High Hurdles

by Lauraine Snelling

  But DJ was off and running. Like a filly with the bit in her teeth, she took off toward the office. “I’ll talk to Bridget right now,” she called back from halfway across the parking lot. “We’ll have a zinger of a time.”

  “Hey, Cat Eyes, the bogeyman chasing you?”

  The voice stopped DJ in her tracks. James. Where had he come from? She turned and looked toward the sound. Sure enough, there he stood in the barn door. The little creep. Life around the Academy was so much sweeter when he didn’t show up, even though they had to do all his work.

  She turned back toward the office. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d go away. She heard a snicker from behind the line of cars. Sure enough, James must have brought a friend along. He always played best to an audience.

  “As if anyone would really be his friend.” Her mutter carried her into the dark of the building. She blinked in the dimness, but it didn’t slow her pace. If only Bridget had a minute right now!

  But the office was empty. DJ checked the board. No classes scheduled. Where was Bridget? Should she flip through the file and find the McDougalls’ number herself? She gnawed the end of her already chewed-to-the-quick thumbnail.

  “Fiddle. Double fiddle.” She swung around and charged out the door, nearly colliding with Bridget as she walked in. “Bridget, I got an idea.”

  “Thank the Lord for small favors.” The woman’s grin made sure there was no sting in her words. “Just leave me standing vertical, I listen better in an upright position.”

  “Sorry. Amy and I are gonna give pony rides at birthday parties so we can earn extra money, so can you give me the McDougalls’ phone number so I can call them to see if they’ll loan me Bandit?” DJ ran out of air.

  “Glad you have to breathe occasionally.” Bridget crossed the room to her desk.

  “We’ll take pictures of the kids on the pony with the Polaroid camera . . .”

  “Hold it.” Bridget pointed at the chair beside the desk. “Let me think a minute.”

  DJ perched on the edge of the chair. She hastily stuck her hands between her knees so she wouldn’t chew her nails. Bridget did not like to see her students chewing their fingernails. She said it didn’t look professional.

  “I will give you their number on one condition. You give me a signed paper saying your mom approves and accepts responsibility.”

  DJ could feel her excitement drain out the toes of her boots. “But . . .”

  “No buts. You are a hard worker and a responsible girl, but you do go off half-cocked sometimes with new ideas. Since Bandit is stabled here, I have to make sure my clients are cared for properly.”

  “We wouldn’t hurt Bandit.” The thought that Bridget could think she wouldn’t take good care of a horse made DJ’s heart pound.

  “DJ, I know that. But you cannot control everything around you. Learning to look at all sides of something and making good plans is part of growing up and becoming an adult. I know how bad you want a horse, so I will help you all I can—but I need to cover myself, too. Bring me the signed paper, then you can call them. I will put in a good word for you if they ask.”

  DJ nodded. “Okay. Thank you.” She got to her feet. The ideas that had been swirling and jumping in her brain now lined up with some sense to them. She had to get her mother’s permission. Not Gran’s, her mother’s. It seemed impossible.

  CHAPTER • 5

  “Mom’s home. Can you come over?” DJ spoke softly into the phone so no one would hear her.

  “I’ll ask.” DJ heard the phone clunk on the counter and noises in the background. With four kids in the family, there was always noise at the Yamamotos’. “Yes, I can. You want me to bring the stuff?”

  The two of them had spent the afternoon making lists and writing plans so they could present their ideas in a businesslike way. Both Lindy and Mr. Yamamoto would appreciate that.

  “Have you talked with your mom and dad yet?” DJ twirled the cord around her finger.

  “No, we said to wait.”

  “I know, but . . .” Leave it to Amy. She always did exactly as they agreed. DJ had told Gran all about the idea as soon as she got home. Gran said she’d hold judgment until after the conference. But DJ could tell by the twinkle in her grandmother’s eye that she approved. As usual, Gran said, “I’ll pray we’ll be doing what is in God’s will for us.”

  DJ wished she’d have thought of that without the reminder.

  “Mom.” DJ knocked on her mother’s bedroom door. “Can Amy and I talk with you?”

  “Sure.” Lindy came to the door, pushing her glasses up on her head. “Up here or down in the family room?”

  “Well, I’d kinda like Gran in on it, too.”

  “Okay, give me a sec to save what’s on the computer. Fix us some iced tea, all right?”

  DJ and Amy pounded down the carpeted stairs. Within minutes they had four tall glasses of raspberry iced tea on a tray. “Grab some cookies.” DJ pointed at the sunflower cookie jar. “Gran baked today.”

  With the treats served, DJ didn’t know what to do with her hands. Other than eat and drink.

  “So?” Lindy tucked her legs up under her.

  DJ started to chew her fingernail but stopped herself. Her mother looked like someone right off a magazine page, and here DJ was still in her shorts. At least she didn’t have jeans on. Her mother didn’t think horse scent made a good perfume.

  She and Amy swapped looks. Amy’s clearly said, “Get going.”

  “Mom, we have an idea . . . a business idea, and . . .” Once she got started, the words rushed like a creek after a winter rain. When she forgot something, Amy filled in. They spread their papers out on the floor and explained each detail.

  When her mother joined the girls on the floor and started asking questions, DJ began to hope.

  “How about if I buy the Western hat and give you a loan for the printing costs?” Lindy marked some numbers on one of the sheets of paper. Her glasses had migrated back down on her nose.

  DJ knew they were home free. Now to get permission to use Bandit.

  “What do your parents say, Amy?” Lindy turned to the girl beside her.

  “We haven’t asked them yet.”

  “We thought we’d start here,” DJ chimed in.

  Lindy tapped her chin with the end of a pen. “This can’t be run like your other ‘businesses.’ ” The look in her eye said she remembered the hamsters and their progeny. She never had cared for “creepy crawly things,” as she referred to them. Along with a few other words and in a more than slightly raised tone of voice.

  “We’re older now . . .”

  “And more responsible.” The two girls ran their sentences together. That happened a lot with them.

  “I would like to help design the fliers.” Gran slid from her chair to join the others on the floor. “And I have a friend who would give you a good price on the printing.”

  “Now for the important question. Do you know any parents who have kids with summer birthdays?”

  “You do.” Amy stuck her tongue in her cheek.

  DJ gave her one of those looks.

  “Surely there will be some at church. I’ll check.” Gran wrote herself a note.

  “But the parties have to be within walking distance. We don’t have a trailer or anything.” Amy leaned her elbows on her crossed legs. “I guess the next thing is for me—for us—to ask my mom and dad. We need to write up a paper . . .”

  “An agreement,” Lindy put in.

  “We’ll all sign it and turn it in to Bridget,” DJ finished.

  “This is gonna take forever.” She lay back on the carpet. “Besides all this, we still have no idea how much to charge.” She flopped her hands over her head so the backs slapped the floor.

  “You showed me a partial cost sheet,” Lindy said while searching through the scattered papers. “Here. It’ll be about . . .” She neatly penciled numbers beside the items they’d have to purchase. “Now, add them up and divide by—how many parties do you thi
nk you can do this summer? One a week, two?”

  The girls looked at each other and shrugged. “Many as we can get, I guess.”

  “No, let’s say twelve to start with. See, divide your total by twelve.” She handed the sheet back to the girls. “Okay, now that gives you the cost of the party. Whatever you set above that is your profit.”

  By the time they’d finished, they had an agreement, a budget, a simple business plan, and aching heads.

  By the next evening they had the Yamamotos’ permission and a phone number for the McDougalls. An answering machine picked up the call.

  “Fiddle!” DJ let the phone clatter into the cradle. Amy, upstairs on the extension, sighed as she came down the stairs. Clattering wasn’t her style.

  “So what did they say?” Gran asked from her chair. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose.

  “Answering machine.” The two girls sank to the floor at Gran’s knees.

  “Have you prayed about this venture of yours?”

  Both nodded their heads.

  “Good. Then if it’s supposed to happen . . .”

  “The doors will open.” Again the two spoke in unison. They couldn’t count high enough to number the times they’d heard those words.

  Gran grinned and laid a hand on each head. “You’ve listened well.”

  “The phone!” Amy and DJ leaped to their feet and charged for the kitchen. When an unfamiliar voice asked to speak with DJ, her heart started beating triple-time.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, you called me? I know you, don’t I, from the Academy?”

  DJ mumbled a response. Amy glared at her. DJ took a deep breath and started again. “Yes, my friend Amy Yamamoto and I take care of Bandit. And that’s what we’d like to talk to you about. You see, we would like to earn some money this summer . . .” As she went on to explain their idea, Amy ran back upstairs to listen on the extension.

  “What does Bridget think of this?” Mr. McDougall asked.

  “She said she’d call and talk with you if you’d like.”

  “She thinks it’s a good idea,” Amy added.

  “Let me talk this over with my wife—it’s really her pony. We’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Amy charged back down the stairs. The two of them fished cans of soda from the refrigerator and plunked down by the phone.

  “You think they’ll say yes?” Amy sipped from her can.

  “I hope.” DJ checked the clock again. Five minutes! It seemed more like fifteen.

  “Your dad sure was nice about us using the camera.”

  “I know.”

  The phone rang. The girls looked at each other. It rang again.

  “Here goes everything.” DJ picked up the receiver.

  CHAPTER • 6

  “You will? We can! Oh yes, we’ll take the best care of Bandit in the whole world.” DJ could hardly keep her feet on the floor.

  “But there’s one catch. We’d like you to do a party for our five-year-old son, Danny. Without charge, of course.”

  “Of course.” DJ hoped she sounded like a businesswoman. “And what will you charge us for the use of Bandit?” She hoped Amy was impressed.

  “Why nothing—the party, that’s it.”

  DJ swallowed a shriek. “Th-thank you. We’ll be talking with you later, about the party I mean.” She hoped she got all the words in the right order, but she wasn’t sure.

  “Kiddy parties, here we come!” The two danced around the kitchen, ducking and spinning like Indian braves.

  Amy froze in the middle of the floor. “What are we gonna call our business?”

  “Pony Parties, of course.” DJ danced on. “But will people think we’re bringing a bunch of ponies?”

  “We’ll tell ’em up front. Besides, our flier will say . . .” DJ froze beside Amy. “We better get going on our flier.” The two headed for DJ’s bedroom, grabbing a sack of pretzels on the way.

  DJ was nearly asleep that night when another good idea came creeping out of the mist and bit her. Long ago she’d adopted her grandmother’s habit of keeping a notebook and pencil by her bed to capture good ideas. She’d learned the best ideas came right before sleep and just before she opened her eyes in the morning. “Offer Western or English pony parties,” she muttered as she wrote. She studied the page. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. She flipped off the light and snuggled back under the covers.

  But now her mind wouldn’t shut down. Instead, it traveled back to the session with her mother and Gran. Gran could always be counted on to pitch in with a new project, but not her mother. She’d never seen her mother in business action before. If she was this way at work, it was no wonder she usually made top salesperson for the company.

  So how come she can never find time to be with me? DJ let the thought peek out of the internal box where she kept things that hurt too much to think about. Maybe if I wore dresses sometimes . . . The thought made her gag. I do look pretty good when I’m dressed for a show. She had to believe that. Bridget said as much, and she never gave out compliments just to give them out.

  It’s just me. I know it is. I leave things around, and I can’t help the smart mouth. The words leap out before I can stop them. It’s probably even my fault my father left. Images floated through her mind. There weren’t any of her father. Most of her memories were of her and Gran. She didn’t remember much about Grandpa, either. He died when she was four.

  “Dear God, I’m sorry for all the stuff I do wrong. Thank you for Gran and for Mom. Help me to do my best. Amen.” She flipped over to her other side. Maybe now she could go to sleep. “Oh, and, God, please take care of Diablo—wherever he is.”

  Each day the empty stall reminded her again of Diablo. Where was he? How was he? Was anyone exercising him? Did they give him carrots and brush his flanks carefully? He was so ticklish!

  That afternoon when she finally got home, she fixed herself a sandwich and took it in to watch Gran paint.

  “Hi, dear. Say, that looks good. Would you mind fixing one for me?”

  “You haven’t eaten? It’s after three.” DJ bit her tongue before she said what she thought. Gran forgot all about eating or anything else when the “creative genius,” as she called it, took over.

  Gran flinched. “I know, I know better. But I lost track of time.”

  “I’ll fix yours. You want mayo or mustard?” DJ threw the questions over her shoulder on the way back to the kitchen.

  “Mayo if it’s tuna; mustard with baloney.”

  When DJ got back, Gran stood in front of the easel studying the forest scene she was painting. “That’s a new one. I like the trees.”

  “Umm.” Gran took the plate DJ offered without taking her eyes from the easel. “It needs more depth. I want the reader to feel as if they can’t resist that path any more than Tara can.” She crossed the room to her wing chair and nestled into it. Tara was the name of the character in the book she was illustrating.

  DJ still stood in front of the painting. “Makes me want to go there.”

  “Darlin’, ‘go’ is your middle name. But thanks for the compliment. So how’d you do this morning?” She took a bite of her tuna. “Who taught you to make such good sandwiches?”

  DJ grinned at her. “You did.”

  “Really?” Gran studied the bread. “But then you do all kinds of things well. Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

  “Thanks, Gran, I needed that.” She started on the second half of her sandwich, trying not to talk with her mouth full but wanting to catch Gran up on everything that had happened. When she told about James calling her “cat eyes,” Gran shook her head, sending the tendrils of hair around her face to swinging. “That poor boy. Mark my words, something tragic is going to happen there.”

  “Yeah, I might pound him into the dust one of these days.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll keep on praying for him like we said . . .”

  “You said,” DJ muttered.

  “Like we
agreed.” Gran sent her one of those smiles that made it impossible to argue.

  “But if I had a horse like his, I’d . . .”

  “Now, child, a horse isn’t everything. We’ll keep on praying.” She leaned forward and tapped the end of DJ’s nose. “And I’ll pray especially that you can find it in your heart to be kind to James.”

  DJ groaned. When her grandmother started to seriously pray about something—look out! DJ finished her sandwich and picked up the crumbs with a wet fingertip. “Gran, do you still miss Grandpa sometimes?”

  “More than just sometimes, but nothing like I used to. There comes a day when you find yourself remembering something really good, maybe a fun time, with that person. Then it doesn’t hurt so much. It takes time, of course.”

  “I wish it didn’t. I sure miss Diablo.”

  By the end of the next week, with DJ’s birthday only three days away, Bridget had the rails up two more notches when DJ came for her lesson. She worked Megs around the edge of the ring, careful to warm the mare up even though she couldn’t wait to get going. Post to the trot, collected canter—the horse responded smoothly to DJ’s lower leg and hand signals. Megs knew the drill inside and out and seemed to be having as much fun as her rider. Ears pricked and with an occasional snort, she went through her paces.

  “All right, take the two low ones on the outside first, then head up the middle for the others.” Bridget had taken her place in the center of the ring, the best place to watch for each flaw of DJ’s performance.

  “No, do not let her rush it. You are signaling her to lift off too soon. A good rider is a calm rider. Now, again.”

  DJ tried to keep her excitement under her hat, but it wasn’t easy. After the next round, Bridget signaled her over.

  “Keep your hands like so, and your knees here.” With each command she put DJ in the proper position. “Now, again.”

  By the end of the session, DJ didn’t want to hear “now, again” for a long time. One thing about Bridget, you had to have one skill down perfectly before you could go on to the next.

  “Okay, work on those the next few days. Remember to picture the perfect jump in your head. See yourself doing it perfectly every time. It is not practice that makes perfect, but perfect practice that makes perfect.”