So, calmer, I repeat myself: "When we get to high school, I want you to call me Ericka." I fight the urge to step into his row and push it back, mostly because I'm in making-my-point mode, but also because once he stretches up to his full height of six foot two, there's no reaching it while maintaining my dignity. When he jerks up to look at me, sweat drips down around his clear blue eyes and his sandy blond hair falls across his forehead and sticks there. "Luke Foster!" I shout, stamping my boot in the dirt. I hate talking to his back, his white T-shirt soaked through so that I can actually see the freckles spotting his shoulder blades, but unlike the rest of the day's conversations, this is one thing I really need him to hear me on. He nods and swings his tobacco knife at the base of the huge stalk in front of him. He has been totally unsympathetic to almost every gripe I've had today, from the sad state of my grubby fingernails to how humiliating it is to have to pop a squat in the weeds every time I have to pee. Luke just sort of moseys along down the row of tobacco next to me, nodding every now and then and chomping on his bubble gum. I've been blabbing to my best friend, Luke, all day because A) talking makes the time go by faster, and B) I'm a jabber-jaw but I might as well be talking to one of our cows. "When we get to high school, I want you to call me Ericka," I say, taking off my tan leather work glove to wipe the sweat from my brow.
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