by Susan Juby
But she didn’t passage. She went up, up, up, hunching her back beneath me. Then she kicked out a back leg. It sounded like a gunshot against the wall of the arena. I wasn’t going to let her make a fool of me. I tightened up the reins even more and put the spurs on again.
In response, Tandava leaped into the air, twisting as she went. I dropped one of my reins and she ripped the other one out of my hand as she landed. She reared and I grabbed her mane to hold on. She dropped back onto all fours and tore off bucking across the arena, just barely missing Yellow Jacket. He stepped back like a matador, using his cigarette to wave her through. I held on for the first two bucks, but on the third I lost a stirrup and on the fourth she launched me into the air. I landed on my back and found myself looking up at the arena’s roof. I could barely breathe. It felt like both my lungs had collapsed.
The instructor guy walked over and caught Tandy. I know because I saw his boots go by. No one came over to see if I was okay.
I struggled to sit up and when I did, I saw the instructor take off his coat and hand it to Fergus, who’d stepped into the ring. Fergus didn’t look at me. He just held Tandy’s reins and patted her neck. The instructor ran his hands down each of Tandy’s legs to make sure she wasn’t injured.
Next thing I know the instructor, wearing a sweater over a button-down shirt, was on my horse. He patted her and made calming noises. Meanwhile, I was sitting on the ground. I could have been dead, for all anyone seemed to care.
I got up and brushed some of the wood chips and sand off my breeches and I was about to head over to tell the guy to get off my horse, but Fergus held up the Hand of Silence, so all I could do was stand next to him, humiliated. He even gave me the guy’s coat to hold, which added insult to injury. We stood there watching while the instructor walked Tandava, trotted her, cantered her, and then asked her to passage. He didn’t seem to move his hands or his legs. He was perfectly still. And she passaged and then piaffed like it was her favorite thing in the world. Everyone in the small crowd clapped.
Sometimes I really hate dressage.
After the lesson, I led Tandava out of the ring. Not one person spoke to me, unless you count the instructor guy muttering “useless” under his breath as he handed me my horse. People in the jumping world are fairly matter-of-fact about falls, I guess because they fall quite a lot. People who ride dressage are usually more sympathetic. Unless they’re dealing with me.
After my lesson all Fergus did was shake his head at me. The other riders and spectators stared with big eyes, and as soon as I passed them the whispers started.
“Did you see her spur that horse?”
“What was she thinking, trying to passage?”
“She deserved it.”
You’d think I’d put an electrode up her ass instead of asked her to do something that she’s supposedly trained to do.
I said as much to Alex when I got to the Limestone Farm trailer.
“You don’t know how to passage,” he said.
“I’ve seen Ivan do it.”
“Yeah, and I’ve heard Mariah Carey hit the high notes, but that doesn’t help when I try.”
What was his problem? “Why did you ignore me earlier?” I asked, remembering how he blew me off when I was heading into the ring.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
I made a “whatever” noise, but my feelings were hurt. Alex was supposed to be on my side.
“You’re really being a jerk,” I muttered.
Alex turned to me, brush in hand.
“Then maybe you should think before you act. Think before you speak. Stop acting like a spoiled kid. Then people won’t act like jerks.”
I was so shocked I just stood there with my mouth open.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I just…never mind. I’m sorry you fell off.”
“Fine,” I sniffed. But it wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all. I haven’t felt that betrayed since, well, Chad. Why do I always seem to pick the wrong people to trust?
“I just need some time on my own,” he said.
“Fine,” I said again. What else was there to say? It was like he was dumping me but he couldn’t dump me since we weren’t really together. I felt almost like I’d just fallen again, and had the wind knocked out of me and no one was coming over to see if I was okay.
So, when I got home and Jenny asked if I wanted to go with her to a party, I said yes.
FEBRUARY 4
16
Cleo
JENNY SAYS IT’S a miracle that I hadn’t taken up partying earlier. She can barely believe I grew up in L.A. I told her I went to an all-girl private school with a conservative dress code and an emphasis on academics. She said she would have guessed that I went to a private nunnery just north of Neverland.
Since I started hanging out with Jenny a couple of months ago, I’ve finally begun to experience life. I am such a late bloomer, I can barely believe myself sometimes! I mean, I’m ahead of other people on TV knowledge and getting taken advantage of by certain guys named Chad and getting banished from my home nation as a result, but when it comes to drinking and having fun, I’m practically an infant. Jenny’s helping me to fix all that, though.
At that first party I went to with Jenny, back in December, I got drunk for the first time and I met a guy! Hello, red-letter day!
The boy, whose name I didn’t quite catch because I was a bit drunk, was a superfox. He was so cute he could have been from home. He had killer black hair and freckles across his nose and blue eyes with little flecks of white in them. Ten minutes after we met we ended up kissing in a stairwell. It was fantastic. It may have been the best time I’ve ever had in my life.
I was still high from the experience (and the clouds of secondhand pot smoke) when I went home for the holidays. Even the crappy twenty-four hours spent with my parents, being reminded about my poor judgment every sixty seconds, and the crappy week that followed, spent with Consuela, whom my parents paid time and a half to act as my chaperone over the holidays, couldn’t dampen my excitement to get back to school and Jenny so we could go to another party and see the boy again.
After the clinic with Herr Humorless, I promised Fergus and Ivan that when I got back from California I’d start attacking my chores like I cared and riding for all I was worth during lessons and so on, but I just haven’t been able to do it. For one thing, since I got back a month ago, I’ve been going out with Jenny at least twice a week and it takes me at least two days to feel normal again after one of our “expeditions,” as she calls them. On top of that I have school, which is nowhere near as demanding as Marlborough, but they do sort of expect me to attend classes.
Riding is starting to feel like it’s interfering with my life or at least the part of my life that could lead to seeing the black-haired boy again. Fergus and Ivan have mentioned about twenty times that the spring show is coming up next month, and I can’t make another spectacle of myself. The spring show includes show jumping, hunter, and dressage, so Jenny should be getting ready, too, but she’s not. Getting ready isn’t her thing.
She almost never goes to class and misses at least half her riding lessons and even quite a few shows. She’s had two conferences with Ms. Green about “pulling up her boots” and several strong talking-tos from her jumping coach, but she doesn’t seem fazed.
“Aren’t you worried about getting kicked out?” I asked her after she got back from yet another disciplinary meeting.
“Nah. They aren’t going to kick me out. I’m the best rider they’ve got.” It was true. Jenny might not be very consistent with her training, but when she does get on her horse, they are unstoppable. I’ve seen Jenny’s mare, a Selle Francais named Rio, make it over jumps with Jenny nearly passed out on her back. If Jenny tried even a little bit she could totally make Young Riders. But Jenny’s not a trier. There’s something kind of refreshing about that.
As we talked, she lay in bed, fully dressed, but with her quilt pulled
up to just under her nose. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and she hadn’t ridden her horse for at least a week.
“But what if they do?” I couldn’t believe she could be so nonchalant.
She closed her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t get kicked out. You won’t get kicked out. They expect us to get into trouble. They’d be disappointed if we didn’t. I’m going to take a short nap now, but be ready to head out tonight at around nine.”
This morning, Fergus was in the indoor ring when I arrived.
“Oooooh! Hiiiiii,” he said, very sarcastic.
“Hi,” I whispered. Speaking too loudly made my head hurt worse. Jenny and I worked on the doing-shooters part of my education last night.
“Well, it’s just been such a delight waiting for you,” he said. “You’ll notice Ivan isn’t here. He left after ten minutes.”
“I’m not that late.”
“Miss Cleo, you are twenty minutes late for a forty-five-minute lesson. And I know for a fact that you only arrived fifteen minutes ago because on my way out to the barn to give you hell, I passed Mrs. Mudd as she was leaving. She gave me a terrible look.”
“She’s a…” I let my voice trail off before completing that thought.
“A fine and patient woman who must be sorely tried having to deal with the likes of you,” said Fergus.
“So is my lesson canceled?” I asked, trying not to sound as hopeful as I felt.
He ignored me.
“In this life, we only get so many chances. Some of us squander our chances. Others make the most of them. Which type are you?”
I wished I was the type who was still in bed, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
“You are riding today—with me. And I plan to be every bit as fierce as Ivan. You’ve been an absolute twit since you returned from Los Angeles. I don’t know what that town did to you, but we’ve got to get you straightened out before the spring show.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. You need to get used to riding in public without making a scene. Competitive dressage riders compete.”
“I’m not competitive,” I grumbled, leading Tandy over to the mounting block.
“Quite right. You certainly aren’t. That’s why you are going to spend the next forty-five minutes riding your tail off, and when we’re done in here, you and I are going to have a conference with your young colleague, Alex. I understand that you both plan to ride a freestyle. That means you only have a few weeks to prepare your music and your choreography.”
“I don’t feel ready to ride a freestyle.”
“A month ago you insisted that the freestyle was your favorite event. If I recall, you implied you’d die if you were’t allowed to ride a freestyle. Well, I’m here to assure you that that’s correct. You will die if you don’t do the work to prepare and to ride one.”
“God,” I muttered.
“Yes?” said Fergus.
Then the ride began.
FEBRUARY 4
17
Alex
ALEX COULDN’T SEEM to stop working. Sometimes he wondered whether he had a disease of the nervous system. Lately he’d been even more of a maniac for chores than usual. He went to school full time, worked at the barn, looked after two horses, and trained dressage. Cleo kept asking him if he was on drugs. This afternoon it was even getting on Fergus’s nerves.
“Lad, please. I’m trying to nag here and you’re making me feel superfluous,” said Fergus.
“Sorry,” said Alex as he put down one of Tandava’s leg wraps he was untangling.
“As I was saying,” Fergus began again. “You both plan to ride a freestyle in the schooling show next month. You two will be representing this fine establishment and we don’t want you embarrassing us by riding some terrible tests set to dreadful music. So how are they coming?”
“I did my choreography,” said Alex quietly.
“That’s wonderful. Have you picked your music?”
Alex shook his head.
Fergus leaned against the doorway of the tack room where Alex worked while Cleo watched.
“We’ve timed your horses with the metronome. Now you both need to pick music. And Miss Cleo has to design her choreography, since she has done nothing.”
Fergus pointed at Alex. “Ride home safely. I’m still not comfortable with this wagon-train arrangement of yours.”
“It’s okay,” said Alex.
He knew his coach got a kick out of the way Alex rode Turnip and led Detroit behind, like the world’s biggest pack pony. The routine kept Turnip feeling useful and as long as the old paint led the way, Detroit was happy to follow.
After Fergus left, Alex extracted another polo wrap from the large tangled pile at his feet.
“Sorry,” Cleo said. “I guess I shouldn’t wash so many at once.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Things between Alex and Cleo had been strained ever since their argument at the clinic. It didn’t help that Cleo seemed to have gone wild over the holidays. Instead of hanging around his place, she went out with her roommate several nights each week. He was surprised to find that he missed her and her constant questions and advice, and he worried about her drastic change in lifestyle. It was like watching Mary Poppins get mixed up with the wrong crowd.
“You want to go look for music for your freestyle?” Cleo asked.
“I might have something I can use at home.”
“Please, I’ve seen your music collection and it sucks. You’ve got like four CDs and they were all gift with purchase. You can’t ride a good freestyle to soft jazz hits. The judges might be old, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be deaf. You need to find something exciting. We’ll go to the record store and listen to different stuff to get ideas.”
Alex sighed, pulled another polo wrap free of the pile, and began to roll it, inside out, on top of his knee. There was no use arguing with her once she got an idea. And he didn’t completely hate the idea of spending time with Cleo. He was just about to say yes, when she spoke up again.
“Tell you what. Mrs. Mudd has been complaining about driving me back and forth from school every day, so my parents said I could get a car. We can go music and car shopping this weekend.”
Alex shot Cleo a sideways glance. Car shopping? This he had to see.
“Okay,” he said.
“Awesome. So you’ll pick me up Saturday morning?”
Alex nodded.
“We are going to have such a good time. Hey, I’m going out with Jenny Thursday night. You want to come?”
Alex shook his head. “No. I better not. I’ve got stuff to do,” he said.
Cleo got up to leave when she heard the rumble of Mrs. Mudd’s truck outside.
“Later skater,” she said.
He nodded and looked back down. He was still up to his knees in tangled polos.
FEBRUARY 10
18
Alex
IT TOOK ALEX only a few minutes to realize that Cleo was a major-league shopper.
The first thing she said to him when she got into the IROC Saturday morning was, “Where are the import dealerships in this town?”
Alex didn’t know. But he didn’t want to admit that, since he was a guy and his father owned a used RV dealership on the outskirts of town. He felt like it was his job to know exactly where all of the car and tractor places were. After all, car dealerships lined most of the major streets in Nanaimo, their glass-sided buildings marooned in a sea of new cars, flags flying, sun glinting off the windshields.
“I think there’s one on Bowen Road. Somewhere around there, anyway.”
“Excellent,” she said.
“So you’re just going to buy a car? Like today?”
Cleo looked at him and frowned slightly. “Yeah.”
“Oh. Are you going riding after?”
She had on a pair of suede breeches under brown leather riding boots and a short shearling jacket.
“Nah,” she said. Then she notice
d him looking at her outfit. “I don’t want them to think I’m some nobody. You can’t drive up to a car dealership in an IROC and expect to be treated seriously.”
“But if you look like you’re going horseback riding, everything will be fine?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the whole getting-gouged thing? You know, if they think you have money.”
“I do have money,” she said fondly, as though she was speaking to a learning-disabled child. “The point is to have a nice shopping experience. We’re teenagers and they aren’t going to let us test-drive nice cars if they think we’re poor.”
“Right,” he said, glancing down at his outfit of heavy wool plaid coat, cords, boots, and a knitted cap. He briefly imagined changing into his show clothes, the two of them arriving at the European car dealership looking like they’d just stepped off the pages of Vanity Fair. He imagined bringing along a pair of trusty hunting dogs to complete the picture. He sort of liked the image. Oh well, it was too late to get changed. Cleo would just have to pretend she was shopping with her gardener.
He drove the IROC along the main roads while Cleo looked for dealership signs.
“Ford. Keep going!”
Alex was a bit insulted until he realized she was referring to the dealership.
“Cadillac! Maybe we should stop. It would be so old school to drive a Caddy.”
Her words came too late. He’d already driven past the turnoff. They drove along a stretch of highway lined with malls and car dealerships.
“Think you have enough freakin’ malls in this town?” Cleo asked, as though Alex had personally financed and built them all.
“You’re the one going shopping,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to feel like I’m shopping. I want to feel like I’m just going for a little walk, cruising cafés and art galleries, gathering culture and worldly knowledge and I just happened to come upon this amazing little car store, tucked among the trees, birds twittering overhead.”