Team Challenge

by Janet Rising

  “Oh, of course, we’ve been so stupid!” I said, slapping my forehead dramatically. “What are you on, Dee?”

  “No, honest, it will work, I’ve done it before,” she said earnestly. “We use an Ouija board and ask for his help. He used to be a whiz with horses when he was alive. Really good with them—rode at all the top shows. That’s why my mom’s so horsey. He died before I was born. He’ll help us.”

  “You mom’s horsey because your granddad died before you were born?” asked Bean, confused.

  “No, because he was!” sighed Dee, like we were strange.

  “He was what?” Katy asked.

  “Horsey!”

  “And you want us to call up his ghost?” Bean said slowly. For once, she wasn’t the only one having trouble.

  “Yes, of course!”

  “And you’ve done it before?” Katy asked.

  “Yes!”

  “Gross!” exclaimed Bean.

  “How can that help?” I said, finishing my Popsicle with a flourish and throwing the stick into the trash.

  “I don’t know, but I called him up with my cousin once, when she wanted help with her exams, and she passed with fantastic grades. Granddad helped her.”

  “How do you know?” said Katy.

  “Because she was terrible at all her subjects.”

  At that moment, James arrived, and Dee gushed out her bizzaro plan again. But James was dead set on the Ouija board plan—and that wasn’t supposed to be a joke.

  “Great idea!” he enthused. “Is that Popsicle for me?”

  It was, but when James tore open the wrapper, it had been morphed by the heat into creamy sludge and oozed out all over the floor, so Squish got lucky after all.

  We decided that we had nothing to lose by giving Dee’s idea a try, so an argument followed about what to use for an Ouija board. According to Dee, we needed to write all the letters of the alphabet on the board so that her granddad could spell out words of wisdom for us with a glass, which we would place, upside down, on the board. There was simply nothing around we could use. Then Katy had an idea.

  “How about a tack box? We can draw letters on the bottom,” she suggested.

  Everyone had a tack box where they kept all sorts of stuff: grooming kit, treats, spare bandages. Katy’s was big with purple hearts drawn all over it (who’d have guessed it?!), Bean’s had a broken lock and was full of very old, very ratty, half-clean stuff (she’s not very tidy). Pictures of Tiffany were stuck all over it, only they were curling up with the humidity, making the box look even more disreputable. Mine was painted white and I’d written DRUMMER across it. James had a filing cabinet his dad had thrown out, which was huge. Ironically, it had the least in it.

  “Whose?” I said. I didn’t fancy Dee’s granddad going to work on the bottom of my tack box. Actually, I didn’t like the whole idea much at all.

  We all looked at one another. No one volunteered a tack box.

  “I know,” said James, taking a look down the drive to make sure there was no one about. “We’ll borrow Mrs. Bradley’s. She won’t even know.” Seizing Mrs. Bradley’s small and compact tack box from under Henry’s saddle rack, he flipped it upside down. You know those toy boxes that made a mooing or baaing sound when you turn them over? Mrs. B’s tack box did a similar thing, only the sound it made was all her stuff tumbling from the bottom to the top. Anxious glances were exchanged.

  “What makes you think she won’t know?” said Bean, chewing her lip.

  “Stop worrying!” said James breezily. “What do we do now, Dee?”

  “You need to write the alphabet on it,” said Dee, handing James the chalk from the blackboard where everyone left notes to one another like, “Katy, can you turn out Tiff on Tuesday, please, Bean.” James wrote A through Z all around the box in a rather crammed circle. I pulled a face at Bean—I could tell by the way she wrinkled up her nose that she wasn’t very excited about this idea either.

  “Now we need a glass,” Dee said.

  “That’s a no-no,” said Katy. “Will this beaker do?”

  “It will have to. Come on, we all have to sit around the board and put a finger on the glass—I mean beaker.” Dee turned the beaker upside down and placed it in the center of the tack box.

  “Close the door,” hissed James, sitting down on an upturned bucket. Katy shoved Squish out and pulled the tack room door shut. There wasn’t much light—the window was full of cobwebs, but Dee said the gloom would give the spirits confidence to come to us. It didn’t do my confidence any good. Then we all sat around the board and gingerly put our fingers on the beaker.

  “Just lightly—don’t press down too hard,” instructed Dee. “Granddad’s spirit goes inside the beaker and moves it around to spell out a message.”

  Bean snatched her hand back into her chest. “I really don’t like this…” she said, shivering.

  “Oh, Bean, don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” scoffed James, grabbing her hand and forcing her finger back onto the beaker. “Come on, Dee, call up Gramps!”

  I didn’t like this either, but not wanting to look like a wuss, I gingerly put my finger on the beaker and hoped nothing would happen. I hoped Mrs. Bradley wouldn’t suddenly appear at the door, too. Try explaining that one, I thought. And I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Collins being thrilled about us holding a séance in her tack room either.

  “Is there anybody there?” Dee murmured, slowly and dramatically. Katy snorted, trying not to laugh.

  “Shhh!” hissed Dee. “Is there anybody there?” she said over and over again. I started to relax. Nothing was happening—nothing was going to happen. I felt a bit stupid for feeling scared. Then, just as I was starting to get bored, the beaker moved.

  “Ahhh!” screamed Bean, Katy, and I collectively, retracting our hands with lightning speed. The beaker went flying, and I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.

  “Oh, you’ve ruined it—we were just getting somewhere!” wailed Dee.

  “Come on, let’s try again. And don’t overreact! ” instructed James sternly.

  “You pulled back, too!” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting it,” James said, shrugging his shoulders.

  Dee did her “Is there anybody there?” bit again, and the beaker moved again, to collective gasps.

  “Who is it? Who is there?” asked Dee. The beaker started moving toward the letters, slowly at first, then faster.

  “A…d…a…m…r…” spelled out Dee.

  “James, you’re moving it!” accused Katy.

  “I am not!” hissed back James.

  “Who is then?” whispered Katy.

  “Shut up!” Dee hissed. “O…w…e…”

  “Adam Rowe,” said James. “He’s moving it.”

  “Are you Adam Rowe?” said Dee.

  “He just said he is,” whimpered Bean.

  “Or was!” said James dramatically.

  “Is that your granddad?” I asked Dee. She shook her head. I felt a shiver run up and down my spine. I was liking this less and less by the minute. Who had we called up here?

  “Do you have a message for us?” said Dee, completely unfazed.

  “Ask him whether he can help us win the challenge,” whispered Katy. “Or ask him whether he knows your granddad.”

  The beaker started moving around the board, spelling out a message.

  “B…a…d…d…e…a…t…h…b…a…d…d…e… a…t…”

  “I really don’t like this!” moaned Bean, biting the nails on her free hand.

  “Sorry to hear about your bad death,” said James, rather irreverently. “But we have a pressing need to talk to Dee’s granddad. Can you put him on, please?”

  I gulped. This was totally getting out of hand. I mean, what if the bad death wasn’t about the spirit we’d called up. What if…?

  “We need help with the next stage of the Sublime Equine Challenge,” said Dee, staying focused. “We need your help, Granddad. We know you had a special way with ho
rses. Can you help us?”

  The beaker stopped. Then it shuffled about and started on its journey again.

  “B...a…d…”

  “Oh, not again,” grumbled James. The beaker stopped. Then started again.

  “H…a…v…e…f…a…i…t…h…”

  “Someone is pushing it. Who is it?” demanded Katy—only because she was whispering, she didn’t sound very demanding. “OK, if that’s really a spirit, prove it!” she continued.

  “Oh, don’t, you’ll make it cross,” wailed Bean, as the beaker went faster and faster in demented circles, not spelling anything at all.

  “If you are a spirit, then make Squish bark!” challenged Katy, which was clever of her because Squish never barks.

  Only at that precise moment, he did. No, really, he did, exactly then!

  Not surprisingly, pandemonium broke out in the following order:

  1. Everybody screamed.

  2. After scrambling to our feet, we burst out of the tack room, pushing one another aside in our best disaster-movie impression.

  3. Because of our undignified exit, Mrs. Bradley’s tack box defied gravity and flew up toward the ceiling.

  4. We were all out in the sunshine by the time the tack box hit the floor with an almighty crash.

  Bean wailed like one of the cats, I couldn’t stop myself from shuddering, and Katy was as white as a sheet. James was bent over double, he was laughing so much. Dee just looked cross.

  “You ruined it!” she said to Katy.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “Oooh, I never want to do that again!” groaned Bean, wrapping her arms around in a self hug. I agreed with her.

  “That was so not a good idea, Dee!” I muttered.

  Katy gave James a shove. “You were so pushing that beaker, James. I know it was you!” Whether she really thought so, or whether she wanted to believe it was James spelling out the words, we couldn’t tell. I know I wanted to believe James was responsible.

  “I couldn’t make Squish bark, though, could I?” said James, grinning at her. I didn’t want to think of that—it was just too creepy.

  We sent James back in to return Mrs. Bradley’s tack box to its rightful place. We were all too freaked to have anything more to do with it.

  “So Granddad said to have faith,” mused Dee, tapping her chin with her finger and looking thoughtful.

  “Oh, Dee, you don’t really think that was your granddad, do you?” I asked.

  “Of course, I told you, he’s helped out before. Just you wait and see!” she said, nodding. “Now Granddad’s onboard, you’ll breeze through the next qualifier. You just see if you don’t!”

  It wasn’t until later when I was de-cobwebbing Drummer’s stable from a distance with a broom (which takes me a long time, ’cause if I see a spider, I have to run out of the stable until it’s gone), and my thoughts were rambling along like they do, when I wondered whether I could summon up the spirits to do something about Skinny Lynny. Like make her disappear. Or get tired of my dad, or diet away to nothing—or at the very least, never want to go riding again. Or could I influence my dad and get him back together with my mom? And if I could, would Mom want that? Would I?

  And then my thoughts meandered on to considering whether I could make Greg less of a nerd, or even make him go away altogether. Perhaps he could join the navy or get lost on a school trip in the mountains. But just as I had Greg stuck down a hole in the Rocky Mountains, calling for help, with no one within earshot, a spider dropped down too close for comfort and forced me outside.

  In the sun, I realized I was getting really carried away with this spirit stuff. How easy it is for evil to take hold, I thought. I really had to get a grip. Mom says it’s seriously bad karma to wish ill on other people (she usually says it after a mega whining session about Skinny Lynny), and that it will only come back on you twofold. So then I got to wondering whether I would try the Ouija board thing out on Skinny and Greg if karma wasn’t the only thing stopping me, and whether karma and conscience were the same thing, and in the end my head started to feel a bit full with so many thoughts so I took Drummer for a ride and let the dust settle in his stable and my brain.

  When I got into bed that night, and started imagining all sorts of things—mainly when I heard a floorboard squeak or could hear all the usual night sounds, which seemed suddenly spooky—I totally wished we hadn’t let Dee talk us into the Ouija board thing. I made up my mind I was never, ever going to do it again.

  Chapter 11

  The third qualifier was make-or-break time. If we didn’t place in the first three here, it was bye-bye, Brookdale dream. I couldn’t help wondering whether Dee’s granddad really was looking down on us. (Or up. I mean, how could we tell?)

  It took us forever to ride over to Lambourne Farm, which is a really fancy equestrian center on top of a hill. It was a hot day, so we got there early so the ponies could rest before the competition. The dressage was held in the massive indoor school. Tiffany and Bean were up after a particularly good test by a gray pony ridden by a very tall girl who sniffed all the way around.

  “Why doesn’t she blow her nose?” hissed Bean.

  “Perhaps it’s a habit,” I hissed back. “Can you remember the test?”

  “Don’t ask!” she said. “And don’t put me under pressure, for goodness sake!”

  Tiffany and Bean performed in their usual fashion— two missed transitions, one wobble when Bean was undecided about a circle or a turn, and one stop-dead-and-check-out-the-letters-before-proceeding-with-caution. Her score was thirty-nine. What could we say? Bean had warned us how it would be. Outside the arena, Tiffany rubbed her nose on a front leg to get rid of the feel of the noseband.

  “You think it would get easier,” she said to me. “But actually, it’s worse each time.”

  “We all appreciate your bravery, Tiff,” I told her, patting her snowy mane.

  “Still trash, though. You all have to pull your hooves out,” Tiff told Drummer and Moth. “I’m done for the day! I don’t like the look of those flags, by the way. Very nasty.”

  Our ace in the hole, Bluey, completed his customary fast clear. He was like a machine. We sponged him down with some cool water as Katy slithered out of the saddle and thanked him. Scott and Warrior thundered around with no penalties whatsoever, and it looked like it would have taken a natural disaster to stop them or even slow them down.

  “I wish we’d had a big fat horsefly on our side today.” Bean sighed, obviously not the slightest bit worried by karma.

  “We only have to come in third to qualify,” James reminded us.

  Drum gave his best performance yet (“The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can get out of this ridiculous costume!” were his exact words) and we got a high score from the judges. I didn’t see Cat and Bambi’s performance as they had been the first to go. From the scoreboard, I could see they had a good score—better than mine.

  “No pressure, James,” remarked Bean. “But it’s all up to you now!”

  “Piece of cake!” said James. But he pulled a face to show he wasn’t taking anything for granted. Since altering his stirrups, Moth had hardly touched a pole, and although he and Moth had a nasty moment at a tricky fence, and Moth slipped going into the style, causing us all to hold our breath, nothing fell, and we all leaped up and down and squealed like boy band fans when James rode out with a clear round and no penalties. The Great Eight were on their way up!

  “See,” said Dee, “I said my granddad would help us.”

  “I don’t see why he should take all the credit,” said James.

  “He didn’t help me much,” grumbled Bean. “It took me ages to get to sleep that night. I kept imagining all sorts of things whenever I heard a squeak or a thump. It was a lousy idea.”

  I was glad I hadn’t been the only one who’d imagined things when I’d gone to bed. I didn’t think it worth mentioning.

  India was next to jump on the Dweeb. As she cantered into the ring, we had
a bit of a powwow.

  “Is that the pony who’s overqualified?” Katy whispered to me.

  “Yes. She was called Platinum Bell when she jumped at nationals.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Dee. “Well-known ponies command a higher price, so why would anyone want to keep it a secret? I can’t believe India doesn’t know her pony is so experienced.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason for it,” suggested Bean. The bell rang, and India headed the Dweeb, aka Platinum Bell, toward the first jump.

  “What kind of reason?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps India stole her,” Bean suggested wildly.

  India and the Dweeb cleared the first jump and cantered neatly toward the next. I couldn’t get the image of India, in cartoon-burglar garb of a black-and-white striped top and black mask, unbolting the Dweeb’s stable and leading her away in the dead of night. No, that couldn’t be it.

  “Or,” said James, “perhaps she just likes winning at local shows on a pony who can blow the opposition away.”

  Tucking up her forelegs neatly, the Dweeb cleared the style with plenty of room to spare.

  I looked at James. “Are you serious?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’m just clutching at straws. India doesn’t seem the sort to pull a fast one. She’s actually pretty nice.”

  Twang went my heart. James thought India was nice.

  “I know,” agreed Katy. “I can’t believe she knows about her pony’s past.”

  The pony who had told the piebald that she thought these qualifiers were a bit “provincial” got it all wrong at the next and dropped her hind legs onto the pole, knocking it off and collecting ten penalties.

  “Hooray!” yelled Bean, immediately clapping her hand over her mouth and turning bright red. “Oh, dear, I so didn’t mean to say that out loud. Sorry.”

  Several people nearby tut-tutted, so we crept away, trying to look ashamed.

  A team of two chestnuts, an Appaloosa, and a bay won the qualifier, ridden by three sisters and their cousin. They had a big horse trailer and looked very serious about it all. Cat and Leanne’s team was second, and we went wild when the loudspeaker announced that the Great Eight had taken third place.