You didn’t invite me?!
Sorry! We only have 2 horses lol
Maya and I have known each other for a long time. Our moms are friends, and when we were little they used to let us both sit on Sam while they led us around the ring, over and over again.
Even back then, we were already pretty different. Not in the deep-down ways that actually make friendships stick. It’s just that Maya used to toddle up to any kid on the playground and start babbling while I hung back, digging into the sand under the slide and narrowing my eyes at anyone who came close.
I’m glad we’re not the same. It’s kind of like Mom says: We complement each other. “You remind me of companion plants in a garden,” she explained once. “Lettuce and tomatoes. Radishes and carrots. Different enough that when you’re close together, you help each other out. Give each other space to grow.”
Now, from the edge of the arena, Sam and I watch Mom work on the lunge line with Sunny, stepping in toward her flank and spinning the rope to make her change directions. Mom’s been working with horses since she was my age, and she started teaching Andy about them as soon as he could walk. As he got older and Mom got busier with work, Andy started teaching me. But even though I’ve had a lot of practice, I can always learn something from watching Mom. Today it’s how quickly she lets the rope slide through her hands to make Sunny turn. Her brain’s always running a few steps ahead of Sunny’s hooves.
Mom begins shortening the rope, letting Sunny slow and stop, then spin to face her.
“She looks tired,” I say.
Mom laughs. “That was barely anything.” She rubs Sunny’s nose and leads her out of the arena, toward me and Sam. “It’s just her mind working. That pretty much tires anyone out.”
I settle into the saddle while Mom unclips the lunge line.
“So you sent another letter to your brother this morning?” Mom’s looking very carefully at Sunny’s bridle instead of at me now, pretending to adjust the straps even though Sunny’s the only one who ever wears it.
“Yeah.” She knows I went out to the mailbox already, and what else would I have been doing? What she really wants to know is what I wrote in the letter. Or what I think he’ll write back. But I don’t want to tell her—the letters are only for Andy and me.
Mom really loves the Starshine Center. The whole drive back from dropping Andy off, she kept saying, “Didn’t that place have such a nice feel?” and “I know it’ll be great for him.” I pressed my forehead against the window and closed my eyes to erase the sounds. Dad just nodded, his fingers tight on the steering wheel. It started raining as we drove and he had to turn the windshield wipers on high to scatter fat drops like tears. Once I heard him say, “It’s a shot, anyway. Let’s hope he takes it,” but that was all.
“I’m sure he loves getting your letters.” Mom takes Sunny’s reins in her palms and turns to face me. She wants me to keep writing, to help Andy “get better.” But I think what he needs most is to come home.
All the hope in Mom’s voice brings the sparrows sweeping down, their wings rustling over my ribs. I turn Sam toward the woods, let the sun blind me again.
We’re lucky to live right past Pebble Mountain, with paths cutting straight through eighty acres of mixed forest. Mom likes to remind me that these trees have been stretching up to the sky since before her mom was my age. She says trees show people how long it takes a thing to grow, and how long it can last. She doesn’t talk as much about how quickly it can get taken away.
“Perfect weather,” Mom says, changing the subject as she swings onto Sunny’s back. “Cold, but not too cold. Sun’s shining. Couldn’t ask for a better day to get out there, right?”
Mom goes in front even though Sunny has her ears pricked forward so far I can see the veins in them popping out. She’s not like Sam, who couldn’t care less where he goes or who he’s with. Sunny doesn’t want to be alone, and even when she’s with another horse, she has a hard time leading. Some horses are just like that: nervous about being in charge. It’s hard to cure them of it. The idea, though, is to keep practicing so Sunny gets a little more independent on the trail.
Beyond the pasture, we turn toward the stand of pines that brings us into the woods. Green rises all around, mixed with the turning maples, and I take deep breaths of sweet air. Sam moves slowly, each step calm and measured. In the spaces between trees, I see indentations in the dirt: hollows that look a lot like hoofprints. I lean a little closer, then shake my head. It can’t be what it looks like. These woods belong to us—the closest neighbors with animals live miles away. And when we ride here, we don’t weave around the trees. Deer must have come through—big ones, with tracks that widened over time.
“Sunny’s doing good,” Mom says over her shoulder. And I can see that even though Sunny’s ears are still pricked forward, her head’s down just a bit; she’s not looking frantically around for something to run away from.
“Sam’s trying to keep up,” I call. That makes Mom laugh.
We don’t talk about how Andy isn’t here. How if he had been, he would have been riding Sunny instead. He’d have strapped a small thermos to the saddle horn so he could let me sneak tastes of his “mountain coffee” blazing hot and sweet with cream and extra maple syrup. I can almost hear Andy laughing at one of his own corny jokes, the sound bouncing off tree bark. Why did the pine tree get in trouble? Because it was being knotty!
Andy’s laughter always sounded extra-loud because of how much quieter the woods get in fall. Sometimes a branch cracks. Other times a wood thrush calls. If you’re walking, you can hear your boots rustle in dry leaves or squish in mud. When snow finally comes, always by the beginning of November but usually earlier, it has a swelling silence that goes over everything.
The trail starts to widen, and Mom motions me up next to her. I have to squeeze with my legs and dig my heels a little bit into Sam’s side to convince him that matching Sunny’s pace is a good idea. But Sam always listens, even when he doesn’t want to.
“Listen, Claire,” Mom says quietly, looking down at her reins. “I know this isn’t an easy subject, but… I think we need to discuss it again. I can tell you’ve been having a hard time accepting what needs to happen.”
She doesn’t have to actually say the words about selling Sunny and Sam for me to know what she means.
“I still don’t get it.” I shake my head. “How hard is it to keep them?”
“Honey,” Mom says. “I know I’ve already explained the costs involved in owning horses. Not just the food and tack and supplies, but vet and farrier bills too.”
When there’s no right thing to say, sometimes it’s better to stay quiet, and I do.
Mom keeps going. “Plus, the barn needs repairs. Pretty big ones. And horses don’t make money; they take it. Especially with Andy at Starshine—”
She stops then, but my mind fills in the rest. I know the Starshine Center isn’t cheap. I’ve listened to Mom and Dad talk in low voices about loans and interest and bills. But if Andy comes home soon, like I know he will, it won’t be an issue anymore.
“You’re always telling me that nothing’s permanent,” I say, thinking of the calendar tacked on the barn wall. “So neither is Starshine. Andy won’t be there forever.”
“But losing my job is the other big piece of this,” Mom says. “Andy can’t fix that. We’ll be paying for Starshine even after he comes home, and we can’t guarantee when he’ll leave either.”
“You said before the snow comes.” I can feel my voice growing wild, spinning away at a canter.
“Hopefully.” Mom’s voice wavers a little. “But I shouldn’t have promised. It’s hard to say for sure. It depends on… many factors.”
I push her uncertainty away. “Well, when he does come home, things should be just like he remembers them,” I say. “That way, he can go back to normal.”
Mom sighs and pulls Sunny to a stop. “This is one change he’ll just have to manage.”
At Starshine, t
hey say consistency is everything. When we first brought Andy there, one of the therapists explained that when people are working to overcome addiction, regular routines are important. She talked about how Andy would need to develop “coping strategies” he could use when he got back home, like managing stress and avoiding risky situations. But how will Andy cope with anything if Sunny and Sam aren’t here?
“This isn’t easy for me either, Claire,” Mom continues. Her voice sounds like it’s slipped underwater. “You know I grew up with horses. I wouldn’t do this if I—” She shakes her head then and sets Sunny back in motion. I follow.
That’s why you should understand, I think. And why you shouldn’t make all these changes that are too big and strange.
But the words stick in my throat, making the sparrows flock and flutter. I close my eyes quickly, then look past Mom, into the trees.
That’s when I spot it.
Just a wisp at first. The curl of a black tail, vanishing in clustered leaves as soon as my eyes grab on to what they’re seeing. Then a hoof, pawing the ground. But when I look up to find the rest of the leg, and the body, it’s gone, the impression it left already filling back in.
Sam’s ears are pricked so far forward I can see the veins crisscrossing up from base to pointed tip. Ahead of me, Sunny’s nodding her head up and down, twisting her reins and sidestepping.
A sheaf of mane, rippling like a wave.
A dappled gray back, running straight across, then rounding and curving down.
It doesn’t make sense. My mind can’t trust my eyes. Still, I know there’s something moving between the trees.
A horse.
It can’t be a horse. The only horses in these woods are Sunny and Sam, and that’s only when we’re guiding them through.
Mom’s looking down at Sunny’s withers instead of into the space between the trees where the tail and hoof slipped through.
“Hey,” she says, glancing quickly at me. “What’s gotten into these two? Even Sam looks nervous.” She shakes her head, turning Sunny in a small tight circle, hushing her. “Guess I let her get too comfortable. Let’s trot a little, then head back.”
As Mom nudges Sunny forward I turn my head to the left, right, looking for something. For any sign that what I saw was real.
Now we’re moving faster down the trail, too fast to stop for dappled backs and hints of hooves. Still, every part of my body feels rock-heavy, like it wants to dig in, go back to where we came from and keep looking for what I know I saw.
CHAPTER 4
In school on Monday I stare at a crack in the table I share with Maya, trying to figure out how to slip her a note about the strange horse in the woods. At the front of the room, Ms. Larkin reminds us about the History Fair next month, her hands gesturing every which way as she tries to get us to feel as thrilled about it as she does.
The History Fair happens every year. We have to do research—the specific topic changes every year—and give a presentation in front of an audience of community members. Adults. Just thinking about that draws the sparrows from their hiding places, and I feel my heart thump against their shaking wings.
“This year we’re doing things a little differently,” Ms. Larkin says.
That doesn’t sound good. I like Ms. Larkin, but she looks dangerously excited right now. She clicks the projector on, and a meme flashes onto the whiteboard—an actor who looks sort of familiar, hunched into a weird-looking car. Back 2 What? it says in thick white type.
The meme is typical. Ms. Larkin starts pretty much every class with one that relates, even just a little, to whatever we’re doing. She insists that they’re a “fascinating form of evolving digital literacy,” whatever that means. Leave it to Ms. Larkin to make something cool sound dorky, but she does have pretty decent taste in memes. She’s made a few of them herself, and they’re actually funny.
“I realize I’m old,” Ms. Larkin says, clutching her head like she’s in pain and squashing her hair. “But please, someone, tell me you’ve heard of this movie.”
Maya and I look at each other, shrug. Nobody says anything. There are fifteen of us in class, and most of us started kindergarten together here at Pebble Village School. A few have come and gone, but for the most part, we’ve been stuck together for a while. The way I see it, that ends up being both good and bad. Good because of Maya, who sits with me at lunch and whispers secrets without needing me to talk. Bad because everyone else thinks I’m shy and that’s it. In two years, we’ll all get on a bus and go to the regional high school where Dad teaches, with kids from five other towns, and even though Mom tells me it will be good to “expand my horizons,” I haven’t been ready to think about it yet.
Cory, two tables away, shoots his hand in the air. “Got it!”
Ms. Larkin smiles. “Okay, let’s see how well-versed you are in eighties films,” she says. She looks around the room and wags a finger in the air. “The rest of you, pay close attention. Tonight, look this up on Netflix. Required viewing.”
Maya rolls her eyes, but she’s looking back and forth between the screen and Cory, waiting. “Wait, did she just tell us to watch Netflix for homework?” she whispers.
Cory slams his hand down on the table. “Back to the Future,” he says.
“Thank you!” Ms. Larkin reaches her arms out wide and strikes the air like she won something. “A cinematographic masterpiece. Cory, can you explain the premise of the movie?”
Cory runs his hand through his curly hair. “So there’s this scientist, right? He figures out how to travel back in time. And this kid Marty goes back in time with him, but things get all messed up and then he has to go back to the future to fix them. Get it?”
“Perfect.” Ms. Larkin clicks to the next slide. The meme’s gone, replaced by a bulleted list under the title Back, Then to the Future.
“We think of history as being over and done with,” Ms. Larkin says. “But I—” She raises an index finger, her eyes wide. “I am here to tell you it’s definitely not. Cory: In the movie, how does history affect what happens in the present?”
“So, it’s superweird,” Cory says, turning in his seat to face all of us. “When Marty goes into the past, he saves his dad from getting hit by a truck. Sounds like a good thing, right? But he actually shouldn’t have, because it turns out getting hit was how his dad met his mom. So if Marty changes that one little thing, he won’t even exist later!”
“Exactly. This movie suggests that even the smallest change in history can alter the present, which at the time the history was happening was also the future,” Ms. Larkin says, tapping the bulleted list. “So in your projects for this year’s fair, we’ll focus on how a person, issue, or event from the past affects how we experience life today.”
Jamila shifts in her seat. “Wait, how do we figure that out?”
“Good question,” Ms. Larkin says. “Any historical topic can be relevant, if we look at it the right way. For example, think about women getting the right to vote. Instead of only presenting about when that happened and what they did, you can also show how women’s issues inform current politics, or how the methods used during the suffrage movement have evolved to promote social justice.”
Sometimes Ms. Larkin gets kind of carried away, but I think I understand what she means: look at history and show why it still matters.
It makes me think about Andy, and how much his past should matter. Isn’t the Starshine Center trying to help people move beyond their pasts?
“Now, I’ve saved the best part for last: It’s pretty exciting.” Ms. Larkin clicks over to another meme: This one’s a picture of a very large cat sitting on a pile of dollar bills. Giggles and groans erupt. “This year our local Rotary Club is offering a special prize to the student with the best speech.”
“Actual money?” Cory leans forward, his eyes wide.
“Local judges from the community will vote on the presentations,” Ms. Larkin says. “They’re working with our rubric and looking for students who ar
e both passionate and well-informed. It’s not small change either: They’re offering a five-hundred-dollar prize to the winner.”
My heart pounds, a steady drum; I feel shaky, hollow. Five hundred dollars isn’t enough to keep Sunny and Sam forever. But it could at least buy some hay to help get through the winter, which would give me more time to change Mom’s and Dad’s minds.
Outside the classroom windows, trees rustle in the wind. The colors get brighter every day, leaves weaving patchwork quilts. I think about the wisp of tail in the trees. The dappled gray back, almost blending in with rough bark and mottled branches, but not quite.
“Helloooo,” Maya says. “Earth to Claire.”
I look up. Ms. Larkin’s clicked off the projector, and kids are pulling papers out of their notebooks.
“We’re supposed to be brainstorming,” Maya says. “Topics we’re interested in. Historical connections and stuff.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I ask.
Maya always knows what she’s doing. “Edna Beard. No question. First female Vermont legislator, and she totally kicked butt.”
That doesn’t surprise me. Maya’s dad, Mr. Gonzalez, is a judge, and she always says she wants to work with the law somehow when she grows up.
“I totally want that prize,” Maya says. “There’s this summer camp in Washington, DC, for girls who are interested in legal stuff and politics. But there’s no way my parents would pay for all of it. This would help a lot.”
The drumbeat in my chest gets louder. Maya could really use that prize money. But so could I.
Ms. Larkin clears her throat. “Remember, folks, if you’re not sure where to start, try to work backward—think about what interests you have now. From there, I can help you look for historical connections.”
The Wild Path Page 2