Jordan chose that moment to press his fingers against Adam’s cheeks. A cloud of mashed potatoes exploded across the table.
“Oh, gross!” Vanessa screamed, pulling tiny bits of potato out of her hair.
“Jordan!” my father said in his sternest voice. “That is not acceptable behavior. One more stunt like that and you’ll spend the rest of the evening in your room.”
“But Dad,” Jordan said in a hurt voice, “Adam’s the one who kept stuffing potatoes into his mouth.”
Mom closed her eyes briefly. “I don’t care,” she said. “Now stop playing with your food and finish your dinner.”
I shot my brothers the most disgusted look I could muster and then turned back to my father. “As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, these riding lessons mean more to me than anything.”
“Riding lessons,” my mother repeated as she busily wiped Adam’s mashed potatoes off the drinking glasses and serving bowls. “That’s the first I’ve heard of this.”
“A flier came in the mail on Monday,” I explained. “I’ve spent the last few days trying to arrange my schedule so the lessons won’t interfere with anything. Just a minute.”
I hurried into the hall to the front closet, where I had placed the chart I’d drawn the night before.
“Visual aids,” my father said, chuckling, as I returned carrying the white poster board. “Very impressive.”
“Thanks.” I beamed at my father. I knew I’d scored a big point. “I want you to know that I’ve thought about this quite carefully.”
My chart was really a graph, with the days of the week listed along the side and times of the day listed across the top.
“See, I’ve put in all of the BSC meetings on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” I explained, “an hour and a half each night for homework, my once-a-month visit to the orthodontist, and” — I put special emphasis on this part — “my duties at home. I could easily take the beginner’s riding class. It’s at ten o’clock on Saturday mornings. I’ll just get up an hour earlier to do my chores.”
My father wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his chair slightly away from the table. “That’s fine, but what’s this going to cost?”
I knew that sooner or later we’d get around to the bottom line. I gulped and told them the price, quickly adding, “But it’s a bargain compared to other stables. And because it’s so close, you wouldn’t have to drive me. I could ride my bike.”
“Hmm.” My mother stood up and started clearing the table. I decided to wait until all of my brothers and sisters had left the dining room. Then I’d hit my parents with the next step of my bargaining strategy.
Bargaining is a skill that I’m just starting to learn. Once I went to this flea market and saw this really neat old jewelry box. The price was $7.50, which I thought was too high, so I offered the man $3.75, which I knew was too low. The owner and I finally agreed on a middle price — $4.75 — which was just right. I also used bargaining when I got my ears pierced. I asked my parents for everything — contact lenses, a new wardrobe, a haircut, and pierced ears, knowing they’d never go for it all. When they finally agreed to a haircut and pierced ears, Mom and Dad thought they had saved themselves a ton of money. Which they had. Only they didn’t know that all I really wanted was the pierced ears. The haircut was a bonus. I know it sounds sneaky, but it wasn’t. Exactly.
I had told my parents the full price for the riding lessons. I waited till we’d loaded the dishwasher and Dad was drinking a cup of coffee before I made my next offer.
“I know that riding lessons cost a lot of money, especially with eight kids in our family.” I didn’t mention the added hardship of when my dad had been out of work and we had to use up a lot of our savings. “But I figure that if I pay for half of the lessons out of my baby-sitting money, then they really won’t even cost as much as Jordan’s piano lessons.”
My mother and father exchanged glances that showed they were considering the idea. That’s when I hit them with my final offer. “It wouldn’t have to be for the whole year. Just the beginners course — eight lessons.”
“Well.” My father took a sip of his coffee and thought for a moment. “If it’s what you really want …”
That’s when I lost my cool. I sprang out of my chair and wrapped my arms around my father’s neck, nearly knocking his coffee cup out of his hands. “It’s what I want more than anything in the world. Please! Oh please, oh please!”
My mother laughed at the sight of my father trying to juggle his coffee and hug me at the same time.
Even Dad was chuckling when he said, “Okay, Mallory, you have our permission.”
“Since it’s only for eight lessons,” my mother added. Then she said, “But you really will have to pay for half of it. We can’t afford it otherwise. Are you sure you want to do that? That would use up most of the money you’ve saved from baby-sitting.”
“I don’t care!” I danced happily around the room. “I’m going to learn how to ride. At last!”
“Then it’s settled,” my father declared, sounding a lot like Kristy at the Monday meeting. “You’re taking riding lessons.”
“Yippee! I have to call Jessi right away.”
I took the stairs three at a time and nearly broke my leg tripping over the phone cord at the landing. I was so excited that my hands shook as I dialed her number.
“Jessi!” I shrieked into the phone, when she answered. “I get to take horseback riding. They said yes!”
“That’s great, Mal.”
Jessi’s voice sounded oddly flat. I asked worriedly, “Did you talk to your parents?”
“Yes. And they said no.”
Then I understood why she didn’t sound very happy about my good news.
“Didn’t you tell them how much the lessons mean to us — I mean, you?”
Jessi gave a tired sigh. “Yes. But they pointed out that my ballet lessons and baby-sitting already take up most of my time. They think horseback riding would just be too much.”
“That’s awful, Jessi.”
I felt bad for my friend. But I also felt bad for me. I’d had these wonderful visions of the two of us, best friends, riding our horses around the ring, winning medals at riding competitions.
“Listen,” Jessi said after a long silence, “I better go. I have a lot of homework to do.”
I hung up the phone but barely had time to think about how disappointed Jessi must be, because I was surrounded by four Pike kids, all shouting at once.
“Guess what, Mal, guess what!” Margo squealed. “We’re going to put on a talent show.”
“But you did that on Saturday, didn’t you?” I said, trying to set the phone back on its cradle.
“That was just for you and Jessi,” Vanessa said. “And anyway it was more of a circus. This one is going to be a real talent show for the entire neighborhood.”
Margo tugged on the sleeve of my T-shirt. “We’ll hold auditions and everything.”
“Just like Star Search,” Nicky added.
Vanessa showed me a yellow sign-up sheet. “We’ll choose the best acts and then put the show together.”
“Of course we four get to be in it,” Margo explained, “because we thought of it.”
“It’ll be the biggest thing that ever hit our neighborhood,” Nicky said, giving Claire a high five.
Half of me was still thinking about Jessi, and how awful it was that her parents had said no. The other half was trying to imagine how four small children would manage to hold auditions, organize rehearsals, and get all those kids to show up for the performance. But I didn’t want to sound discouraging.
“That’s a terrific idea,” I said brightly. “I hope you guys can do it.”
Margo folded her arms firmly across her chest. “We will do it.”
I hate to admit it, but at the time I honestly thought their talent show would never ever be put on.
“I’m Lauren Kendall,” the riding instructor announced in her cl
ipped British accent. “And I’d like to welcome all of you to Kendallwood Farm.”
Saturday had finally arrived, and I was about to begin my first riding lesson. I couldn’t believe it. I, Mallory Pike, was standing in a riding ring, holding the reins of a beautiful chestnut mare named Isabelle. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure this wasn’t just a dream. Around me in a semicircle were eleven other new riders, each holding the reins of their horses while we hung on our instructor’s every word.
Lauren Kendall was tall and slender, with straight dark hair that she wore pulled back in a silver barrette at her neck. You could tell she spent a lot of time in the sun because her face was deeply tanned, with little smile lines around her sparkling green eyes. In her English riding togs — black boots, tan pants, white blouse, and fitted green jacket — Lauren Kendall looked like she had just stepped off the cover of Horse and Rider magazine. I thought she was the coolest person I’d ever seen. I made a silent vow to be just like her when I grew up.
“I’m calling today’s lesson ‘Taking the Reins,’ ” Lauren said. “We’ll learn how to mount and dismount safely, and how to walk and trot.”
All in one lesson? I thought. Goose bumps immediately rippled up my arms. I imagined myself as an accomplished horsewoman — jumping, doing dressage, riding in shows, maybe competing at the Kensington Stakes someday. My horse, Isabelle, seemed to sense my excitement. She flared her nostrils and snorted several times.
“All right, class.” Lauren stepped to the center of the ring and tapped her riding crop against the side of her tall boots. “Let’s form a circle and lead your horses round the ring by the reins.”
As I walked my horse into place behind the one in front of me, I had my first good look at the rest of the kids in my class. I had been too excited to pay much attention to them before. There were four boys and seven other girls. The girl leading the bay ahead of me, a blonde who looked about my age or a little older, caught my eye and I smiled shyly.
She didn’t smile back but just raised an eyebrow and murmured, “Nice outfit.”
I looked down at my clothes and then back at the class. I could feel my face heat up as I realized that my outfit was completely out of place. Lauren Kendall had told me on the phone to wear an English riding habit if I had one, but if I didn’t, just to make sure to wear boots, a helmet, and gloves. And that’s what I had done. I had put on my red plaid shirt and jeans (that looked great when I wore them trail riding at Camp Mohawk) and a weathered pair of winter boots. I did have an old riding helmet that my mom had borrowed from one of her friends, but it looked like it had been run over by a herd of horses. My gloves were a worn out leather pair that my dad said he didn’t need anymore.
This wouldn’t have been so bad if someone else had been dressed like me, but the others were wearing full English riding habits, just like Lauren’s. They had on the same tight tan riding pants, and most of the girls wore blouses with high collars. (I read in a magazine that those shirts are called ratcatchers, which is a pretty weird name but seemed kind of perfect for the snooty girl in front of me.) Plus, they were wearing the same high black boots, and velvet riding helmets, which are called hunt caps. As we completed our circle, I forced myself to fix my attention on Lauren.
You’re here to learn to ride, I told myself. Not to enter a fashion contest, so just forget about the others.
“That’s fine,” Lauren said. “Now move to the left side of your horse and prepare to mount up.”
I circled Isabelle, making sure to pat her nose and whisper, “Good girl.” Then I slipped my left foot in the narrow stirrup and swung my right leg over Isabelle’s back.
I felt as if I were sitting on top of the world. I’d ridden Western style before, but that felt so clunky compared to sitting on this English saddle. Now there was just a small piece of leather between me and my horse.
“Sit tall. Chins high. Backs straight.” Lauren barked the commands and we responded. “The reins are held loosely in your hands, threaded between your pinkie finger and the one next to it. Elbows in. Very good, class.”
I smiled. I had mastered holding the reins. Horseback riding was going to be easy.
“Take a deep breath. And let’s walk our horses round the ring again.”
We circled the edge of the wooden enclosure, and I muttered to myself under my breath. “Back straight, reins loose, chin up.” Suddenly I noticed Lauren was walking beside me. She chuckled at my mumbling and added, “Breathe, Mallory. That’s very important. Wouldn’t want you keeling over in the middle of the ring.”
Some of the other kids laughed at her joke, but I didn’t feel embarrassed because Lauren added, “That goes for all of you. Remember, riding is fun. Try to relax and enjoy it.”
This time we all laughed. Once again I had a chance to look around me. And that’s when I saw him. My dream horse.
He was an Arabian with a beautiful head and delicate nostrils. He was nearly all white, with a white mane and tail and a light dappling of gray that made his coat look like marble. His rider was a somber dark-haired boy with glasses who didn’t seem to realize that he was riding the most beautiful horse in the world.
“All right, class,” Lauren called, as we circled the ring. “I want you to gently squeeze the sides of your horse with the inside of your boots. We’re going to attempt an easy trot. The most important thing to remember about trotting is to keep your heels down and toes up.”
“Heels down and toes up,” we repeated. “Heels down. Toes up.”
“Rise with the motion of the horse, rocking your pelvis forward and back as the horse trots,” Lauren said as we rode past her around the ring. “This is called posting. That’ll keep your teeth from banging together, Kelsey,” she called to the snooty girl.
I gloated secretly, even though my own teeth were doing a pretty good job of clacking against each other in time to Isabelle’s jolting movement. After circling the ring twice I felt that I was getting the hang of trotting. I stole a look out of the corner of my eye at the beautiful Arabian horse behind me. His thick mane was flowing in the breeze, and for a moment I pictured myself in brand-new riding clothes, sitting on his back in front of hundreds of spectators.
“Now, this is the tricky part, class,” Lauren called. “I’m going to ask you to reverse directions.”
Half of the class started turning their horses before she could give the order to the other half of the class. And for a moment it looked like we were going to have a head-on collision. Lauren waved her crop in the air and belowed, “Halt!”
We yanked on our reins and managed to pull our horses to a stop. Lauren was laughing. “That was a close one,” she cried. “Oh, I wish I had that on tape!”
That made us giggle, and I beamed at my classmates. I knew I was going to love the next eight weeks.
Lauren explained the proper way to stop a horse, told us how to reverse directions without colliding with the other horses, and suddenly the hour was up.
Then came my favorite part of the whole day: the cool down and grooming. First we walked our horses around the stable yard. Then we uncinched their saddles and after slipping off their blankets, currycombed and brushed their coats until they shone.
I managed to groom Isabelle beside the Arabian. I was certain he belonged to the boy with the glasses. A horse like that was too beautiful just to be part of a stable. It took me a while to get up the courage, but finally I said, “That’s a beautiful horse you have. What’s his name?”
“Pax.” The boy pushed his glasses up on his nose. “But he’s not my horse.”
“He’s not?” My eyes widened. “You mean he belongs to Kendallwood Farm?”
The boy nodded. “All the horses in our class do.”
This was great news. That meant that I might get to ride Pax at my next lesson. I could hardly contain my excitement.
After class, I hopped on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could to my house. I didn’t even stop to take off my coat or say hello to my family but
ran right upstairs and headed for the phone. I had to tell Jessi about my fabulous day.
As soon as I heard her soft hello on the other end, I blurted out in a rush, “Jessi, my lesson was wonderful. There are twelve kids in my class and my teacher is Lauren Kendall, and she used to ride on the Olympic riding team, and she is so beautiful. Can you believe it?”
“That’s great, Mal.”
I launched into a breathless description of the lesson, starting with when we were assigned our horses and ending with when we groomed our horses in the stalls. I went over every single detail but one. I left out feeling like a complete dork in my outfit. I didn’t want Jessi to think I’d had a bad time.
“And here’s the best part,” I went on. “I met my dream horse.”
“Oh, really?” Jessi sounded a little distracted, but I figured she was helping her mom make lunch or something. So I continued my rave report about Pax.
“He’s everything we hoped he’d be, Jessi. A white Arabian with a wonderful personality. You should have seen him trotting around the ring with his head held high. He looked like he was dancing. Oh, you would have loved him!”
I waited for Jessi to respond. When I didn’t hear anything, I asked, “Jessi? Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” Her voice sounded distant and cold. I realized something must have happened at home and maybe I had called her at a bad time. I probably would have figured that out right away if I hadn’t been so excited about Pax.
“Listen, Jessi, you sound kind of busy,” I said.
I thought that would be the perfect opportunity for her to tell me what was wrong. Instead she just said, “Yeah, I really am. I’m sorry, Mal, but I’ll talk to you later.”
I opened my mouth to say good-bye, but the line clicked off. That was weird. It wasn’t like Jessi to be rude. I stared at the receiver, listening to the dial tone. Finally I hung up.
A disturbing thought came to me. Could I somehow have done something to make my best friend angry with me?
Mallory and the Dream Horse Page 3