“Right now I feel tired,” the boy behind DJ whispered.
“But what if someone reads what I wrote?” another student asked.
“Hey, yeah. Are you going to read them?”
“Only if you want me to. I’ll have you turn in your journal once a week at first, then if all is well, twice a month. All I am interested in is making sure you wrote every day.” She looked at the girl who had brought up the privacy issue. “A journal is a very personal thing. I would not leave mine out for anyone to read, and if that’s something that worries you, you may store your journal here in the bottom drawer of my desk and insert your pages as you go.”
Great, how am I ever going to keep up with this assignment? I don’t have anything to write about. DJ propped her forehead on her hand. What a bummer. I can’t keep track of all I’m doing already. She swapped looks of disgust with the girl across the aisle. What a stupid assignment. She broke into her internal complaining long enough to listen to what the teacher was saying.
“I have copies of the older edition of The Diary of Anne Frank, but if you want to read the new one, you’ll have to buy that for yourself at the local bookstore.”
Fat chance. While DJ enjoyed reading, it usually took a backseat to riding and drawing. While other kids read, she drew horses.
“Now, I’d like you to take out your notebooks and begin your first entry. Place the date in the left-hand margin and your name up in the right.” Groans echoed around the room, but the class did as asked. “Good. Now, think of something that’s been bothering you today. Did you have a fight with your brother or sister? Someone say something that ticked you off? Bad hair day?”
Giggles and raised eyebrows greeted her small joke.
“Whatever you feel like writing about, start in.”
More groans.
DJ stared at her paper. What to write about? Her pencil began to move as if it had a mind of its own. Last week I heard from my dad. I never even knew his name before, and now he wants to see me. Before she knew it, the teacher called time. DJ looked down—she’d written three-quarters of a page.
By the time DJ turned her lights out that night, she’d covered four pages, both sides.
She didn’t need her mother’s questioning look to remind her that she’d said she would call her father. Every time she decided to pick up the phone, the butterflies in her midsection would go into a grand free-for-all. About the time she felt them halfway up her throat in a full-blown flight for freedom, she’d chicken out and they’d go back to roost.
What would she say? Hey, come on down and let’s be best buds? Or You come down, but I’ll be gone. Or better yet, Gee, been a while since I saw you—if I ever did. DJ knew none of those would earn points with her mother. Or Gran, for that matter. When she tried praying about it as Gran suggested, it was like talking into a phone when the other person had already hung up. There wasn’t so much as a dial tone.
“Just do it and get it over with,” Amy said, hands on her board-flat hips.
“Easy for you to say, you saw your father this morning.” DJ held out a carrot to Josh, who took it daintily, as the sorrel Arab cross did everything. He and Amy were just right for each other, both small and neatly put together.
“What’s that got to do with it?” Amy stopped brushing. “My mom says to just do the hard stuff first and get it over with. Then you’ll like yourself better.”
“At least your mom is married to your father.” DJ rubbed the spot near the tip of Josh’s ears that made him act half asleep.
“Yeah, I know.” Amy started brushing again, the dust flying as she used both hands. “But you’ve been snorting over this for what seems like forever. Wouldn’t it be easier just to get it over with?”
“What do I call him? Mr. Atwood? Bradley? Brad? And what if his wife answers the phone—if he even has a wife.”
“You could call him Dad.”
“He’s not my dad.” DJ’s raised voice made Josh pull back against the crossties.
“Oh, really now?”
“Come on, Ames, Dad is for someone you like.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I’d rather say, ‘hey you.’ ”
“DJ, I don’t care what you call him, just do it quickly so you can concentrate on riding again—and school and drawing and anything else but this.” Amy threw her brushes into the bucket. “Major’s waiting for you.”
“No, he’s not. He doesn’t want to go out in that downpour any more than I do.” DJ glanced at her watch. “Yikes, I better hurry. Patches has been out on the hot walker long enough. Maybe the rain washed some of his orneriness away.”
DJ had been scheduled for her first dressage lesson that afternoon, but Bridget had left a note asking DJ to forgive her; she had an unexpected appointment. They’d reschedule it for Saturday morning. Since she wasn’t particularly looking forward to a dressage lesson—jumping was what she loved, not boring dressage—the postponement didn’t hurt DJ’s feelings. And when Patches semi-behaved himself, she actually dared to look forward to some play time with Major. Shame they couldn’t ride up in the hills, but getting drenched had never been her idea of a great time.
DJ spent her time working at keeping Major bending and yielding to her legs as Bridget had shown her. He showed his impatience with the repeated drills by swishing his tail every once in a while. DJ wished she could do the same.
When Joe dropped her off at the dark house, she hunched her shoulders to keep her neck dry and dashed to the front door. The dark windows were no surprise. She wondered whether her father would be home yet. Did he work late, too?
Inside, the house smelled stale and silent, as if bemoaning the fact no one was home.
DJ flicked on the lights, turned on the stereo, and crossed the kitchen to the phone. The red light was blinking on the answering machine. She listened to the message for her mother and hit the Save button. The light continued to blink.
DJ got a glass of water to wet her parched mouth. You’d think it was a hundred degrees outside, she was so thirsty. Then she had to make a run to the bathroom.
“All right, you’re obviously just putting this off.” She crossed again to the phone and dialed.
A deep male voice answered on the third ring. “Brad Atwood here.”
DJ swallowed hard. She couldn’t make any words come.
“Hello?”
CHAPTER • 7
DJ dropped the phone back in the cradle, her heart hammering like she’d run a mile without taking a breath. She dashed to the sink for another glass of water. “You idiot! What’s the matter with you?” She stared at the reflection in the kitchen window. No help there. The face looked about to cry. For pete’s sake!
She took in a deep breath and, letting it out, crossed to the phone again. Summoning every bit of resolution she owned clear up from her toenails, she dialed the number.
“Brad Atwood here.”
“This is DJ.”
“DJ, how wonderful.” She could hear warmth spreading over his words like hot fudge on ice cream. “I’m so glad you called.”
“Yeah, well . . .” What do I say next? She twirled the cord around her finger. “I . . .”
“I know this is awfully hard for you and a tremendous surprise. Maybe it would help if I told you some about me, then you tell me a little about you.”
“Okay.”
“At least you know my name,” he said with a hint of a chuckle. “I live near Santa Rosa, and I’m an attorney. I don’t have any other children, but I’m married and my wife’s name is Jacqueline—Jackie to her friends. We both love horses. I raise and show Arabians for my hobby, and Jackie shows fourth-level dressage on her Hanoverian-Thoroughbred gelding named Lord Byron.”
DJ sighed. “Wow.”
“I hoped that might interest you. Your mother says you love horses, too.”
“Gran said once that I got that from my dad.”
“Yes, I think you did. So . . . now tell me about you.”
DJ slid down the wall and c
rossed her legs at the ankles, the phone propped on her shoulder. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Wherever. I’m interested in everything.”
“Like you said, I’ve always loved horses—started working at Briones Riding Academy when I was ten so I could take riding lessons. Just this past summer, I got my own horse, Major. He’s a retired police mount. I’m a freshman at Acalanese High School, I love to draw like Gran, and someday I want to ride in the Olympics.”
“Dressage, eventing, or jumping?”
“Jumping.” DJ could hear the interest in his voice. “I’ve always wanted to jump.”
“You have a trainer?”
“Yep, Bridget Sommersby. She used to ride for France till she got hurt and couldn’t jump anymore. She owns the academy where I work and train.”
DJ heard a car pull into the drive and the garage door go up. “Mom’s home, you want to talk with her?”
“I’d rather talk with you. I’m hoping you will let me come to see you.”
“When?”
“Whenever. Your mother had mentioned Sunday, but I’ll leave it to you to set the time and day.”
DJ nibbled on the side of her lower lip and let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “How about three o’clock a week from this coming Sunday?”
“That’s nine days from now. Good—we’ll be there. Can you give me directions?”
DJ gave him the address and started to add directions.
“No need,” Brad said. “That’s the house your mother always lived in. We’ll see you a week from Sunday, DJ—and thanks.”
DJ hung up the phone as her mother walked into the kitchen. “That was Mr. Atwood.”
Lindy stopped short. “Brad’s father?”
DJ shook her head. “No, my father. You’re always telling me to call adults mister and missus.” DJ twisted the phone cord again. “What am I supposed to call him, Mom?” She glared up at her mother. “I don’t know who he is or what he’s like or anything. What am I supposed to do?” She rose to her feet, hot anger rising with her. “He wants to come see me. What do I say? ‘Hi, Daddy, so nice to meet you’? Do I shake his hand? And his wife—I . . . I forget her name.” DJ choked on her words.
Lindy stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “It’s okay, Darla Jean. I promise it’ll be all right. You don’t have to see him right now if you don’t want to.” Her voice sounded so much like Gran’s that DJ snuggled closer.
“They’re coming in nine days.” She muttered the words against her mother’s shoulder. Never in her life could she remember her mother comforting her like this. Gran had always been there first.
DJ inhaled the fragrance imbedded in the fabric and her mother’s skin. It spoke of class and success and beautiful people in fascinating places, but her mother’s arms and tone spoke only of love. “Is that okay?”
“If that’s what you feel you’re up to.”
“Gran could make cookies.” DJ didn’t feel ready to step back from the comfort surrounding her.
Lindy nodded. “Brad always was a sucker for her chocolate chip peanut butter cookies.”
“Gran doesn’t make chocolate chip with peanut butter.” DJ raised her head.
“She used to, and I’m sure she’d do it again. Guess she quit making that particular recipe after . . . after . . .”
“After he went away?”
Lindy clasped her hands on her daughter’s upper arms. “I think we need to have a long talk.” She sighed. “A long-overdue talk.”
“Like about my dad?” DJ tried on a smile and found it still fit.
“Yeah, I kind of blew that one.” Lindy put a finger under DJ’s chin and lifted it so they were eye to eye. “Darla Jean Randall, I know I haven’t been the kind of mother you needed and I should have been, but I promise you, I will try to do my best from here on in. I am just eternally grateful Gran was always there for you. She raised a young woman I am proud to call my daughter.” Lindy’s words caught in her throat. She cleared it and added, “So proud.” The tears pooling in her eyes spilled over and matched the ones on DJ’s cheeks. Her mother sniffed and smiled, a wobbly smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I love you, DJ, more than I can ever say.” With gentle fingers, she wiped away the tears slipping down DJ’s face.
“Oh, Mom.” DJ tried to say more, but the words wouldn’t come. She sniffed, too. “I smell like horses.”
“That’s okay—for now.” Lindy reached behind her for a paper towel to wipe her eyes. “How about we both change clothes, and I’ll order in.” She stopped. “You want Chinese or pizza?”
“Pizza. With everything.”
“Even anchovies?” Lindy raised one eyebrow.
DJ scrunched her eyes closed. She sighed as if making a big sacrifice. “How about on half?”
“Deal.” Her mother extended her hand. DJ took it, and they shook once. “How about you order and I’ll pay?”
“Deal.” As Lindy climbed the stairs, DJ felt the laughter of pure joy swirl around her ankles and work its way upward. Pushing bubbles of thanks ahead, it burst out in feet-tapping, hand-clapping giggles and spins. “Wow!” If only Gran could see them now.
DJ phoned in the order and raced up the stairs. She had twenty minutes to shower and get dressed. A bit later, still damp from the pounding water, she stood in front of her closet. If only she had a lounging outfit like the ones her mother wore so easily. And beautifully.
“What?” She couldn’t stop talking to herself. The energy had to come out somehow. “You want to dress up?” She shook her head. “DJ, you’re slipping and slipping bad.” She dug out her Snoopy nightshirt, a bathrobe that was now too short in the sleeves, and shoved her feet into fluffy Snoopy slippers. At least she’d be warm while they talked. And man, oh man, did she have questions to ask!
With the pizza box between them, they curled into the corners of the sofa in the family room.
“So how do I start?” Lindy asked after eating half a piece of pizza.
“Gran always says to start at the beginning.” DJ scooped up a string of cheese and plopped it back on the pizza.
“She’s right.” Lindy took a sip from her soda and leaned back. “I had a crush on Brad Atwood from the first day I saw him in high school. He was so handsome, every girl in the hall drooled when he walked by. The first time he said hi to me, I nearly dropped my books.” A gentle smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and her eyes wore the dreamy look of good memories. “And when he asked me to go to a movie, I about flipped.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Gran let you go out on a date at fifteen?” DJ couldn’t believe it.
“It wasn’t really a date date—a bunch of kids were going.” Lindy reached for another piece of pizza. “But I was going with the BMOC.”
“ ‘BMOC’?”
“Big Man On Campus.”
DJ stifled the huh? and took a sip of her drink. They did talk kinda funny back in the old days. When her mother seemed lost in her daydreams, DJ prodded, “And then?”
“Well,” Lindy shrugged. “We started going together. Mom and Dad had a fit when they learned I was going steady with Brad. He was too old for me, too fast for me. I was too young, couldn’t think of anything but boys . . . but you need to remember, I was only interested in one boy—Brad Atwood.” Her face sobered. “Even though my mother and father did their best to keep their little girl safe, Brad and I—well, we were in love, and eventually we . . .” Her voice trailed off.
DJ waited, not daring to say a word.
Lindy sat up straight and crossed her wrists on her knees. She stared at a spot on the rug in front of her. “Let’s just say we went all the way.”
“You mean you had sex?”
“We thought we were making love, and what we made was a baby. Two kids too stupid to use birth control and too much in love or lust to keep away from each other.” Lindy’s voice ground to a halt. The ticking clock on the mante
l sounded loud in the stillness. Out on the street, a car swished through the water drenching the road from the continuing rain. “If only I had listened to my mother.” The words were almost lost behind her fall of hair.
“When I told him I was pregnant, Brad said he’d marry me—said he loved me and he’d stand by me.” Lindy shook her head. “His father thought I should have an abortion. Can you beat that—he thought I should kill the baby?” She stared at DJ out of haunted eyes. “He would have had me kill you.” She raised a trembling hand to DJ’s cheek. “I couldn’t do that. My own dad thought I should give you up for adoption so I could get on with my life. But when I decided to keep you, he and Mom said there was always room for one more in this house. We were a family that stuck together. So we did.”
She kept her gaze locked on DJ’s. “When I held you in my arms and you looked up at me, that was it. I’d been talking to you for weeks, and suddenly you were real and I couldn’t let you go.”
“What happened to Brad?” DJ could barely get the words past the lump in her throat.
“You’ve got to give him some credit—he paid the medical bills. But while I was taking care of a newborn baby and trying to go to night school, he played football and basketball and tried out for track. Back then, they wouldn’t let you attend high school if you were pregnant or had a baby. When he left for college, he said we’d be married as soon as he graduated. . . .” Her voice trailed off again.
But did he care about me at all? Did he play with me? Was he a dad? DJ kept the questions to herself. And waited.
Lindy shook her head. “I was so mad at the whole world, I can’t believe my family put up with me. My friends were out having a good time—the dances, the dates—and me?” She shook her head again, so gently now her hair didn’t even swing. “DJ, I was so young, I didn’t know how to be a mother. I was just a kid myself. So I went back to school to learn a skill so I could get a job, and Gran took over with you. We didn’t do welfare then like kids do now.”
“I know a girl who had an abortion,” DJ volunteered.
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