by Emily Asad
Chapter 9: Tryouts and Blow-Ups
Statistic: 18- to 22-year-olds from disrupted families were twice as likely to have poor relationships with their mothers and fathers, to show high levels of emotional distress or problem behavior, [and] to have received psychological help.
Tryouts finally came, on a Tuesday at the end of September, right after school. I was nervous about missing the bus, especially since I lied to Mom and told her I had to stay behind to talk to a teacher about an assignment. She never would have agreed to pick me up otherwise.
I spent most of the day trying to visualize myself in the lead role. My classes passed by too slowly, until English class, when Mrs. Putnam told us a story about her son as a baby. Apparently he was such a loud crier on the day he was born, and one of the nurses was married to a news reporter who was having a really slow week, so they decided to record his decibel levels. Turns out he really was louder than the other babies - by ten percent.
"We have both the newspaper clipping and the video," Mrs. Putnam boasted. "It was a historic event."
"An historic event," I mumbled.
She heard me and jerked her glance my way. “What did you say?”
I stared at the pencil on my desk. “Nothing,” I mumbled.
“Yes, you did,” she persisted. “You said ‘an historic event.’ Are you correcting me?”
I was in sheer and utter agony. It had been a reflex action. “Um…” My eyes flew to Mrs. Putnam’s. “Yes, I guess I did, didn’t I?”
“Real bright,” called one of the students behind me. “You don’t go correcting an English teacher!”
Mrs. Putnam looked at him. “How come none of you noticed it? This is an English course, isn’t it? You’re supposed to be learning good grammar here.” She winked at me. “You’re absolutely correct, Margaret. Er, Beverly, though nobody actually uses 'an' in front of 'h' words anymore. It's old-fashioned."
Nobody said anything. I had never heard the class so quiet before. If she had not stumbled over my name, I would have felt triumphant.
She bent over my desk. “See me after class,” she said in a whisper so low I barely heard it. Then she returned to her story, and eventually the lesson.
See her after class? My hands grew sweaty. My heart pounded in my chest. What could she possibly want with me? I hadn’t missed any assignments! I did well on our first quiz! What did I do?
Fortunately, English was the last class of the day, so I didn't have to suffer long. I sat at my desk until all the other students left the room, and then, with heavy feet, I approached her desk.
She held two of my stories in her hand. “I’m passing these back on Friday, but I wanted you to have yours now.”
I took them from her. My shoulders slumped when I saw the grade – a C! I got a C! I had never gotten a C before in my entire life. I was an A student!
“I’m giving these back to you because I’m very impressed with them.”
“You’re impressed, but you gave me a C?”
She laughed. “You have the makings of an excellent author, but your characters are too unbelievable. They’re so… perfect. I want you to rewrite these, but give the main character some bad flaws, like hubris or body odor or kleptomania. Anything to make them more human. Then turn them in to me before Friday so I can change your grade.”
“Did… did you give anybody else back their stories?”
She fixed a steady, frank gaze on me. “No. None of the others have the raw talent you do. It wouldn’t have been worth my time to mess with them.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Don’t look so shocked, Beverly! You act as if nobody’s ever given you a compliment before.”
“Nobody’s ever read my stories before. I usually tear them up into little bits when I’m done.” I didn’t tell her that I no longer ate them, as I did in sixth grade. Paper was just so hard to swallow.
“Don’t do that. You need to keep them, maybe get a binder so you can see how much you’re growing year to year.” She stood up and walked over to me. Then she put her hand on my shoulder.
The touch sent a jolt through my body. Very few people ever invade my personal space. It was uncomfortable, but somehow it was right. It was friendly, honest, and accepting – an extension of Mrs. Putnam’s opinion of me.
“I made some notations in the sidelines. I want you to read them. If you don’t understand what I’m trying to say, ask me. That first story has a lot of potential. I’d hate to see a good writer go undeveloped, just because nobody was honest with her.”
I hugged the stories to my chest. I could not repress a smile. I didn’t even blush! “Thanks, Mrs. Putnam. I’ll rewrite them tonight.”
“Good. And Beverly? I don’t care if you get an A in this class or not. But I do care, very much, about helping you write. I’m here after school if you want to talk.”
I smiled even more broadly, nodded, and left the room. That was four people who believed in me. Four! Almost an entire handful!
My posture was absolutely perfect as I walked down the hall to the auditorium. Usually I shuffled and stayed to the left or right, as close to the lockers as possible, in order to stay out of everybody’s way. Today I barely noticed that I was walking down the center of the hallway, and that people moved to avoid me.
Mrs. Putnam’s glowing comments wrought a wondrous change in my attitude. I stepped completely outside my normal self and threw my heart into auditions. I had read the script the night before, and decided to try out for the part of Tatiana, a woman who wanted to be a ballerina but was more of a joke. A secret part of me had always wanted to be a ballerina. I always danced around in the barn whenever I had a chance, but I was about as graceful as a pregnant elephant. At least none of the goats laughed at me!
And, to my surprise, none of the other wanna-be actors laughed either. I attacked the role with enough false grace that it seemed practically designed for me. I would not know for sure until Friday, after callbacks and final auditions, but I felt sure that I had the part.
Mom and Roger picked me up around 5:30. By then, auditions had been over for at least an hour, so I had amused myself by juggling in front of the school until then.
“I didn’t know you could juggle,” said Mom as I climbed into the car next to Becky.
“Mom, I’ve been juggling for three years now. I’m the best juggler in town.”
“Isn’t that nice,” she said, but she was not listening. “How did the meeting with your teacher go?”
I was glad that I actually had met with my teacher. It would have been hard to fake, and I knew that Mom would never approve of me doing another drama. Last year had been hard enough.
“It was wonderful! Mrs. Putnam gave me a C on my stories.”
“That’s wonderful?” asked Roger, turning around to look at me.
“No, no. She told me that I have a lot of natural talent, and that I need to work on my characters. She gave me ‘til Friday to rewrite it.”
“And you’ll get an A this time,” said Mom in her pushy, unsatisfied tone.
“Of course,” I said, feeling my enthusiasm dwindle. “She gave me another chance because she believes in me.”
“Grades are important,” Mom continued. “You’ll never get anywhere in life if you’re just an average student. You know our slogan: C’s are as bad as F’s if you could have gotten an A.”
She completely missed the point. The point was not that I got a C and could earn an A. The point was that somebody thought I was a good writer. I might never become a best-selling author, but somebody believed in me. That somebody was not my mother, though, so I clamped my mouth shut and rode home in silence.
I turned in my first story the next day, but I wanted to take time with the other one. Mrs. Putnam said she was glad I wasn’t trying to rush.
Callbacks were on Thursday. I checked the list for my name.
It was not there.
Not as Margaret White, or Beverly Shenton, or M
argaret Shenton, or any combination thereof.
My name simply was not there.
I was so depressed, I could barely breathe. I retreated to the bathroom to conceal my disappointment. I had about five minutes before the bus came, and I wasn’t going to sit in public feeling sorry for myself when I could do it just as well behind the closed doors of a bathroom stall.
While I was trying to collect myself, Naomi and her noisy little troop entered the bathroom and took possession of the mirrors. They primped and gossiped. At least it was not targeted at me this time. I held very still and hoped they wouldn’t suspect I was there.
“She probably has AIDS,” Naomi was saying. “I mean, she’s so obviously gay. Who else keeps their hair shorter than a boy’s? Even her clothes are men’s clothes.”
From the description, I knew they were talking about Darcy Russell. She did indeed look gay – whatever that was supposed to look like – but I didn’t think she was. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Naomi had no business to pick on Darcy, who was the quietest, most frightened mouse of a person I had ever met. She was even shyer than me. I had only seen her a few times in the hall, and I never talked to her, but I felt sorry for her to have attracted Naomi’s venom.
“I know! Let’s toilet paper her locker!”
Her friends chorused their agreement.
“I always see her at lunch, too. She sits alone. Maybe we can start a food fight, and blame it on her.”
The childishness of Naomi’s words made me snicker. As if anyone would believe that Darcy Russell would ever start a food fight! I could not stifle my laughter. It seemed so ridiculous!
“Who’s that? Who’s there?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth and held very still, regretting my snicker.
The girls were very quiet, and then suddenly Naomi said, “Margaret Beverly or whatever your name is, I know that’s you. I can see your shoes. Nobody else wears shoes that are older than they are.”
I was caught. Did I stay hidden, or did I face my opponent? Could I avoid her forever?
I opened the stall door, lifting my chin and straightening my shoulders as I presented myself to my adversary for the slaughter.
“Didn’t your mommy teach you it’s not nice to eavesdrop?” said Naomi in a condescending tone of voice.
“Didn’t your mommy teach you it’s not nice to gossip?” I countered. I was surprised at my boldness.
So was she. “It’s only gossip if it’s untrue. Everybody knows Darcy’s a lesbian.”
“Everybody except Darcy. Are you just spreading rumors, or did you actually talk to her and she confessed?”
“She doesn’t have to confess. We all know.”
“Since when were you omniscient, Naomi?” I had taken my stand, and it finally felt good to confront her. “You always talk about things you don’t know. And what’s worse,” I said, glaring at her friends, “is that everyone agrees with you because they’re afraid that you’ll end up gossiping about them, too.”
One of her friends dropped her gaze. I had struck a nerve.
Naomi’s beautiful face turned almost as red as my hair. “At least I’m not subhuman! Look at you – your clothes don’t even match! You face looks like a mountain range of zits! And your mother’s a slut!”
I stepped in close to her face. “I won’t argue that you’re prettier than I am,” I said in a quiet voice, “and your parents may be richer than mine, and you’re more popular than I’ll ever be. But you know what? I’d never trade places with you. You’re more miserable than I’ll ever be, too. At least I don’t have to surround myself with false friends to make myself feel better about being so shallow.”
“You don’t have any friends,” she hissed.
“And I’m fine with that. I’m happy being me, Naomi. I am happy to be me.”
“You don’t even have a name. You’re nobody.”
The bathroom door opened and one of her friends stuck her head in. “Josh is looking for you. He said he has something to give you.” She noticed our tense standoff. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“Nothing important,” sniffed Naomi. “We were just doing our hair.”
“We were discussing the importance of telling the truth,” I corrected. “Leave Darcy alone.”
“Whatever.” She spun on her heel and left the bathroom.
I balanced my weight on the sink, drained. You don’t even have a name. You’re nobody. How could anyone say such hurtful words? And why did I bother to believe them?
A muffled sob caught my attention. We weren’t alone. There was somebody else in the bathroom. I didn’t even have to guess who it was. “Darcy?”
She opened her stall door. She looked awful. Her face was puffy and bloated, and her eyes were red with tears.
“You heard everything, huh?”
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “Thanks for standing up for me. Nobody’s ever done that before.”
“Ignore them. It’s what I always do.” I looked at my watch. “I have to go catch my bus.”
“Wait. There’s something I want to tell you.” She took a deep breath. “The reason I keep my hair short is because I have cancer. The chemotherapy made it all fall out. It’s growing back now, though.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“And the reason I wear boy’s clothes is because they fit better.” She untucked her shirt and pulled it up so I could see her stomach. She had a plastic bag taped there. “See? I’m not gay.”
“You didn’t have to explain,” I mumbled.
“It’s not something that I usually share, you were so... Thank you.”
“I have to catch my bus,” I repeated. “I’m late.” I hurried away as if she were contagious somehow. It wasn’t the cancer that bothered me; it was her instant faith in me that made me uneasy. I hated knowing people’s most intimate secrets. It made me responsible somehow.
For example, last year after the spring play, a group of us had met at Alfredo’s to celebrate our opening night. I felt really close to them. We had spent six weeks of our lives together, and it kind of felt like a little family. We were sharing stories, and it was my turn. “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” I had said, “but I will.” I proceeded to tell them a story that Matt had made me swear to keep secret. It was a funny story, and they enjoyed it. But the next day, someone who was not in our little group approached me. “I really liked that story you told about your brother. But it must suck to have your own sister spreading your secrets around.” I didn’t know who she was - some senior, I think - but she had overheard me at Alfredo’s. Later, I confessed my deed to my brother, who forgave me, but it always left a bad taste in my mouth. I was untrustworthy. I was a bad secret-keeper.
And now Darcy was telling me hers. I didn’t want to know!
I thought about her a lot during the bus ride home. I couldn’t shake her from my mind. She was another victim of Naomi’s evil clutches, and I knew exactly how she felt. We shared something. She didn’t usually stand up for herself, either, and her clothes were as pathetic as mine. I wondered if we shared anything else.
On Friday, school really seemed to drag. I had been looking forward to this day for the past four weeks. I didn’t even make the callback list. I saw Darcy in the hall, but she looked away before I could say anything. The only redemption was that both my stories got an A, and Mrs. Putnam seemed very pleased with the rewrites.
“So how are you going to find time to write, now that you’ll be acting?” she said after class.
My brow creased in confusion. “Acting? I’m not acting. I have plenty of time to write.”
“No, I’m sure I saw your name on the list,” she said. “Didn’t you try out for the part of Tatiana?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t get called back.”
She folded her arms. “Sometimes you don’t need a callback to make a decision. If the actress is any good, it only takes one audition to know. I suggest you go check that list again.”
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I collected my folder, books, and pens and trudged down the hall. She must be mistaken.
There was a small crowd gathered around the list, all checking to see if they had received a part or not. Some people squealed in excitement, others slumped in disappointment. I waited for them to leave before I checked for my name in privacy.
“No way!” I breathed. There it was – my name, next to the part of Tatiana! I got it! I got it!
I would have done a pirouette right there in the hallway if I had been a real ballerina, but I didn’t want to trip myself. Still, I walked – or floated, rather – out to the bus.
Only one thought tarnished my triumph – my mother. She would never let me do it. It was too much of a hassle to coordinate our schedules. I didn’t know why, but picking me up from school after she got off work was always too much trouble.
I made an extra-special dinner that night, hoping to put me in good graces with the parents. I didn’t want to play the manipulation game, but maybe if I could get one of them to say yes, they would talk the other one into saying yes, too. The one being Roger, the other being my mother.
Now, stepparents traditionally have a bad reputation. What I’ve discovered, however, is that sometimes the stepparent is the only one still trying to stay involved. A natural parent is too busy to be bothered, or too tired and overworked to care. A stepparent, however, comes into a marriage full of good intentions and zealous ideas, thinking that he is going to change the world, starting with you. Unfortunately, good intentions and zeal tend to die down after a while. Having been through several stepparents myself, I knew that there’s a time limit on that sort of behavior. I intended to use “The Grace Period” to my advantage.
“Dinner is delicious,” Mom said. “What do you want?”
Everyone laughed, as if I had made a good dinner just so I could get something.
They were right. I gathered my courage. “Actually, I do want something.”
“Oh?” She stopped smiling.
“I… um… I auditioned for the fall play, and I got a part.”
The silence made me even more nervous. Matt looked at me, Becky looked at Peter, and Roger watched us all. I was glad that Erika and Margaret were at their mother’s house, because eight people staring at me would have been too much!
“Just when did you have time to audition?” Mom asked.
“After school on Tuesday. My meeting with Mrs. Putnam took less time than I expected.”
“So you conveniently strolled over and auditioned. Just like that. No planning or anything.”
I didn’t answer.
“How were you going to get home?”
I gulped. “I thought maybe you could pick me up when you get off work, since Becky stays at her daycare until that time anyway.”
“It’s too far out of the way.”
“It’s only a few miles! Please, Mom?”
“I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell me. Don’t you trust me? Do you think I’m such a witch that I wouldn’t let you go?”
“Of course not. I just…”
“You what? Oh, wait – you weren’t going to tell me. You probably planned the whole meeting with Mrs. Putnam just so you could audition.”
I stared at my fork, avoiding her growing sarcasm.
Roger intervened. “Donna, it’s no big deal. We can pick her up after work.”
“That’s not the issue. The issue is that she didn’t tell me. She never tells me anything.”
“It’s not like you care,” I heard myself say. I gasped. Did I really let that slip out of my mouth?
Mom’s voice climbed up a notch. “What’s that supposed to mean? How dare you? Do you know how hard I work for you kids?”
“It’s just a school play, Mom.”
“I told you that it was too much trouble last time. Didn’t you listen to me? Of course not. You never listen!”
I threw my napkin on the table. “That’s why I didn’t tell you! I knew you’d say no. You never let me do anything. Why do I even bother asking you – you always say no.”
“Don’t raise your voice to me, young lady. I’m the adult here.”
“It’s not like you’d come to my play anyway. You never come to my concerts last year, or my performances. You didn’t even come to the last play.”
“I work. I’m always working.”
“You… don’t… care!” I screamed. It was that horrid, primal, uncivilized scream that had first touched my lips when I lost my identity. I hated her. I hated myself. Instead of behaving primly and with dignity, the way my heroine in Rose in Bloom might have, I was behaving like an animal.
I ran out to my sanctuary in the barn. I flung myself into the sheep-pen, nestled in the hay, and let the tears sting at my eyes. I waited for my sobs to turn into a full-fledge wail, but they quieted themselves and refused to be expressed. The unshed tears only added to my frustration.
I dug in the hay and found my survival kit. I always kept a complete survival kit for the day when I was brave enough to finally run away from home. It had needles and thread to mend my clothes, a pup tent, a mess kit with some trail mix and dehydrated foods that I restocked every three months, a change of clothing including underwear and socks, a first aid kit, a flashlight, a mirror, a whistle, duct tape, an aluminum blanket, and a whole bunch of other necessities. I was so good at packing it that it all fit into a miniature duffle bag that was a quarter the size of my backpack. It was compact but thorough. Just the way I liked it.
I considered my options. Where would I run? Our property was thick with woods, and I knew where patches of berries were. They were going to be out of season so late in September, but I had drunk pine needle tea and eaten cattail roots before. I did not know if I could sustain myself, since winter was closing in soon, but I wanted to give it a try. Still, twenty acres is pretty small, and I would probably be found within a matter of hours, no matter how hard I tried to hide.
And then the old argument came back, that if I got caught as a runaway, I could be put in a foster home, which would probably be worse than my own home. I knew it was possible. It would be hard to be worse than my own home, but there was still the definite possibility!
Today would not be the day to put my survival kit to use. I stuffed it deep into the hay for another time of desperation. It was better to wait. Maybe when spring came, and edible plants started to bloom again. I would wait.
September in Minnesota can be pretty chilly sometimes, but my hay kept me warm. The sheep were pretty cuddly, too. The goats didn’t offer any comfort, but their mere presence was soothing.
I told them all about my situation – my hopes, dreams, afflictions, and disappointments. Their liquid brown eyes seemed to be sympathetic from time to time. I talked myself out. I knew my throat would be raw in the morning. At least tomorrow was Saturday, and I would have the whole weekend to heal before singing in choir again.
I retreated into silence, organizing my thoughts as best I could so I could pinpoint the source of my tensions with Mom. She never let me do anything I wanted to do. Part of it was our finances – we never could afford tap dance lessons or art lessons, or uniforms or instruments. Our pleasures had to come from the freebies people threw at us. But part of it – the larger part – stemmed from her thirst for control. Of that I was convinced. Her archaic rules were designed to force us into submission. I wasn’t allowed to date or wear makeup until I was sixteen – but I had turned sixteen months ago and I still wasn’t allowed to date or wear makeup. I couldn’t listen to any lyrical music, because somehow she always found fault with all the words, which were rebellious in one way or the other. I couldn’t watch anything other than Disney movies because they were too violent or too sexual. In a word, I was repressed. Life in my house was nothing less than a dictatorship.
Fuming, I made mental notes for my List: When I grow up, I will only say ‘no’ to the things that are important. If my child wants to pierce their nose or dye their hair
, I will let them. If they want to smoke, drink, or do drugs, I will say no. No’s are important and should only be reserved for bad things. Even if what they want is inconvenient, I will find a way to let them do it, if it is beneficial and won’t hurt anyone.
My solace was interrupted by a kick on the thin wooden door. The doorknob turned but I had bolted the lock from the inside. Plus I had put the wooden slab into place – a sort of double precaution against intruders. This intruder, however, refused to heed the silent warning, and continued rattling the knob.
“What do you want?” I called, hoping my voice sounded authoritative and no-nonsense.
“Let me in!”
It was Matt. He may have been my favorite brother, but I was in no mood to share my solitude with anyone right then. “What’s the password?”
The doorknob stopped rattling. “What password?”
“You can’t come in unless you guess.” He would never, ever guess. Never. I was so clever!
“That’s ridiculous. Just let me in.”
“Password?”
“Come on, Beverly! It’s cold out here. I thought you were lonely, maybe you wanted some company.”
“I’m not lonely. Go away.”
“See, that’s your problem. You don’t even know you’re lonely.” He must have pressed his eye against the little hole in the door, because the lone ray of sunshine was suddenly blotted out. It was restored when he backed away. “Let me ask you a question. Do you talk to the animals?”
I stroked the sheep’s fur. “Of course. Everyone talks to animals.”
“Do they talk back?”
“That’s a stupid question!”
“Do they talk back?”
“Of course not!”
“So you’re not crazy, just lonely. Look, get yourself a few friends. Gossip once in a while. Talking to human beings won’t hurt you.” He jiggled the doorknob again. “Please? Let me in?”
“Not tonight, Matt. You understand.”
He kicked the door. “Fine. Be like that. At least tell me what the password is for next time.”
I giggled. “You’ll never remember it.”
“Sure I will. I don’t intend to stand out in the snow and give advice to you through a closed door ever again.”
“You’ll remember?”
“Try me.”
I grinned. “It’s pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.”
“What?”
I repeated it, proud of myself for having memorized the longest word in the English language. I could hear disbelief in his voice.
“What the heck sort of password is that?”
“It’s a lung disease caused by volcanic ash or similar fine ash. Go away. I’m happy being alone.”
“Get some friends,” he muttered. He gave the door one final kick before leaving.
I don’t know how long I was out there, but I knew it was late. The sun had long since set. I would have spent the entire night cuddled in my hay bale if Roger hadn’t shown up. I couldn’t send him away for not knowing the password – it was his barn, technically, and his paychecks that paid for my sanctuary. But I let him in and retreated back to my hay bales.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
It was rude to ignore an adult. “Hey,” I replied. But I turned my face away so he would know I didn’t feel like talking.
He entered the sheep pen and shut the door behind him. “So.”
He was quiet for so long that I couldn’t resist looking at him. “So what?”
“Well, I’ve been talking to your mother. She’s not evil, you know.”
“I never said she was.”
“You were thinking it, though.”
Was he psychic? I narrowed my eyes at him.
“I was your age once, too,” he grinned. “I think all teenagers go through the same things.”
“Mom forgets what it was like.”
“Yeah. Your mom’s kind of preoccupied. She works hard.”
“So hard that she doesn’t pay attention to us. It’s been months since I sat down and actually talked to her, you know?”
“Hmm.” He twiddled a piece of hay, poking a sheep with it. The sheep, who was curled up next to my body, merely twitched an ear and continued to sleep. “So, are you a good actress?”
“No,” I replied honestly, “but I really want to be in the play. And they wouldn’t have given me that part if they didn’t think I could do it.”
“I told that to your mother.”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “You did?”
“Sure. She’s not upset that you got the part. She’s upset because you didn’t tell her you wanted to audition.”
“You heard her say it herself. She would have said no anyway.”
“You’re missing the point, Beverly.”
I studied the cobwebs. I didn’t really want a lecture, especially from a substitute parent, a fake. “So where’s Mom? Why didn’t she come out to talk to me?”
“She doesn’t know what to say. She’s never raised teenagers before, and you’re a mystery to her.”
I scowled. “That’s really stupid. Nobody’s raised teenagers before, but the other mothers seem to be doing just fine.”
“You scare her, though. She sees a lot of herself in you.”
“I hope not. I don’t want to be anything like her.”
“You should give her a chance. Neither of you get along well with people, especially with each other. One of you has to bend.”
“She’s the adult! Let her be the role model!”
“Are you going to pout all night?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled at me. “Honesty is so refreshing.”
I had to chuckle at the sarcastic way he said that. He really was nicer than I gave him credit for. I hoped he would stick around for a few years.
“Look, Beverly, she didn’t want me to tell you this, but one of the reasons she’s so upset is because she thought you’d be home in the evenings. We were counting on you.”
“What for? There’s nothing to do.”
A mischievous smile covered his face. “Well, she was planning on getting a horse.”
I sat up so quickly it woke up the sheep, who bleated in protest. “A horse!”
“She’s been searching through the newspapers. She has a couple lined up but she hasn’t decided yet.”
“She didn’t tell me!”
“You didn’t ask,” he said, throwing my own words back at me. “You two really need to work on that communication barrier. It only gets worse as time goes by.”
I evaded his point. “What kind of a horse?”
“Arabian, maybe. Probably a gelding. I guess it doesn’t matter, since you’ll be at school working on your play.”
My brow wrinkled. “You mean…”
“I talked your mom into letting you do the play. I told you she wasn’t evil.”
I didn’t know what to say. She had given me permission, but at what price? “Don’t worry, I can do both things. Really I can. The play is only for six weeks. We can get the horse, and I’ll exercise him and groom him and take good care of him. I have plenty of time – see? Like right now. I take care of the other animals anyway. What’s one more?”
“A horse is a lot of work. More than any of the other animals combined.”
“I know that. I’ve been dreaming about it for years. It’s part of the fun.”
He nodded. “You both like horses. She said you did.”
“So I can do it? The play and the horse?”
“Why not? It could be a while before she decides which horse she wants.”
Why not, indeed! My terrible day had just gotten much better! He walked me back to the farmhouse. By the time we reached the porch, I was even able to manage a smile for my mother. I could tell she was embarrassed about her reactions but didn’t know how to make it right.
I’ll be the first to bend, I thought. It was the noble thing to do. Plus, we were getting a horse. I could
have given her a hug right then… if she had asked for one.