A Horse of Her Own

by Annie Wedekind

  The cabin door banged open, and Jane heard footsteps coming down the hall. Alyssa sauntered in, carrying a package wrapped in noisily crinkling plastic, which she put at the foot of the bunk opposite Jane’s, then collapsed gracefully on the bed. “Bring the bags in here, Mom,” she called out, yawning. A very thin, tan woman with wrists wreathed in gold bracelets and a slim gold watch entered, holding a navy blue duffel bag with the initials AFT monogrammed on the side. “Where are the speakers for my iPod?” Alyssa demanded, rolling over on her side.

  “Your father has them, if he hasn’t lost them,” Mrs. Taylor said.

  Mother and daughter exchanged knowing looks. “Well, if he has lost them, he’ll just have to buy me new ones and mail them here,” Alyssa said flatly, and her mother nodded, a short, emphatic gesture that set the crown of her immaculate hairdo quivering.

  “Sweetie? Sweetie, where are you?” a voice sounded in the hall.

  “We’re in here, Robert, honestly.”

  Alyssa laughed, then yawned again as a tall, stooped man appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello there,” he said, blinking around the room, then settling his eyes on Jane. “And which one of Alyssa’s friends are you?” he asked, smiling.

  Alyssa snorted. “That’s just Jane.”

  Jane blushed fiercely and made to get up and leave the room, but to her increased embarrassment, Mr. Taylor held out his hand and she had to shake it. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be one of her friends soon enough. Your first year here? Everyone’s a friend of Alyssa’s. She’ll show you around.”

  At this, Mrs. Taylor laughed as well. “Robert, Jane’s been coming here for ages. You know—her parents are teachers. Don’t you live … where is it, dear?”

  “Chestnut Street,” Jane managed, feeling Alyssa’s bored eyes drilling into her.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Taylor. “A wonderful historic part of town. You have to be either in the city or else out at a place like this farm to get any real old houses with some soul in them. Though some of that history might not be all that pleasant. For instance, there’s another plantation down the road from here—”

  “Daddy, please,” Alyssa moaned in protest. “Where are the new speakers for my music, did you remember them?”

  Mr. Taylor started, blinking more rapidly. “Oh, yes, here they are, sorry, sweetie … .”

  Jane finally made it out of the room, escaping the drone of complaint that continued behind her. Her face was still burning; Mr. Taylor had always seemed nicer than his daughter, or his wife, but every time she saw him, he introduced himself to her again, as if she had never made the slightest impression. Jane hated that she blushed so easily—sometimes she wasn’t even feeling that shy or that awkward and she blushed anyway. Then, of course, someone would tease her about it, and the blush would just get worse. Jane sighed with exasperation at herself as she walked to the pasture.

  Twilight hung softly over Sunny Acres, turning the grass emerald and making the outlines of the bright white fences circling the fields glow faintly in the evening colors of lilac, gold, and dark, dark green. As she walked toward the big pasture where most of the horses were turned out at night, she could see the main house, really a mansion, where Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrys lived. It was an imposing three-story antebellum manor with graceful white columns and large bay windows that overlooked the sweeping drive, lined with dogwoods, that curved up from the main gates, past the pond and the dressage ring. Behind the house were the two barns, white with dark green and red trim, and one with a covered passage that led to the indoor riding arena. To the right of the last barn was the older girls’ small single-story cabin, with its irregular pine floorboards and ceilings braced by rough wood beams.

  Robin, whose little brother had some epic, all-day soccer tournament in Cincinnati, wouldn’t arrive until much later, so this evening Jane was alone with the other girls or, more likely, with her thoughts. Walking along the curve of the gravel path toward the main pasture, she could hear behind her the slam of car doors and shrieks of reunion as girls who had just seen each other a few days before threw themselves into each other’s arms, squealing, Omigod! And I can’t wait to tell you—! She turned to look at the cabin, the warm glow of its windows illuminating the old bowed oak before it, and the white headlights of cars catching the barns. She could make out the voices of Shannon, Jennifer, and then Jessica’s husky laugh. She kept walking.

  “Beau,” she called out softly, lest the girls overhear her. “Beau, are you out there?” She could see dark shapes moving under the trees. She clucked more loudly, then called out again, “Beau?” One of the shadows detached itself from the dark mass, and she heard the pressing of hooves against grass, a deep, quiet swish in the still twilight. “Beau?” she called again, but then she recognized his long, loping stride, and a rush of gratitude filled her chest. Here was someone who was glad to see her.

  He approached the fence, his ears perked, looking quizzically and somewhat sleepily toward her. “Hi, boy,” Jane whispered, and she climbed up onto the fence. Beau stopped before her and blew into her outstretched hands. Jane reached into her pocket and found a carrot, warm and battered, but still edible. She felt his whiskery muzzle on her hands as he daintily took the snack, then she buried her hands in his mane, her throat suddenly scratchy and her eyes hot. If only it could just be this way, she thought. Just her and Beau, and nobody else to worry about, and no problems with money or placement in Advanced I. She wished that she could take Beau tonight, just saddle him up and start riding across LaGrange County. Was it still possible to just ride a horse across America? “We could do it,” she told him. “I bet we could.”

  But there was the tug of recognition, she knew. The need to have their accomplishments acknowledged. She felt guilty about wanting this—wanting to be noticed by the other girls and wanting to be noticed as a rider. She did not know how to strike a balance between her solitude and her loneliness—her need to be with Beau alone and her wish to belong.

  “Well, I’m not going to figure it out tonight,” she said. It was becoming a familiar phrase. Beau nuzzled her hands in the hope of another carrot, and Jane hopped off the fence to put her arms around his neck. When she released him, he shook his head and cantered back to the other horses.

  Chapter 5

  Divided Up

  A pale ribbon of orange shone through the single window of the room as Jane opened her eyes. It was just dawn, and for a moment she didn’t remember where she was. The low-ceilinged, snug cabin was similar to her room at home, and Jane rolled over, thinking sleepily, I don’t have to get up yet. Then the bunk bed’s mattress gave a loud squawk, and she sat upright with a start, looking around at the sleeping forms of her cabinmates, their strewn clothes and towels and toiletries. The first day of camp!

  In the golden morning light, the night before seemed a loud, discordant blur. Girls talked excitedly about rock bands she’d never heard of, fought for a place in line for the shower, showed off tan lines and new boots. There’d been hardly any talk of horses; mostly, Alyssa and Jennifer held court on their bunk, with Jessica a lounging third, throwing in sarcastic remarks to gales of rollicking laughter. They talked about kids at their school—boys, mainly—whom Jane didn’t know, but also about shopping expeditions to the upscale Plaza Court and all the new clothes they wished their parents would have let them bring to camp. At one point, Jennifer asked Jane, “Don’t you wish you could bring all your cool clothes? Doesn’t it kill you to have to wear these rags for six weeks?” Jane, however, had gotten a little wiser over the course of many summers with this crowd and knew when she was being mocked. She didn’t care about clothes, and she figured that must be fairly obvious to everyone else by now. “It’s devastating,” she replied, poker-faced, and was rewarded by a hoot of laughter from Jessica. On that note, she’d curled up on her bunk bed and opened her book.

  Since last summer, Mrs. Jeffrys no longer sent anyone over to wake the girls up—they had no counselors, per se. They were expected
to rise at seven and to bring the horses in from the fields, a chore usually grumbled over, but which Jane secretly relished. Now, as she pulled on her worn jods, an equally ratty T-shirt, and her boots, she was already looking forward to the walk through the wet grass, watching the world wake up as she did. She tiptoed through the cabin to the bathroom, washed her face and brushed her teeth, and fixed her dishwater-colored hair in a ponytail. Her nose was already starting to freckle, and her large gray eyes, just like Lily’s but the color of clouds instead of blue sky, looked back at her in the mirror. On top of everything else, it would also be nice to be prettier. Jane sometimes felt that all she did was long for things that weren’t so. It was tiring to live in imagined yet unimaginable futures.

  There was still a hint of cool in the air as she swung off the porch and headed for the stable to collect a halter and lead shank, but the low, blurry orange sun on the horizon promised a “scorcher,” as her mother would say. She looked to the windows of the big house and could see Maria, Jose’s wife, in the kitchen starting breakfast. She was a small woman with lean, strong arms and surprisingly big hands, and she prepared all three meals for the campers. Besides Jane’s group of eight, there would be two more classes of riders—beginning and intermediate—usually about ten other younger girls, who stayed in the larger cabin nearer to the house. They had two live-in counselors, a rotating series of college students who took them through the other activities Sunny Acres offered: canoeing and swimming lessons in the pond, archery, and campfires at night. They were obviously halfhearted stabs at being a “real” camp—everyone came to ride.

  The advanced students wouldn’t follow their schedule. Instead, they’d ride in the mornings, break for lunch and free time probably spent swimming in the glassy-green pond, then ride again in the afternoon. Susan had told them she’d mix up the lessons: Sometimes they’d jump in the mornings, then do dressage later; sometimes they’d ride mini cross-country courses or practice obstacles. The goal was to prepare them for three-day eventing: the apex of English riding. Jane was especially looking forward to learning more about dressage, an advanced form of equitation that was hard to get the hang of riding only once a week.

  As Jane approached the barn, her stomach lurched as she realized that Susan might already be writing their names on the green chalkboard that hung on the door to the tack room, where she divided students into classes and assigned horses. But the barn was empty except for the large tabby, Zelda, sleeping on a hay bale, and the German shepherd, Rocky, who seemed to feel that it was his personal responsibility to protect the girls and the horses in equal measure. He was a solemn, impressive dog, but very friendly, and he wagged his tail happily as Jane scratched his ears. “Hey, guy,” Jane said as his tail thumped across her legs. “What do you think my chances are today? Will you keep your paws crossed for me?” Rocky blinked up at her reassuringly.

  “Maybe he’ll knock on wood, too,” said a voice from the stall opposite the tack room. Jane jumped, and Rocky stood at sudden attention, his ears pricked. “Jose?” she said, then she saw that it wasn’t Jose at all, but a boy about her age, leaning on a pitchfork and dusting off the front of his jeans with one hand. He was tall and skinny with longish black hair pushed back behind his ears, and something in his brown eyes did indeed remind Jane of Jose. She blushed, as usual.

  “Nope. Ben,” he said. “Jose’s my granddad.”

  Jane ducked her head, concentrating on petting Rocky. “I didn’t know there was anyone in here,” she said.

  “Obviously,” the boy, Ben, said, smiling. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be talking to the dog, right?”

  “Well, maybe not out loud,” Jane said, then blushed again as Ben laughed.

  “So you’re a hypocrite,” he said in a friendly tone.

  “No … I just …” Jane began.

  “You just don’t want strangers overhearing your conversations. I know. I hate it when people listen to what Zelda and I talk about.” His voice was teasing, but not mean. Jane ventured another look up at him, her growing-out bangs falling into her eyes.

  “Right,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “After all, Rocky might be about to confess to eating a rabbit or some other crime.”

  “No, he’s a good boy,” Ben said, and he suddenly swung forward, placing the pitchfork against the wall and leaning to pat the dog on the head in one easy motion. Jane stepped backward and banged her elbow against the tack room door.

  “Um, so, Ricky and Gabriel are your brothers?” she said, trying to cover up her gracelessness.

  “Cousins. Their mom was my aunt Teresa, but they were raised by our grandparents. I guess you know that, though.”

  “No,” Jane said, feeling a little ashamed. “Are their parents …”

  “Yeah, they died in Mexico City, in a car crash. So my granddad and grandma brought them out here when they were teenagers. My family came, too. I was eight. But this is the first year my wise elders have decided I’m old enough to have a summer job.”

  Jane didn’t know what to say. She wanted to say, “That’s great,” but she couldn’t, considering Ben had just told her that Ricky and Gabriel had been orphaned, which she felt she should have known. They had worked with their grandfather at the farm for as long as Jane could remember, but she’d always been shy around them. They were young men, thus naturally intimidating, and somewhat aloof, especially Ricky, mostly speaking in Spanish with Jose and Maria, and not interacting very much with the riders. Jane realized that they might feel like strangers here, too.

  “Well, I better start getting the horses in,” she said abruptly, and turned away to hide her deepening flush.

  “See you,” said the boy, and Jane heard him return to mucking out the stall as she grabbed a halter and lead and hurried from the barn.

  Jane decided not to bring Beau in first; somehow, she thought it might jinx them. Instead, she easily caught gentle Fleur, treating her to a carrot and telling her that she was sure all of the beginning riders would be very nice to her. They were usually a mixed lot, the midgets, as Susan affectionately called them. Some arrived at camp starry-eyed at the prospect of riding a real horse, only to be terrified by the enormous, dirty, hoofed creatures that confronted them, so different from their toys with purple manes and silvery eyelashes. Others expected horses to behave like cars, obedient to their every demand, and grew frustrated and bossy when the animals acted like living creatures and not like machines. Then there were the awestruck girls, who might be nervous, might even be scared, but to whom fear was nothing compared with the bliss of being astride a horse. They were the ones who would work for their pleasure, and who would treat their horses kindly. Jane tried to encourage the horse-worshiping midgets whenever she had the chance.

  “’Morning,” Robin called out as Jane and Fleur approached the barn. She looked impeccable, as always, her hair combed into a sleek braid, her polo shirt tucked neatly into her jods.

  “Time to bring in the beasts,” Jane replied in the very bad fake British accent she and Robin often joked in when they were alone.

  “Aye, ’tis time,” Robin said. “I think everybody’s in the barn,” she added, lapsing back into American.

  Jane’s pulse leaped. “Is Susan there?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t seen her.” Robin squeezed her arm. “Don’t worry,” she whispered.

  Jane wished she had an iota of Robin’s optimism as she led Fleur into her stall and turned her loose. Instead, her hands started sweating as she walked toward the tack room. This is idiotic, she told herself. It’s not like it’s the Olympics or something. It’s just one class versus another. Maybe Robin and I will both be in Advanced II, and we’ll be away from Alyssa and Emily. This thought actually did give her a measure of comfort, and she took a deep breath as if literally trying to force down the other voice inside her head that told her that she wouldn’t become a great rider unless she was in the hardest class.

  Sure enough, there was a group of girls gathered a
round the green board in the tack room as Jane walked up. She moved forward slowly, registering the look of disgust on Emily’s face, Jessica’s sly smile, and Alyssa’s odd smirk.

  Shannon, flushed and obviously embarrassed, moved out of the way to let Jane see the board.

  ADVANCED I ADVANCED II

  Alyssa—Ariel Liz—Lady Blue

  Jessica—Quixotic Shannon—Bebop

  Jennifer—Thunder Robin—Bess

  Jane—Beau Emily—Lancelot

  Jane couldn’t help it—she felt an enormous smile stretch across her entire face. She blushed and turned to find Robin, relieved that her friend was smiling, too.

  “See, I told you,” Robin said. “And before you start plotting Susan’s death, I am glad to be in the other class.”

  “You’re positive?” Jane asked, giving her friend a searching look.

  “One hundred and twelve percent,” Robin answered, then drew Jane away from the other girls to give her a quick, surreptitious hug.

  As Jane glanced at her best friend’s open, good-humored face, she suddenly thought how she would feel if the tables were turned. Would I be as nice as Robin if she’d made it in the class and I hadn’t? She wondered, in the midst of her happiness, exactly what sort of a friend she really, deep down, was. But then another wash of bliss came over her: Wasn’t this also a sign that Susan would be letting Jane ride Beau all summer and not making her share him with the other classes? She could pretend, for six whole weeks, that he was her very own … .

  “Listen up, everybody!” Susan, standing outside the tack room, a clipboard in one hand and the enormous thermos of coffee that was her perpetual companion in the other, interrupted Jane’s reverie. She looked like everyday Susan—at least the everyday Susan that Jane knew, in loose-fitting dark blue jods, one of the do-gooder T-shirts of which she seemed to have an endless supply (this one said FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS EAT FARMED FISH!), and her salt-and-pepper hair in a long braid down her back—but she was smiling somewhat mischievously. Jane suddenly wondered what in the world she’d look like in a ball gown. She put the disconcerting image (taffeta, farmer’s tan) from her mind as she and Robin joined the rest of the group standing around their trainer.