Wild Horse

by Bonnie Bryant

  “That’s all it took?” Carole asked.

  “That and some fake crying,” Stevie said with a grin.

  “Nice work,” Carole said. “It’s too bad we won’t be there to watch the scene take place.”

  “Not be there? What do you mean?” Stevie asked.

  “We can’t be there, Stevie! It would be way too obvious that something strange was going on if you and I just happened to be hanging out at the salon tomorrow,” Carole said.

  “You’re right,” Stevie said glumly. “The best part of my plan was going to be watching it put into action. I guess we’ll have to hear what happens from Lisa.”

  “You kids ready to order yet?” the waitress asked, reappearing in front of them.

  “We sure are,” Stevie replied, perking up. “Girls?”

  “I’ll have a small chocolate cone with chocolate sprinkles,” Lisa said.

  “And I’ll have a dish of mint chip,” Carole said.

  “And I’ll have the peanut butter special,” said Stevie.

  “We don’t have a peanut butter special,” the waitress said flatly.

  “I know: I’m making it up,” Stevie replied. “Let’s see … one scoop each of strawberry and fudge ripple ice cream with marshmallow and pineapple topping, chocolate sprinkles, and a cherry.”

  “There’s no peanut butter in there,” the waitress said.

  Stevie smiled patronizingly. “Of course not,” she said. “That’s why it’s special.”

  “YOU REALLY SHOULDN’T have spent your money, dear,” Mrs. Atwood said as she and Lisa sat down in the waiting area at Cosmo Cuts.

  “I wanted to, Mom,” Lisa said, looking around anxiously. She had been a complete wreck all day, worrying about the plan. First her mother had refused the gift, saying it was too much for Lisa to spend. Then, once Lisa had talked her into it, she had thought it was strange that Lisa wanted to come. So Lisa had made up some excuse about how nice the salon was—how she would enjoy going there just to hang out for a while. Carole and Stevie had agreed that since they couldn’t be present, Lisa had to be. Somebody had to make sure Veronica played her part.

  Now that they were there, Lisa could hardly believe that she’d gotten her mother over to the salon on time. Thankfully, Veronica and her mother were already there. Veronica was getting her nails done while her mother sat in Charles’s chair in the middle of the room. Lisa put up a hand and waved at Veronica. In response Veronica gave the barest nod in her direction.

  Lisa sat down and began to flip through a magazine. She couldn’t concentrate on the articles or even the pictures. The weirdest part of the plan was that she and Veronica were sort of on the same side. Stevie had assured her that Veronica wouldn’t mess up, but Lisa was worried all the same. What if Veronica never said anything? Or what if Lisa’s mother failed to hear for some reason? Or if Mrs. diAngelo didn’t take the bait? What if she had changed her mind about Wentworth and said she loved the place?

  “Isn’t that Barb diAngelo?” Mrs. Atwood whispered.

  “What, Mom?” Lisa said with a start.

  “I said, isn’t that Veronica diAngelo’s mother? Barbara, I think her name is.”

  “It sure is,” Lisa said enthusiastically.

  “We’ve met at Pine Hollow a number of times,” Mrs. Atwood said.

  “Oh, really?” Lisa said, thrilled that her mother had noticed Mrs. diAngelo already.

  “Yes, dear. I’ve told you before you should always be very polite to her and her daughter. The diAngelos are very important people in Willow Creek, you know—and far beyond Willow Creek, too. You should keep that in mind.”

  “I will, Mom,” Lisa promised.

  Just then Mrs. diAngelo let out a loud cackle. “Charles, you are too funny!” she said.

  “Do you have to laugh so loudly, Mother?” Veronica whined from her position at the manicure table, a few chairs away.

  Mrs. diAngelo glared at her daughter via the mirror. “Mind your manners, Veronica!” she snapped.

  “But, Mother, it’s embarrassing!” Veronica said, pouting.

  Lisa noticed that the other women in the salon had stopped talking and were listening to the diAngelos argue. Despite Charles’s protests, Mrs. diAngelo swiveled her head around to speak to Veronica. “That’s enough, young lady!” she barked. “Or you’re going home.”

  Lisa felt her blood run cold at the words going home. Veronica couldn’t go home. If she got sent home, Lisa would get sent to Wentworth Manor. Period. This was her only chance.

  “I’d rather go home than be in a public place with you embarrassing me,” Veronica said, loudly enough for her mother to hear.

  Mrs. diAngelo jumped up from Charles’s chair, smock and all, and marched over to her daughter. “That’s it. I won’t take any more of this from you. Go wait in the car. Do you hear me?”

  “But my nails aren’t even dry!” Veronica wailed.

  Lisa held her breath, not daring to move.

  “Mrs. diAngelo, please!” Charles said, waving his scissors and comb in annoyance. “You’re ruining your cut! I won’t have this in my salon! Sit down this instant or I won’t finish your hair!”

  Mrs. diAngelo glanced at herself in the mirror. Her expression changed from anger to horror when she saw how bad her half-done hair looked. One side looked normal, but the other side was clipped up, going in all directions. Without another word to Veronica, she sat back down in Charles’s chair, apologizing profusely for interfering with his “art.”

  Lisa almost fell out of her own chair with relief. She’d barely had time to recover when a woman came to take her mother over to the “skin-care corner,” where they gave facials.

  “Happy Birthday, Mrs. Atwood,” the woman said cheerily.

  Lisa froze for the second time. Her mother gave the woman an odd look. On her way over to the corner, Mrs. Atwood turned around to look at Lisa. She made a funny face, pointed at the woman, and mouthed, “Crazy.” Lisa felt her heart start beating again. Obviously, her mother had no idea why the woman thought it was her birthday. But Lisa felt as if she was the one going crazy. If Veronica didn’t get to the point soon, she would probably run screaming out of Cosmo Cuts, never to return. The situation was nerve-racking beyond belief, especially without Carole and Stevie there to reassure her.

  The minutes ticked by, and still Veronica said nothing. Mrs. Atwood had a clay mask put on her face. Veronica and her mother switched places, Veronica to get her hair done and Mrs. diAngelo to get a manicure. The facial woman wiped the mask off Mrs. Atwood’s face. Charles began to snip away at Veronica’s hair. The manicurist finished Mrs. diAngelo’s left hand and started on her right. And still Veronica said nothing! The anticipation was more than Lisa could bear. Suddenly she realized that Veronica was probably delaying the conversation on purpose—to torture Lisa. Enraged, Lisa jumped up and walked over to Charles’s chair.

  “Hi, Veronica,” she said loudly. “I saw you getting your hair done, and I wanted to say hello.”

  “That’s nice,” Veronica said flatly.

  “Don’t turn your head like that,” Charles ordered. He pumped up the chair several times to raise Veronica. “This is a very difficult cut.”

  “Yes, Charles,” Veronica said meekly. Then she added pointedly, “It’s just so distracting to have someone talking to me.”

  “I was just leaving, anyway,” Lisa said. “I didn’t come over here to start a conversation,” she added. With a final glare at Veronica, she turned and walked back to the couch, listening intently as she sat down.

  “A friend of yours?” Charles asked.

  “Not really,” Veronica said, not bothering to lower her voice.

  “Beautiful hair,” Charles said.

  “Thanks, Charles.”

  “I was talking about her,” Charles said, gesturing toward Lisa with his comb.

  Lisa smiled to herself. Evidently Charles was such a popular hairstylist that he could get away with saying anything he wanted to his customers. Sh
e knew Veronica wouldn’t dare object. If she did, Charles might refuse to cut her hair.

  “How are you doing, dear?”

  Lisa looked up at the sound of her mother’s voice. Mrs. Atwood was now getting a facial massage. “I’m fine, Mom. I was just thinking about school,” Lisa said, emphasizing the last word for Veronica’s benefit.

  Veronica gave Lisa a sour look, as best she could without turning her head. But she seemed to sense that she couldn’t put off her job any longer. “Aren’t you going to Wentworth Manor in a couple of weeks, Lisa?” she asked.

  “Ye-es,” Lisa said cautiously. She hadn’t expected to be made part of the conversation.

  “Mummy, did you hear that?” Veronica said. “Lisa is going to Wentworth Manor.”

  Her heart thumping, Lisa stole a glance at her mother. Mrs. Atwood was staring at Mrs. diAngelo, waiting to see what her response would be.

  Mrs. diAngelo’s eyes grew large. She drew in a breath. Her mouth curled back in utter distaste. “Wentworth Manor?” she repeated, her voice shaking with intensity. “Did you say Wentworth Manor?”

  “Yes,” Veronica said.

  The whole salon grew quiet. The stylists stopped styling, the manicurist stopped manicuring. The employees, the customers, even Charles turned and stared at Mrs. diAngelo, the most important woman in Willow Creek. Mrs. diAngelo exploded.

  “I thought I told you never to mention that school to me!” she cried. “How dare you! That horrible school! Nobody in their right mind would send their daughter there! It’s a school for misfits, outcasts from society, rejects! I’d rather send a girl to jail than send her to Wentworth Manor. Jail would do more for her social standing. It’s a pigsty of a school—a rat’s nest, do you hear me?”

  There was a long pause. Finally Charles spoke up. “I never much liked those Wentworth girls, either,” he said, cutting away at Veronica’s hair.

  Seemingly unaware that she had just made a huge scene, Mrs. diAngelo sniffed a few times. “All right, continue,” she said to the manicurist.

  Lisa was speechless. Mrs. diAngelo had carried on beyond her wildest dreams. Lisa’s mother looked extremely upset. Lisa knew she was mulling over Mrs. diAngelo’s words. Hearing the most important woman in Willow Creek describe Wentworth as a school for rejects would completely ruin her idea of Wentworth as the school to send her daughter to.

  Sure enough, as soon as her facial was done, Lisa’s mother threw on her coat on and hurried over. “Come on, dear, let’s get going,” she urged. Lisa knew that her mother wanted to beat the diAngelos out so that she wouldn’t have to speak to them.

  In the car driving home, Mrs. Atwood cleared her throat a couple of times. Finally she said to Lisa, “You know, dear, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we acted too fast getting you into Wentworth for this semester. Maybe you ought to think about it for January or next September. I want to make a few calls when we get home.…”

  The plan had worked perfectly, but for some reason, Lisa wasn’t happy. Instead of wanting to rush home and tell Stevie and Carole the good news, she felt deflated.

  When they got home, Lisa went up to her room. She lay on her bed. She stared at the phone. She knew Stevie and Carole would be dying to know how the plan had gone. She knew she should share the good news—that her mother had fallen for it. But as she contemplated calling them, she began to realize something: The plan had worked, but the plan itself was all wrong. Nobody, but nobody, should have to trick her mother about something so important.

  It wasn’t Carole and Stevie’s fault—they’d only been acting in Lisa’s best interests. They knew she didn’t want to go to Wentworth, but they also knew that she wouldn’t talk to her mother about it. So they’d devised a strategy to help her get out of it. And she’d been glad to cooperate, knowing it was the easy way out. But deep down, Lisa felt horrible about putting one over on her mother. The whole thing would never have begun if she had just tried to talk to her mother. Even if her mother had insisted that Lisa look at Wentworth, Lisa should have been honest about her reaction to it.

  Still, Lisa was lucky that she had the kind of friends who wouldn’t rest until they had helped her. She knew she should thank them. She picked up the receiver—and put it down again. She had to talk to her mother. And that was one thing The Saddle Club couldn’t help her with.

  “SO, YOU NEVER wanted to go to Wentworth?” Mrs. Atwood asked several hours later, her eyes searching Lisa’s.

  Lisa shook her head. She and her mother were sitting at the kitchen table, where they’d been for most of the evening.

  “Then why didn’t you say something?” Mrs. Atwood asked. “I just don’t understand.”

  “I kept wanting to, Mom, but I knew how much you wanted me to go there and what a privilege it was supposed to be,” Lisa explained, her voice threatening to crack. “It—it started with the appointment at the hair salon. I didn’t want to go there, either, but I did.”

  Mrs. Atwood reached across the table and took Lisa’s hands. “First of all, you’ve got to get one thing straight: I did want you to go to Wentworth, but only because I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for you. I thought it would be something new—a challenge—and I thought it would be beneficial for you to get to know some sophisticated girls. Boarding school always sounded so glamorous to me when I was growing up.” Mrs. Atwood sounded wistful. “I wanted you to have the chances I never did—meet exciting people, go to interesting places. When I heard about that scholarship, I thought it would be a dream come true. I didn’t realize you didn’t think it was a privilege. And I didn’t realize you didn’t like the girls.”

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t like them,” Lisa started to protest. Then she realized she was doing it again—pretending she felt a certain way, to make her mother happy. “Okay,” she admitted, “you’re right. I didn’t like them. In fact, I thought they were awful.”

  “Even that nice Sally Whitmore who showed us around?” Mrs. Atwood asked.

  “Especially Sally Whitmore,” Lisa replied.

  “And she seemed so friendly and polite,” Mrs. Atwood mused. “Well, all I can say is that I’m glad Barb diAngelo happened to be at Cosmo today. She sure set me straight. I hate to think that if it hadn’t been for her and her daughter, you might never have told me how you felt. Promise you’ll try to in the future, dear, all right?”

  After Lisa promised she would, Mrs. Atwood said, “I guess we really have a lot to thank the diAngelos for, don’t we?”

  Lisa bit her lip. “Mom, there’s something I have to say.”

  “Yes?” Mrs. Atwood said. “What is it?”

  “I … I …” Lisa paused, thinking of the best way to explain The Saddle Club’s elaborate plan. But wait—she didn’t have to tell her mother everything, did she? “I should call Stevie and Carole soon and tell them the good news—that I’m staying put,” Lisa said.

  “Oh, is that all?” Mrs. Atwood said.

  Lisa nodded.

  “Good. Because there’s something I have to say. And it concerns your future,” Mrs. Atwood said gravely.

  “Yes, Mom?” Lisa said.

  “I insist—absolutely insist—that we keep going to the expensive hair salon,” Mrs. Atwood said, starting to laugh.

  “That’s one privilege I’ll accept!” Lisa cried.

  STEVIE TOOK THE Magic Marker she was holding and contemplated throwing it at the cochair of the dance committee. Here it was, a beautiful Friday afternoon, and she was stuck staying after school to set up for the dance and finish the decorations. Those things weren’t that bad. But she was stuck doing them with Veronica diAngelo! Veronica had helped save Lisa from being sent to boarding school—but did that give her the right to torture Stevie for eight days straight?

  “I still think this whole fifties sock hop idea is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Veronica said, standing over Stevie and frowning at her work.

  “Shouldn’t you be setting up the food tables?” Stevie asked. She involuntar
ily clenched and unclenched her right hand around the marker.

  “No, I’m sure the caterer will do that,” Veronica replied airily.

  Stevie sat back and looked up at Veronica. “The caterer?” she said.

  “Well, what did you think—that I was going to make the food myself?” Veronica asked, smirking. “Very funny. I’ve ordered sushi …”

  Stevie took a deep breath, said nothing, and went back to coloring in her SOCK HOP sign. Five more hours, she told herself. I only have to get through five more hours with her. It was almost three now, and the dance would start at eight.

  On the brighter side, the dance committee was in pretty good shape. The gym was almost fully decorated, the stereo system was set up, kids had brought in CDs and tapes, and the parent chaperones were due to show up at seven. People at school had been talking about the dance all week, and the boys had called off their boycott.

  “You know, these decorations are pretty sad,” Veronica commented, looking around. “Ashley will probably think they’re very public school.”

  Stevie rolled her eyes. That was about the millionth time Veronica had mentioned her friend Ashley Briggs’s visit. Stevie was beginning to feel nauseated every time she heard the name.

  “I mean, couldn’t you have come up with something more professional than that pretend jukebox and those silly cutouts of forty-five records?” Veronica asked.

  “Sorry about that,” Stevie said. “I tried to have some floats flown in from Paris, but they haven’t arrived yet.”

  “Ha, ha,” Veronica said, and sneered. Then she continued, in a sincere instead of sarcastic tone, “Oh well—even if the decorations are tacky, at least the crowd will be strictly private school.”

  That did it. Stevie capped her marker, stood up, and stormed out of the gym. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she knew she had to get away from Veronica. If she stayed there any longer, she’d probably do something she would later regret. Striding angrily down the hall, Stevie passed Miss Fenton’s office. A few paces later, she stopped short and retraced her steps. “I’ve got it!” she murmured.