The Tale of the Dancing Slaughter Horse

by Shade, Victoria;

  “Take your time,” she said to me quietly. I looked up at her, into her captivating blue eyes. I had never been this close to her.

  I broke from Leslie’s stare, slipped my index finger under the fold of the box, and lifted the lid. The powerful smell of new leather erupted from the box. I lifted the black suede fabric, and then saw the fringes. I stood up as I lifted the entire gift out—they had bought me a pair of black suede chaps, with fringes! It was what I had wanted for so long, but I couldn’t remember telling anyone. I had wanted these exact chaps, and now I had them. Tears welled up and a lump grew in my throat. I couldn’t speak. I looked up at Leslie, and she simply stared down at me. I noticed the slightest hint of a smile lift one corner of her mouth.

  “So? What do you think? Do you like them?” some of her staff began to inquire, curious at my silence.

  Then Leslie turned around, facing them in front of me.

  “She likes them. Have some ice cream,” she ordered.

  Everyone swarmed the box of ice cream cones. Leslie then turned back to me, and asked, “You want to try them on? See if they fit?”

  “Yeah,” I said as I wrapped them around my body and fastened the front buckle. I zipped one leg, then the other. They fit perfectly, as if they were made just for me.

  “Perfect,” she said, satisfied.

  “Yeah,” I beamed. “Thank you so much,” was all I could say.

  She smiled subtly, then cleared her throat and hardened again.

  “You’re welcome. Now, go get a cone before they’re all gone,” she instructed.

  I wore my new chaps with unbridled pride. Now I was a real horsewoman, just like Leslie. I was one step closer to being as good a rider as she was.

  The fact that she got me a present made me believe that Leslie didn’t hate me. I cared deeply about her opinion of me, because I respected her so much. I wanted to be exactly like her—always sure of myself, and able to handle any horse.

  Nevertheless, Leslie remained distant and continued to turn me down when I asked her for lessons. She insisted that I take lessons with Mandy. But I could see the way Leslie rode and the way Mandy rode. Leslie knew something that Mandy didn’t. Mandy sat on top of her horse, but when Leslie was on a horse, they became one. I wanted to learn from Leslie. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t teach me. She was the most knowledgeable instructor there and nothing I did could impress her.

  Then, one day, she told me to grab Firefly—another favorite horse of mine—and get on. She was getting on her horse, Illusion, a majestic white Lipizzaner, and she was going to give a lesson to a woman I had never met. I was the lead rider, and they would follow. I loved being in the front, being the leader.

  I easily ignored most of the chattering behind me, until the final stretch of the trail ride, when Leslie told her student, “You see that kid up there? You could ride all day, every day, for the rest of your life, and you’ll still never be as good as she is.”

  Wow! All these years I wondered whether she even liked me, and now she just said I’m a good rider! I marveled to myself.

  “But she’ll never make it to the Olympics.”

  The wind was knocked out of me. What the hell? I thought. I was so confused. Why would she say that? I wondered silently. Why not even give me the chance?

  When the person who I most idolized announced that I would never be a top competitive rider, I was overcome with a desire to prove her wrong.

  OK, Leslie, I’ll show you, I thought defiantly.

  8

  Fifth grade was spent in total anticipation of sixth grade, because I was part of the “cool crowd,” and the “cool kids” in sixth grade ruled the whole elementary school. I had waited years for the chance to be in the coolest grade, and I would enter it with my cool friends. But unfortunately, my mother had other plans for me—braces and private school.

  “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you! You’re ruining my life! You’re not my real mother, my real mother wouldn’t do this to me! I know I’m adopted!” I protested upon learning her plans for me.

  Meanwhile, my sister would get to stay in public school while I had to start sixth grade in private school.

  I had to wear a stiff, ugly uniform. And I had to wear a skirt—a big change from the jeans I had been living in for the past several years. The variety of the outfit consisted of either a wool skirt or a polyester skirt. I opted for the wool skirt, since it actually moved a little and didn’t feel like I had wrapped my waist in rigid brown paper. Also, for the first time since I was a little kid, I had to wear tights. Once again, I was forced to endure the scratching of itchy fabric directly on my skin. To top it all off, I had to button myself into a rigid, white blouse.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. This isn’t me. I don’t belong in a skirt or tights or a buttoned up white blouse. But I was already dressed in the ridiculous costume so I felt utterly defeated. There was no going back to my friends, my school, my life.

  I drifted to the living room, waiting for my mother to gather her things and drive me to school. I had to depend on her for a ride, rather than walk to school on my own.

  “You look so cute! Let’s take a picture!” she gushed.

  “No, I look like a dork,” I fumed.

  Then my sister came in. “No, you don’t. You look like a nerd!”

  “See?” I said to my mother.

  “Baby! Get out!” she yelled at my sister.

  But it was true. The uniform was horrible. Judging by the hideous outfit, I was sure the school would be even worse. And the braces made me feel hideous. I had to meet new people, who would ridicule me. I missed my friends. I wondered what they were doing. How would their first day of school be? I was sure they would roam the halls like they owned them, and command respect from all the younger kids.

  My mother dumped me in the front of the building, and left me to fend for myself. I found my homeroom. I saw an empty desk near the door and sat down.

  “You can’t sit there,” protested a stout, imposing Asian boy.

  I stayed where I was. I hated this place and was ready to face my first enemy. I was so consumed with rage over having been ripped away from my old, wonderful life, that I didn’t care about making a single friend here. In fact, I welcomed a fight with anybody, everybody—it would make it easier not to have to talk to anybody. I could never be friends with these rich, snobby kids, whose parents dropped them off in Mercedes and BMW cars. I even saw a limousine drop off one kid. A limousine! For a kid! It was obnoxious. I was not like these kids, and never would be, I vowed to myself. I resented my mother for trying to force me to be like these people.

  I turned to look him right in the eyes.

  “Tough,” I seethed.

  “Yo, man! That’s messed up!” he said, exasperated.

  “Mike! Be quiet, she can sit wherever she wants!” the teacher reprimanded.

  I turned to him again, and deliberately curled my lips into a sinister smile, just for him.

  “Yo, man . . .” he began to mutter, shaking his head at the notebook on his desk.

  The two girls who sat in front of me kept turning around to smile at me.

  Why the hell do they keep smiling at me? I wondered.

  It made me uncomfortable. Nobody in Queens smiles at strangers. You’re not even supposed to make eye contact with strangers. Everyone knows that.

  At the end of the class, the first girl turned around in her chair and said, “Hi, I’m Evelyn, we can be friends if you want.”

  “OK,” I answered cautiously, not enthused by the invitation, but also unwilling to hurt this girl’s feelings. She seemed nice enough.

  “Yeah, me too, I want to be friends too, I’m Andy.”

  “OK, hi,” I replied.

  I felt like sixth grade dragged on and on, but I took solace in my horse-filled weekends at Leslie’s. Unfortuna
tely, my mother had different plans for that part of my life as well.

  __________

  “So you know Yvette who rides Shiloh?” my mother asked me on the way to the barn one Saturday morning.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, she said there is a bigger barn upstate where you can really learn to ride, and be better.”

  “So?”

  “Well I think you should start riding there instead of at Leslie’s.”

  “No!” I protested.

  “Do you want to be a trail rider all your life?”

  “Why are you trying to ruin my life!” I shrieked, now in tears. “What about Tango, and Firefly, and . . .”

  “Tango and Firefly will be fine without you,” she retorted, sternly.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. Why are you doing this to me!” I cried.

  “It’s for your own good. You’re too young to understand now, you’ll understand later.”

  I knew I had no choice. She had made up her mind—again. Life at Leslie’s was over; my life was over.

  After my final weekend of riding at Leslie’s, that Sunday evening, I tearfully kissed all of horses on the nose for the last time, lingering on my favorites. I hugged the staff I had come to know so well. I even hugged Leslie. Leslie’s piercing blue eyes had been dulled by the red around them. After we hugged, she turned on her heel and shut the office door behind her.

  I was left alone in the barn, devastated and unwilling to leave the safety and warmth of this home. I would never love any place more than I loved Leslie’s.

  9

  My mother booked me an 8:00 a.m. lesson with Pam the next Saturday at the new, fancy barn. The distance between the new barn and home meant we had to leave at seven o’clock in the morning—on a Saturday. This was a huge difference from the quick fifteen-minute drive to Leslie’s. I already hated this new barn.

  “Where the hell is this place, on the other side of the country?” I started, getting into the car at about the same time I would normally be waking up for school.

  “You can sleep in the car,” Mom said.

  “This is bullshit,” I declared.

  “No cursing,” she scolded.

  “Don’t give me anything to curse about then. Just let me go back to my old school and old barn.”

  “Victoria!” she screamed. “It’s enough!”

  And that was the end of that discussion.

  As we pulled into the driveway of Oakwood Farm, my eyes scanned the perfectly groomed arenas, the green fields, and the abundant space. Surprisingly, I felt calm and safe, the feeling you get when you come home after a long trip. It looked very different from Leslie’s small barn in the city, but somehow, familiar.

  We walked to the office to check in, and behind the glass sat a tall, thin woman. Her hair was as long as mine, but it was bright red.

  “Hi, how can I help you?” she asked with a warm smile.

  “This is Victoria, she has a lesson at eight o’clock, with Pam,” my mother answered.

  “Oh, Pam’s out sick today, so I’ll be teaching you. I’m Cynthia, I’ll be right out,” she said, crossing something off a page in the book in front of her. She then rose from the desk and came out to the public viewing area.

  As she appeared in the doorway, she was taller than I had imagined, about six feet tall. She was thin but not skinny. She looked strong but still feminine. Her lips were red, as were her nails. I could see her long, black eyelashes from where I stood. They fluttered over a pair of perfectly symmetrical emerald green eyes. Her long, red hair was pulled back into a loose braid.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, jutting her hand toward me.

  “You, too,” I replied, taking hold of her hand for a quick handshake.

  “Well, Pam normally does the beginner jumpers, but I do the beginner dressage, so we’ll do some dressage today. Do you know what dressage is?” she asked.

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  “OK, well, we’ll go ahead and give it a shot.”

  “OK,” I replied.

  My first lesson was not on a prancy horse at all. Fannie was the exact opposite of Tango. She was huge, brown all over, and lifeless, nothing like my compact, blonde, fiery Tango. Anything could set Tango off, but Fannie moved as if she were barely alive. I tired quickly from the constant kicking and squeezing to get her to move. My short legs did nothing to motivate the beast.

  “That looked good!” my mother said, walking into the barn, after watching my first lesson.

  I looked up at her, annoyed, already feeling the soreness in my legs.

  “What are you talking about? That horse is barely alive, she can’t even canter!” I shot back. “Tango can do a flat gallop if I just squeeze him a little!”

  “Psht!” she let out angrily, “you are not riding trail horses for the rest of your life!”

  __________

  I continued taking lessons from Cynthia. The farm’s rule was that beginner riders had to take lessons with either Pam or Cynthia. Since Pam was the beginner jumping trainer, and Cynthia was the beginner dressage trainer, I opted to stick with Cynthia.

  Cynthia had noticed my frustration with the slow moving Fannie, because for my next lesson, she assigned me a different horse—Bert. He was an equally huge horse, but slightly more alive. Like Fannie, Bert had no special markings, he was just big and red. Nothing like my exotic Tango with his blonde mane and tail contrasted against his dark brown body. I wondered if Tango missed me as I missed him. I wondered if he compared all of his new riders to the girl who snuck him peppermints and let him run.

  Cynthia explained to me that Bert knew the basics of dressage, so he would be a good horse to learn on. Bert was a straightforward, uncomplicated, honest horse. I asked for something, and he did it. He was even comfortable to ride, despite his size. He cantered on cue, and taught me how to do leg-yields, a movement where the horse moves sideways, criss-crossing his legs as he moves. All I had to do was apply pressure with my right leg, and he would drift to the left across the arena. As it turned out, Tango and I had already been doing leg-yields in the park, to dodge rocks, logs, and puddles. But at least now I knew that move had a name, and it was a dressage movement.

  Before I could grow too attached to Bert, Cynthia instructed me to ride Freddie. Freddie was half Bert’s size, but he was not a pony. While Bert was tall and lanky, Freddie was short and stout. He was a little taller than Tango, but much more muscular. He was built like a truck, with a big chest and wide shoulders. He also had some markings that made him look cute—he was a light bay color, with the color fading into black at his knees, and then white stockings splashed on his legs, from his knees to his hooves. A white blaze traveled down his face, ending in a small white diamond on his pink nose. His black mane and tail contrasted with his light bay coloring. It was nothing like the blond and dark brown contrast Tango had, but it was not as boring as Bert’s all over red or Fannie’s all over dark brown coloring.

  Before my first lesson on Freddie, I grabbed the saddle and bridle from the tack room to tack him up. I put the saddle on by myself, like I had learned at Leslie’s. But any time I tried to put the bridle on over Freddie’s ears, he shied and spun away from me in the stall. I was confused by his bizarre behavior, but resolved to get the bridle on myself. After many failed attempts, I realized I would be late for my lesson, and went to find Cynthia for help.

  After slipping the bridle on, she said, “Some of these horses were rescued from slaughter, so they might have some issues. It looks like somebody hit Freddie around his ears and he never got over it. Don’t worry, it has nothing to do with you,” she coaxed.

  __________

  That was the first of many times that Cynthia would comfort me. Even in my lessons, she was encouraging, understanding, and patient. After a few months, I had grown attached to her, and I worked
hard to win her approval and impress her with my riding. I insisted on riding through the winter, as this farm had a sizable indoor arena. Even though the trek out to the farm was an hour long and being at the barn took up almost all of Saturday and Sunday, I couldn’t imagine not riding. It would be like not breathing.

  By February, Cynthia had taught me the basics of riding and I was learning preliminary dressage movements. Then I was dealt another unexpected blow. After my Saturday lesson, my mother explained to me that I would have just one more lesson with Cynthia.

  “Cynthia is going through a really expensive divorce right now, so she is going to have to quit riding and get another job. She has two little girls to take care of.”

  I understood, but I was still devastated that I would have to let go of yet another person I loved.

  The next Saturday, I maintained my composure both in the barn and during my lesson with Cynthia. But at the end of the day, when it came time to say good-bye, I cried. I cried hard. I prided myself on being tough because I never cried, but this was too much.

  Cynthia was technically just my coach, but I could feel my heart breaking, there was a lump in my throat again, and I felt the blood rushing to my head. I would never see her again. I was about to lose Cynthia, just like I lost Leslie and Tango.

  “Sweetie, please don’t cry. I know you’re sad but you’re going to train with Carol, who is a whole lot better than me. She knows more, she’s been training dressage longer,” she said as she stroked my hair.

  The ringing in my ears was deafening. All I heard was something about Carol, one of the other instructors at the farm.

  Then Cynthia grabbed my hands from behind her waist, and held them at my sides. She knelt down to look me in the eyes. I looked down. I couldn’t look her in the eyes. I hated that she saw me like that, weak and vulnerable. But I couldn’t stop sobbing.

  “I want you to meet her, now,” she said seriously. I tried to pull myself together to meet my new trainer.

  Carol walked into the viewing area from the office. She was as tall and slender as Cynthia. She was also pretty, with clear blue eyes and dark brown hair. However, she had none of Cynthia’s femininity. She had short, unpolished nails, where Cynthia’s nails were long and red. Her hair was short and dark brown, pulled into a ponytail. Cynthia’s hair was bright red, wavy, and flowed down to her waist. Cynthia wore makeup, Carol’s face was bare.