“I ride,” she said. She didn't seem to get it, that I mostly just wanted to go home. “I ride at that place out on the dunes. The Animal Ranch. You know it?”
“No,” I said, and walked even faster.
By now we were walking down the front steps of the school.
“It's that place where disabled people can go to ride.”
I slowed down a little. “Disabled how?”
“Physically disabled. Mostly. But they also use their horses for the Special Olympics.”
When she said that, I started walking at a normal speed, and I actually looked at her face. I said, “My brother Bill has Down's Syndrome.”
“Maybe he could ride,” she said.
I was thinking that, too, but I didn't even want to go into the whole thing about how it wouldn't be till summer at least. “I bet he'd like that.”
“You could ride,” she said. “I go out every Saturday and groom the horses and then we get to ride because it helps keep them trained. They have about ten volunteers our age. Because the owner's in a wheelchair. Come tomorrow. At noon. She'll let you ride.”
“Oh. Tomorrow. Um. I don't think I could get my mother to drive me out there.”
“My mom will drive us. We'll pick you up.”
“Oh. Well, first let me ask my mom if she will.”
It seemed all of a sudden like there was no getting out of this. But I didn't really want to go with Rachel and her mother. I wanted to go on my own. In case I hated every part of it and wanted to go home.
She gave me her phone number and told me to call her if I needed a lift.
Then she walked the other way, toward the bus stop.
I watched her back and thought, Is that how you make a friend? They just sort of come up and attach themselves to you, and then there you are?
It had been so long since I'd made a new friend, I really didn't remember.
I didn't ask my mom if she would drive me out to the Animal Ranch. I asked Pat.
“Okay,” she said.
“That was easy.”
“How hard is it supposed to be?”
“I don't know. Everything feels hard to me right now.”
“I know. That's why I think this is a good idea. I like seeing you get out of the house a little more.”
And that was all there was to that. I didn't exactly want to do it, but then there I was doing it. Like art club, only faster.
CHAPTER 12
Spooky
The day I showed up at the Animal Ranch was the worst possible day for a new person to be there. One of the volunteers was having a birthday, and the owner made the day a big party for her. They rode, but instead of the usual system, which is more like a big riding lesson, they were having these games on horseback. Relays and barrel races and stuff like that. And I wasn't nearly a good enough rider to do any of that. I hadn't ridden since I was, like, three.
I stood by the barn and watched them riding down this long slope to the arena, and I felt like they were all on one planet and I was on another one entirely.
Rachel hadn't even showed up yet.
“Let's just go,” I said to Pat.
“I think you should at least get to know the owner first. Tell her you want to be a volunteer.”
I sighed. I'd really been hoping we could just go.
I found the owner in a little office in the barn. Sitting in her wheelchair at the desk. She was about Pat's age, but with really long gray hair. It looked long enough to get caught in the wheels of the chair if she wasn't careful. Her face was friendly and soft and it was hard to be scared of her. She looked up at me. Really deep into my face, like she was memorizing me. “I'm Meg. You're the new girl? Rachel's friend?”
I think I just nodded. I guess Rachel or her mom must've called and told her I was coming.
“Here's what you can do. If you want to help. You can take Feather. She's just a yearling. Too young to be ridden. But she needs to be socialized. She's spooky. So if you'd just halter her and take her down to the arena. Just walk her around down there. That'd be a big help for your first day. You can ride next time.”
“Oh. Okay.”
She wheeled out into the barn aisle with me and down a few stalls and then there was Feather, leaning over the half- door of her stall. She was huge. Like the size of a draft horse. You could tell she was young but she was still just huge. Black, with a white blaze down her face and the most amazing long, thick black mane. She tossed her head when she saw us coming.
I picked up her halter and slid the stall door open just enough so I could squeeze through. I was getting nervous, and I think the horse knew it. I wasn't afraid of Feather. I was nervous because this was that moment, that alphabet moment, when I was supposed to already know what I was doing.
“Stay on her left side,” the woman said, and then I felt a little better, knowing there would be instructions. “Run one hand down her neck so she knows where you are. That's right. Now just slip the halter onto her face. Ask her to bring her head down a little. Just put one hand on top of her head … yeah, there, between her ears, and just gently ask her to lower her head….”
Fortunately, as I followed the directions, I could tell the horse knew what she was doing. Even if I didn't.
Meg showed me how to buckle the halter under the horse's jaw, and then I opened the stall door all the way and Feather danced her way out into the barn aisle.
“Keep her attention,” the woman said. “Make her pay attention to you the whole time you're out there. And don't panic if she spooks and breaks away from you. She'll only run back to the barn. But then you have to walk back and get her and try again. So try not to lose her if you can help it.”
“Thanks,” I said. Because I suddenly appreciated getting to stay and having something real to do.
I walked the horse out of the barn, squinting into the bright sunshine. I saw Rachel and her mother pull up. Feather reacted to the sound of the car coming close, so I gently shook the lead rope and then turned her head back to me and made her pay attention. Rachel waved at me, but I just sort of nodded my head so I wouldn't spook the horse.
I looked over to see Pat watching me. A little surprised.
“I guess I'm staying,” I said.
“I guess you are.”
As I walked Feather down to the arena, I looked back over my shoulder and saw the owner out in front of the barn talking to Pat.
It's actually a lot of work getting a horse to pay attention to you every second. Not physical work, but it's tiring. It reminded me in a weird way of drawing a dog. You have to be right there the whole time. You can't just go somewhere else in your head.
I learned pretty fast what made Feather feel spooky. Sudden movement, especially other horses in the arena coming up from behind her. I learned the moment when she'd see them and start to dance. And I'd have to get her attention back. Sudden loud noises, like a girl shrieking with laughter, and Feather would go straight up and come down dancing.
I had to keep my feet out from under her hooves. I learned to put one hand on her neck. That seemed to calm her.
After a while I left one hand on her most of the time. Her neck felt hot and a little damp, like she was sweating. Even though she wasn't really getting any exercise. And I could feel her heart pound—or at least I thought I could. Then I realized I probably couldn't feel her heart by touching her neck. I was probably feeling a pulse of blood going through her veins. But that's kind of like her heartbeat, too. Just a little less direct.
That's when it hit me that she was scared all the time. Even when I knew there was nothing to be scared about. She was just in this constant state of scared, and any little thing would set it off. And the fact that she was so sure something was about to set it off would set it off. Even if nothing much happened.
That's when Feather and I started to really understand each other. And that's when I started talking to her.
“See, this is just about you being scared,” I said. “It isn't even abou
t anything scary. You're totally fine, but you're so scared that you're not fine. But the only thing about you that's not fine is that you're scared. And there isn't even really anything to be scared of. But you want to run home to the barn, because you feel safe there. But there's nothing out here to hurt you, and if you just stay out here, you'll find that out. But your head's still telling you to run away. If you could just calm down and know you were okay, you'd be okay.”
She was looking into my face while I talked to her. Not paying so much attention to the arena. Her face got so close to mine that I could feel the air from her nostrils puffing onto my face. She even touched my face with her fuzzy lip.
“Believe me,” I said. “I'm talking from firsthand experience. You're hearing this from someone who really gets how you feel. Take it from me. If you just don't run back to the barn, everything will be fine.”
I looked up to see the owner sitting in her chair by the arena railing, watching us. I'd been so wrapped up in taking care of Feather, I hadn't even seen her come down. So I kept the horse's attention, all right. And I guess she kept mine.
When I was putting Feather back in the stall at the end of the day, I heard the sound of the owner's wheels in the barn aisle right outside.
“You're good with her,” she said. “She responds to you.”
“Thanks,” I said, because I didn't know what else to say.
“Maybe when it comes time to break her, you'll consider being the first one on her back.”
“I guess. If you think I'll know what to do.”
“That's more than a year from now. You will if you keep coming back.”
I smiled to myself because that's what they always say at the meetings. Keep coming back. I reached out to touch Feather's neck one more time. I felt bad leaving her. Even until next Saturday. Her pulse had calmed down a lot. She reached her nose out and bumped my face again, and I blew a little breath into her face, the way she blew breath into mine.
Then she started nosing around the pockets of my jeans, like I might have something for her, and when she didn't find anything, she bit at my jeans with her teeth.
“Don't let her do that,” the woman said. “Pop her.”
“Pop her?”
“Like this.” Meg demonstrated how she wanted me to bring my open hand up under her muzzle and pop her on the nose.
But I didn't. I couldn't hit her. She was my friend.
Feather bit me again. This time I felt her teeth pinch a little of me right through my jeans. “Ow.”
“Pop her,” Meg said again. “Doesn't have to be hard. It's what her mother would do. Or any other horse. You have to teach her how you want to be treated.”
I popped her gently on the nose and she threw her head back like I'd set off a bomb in her face. But then she came right back and nosed around my pockets again.
“See? She didn't hold it against you.”
I saw Feather's lips pull back to bite, so I did it again. This time I barely had to touch her. She just backed off.
“You're setting boundaries with her,” the woman said. “It's not enough that she likes you. She has to respect you, too. If you're going to have a good relationship.”
I kissed Feather on the forehead and slipped out of her stall.
I looked at the owner and didn't know what to say. I wanted to say thank you for the day, but I couldn't quite figure out how to get started.
She said, “Your mother is great. You're lucky to have her.”
That really threw me. First I thought, You know my mother? Then I thought, She couldn't. Nobody who knew my mother would say I was lucky to have her. Then it hit me. She meant Pat. She thought Pat was my mother. And why wouldn't she? How could anybody guess that my mother was sitting at home trying to stay sober while my AA sponsor drove me to the Animal Ranch?
I didn't bother to correct her. I just said, “Yeah. You're right. I'm pretty lucky.”
On the drive home I was quiet a lot of the way. I guess I was thinking about everything that happened.
After a while I said, “I know this sounds weird. But I feel like I gave that horse a lot of good advice. Like … I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. Like, if only I could say stuff that smart to myself.”
“What was the subject?” Pat asked.
“Fear.”
“Ah. Yeah. That's a big one.”
Nobody said anything for a long time. Then Pat said, “Maybe next time you get scared you can talk to yourself the same way you would talk to a spooky horse.”
“That's kind of a weird idea,” I said.
“Doesn't mean it wouldn't work.”
“True,” I said.
Sometime in the late morning on Monday, I passed my history teacher standing out in the hall. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. And then she said it.
“I hear you're quite the artist.”
I just stopped in my tracks. My throat felt dry, and the first time I opened my mouth, nothing happened, so I tried again. “Who told you that?”
“Joe Werther was talking about you in the teachers' lounge. Showing around the picture you drew of his Irish setter. He just couldn't say enough about it. I thought it was a wonderful picture, but he said you couldn't really appreciate it unless you knew his dog. He said you really captured her, right down to the expression on her face. He thinks you're quite talented.”
I'm not sure what I said. Probably nothing at all. I was just too stunned to say anything, I think. If I did say anything, I was probably mumbling, and I bet it sounded stupid.
The bell rang, which meant I was late to math, but I didn't go straight to math. I went to Mr. Werther's room. The door was closed, because class had started, but I opened it and peeked in. He saw me and looked up and stopped talking. Got up and came to the door to see what I wanted. I almost ran away. But I thought about Feather, and I stayed.
Mr. Werther smiled at me. “I wish you hadn't run out so fast on Friday.”
“You told all my other teachers I was a good artist?”
“I'm sorry. Was it a secret?”
Then I laughed. I couldn't help it. “Yeah—I mean, no. Of course not. Thanks.”
We both just stood there a second, and then he said, “Where are you supposed to be this period?”
“Oh crap. Math. I knew there was something I was forgetting.”
I ran there as fast as I could. The whole way, I could feel I still had this weird little smile going on. I couldn't make it go away. Maybe I didn't really try.
I walked home with Rachel at the end of the day. She wanted to know when I rode before, so I told her about Trudy.
I said, “Back when my uncle Jim was alive, he had this farm. It was about three hours from here. In the valley. I remember it was really hot there, but I used to love to go. And he had this horse named Trudy. This big old palomino. I was only about three or four, but she was so gentle they could just put me up on there bareback. She didn't even need a bridle. I just held on to her halter rope. I loved her so much, I never went in the house. I mean not if I could help it. When I wasn't riding her I used to pick apples and pears from the trees— Uncle Jim had fruit trees—and feed them to her over the fence. But then Uncle Jim died. He had to go in for this surgery that was supposed to be no big deal. Or maybe they just told me that so I wouldn't worry. Anyway, he died.”
“That's sad,” she said.
It wasn't that sad, really, because I was so little and I really didn't know my uncle Jim very well. He always looked like a stranger to me and I think I was a little bit afraid of him. But I didn't say that, because I didn't know her that well yet, and I didn't want her to think I was weird.
“What's really sad,” I said, “is that when I got old enough, I asked my aunt if I could go out to the farm and see Trudy. She said Trudy died. Some idiot neighbors were out hunting drunk and they shot her and she died.”
“On purpose? Or did they think she was a deer or something?”
“I don't know. I didn't ask. I was so busy thi
nking how nobody told me. Like, how could they not get that I would want to know? After that I didn't want anything to do with horses. You know how some people are.” I was hoping she would know, so I wouldn't have to explain it.
“No, how?”
“You know. Some people just don't want to get near anything that could hurt.”
“That's everybody. Isn't it?”
“Not really. Some people can have a dog, and then if the dog dies, they get another one. Other people, they say, No, that's it. Too painful. Not going through that again.”
“I would get another dog,” she said.
“I think I would, too,” I said. “Now.”
“What changed?”
“Pretty much everything.”
My mom was driving me crazy.
I felt so bad saying that, but I had to say it, or I'd have been even crazier.
It hit a kind of all-time low that Friday night.
I got home from school, and there she was, meeting me at the door, all sort of … eager. Perky. Or something.
It sounds like a good thing, I know. But when she did it, somehow it felt really wrong. Really forced, like it made her nervous to do it, so it made me nervous to have to be there and watch.
She'd had her hair straightened and dyed it blond. Or bleached it, or whatever. It sounds trashy, but it was just the opposite. She was trying for a more sophisticated look. She never wore her robe around the house anymore. She got dressed. And did her nails and put on makeup and everything, which I think comes off as sort of weird if you go to all that trouble and then just … you know … stay home.
I think it's because she was trying to throw off the whole trailer-trash image. I really hate to use words like that about my own mother, but sometimes you just have to say what you mean. I also think it was because she was always scratching around for something—anything—to do.
She said, “It's Friday. T.G.I.F., huh?”
“Right,” I said. “Whatever.” I just couldn't do perky with her. Not even when I tried.
“I thought we could order a pizza. Wouldn't that be fun?”
The Year of My Miraculous Reappearance Page 14