Free Bull Rider by Suzanne Morgan Williams

was the easiest part of the bull ride. Hook the rope with the wire. Lali could even handle that once she found the darn thing. Darrell fixed the rope around Rocket and slapped him on his behind. The steer rammed the chute with his rump, shaking the whole contraption.
    Standing on the platform, I took a moment to ponder the situation. Problem was, getting on a steer for the second time, I knew exactly what was coming—waiting for the gate to open, then the feeling like your stomach was dropping down through your feet. I swallowed hard. If Darrell, Ben, and Grandpa hadn’t been watching, I wouldn’t have gone over the side. I might have used the good sense that God gave me and climbed back down, but I didn’t.
    I tightened my knees so they wouldn’t buckle, said a little prayer that I’d come out alive, and dropped onto Rocket. This time it was the steer that shivered under me, not the other way around. And soon as I touched him, the adrenaline started. I looked out at the arena. Grandpa had the gate, Darrell jumped down to bullfight, and the guys from McDermitt were on the fence, just in case. “Go to it, Cam!” one of them yelled. I put my hand through the handle, laid the rope into it, hit it closed to stick the pine tar, and then I whispered, “Go.”
    The gate came open and we jumped out. Rocket took a couple of steps and bucked up and down like a bronc, then rolled back on his hind legs. I wanted to catch myself with my free hand but stopped—that’s not allowed. I leaned forward and pulled tight on the handle. For every move the steer made, my body did something on its own. It’s not like I was meaning to do anything. I just rode. And then I fell off, hitting the dirt with my ankle and then my side. I rolled and crawled toward the fence, stood, and scrambled up the rails. Right then, the sun sparked off the grit in the arena like Fourth of July, and each breath I pulled in felt deeper than the last. I heard them yelling, “Way to go, Cam,” and “That boy may stick on a bull yet.” It was so fine. Then I felt the pain shooting up from my right foot.
    Darrell rode and so did the McDermitt cowboys. Darrell went again, but I passed. I was thinking I was still alive and on a roll. And my ankle was swelling. As we left the ring, Darrell yelled after us, “Hey, Cam, call about that stuff I said I’d help with!”
    “Cool,” I answered. “I will.”
     
    We got home about dinnertime. Ben was tired out, so Grandpa settled him in the living room. I went to the kitchen for some ice. “What’s that for?” Mom asked.
    “I’m just going to ice my foot.”
    “What happened? Did you fall off your board?”
    Grandpa Roy came in just bursting with pride. He smiled like he had the best secret, but he couldn’t hold it in. “No, Sherry, he landed on it coming off a steer. He’s got guts.”
    My mom put down her spoon. She looked from me to Grandpa to Ben, who was already half-asleep. “Jim,” she called to my dad, “did you hear that?” Her voice quivered.
    “I did,” Lali said. “Cammy fell off a steer.”
    “Uh-huh,” Dad said. “I heard you were over at the bull ring. Next time, call me, Dad, and I’ll come by.”
    This was so cool. Dad would come down from wherever to see me bull ride? He didn’t give a whoop about my skateboarding.
    “Jim!” Mom’s voice pitched higher. “Bull riding!” Her face went red and her eyes filled up with tears. I couldn’t tell if it was scared tears or mad ones, but they were coming fast. “I can’t do it. We’ve got one son—” She stopped herself, thought, and then went on. “Look at you, Roy, you’ve lived with that bad hip for years. And Larry’s got a plate in his head from being stepped on.” She was talking about Larry Olson down toward Paradise. Everybody knew about how they had to put his skull back together after a bad throw. “Well, I can’t stand it. Cam, you can’t start bull riding. I’ve put up with it for years with this bunch and