6:00 a.m. Too early. Way too early.

She didn't want to be awake yet. Her eyes felt heavy, and her head was foggy. She blinked a few times, trying to shake off the sleep.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around. Her tiny room was the same—dusty desk, thin bed, cracked ceiling. She sighed. It wasn't a dream. She was still in Wattle Creek. Her stomach growled.

She hadn't eaten Uncle Ben's stew last night. Now she was hungry, but she didn't want to see him. He'd probably laugh at her again.

She didn't like his laugh. It was loud and sharp, like he was making fun of her all the time. She didn't know why he thought everything was so funny.

She got out of bed and put on her shoes. They were still muddy from yesterday. She didn't care.

The mud was dry now, stuck in little clumps on the sides. She wiggled her toes inside them. They felt tight, but they were all she had.

She opened her door and peeked out. The house was quiet. Maybe Uncle Ben was still asleep. She hoped he was.

She didn't want to talk to him yet. She tiptoed to the kitchen, moving slow so the floor wouldn't creak.

The stew pot was on the stove, cold now. She grabbed a spoon and took a bite. It wasn't bad. It tasted like meat and potatoes, a little salty.

She ate fast, standing there, hoping he wouldn't catch her. The spoon was cold in her hand, and the stew stuck to it a little.

"Morning, princess," Uncle Ben said behind her. Matilda jumped. The spoon clattered to the floor. He laughed, same as always.

His laugh echoed in the small kitchen. "Sleep good?" he asked, his voice rough from waking up.

"No," she said, picking up the spoon. It was dirty now, with a little dust from the floor. "Your rooster's too loud." She wiped the spoon on her shirt and put it by the sink.

"That's Old Red. He's been waking me up for years. You'll get used to him." Uncle Ben poured coffee into a mug.

The coffee smelled strong, like burnt wood. He held the mug with both hands. "Get dressed. We're going to the store."

Matilda frowned. "Why?" She didn't want to go anywhere. She wanted to stay in her room all day.

"Need supplies. And you need to see the town. Can't hide in here forever." He took a sip of coffee and walked outside.

The screen door banged shut behind him. Matilda wanted to argue, but she didn't. She was stuck with him. She didn't have a choice.

She went back to her room, grabbed her backpack, and put on a clean shirt. It was plain blue, a little wrinkled from being in her bag.

Her jeans were still dirty, but she didn't have anything else unpacked. She looked at her suitcase in the corner. It was still full of clothes she hadn't touched.

Outside, the sun was already hot. It burned her skin as she stepped onto the porch. Uncle Ben was in his truck, an old blue thing with rust on the sides.

Matilda climbed in. The seat was hard, and it smelled like oil. She wrinkled her nose. The smell was strong, like the truck hadn't been cleaned in years.

He started the engine, and they bounced down the dirt road. She held onto the door so she wouldn't fall out.

The road was bumpy, full of rocks and holes. Dust flew up around them, sticking to the windows. She coughed a little as it came inside.

The general store was the same one she'd seen yesterday. It had a faded sign and a creaky porch.

The sign said "Carter's" in big, peeling letters. Uncle Ben parked and got out. "Come on," he said, waving her over.

Matilda followed, dragging her feet. Her shoes kicked up little clouds of dirt. Inside, the store was small.

Shelves were full of cans, bags of flour, and tools. A fan spun slowly on the ceiling, making a soft hum.

An old lady sat behind the counter. She had gray hair tied back and a wrinkled face. She smiled at Uncle Ben.

"Morning, Ben. This your niece?" Her voice was soft, like she was trying to be nice.

"Yep," he said. "Matilda, meet Mrs. Elsie May Carter. She runs this place." He nodded at the old lady.

"Hi," Matilda mumbled. She didn't want to talk. She looked down at her shoes instead.

The mud was cracking off in little pieces now. She wandered to the back of the store, looking at the stuff.

There were jars of jam and boxes of nails. Boring. She picked up a jar and turned it over. It was strawberry, with a handwritten label. She put it back and moved to the next shelf.

Then the door opened, and a boy walked in. He was tall, with messy brown hair and a faded shirt.

He carried a big bag over his shoulder. Matilda watched him. He went to the counter and dropped the bag.

It hit the floor with a thud. "Sheep feed, Mrs. Carter," he said. His voice was rough, like he'd been yelling all day. He wiped his hands on his pants.

"Thanks, Jack," Mrs. Carter said. "How's your dad?" She leaned forward a little, like she really wanted to know.

"Grumpy as ever," the boy—Jack—said. He turned and saw Matilda. His eyes narrowed. "Who're you?" he asked. His stare made her feel small.

Matilda crossed her arms. "None of your business." She didn't like how he looked at her, like he was sizing her up.

Jack grinned. "City girl, huh? Those shoes won't last a day out here." He pointed at her sneakers.

They were white—or they used to be. Now they were brown with mud. The laces were gray and frayed.

"They're fine," she said, even though they weren't. The soles were thin, and she could feel every rock she stepped on. "What's your problem?"

"No problem. Just saying." He leaned against the counter, still grinning. "You look lost." His grin was wide, showing his teeth.

"I'm not lost," she snapped. "I'm stuck here." Her voice was sharp, and she felt her hands ball into fists.

"Stuck's worse," he said. "Where you from?" He tilted his head, waiting for her to answer.

"Sydney," she said, like it was obvious. She lifted her chin a little, trying to look tough.

Jack laughed. "Figures. You've got that fancy city vibe." His laugh was loud, like Uncle Ben's, but younger.

"It's not fancy. It's normal." Matilda's face got hot. She didn't like this boy. He was rude. And he kept smiling like he knew something she didn't. It made her want to yell at him.

Uncle Ben walked over. "Jack Thomas Flynn, quit picking on my niece," he said. "She's new here." His voice was firm, like he was scolding a kid.

Jack shrugged. "Just talking, Ben. She's the one getting mad." He didn't stop grinning, even with Uncle Ben there.

"I'm not mad!" Matilda said, louder than she meant to. Her voice bounced off the walls. Mrs. Carter looked up from the counter and chuckled. Matilda's face got hotter. She could feel it burning now.

She turned away and pretended to look at a shelf of canned soup. The cans were old, with faded labels. She read one—chicken noodle. She didn't care about soup.

Uncle Ben handed Jack a list. "You got any of this in stock?" he asked, pointing at the paper.

Jack took it and nodded. "Yeah, I'll grab it." He walked to the back of the store, his boots loud on the wood floor.

Matilda watched him go. She didn't like him. Not one bit. He acted like he was better than her, and she hated that.

While Uncle Ben talked to Mrs. Carter, Matilda stayed by the soup. She didn't want to talk to anyone.

She just wanted to go back to the house and hide. She kicked the shelf lightly with her toe, making the cans wobble.

She stopped when she heard Jack coming back. He carried a box and set it on the counter with a grunt.

He looked at her. "Need help carrying that, princess?" he asked, his grin back.

"Don't call me that," she said. "And no, I don't need help." She glared at him, wishing he'd go away.

"Suit yourself," he said, still grinning. "See you around, city girl."

He grabbed his bag of sheep feed and walked out. The door slammed behind him, making the bell above it jingle.

Uncle Ben paid Mrs. Carter, and they carried the box to the truck. Matilda didn't say anything the whole way back.

She was mad—at Jack, at Uncle Ben, at this stupid town. The truck bounced again, and she held the door tight. Her hands hurt from gripping it so hard.

When they got home, she went straight to her room and flopped on the bed. The mattress squeaked under her. That boy, Jack Thomas Flynn, was the worst.

She hoped she'd never see him again. But something told her she would. Wattle Creek was too small to avoid anyone. She could feel it in her bones.

She stared at the ceiling. The cracks looked like little rivers running across it. The rooster crowed again, loud and sharp. She groaned and pulled the pillow over her face.

It smelled like dust and old fabric. This place was going to drive her crazy. She could feel it. The noise, the people, the heat—it was all too much.

She closed her eyes and tried to think of Sydney. The tall buildings, the busy streets, her friends. It felt so far away now. She didn't know how she'd survive here.

Not with Uncle Ben and his rooster. Not with Jack and his stupid grin. She pressed the pillow harder against her face, wishing she could block it all out.

The day went on slow. She stayed in her room, listening to the sounds outside. Birds chirped.

The wind blew through the trees. Old Red crowed again and again. She counted five times before she gave up. She didn't unpack her suitcase.

She didn't want to. Unpacking meant she was staying, and she didn't want to stay. She wanted to go home. But she couldn't. Not yet.

Maybe not ever. She rolled onto her side and hugged her knees. The bed creaked again. She didn't care. She just wanted the day to end.

Uncle Ben knocked on her door later. "Dinner's ready," he said. She didn't answer.

He knocked again, then walked away. She heard his boots on the floor, heavy and slow. She didn't want his stew.

She didn't want anything from him. She stayed where she was, staring at the wall. The paint was peeling there, too.

Everything in this house was old and falling apart. Just like her mood. The sun went down, and the room got dark.

She didn't turn on the light. She liked it better that way. The dark made it easier to think. Or not think.

She wasn't sure which. Old Red finally stopped crowing. The quiet was nice, but it didn't last.

Crickets started up outside, loud and steady. She sighed. There was no winning here. No quiet, no peace. Just noise and people she didn't like.

She pulled the blanket over her head and closed her eyes. Maybe tomorrow would be better. But she didn't believe it. Not really.