by Susan Juby
“I wish someone would do all this for me,” said Sofia as she watched Alex massage Princess’s neck.
Alex, a careful person to begin with, was even more meticulous than usual when he worked on Princess, who accepted his attention as no more than her due.
“Maybe you should talk to Alex about that.”
Chris, Sofia, and Alex all turned to see Cleo standing in the doorway.
Alex felt his jaw tighten. The plan had been for Cleo to meet Sofia and just assume Sofia was his girlfriend. Cleo wasn’t supposed to say anything about it.
“You’re just how Alex described you,” said Cleo, walking up to Sofia, with her hand outstretched.
Alex blinked. Was she on crack? He hadn’t said word one about what his girlfriend looked like.
Cleo stopped in front of Sofia. Her handmade riding boots were spotless for once. Her butter-yellow breeches glowed, and her white blouse was freshly pressed. Her small chin jutted defiantly and her sheer pink lip gloss gleamed softly in the warm lights of the barn.
“How was your ride?” she asked Alex after she finally let go of Sofia’s hand.
“It was fine,” he replied. He picked up one of Princess’s front hooves. He’d cleaned it already but needed something to do. He would spend an hour cleaning each hoof if that’s how long it took Cleo to go away.
Cleo’s next question took his breath away.
“Do you mind competing for his attention with a Turnip?” she asked Sofia.
“No, not really,” said Sofia with an uncertain laugh. “A rutabaga, though—that would be a different story.”
Alex’s back began to hurt as Princess shifted more of her weight onto him, but there was no way he was going to straighten up while the two girls were talking.
“That’s funny,” said Cleo. “I just wondered how you as Alex’s girlfriend feel about how, you know, horsey he is.”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Alex’s girlfriend.”
“You mean you’re not…?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Alex’s back went into a spasm. Reluctantly he let go of Princess’s foot and stood.
Alex’s eyes met Chris’s. Almost against his will Alex said, “Uh, I’m not going out with my, uh, girlfriend anymore. We broke up, I mean, it didn’t work out.”
That evening Alex was exhausted, not just from his lesson and the chores he’d done at the barn, but from all the messy and terrifying social interactions. It was almost a relief to get to work cleaning Turnip’s stall.
He hurled the last clump of sodden shavings into the wheelbarrow and was pushing it out of the stall when he nearly ran into his father.
“What the heck’s going on in here?” asked his father in his beery baritone.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” said Alex, picking up the shovel in a half-hearted gesture of explanation. Then he was hit by a sinking feeling. He’d forgotten to put his track pants back on. He was still in his breeches. Maybe his dad wouldn’t notice. He sounded fairly plastered.
His heart sank when his dad leaned against the stall, settling in for a visit.
“It’s Friday night,” said Mr. Ford. “And here you are. Shoveling shit. There’ll be time for that, son, after you get married.”
“Yeah. Ha, ha,” said Alex.
“Jesus,” said Mr. Ford. “What kind of pants you got on?”
“Riding pants?” Alex replied, hoping that was all the explanation his dad would need.
“They look like them funny English pants the girls wear.”
Alex didn’t respond. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow, much less speak.
“Why you wearing them sissy pants?” Mr. Ford persisted.
Alex felt like one of those captive-raised game birds that people let out just long enough to shoot.
“I’ve been, uh, riding English. At a place down the road.”
“English?” said his father, screwing up his face with distaste. “I thought we talked about this. You were going to look into roping or reining, maybe working with Rudy Chapman—”
Oh dear God, thought Alex, not Rudy Chapman again.
“I’ve decided to try dressage,” Alex said in a quiet voice.
“Dressage?”
“You know. It’s English. It’s kind of like…” Alex struggled for a way to describe the sport. He couldn’t use the dancing analogy, because that would make things worse. The only thing his father would hate more than a son who rode dressage was one who danced. “Dressage is sort of like military riding,” he said finally. “It’s a style of classical riding that was developed hundreds of years ago for war horses. For soldiers. You know that musical ride that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police put on? That’s basically dressage. Dressage comes from the word dresseur—to train. It’s—”
“I didn’t ask for a damn seminar,” his father interrupted. “What is it? What are you going to do with it?”
Alex blinked.
“I don’t know. Compete. I guess.”
“I thought only girls do that dressage stuff. Going around and around in circles like that.”
Alex briefly considered taking the shovel and stabbing himself through the heart with it.
“Lots of men ride dressage,” he said. “Some of the top riders are men. Especially in Europe.”
“Yeah, and I bet most of them are a little light in the riding slippers, if you get my meaning,” said his father, twinkling his fingers at Alex as though trying to put him under a spell.
“Yeah, well, I’m not,” Alex said, and he knew his voice sounded a bit high-pitched and defensive. This would all be so much easier if he was a misunderstood straight boy, like that Billy Elliott kid. Lucky bastard.
“Did you ever think all this riding, especially this fancy dressage riding,” Mr. Ford said, adding another finger twinkle for emphasis, “is getting in the way of a healthy social life?”
Alex suppressed a shudder. What did his father know about a healthy social life? His main form of entertainment was drinking himself into a stupor alone in his RV every night.
“How you going to meet a girl when you spend all your time with your horse?” his father continued.
“Dressage is practically all girls.”
“Never see any of ’em around here,” said his father.
Alex was about to point out that between his sisters and his aunt the place was practically overrun with females.
“It just don’t seem right,” his father continued. “Take your old man, for instance. I’m a hardworking guy. Not much time for socializing. And even I find time to see the odd lady.”
Alex’s stomach heaved.
“You even met the lucky gal I’m taking out tonight. Remember Colette?”
So his father was dating the woman from the beer garden, she of the sparse red hair and unused dressage horse.
What could Ms. Reed, a successful realtor, possibly want with his father? Mr. Ford’s skin was puffy and yellowish, but he was all dressed up in a nice shirt and khakis and had doused himself in some god-awful cologne. The old man was probably ripe for a massive heart attack. He could go at any moment. Running a business and a family into the ground had to be very hard work. The old man deserved some happiness.
“You’re dating Ms. Reed?” Alex said finally, trying to work some enthusiasm into his voice.
“One of the men in this family has to get a little action.”
Alex’s mouth took off on its own before he could stop it. “Don’t worry. I’m seeing someone, too.”
“That right?” His father sounded surprised. How dare he sound surprised!
“Yeah. This girl from the barn. She goes to Stoneleigh, actually.” What was he talking about? Why couldn’t he shut up?
“Well, you old dog, you,” said his father, smiling.
“She’s cute. Rich, too.”
Mr. Ford beamed. Then he chortled, “Don’t get her knocked up.”
He must have seen Alex’s horrified look because he tried
to explain. “Your grandpa. That’s what he used to say to me every time I went on a date.”
“That’s, uh…” Alex struggled to find the right description. “Good advice.”
“And the other thing your grandfather always said to me was, ‘You want I should get you some protection?’ He always said it with an Italian accent. Even though we weren’t Italian.” Mr. Ford’s voice was wistful at the memory.
Alex felt himself start to sweat. Was his dad about to give him the dreaded Talk? Or worse, some protection? Was he going to hand over a condom, warm from his pants pocket, a condom meant for Ms. Reed?
“That’s great, Dad.”
His father looked at Alex searchingly.
“I mean I don’t need any protection,” Alex clarified.
Mr. Ford laughed, then stepped closer and clapped him on the back.
“Okay, son,” he said. “No protection for you.”
SEPTEMBER 28
8
Cleo
“CLEO O’SHEA—you have a phone call on the common phone.”
All the girls in the TV room looked over at me, surprised. The bitches. But I was already out the door, headed for the phone alcove.
On Friday nights the academic girls study in their rooms or hang around the library. The horse fanatics clean tack or brush their horses or something. The party girls sneak out and go into town. The rest of us watch TV. I am seriously considering becoming a party girl, just for the stimulation and because we never watch the shows I want.
The only person I can relate to at all in the Friday TV–watching crowd is Phillipa. I’ve been feeling sort of bad about leaving her to train with Svetlana while I go off to Limestone. I’ve been surprised by how much I miss riding with her. Phil’s pretty easygoing and much more agreeable than Alex. Lucky for him that he looks like a model for an Eastern European clothing line, or I might get tired of his attitude.
“Hello?” I said, breathless from my dash to the phone.
“Uh, Cleo?”
It was him! I’d done it! I’d used my powers to will him to call. Sometimes I amaze even myself.
“Yes?” I said, pretending I didn’t know who he was.
“Hi, it’s Alex. Um, Alex Ford. You know, from the barn.”
“Oh, Alex,” I said, loud enough so anyone listening would hear. Too bad he has one of those androgynous, could-be-a-boy-or-a-girl names. “Alexander. Hi!”
He sounded nervous—that was so sweet.
“Yeah, so I’m, um, free on Saturday,” he continued. “If you still want to get together.”
I knew he liked me. Girls have instincts about these things.
I considered saying I had to check my schedule, you know, making him sweat a bit. But I couldn’t. I was totally accepting this date.
“Great,” I said.
“So you’re free?” His voice dipped almost like he was disappointed. Maybe I should have made him wait.
“I think so. But, uh, not till later.” That’s it—I would play hard to get. But only moderately hard to get, as opposed to extremely.
“Later?” he asked.
Why later? How much later? Why was I such a spaz? You’d think I was from around here or something.
“Like not midnight or anything. But not early. We have dining hall at six. So how about seven?” Was seven o’clock later? I didn’t even know at this point. I was starting to lose it.
“Okay.”
“Why don’t you come here? Pick me up. Then we’ll go to your place.” I wanted everyone to see me with him. To see me with any boy, actually, but especially one with big, sad eyes and curly brown hair.
“On second thought, how about you pick me up at six-thirty? That’s probably better for me,” I said.
Alex was quiet on the other end of the phone. Finally, he gave this defeated little “Okay,” like I’d just told him he had to put his cat to sleep. I did not understand the tone of that “okay” at all.
“Great! See you then.”
I hung up the phone and began jumping up and down and making the V for victory sign in the hallway.
I know Alex is the guy who’s going to help me redeem myself in the romantic department. I am perfectly capable of having a normal relationship with a nice, noncriminal guy who likes me for myself, no matter what my parents say.
SEPTEMBER 30
9
Alex
ALEX DIDN’T LIKE Cleo, at least not that way. So why was it taking him so long to find something to wear? He had to look nice, but not so nice that she would be overcome with lust. Alex had had a dread of uncontrolled female desire ever since that incident in the third grade when Lucinda Watts got him alone in the music room and asked him if he wanted to go steady. Lucinda had skinny arms and legs and large, rubbery lips that she slathered with sparkly pink Lip Smackers. When he turned her down, she kissed him anyway.
Thinking of pink goo, he put on his third-choice outfit and made his way downstairs to the kitchen to get Grace’s and his sisters’ approval.
As Alex came down the stairs he heard Grace say, “Maggie, I recognize that as a young teen you have a lot on your mind, but have you ever considered the effects your sallow skin may be having on your self-esteem?”
“We aren’t sallow,” answered May, because Maggie was too busy constructing a fake wound on her arm to reply. “You told us so that time you put the cloth around our heads and pretended we were bald.”
“Yes, but I’m more educated now and I’ve decided your skin tone is sallow. It’s just your luck that I have a new cream that will revolutionize your life by helping with jaundice.”
“You mean that medical makeup you got for people who are getting chemo?” asked Maggie, finally looking up from her wound making, the tubes and jars and brushes for which were scattered all over the counter across every inch of space that Grace’s cooking mess hadn’t already taken.
“That’s what the cosmetics are designed for,” said Grace. “But they work well for other people, too. I need to practice before I go putting them on someone who might be a bit irritable due to having a touch of cancer or kidney failure or whatever.”
“I think you should just focus on your cooking,” said Maggie. “And cleaning your hand.”
As part of her new passion for all things East Indian, Grace was attempting to cook vegetarian Samosas. Earlier in the day she’d henna’d one of her hands very badly. It looked as if she’d cut it off and left it outside on the lawn by itself all summer.
May stared at the purply red blotches on Grace’s hand.
“You should’ve done a foot,” she said.
“Then you could put a sock over it,” said Maggie.
“You might want to consider wearing a glove on that hand,” said May.
“A silver one, like Michael Jackson!”
“You could tell people you have that skin disease that makes you look white!”
“I am white. Unfortunately. You two have no sense of appreciation for other cultures,” said Grace, fiercely stuffing fresh herbs into mashed potatoes.
Alex cleared his throat at the doorway. Three heads swiveled around.
“The suit was too much,” said Maggie.
“But a tracksuit is too little,” finished May.
“It’s not a tracksuit,” Alex explained. “It’s casual wear.”
“Alex, it’s a tracksuit,” said Grace. “I can see the Adidas symbol. What are you—the missing Beastie Boy? Where are you taking this girl, anyway?”
Alex cringed. This was all such a charade. He felt as though someone had installed a neon FRAUD sign on his forehead.
“If you both ride horses, why don’t you wear something riding related?” suggested Grace.
“Breeches?”
“No, cowboy stuff. You were the cutest little cowboy,” said Grace, dropping one of the Samosas on the kitchen floor. She absently picked it up and put it back on the tray. Alex made a mental note to avoid the Samosas.
“He can’t wear cowboy clothes. He r
ides English now,” said Maggie.
“Dressage,” said May, looking very satisfied with herself. “He’s gone back to his first love. Dressage riding.”
“Just remember you have to drop us off at the dojang first,” said Maggie.
“And pick us up,” said May.
“And make sure the N is on the car to warn everyone else that the world’s least experienced driver is behind the wheel,” said Grace, fishing around under the counter for another fallen Samosa.
Alex slowly climbed back upstairs to his room, where he decided on an outfit of jeans and a blue shirt and sweater. Then he went outside to put the N for novice driver symbol on the car. The IROC was the least appropriate vehicle possible for someone who liked to wear sweaters. He was sure a little part of him died every time he had to drive it. And now he had to drive it to the most exclusive private school on Vancouver Island.
Five minutes later the twins emerged from the house. He watched through the rearview mirror as they staggered along under the weight of various swords, gloves, mouth guards, and long and short sticks. They pulled open the sticky passenger door, pushed forward the front seat, and piled themselves and all their equipment into the backseat.
“One of you can sit up front,” he told them.
“Actually, you can drop us off after you pick her up,” said Maggie.
“What?”
“We’d like to meet her.”
“And we don’t have to be at practice right away,” said May.
Alex cranked his head around to look at his younger sisters crammed in the backseat behind a bristling fence of weapons. They grinned at him. Alex considered arguing with them but they were too heavily armed.
“Shouldn’t you have all that, you know, weaponry in a bag or something? What if we have an accident?” On second thought, having an accident wouldn’t be so bad. It would save him from having to go through with this date.
“F.E.I.,” said Maggie, whose grasp of acronyms was weak, “Grace took our equipment bag to that hairstyling competition on the mainland and it never came home.”