Colt glances around. I know he’s looking for Dylan and Brooks. Colt and I have walked home together almost every day since kindergarten. Now all of a sudden it’s a crime if his buddies see us together?
Sometimes I just don’t get people. Horses make much more sense. Once two horses partner up, they stay friends forever, no matter what other horses come into the herd. I guess that’s why they call it horse sense—horses just seem to have a lot more common sense than people do.
“I believe you think you saw a horse,” Colt says. “And I believe you’re going to be in a mess of trouble if your dad has to go to school again because you were daydreaming.”
He’s right about that one. My dad hates school conferences. He went to my school when he was a kid. He hated conferences then too.
“So?” Colt elbows me. “Did Miss Hernandez call your mom?”
“No.”
“That’s good,” Colt says. “Last time I got in trouble, Miss Hernandez called my mother. Or tried to, anyway. She finally gave up and left a voice mail, which was bad enough.”
I’m barely listening to Colt. I’m too busy imagining my dad at another parent-teacher conference. “She gave me a note for my parents.”
“A note? What does it say?” Colt keeps walking beside me. But now he’s turned toward me, looking for the note. I’ve already stuffed it into my backpack.
“I’m not opening the note, Colt.”
We reach the corner. From here we can either keep going straight another block or cut through the ball field. I take the path through the field.
Colt follows me. “Can’t you just tell them your imagination got the best of you?”
I stop so suddenly that Colt trips over me. “Colt Stevens, did you hear me say I saw—not imagined—a scrawny, spotted horse?”
“Yeah. But you’re always imagining you see horses.”
“True,” I admit. “And what kind of horses do I imagine?”
“How should I know?” He tugs at the straps of his backpack.
“Beautiful horses. That’s what kind!”
Colt frowns, a sure sign he’s thinking. “What are you getting at?”
“In all the years you’ve known me, have I ever once told you about an imaginary ugly horse?”
“No,” he admits.
“When I imagine a horse, I imagine a gorgeous show horse. A Hamilton Royal champion horse.”
I can tell by his raised eyebrows and half-open mouth that I’ve finally gotten through to him.
“Colt, heads up!”
Out of nowhere, a ball whizzes by, inches from my nose. I wheel around and see Dylan and Brooks running toward us.
Behind me, Colt scrambles for the ball. “Back at ya!” he hollers. He fires the ball at Brooks.
I keep walking home . . . alone.
I used to feel sorry for my little brother because most people will never know what he’s saying. But at least the people who can understand Ethan always believe him.
* * *
Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. Dad’s car is probably in our one-car garage. I squint into the picture window and see my dad sitting at the dining table. His back is to me. Dad calls our dining room his office when we’re not eating there.
I’m pretty sure I can make it to my room without being seen.
With the courage of a wild stallion, I slip inside the house. Silently I ease the door shut. No noise.
“Ellie? Is that you?” Dad calls from the dining room. Apparently he has better hearing than Squash, our still-sleeping cat.
I step over the fat cat stretched out in the entryway. “Yeah, it’s me!” I holler back, wishing it could be somebody else.
“Come in here! And hurry up!”
My dad couldn’t know about the note yet. “Coming!” I grab my backpack with the note still inside. I brace myself.
Dad is sitting at the table. The table is so covered with papers, I can’t even see the tablecloth. Paper wads decorate the floor.
“Dad? Are you all right?”
His hair looks like he stuck his head outside during a tornado. He glances up at me, and I notice the deep, dark circles under his eyes. “I’m all right now that you’re home, Ellie. What rhymes with soap?”
“Soap?” I repeat.
“No! You can’t rhyme soap with soap!” he exclaims. “All I can think of is dope. And I’m not going to land the Riverfresh Soap account with that . . . although . . . hey, what do you think of this?
“Don’t be a dope.
Use Riverfresh Soap!”
Dad turns to me, eyes wide. He reminds me of Munch, Ethan’s puppy. We picked Munch from the animal shelter partly because his big eyes made him look so cute. That was before he grew to the size of a colt. He’s still growing.
“So? What do you think?” Dad demands.
I know my dad wants me to like his new jingle. That’s his job—coming up with great jingles and ads that get people to buy stuff.
Only this jingle isn’t one of those great ones. “It . . . it sure does rhyme,” I say, trying to let him down easy. “Totally rhymes.”
Dad drops his pen. “It stinks, right? It’s hopeless and silly and pointless. I’m hopeless. I’ve been at it all day. Tomorrow I have to present the company’s jingle for a new soap campaign and whatnot. And I’m going to have nothing. Nada. Zero.”
I take a seat across from my dad and brush aside the paper wads. “It’s okay, Dad. You’ve still got mope, rope, lope. Personally, I love the word lope. It’s a slow gallop, as smooth as a rocking horse.”
I imagine riding a black stallion bareback as he lopes across an open pasture. . . .
“Ellie!” Dad calls me back. “Focus, honey. And no more horses. My boss says I’ve overdone the horse jingles. Think!”
“Hmm. There’s always hope, Dad.”
“Well, of course there’s always hope,” he says. “But I need a soap ad by tomorrow. And I can’t have one if I don’t have a lead jingle, now can I?”
“No. Dad, I mean hope.”
“Right, right, right,” he says, still not getting it. He sighs, resting his head on the table. “Mustn’t lose hope and whatnot. You’re right. Maybe there’s something in mope?”
I reach across the table and put my hand on his. “Dad, how about this?
“There’s always hope
With Riverfresh Soap!”
Dad’s head boings up from the table. Lights flash through his eyeballs. “That’s it! I can see it all now.” He stands and paces. “A beautiful woman by a flowing river. Watching her from afar is a shy geek of a guy or whatnot. Should he? Could he? Dare he speak to this charming woman? Dare he try to meet her? He glances at the soap in his hand. Yes! Of course he should! Indeed he can! And why?” Dad smiles at me, and we say it together:
“There’s always hope
With Riverfresh Soap!”
My dad is so excited about his new jingle that it just wouldn’t be right to make him read the note from my teacher. Not now. He has work to do.
My little brother, Ethan, chooses this exact moment to dash into the house. From somewhere upstairs, Munch senses his master is home. Oversized paws thunder above us. The dog plows down the stairs. Munch gets a silent greeting from my brother.
Ethan and Munch barge into the dining room. The dog skids on the hardwood floor. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that dog has grown since this morning.
Ethan’s hands fly in the air like birds gone wild as he signs to me, Did you get in trouble for the note?
I snap my fingers against my thumb fast a couple of times. In sign language that means, No! No! No!
Then behind me, I hear Dad. “What note?”
So much for hope. How am I going to dream my way out of this one?
4
Sorry
Ethan’s fist goes to his heart and circles clockwise, the sign for Sorry!
He doesn’t need to sign. His face says it all. He looks like he’s been hit in the stomach with a fastball. My brot
her would never hurt anybody on purpose.
Before I can say anything, Dad moves in beside me and picks up my backpack. “Ellie, is there something in here I should know about? Like a note from your teacher?”
“Um . . . oh yeah. With the soap jingle and all, I kind of forgot.” I unzip the pocket of my pack. “Maybe I should explain before—”
“No. That’s quite all right. The note, please.” He stretches his arm out in jerks, like he’s reaching for a snake. The last time my parents had to come in for a chat about my daydreaming, I overheard Dad tell Mom that he felt like he was the kid who had gotten into trouble.
I glance back at my brother. His fist is still circling his heart.
Quickly, I sign back, Not your fault. Then I hand Dad the note.
Ethan steps between Dad and me. If I’m the smallest kid in fourth grade, my brother is the biggest in second. People ask us if we’re twins.
Ethan grins at our dad and signs, What are you working on, Dad?
Dad sets down the envelope so he can talk and sign at the same time, which is what we all do when Ethan is around, and sometimes when he’s not. “We were working on a soap jingle and whatnot, Son. But now Ellie and I are going to have a little talk.”
Now? Ethan signs. I was hoping I could get a little help with my pitching.
Ethan isn’t making this up. Colt says Ethan has a great pitching arm, and Ethan is always looking for chances to practice.
Dad signs to Ethan, “I’d love to help you, Ethan. But I’m a little busy.” He picks up the envelope again and waves it at us.
That’s all right, Dad. I didn’t mean you, Ethan signs.
“Ah. Right. Of course. But your mother’s not home yet.”
Mom played softball and basketball in college. Dad’s the first to admit he’s a klutz when it comes to sports.
How about Ellie? my loyal brother asks. She can catch. And she’s a good batter.
Ethan knows I’m not a super player. Not like Colt. But I’m good enough that Brooks and Dylan come get me when they need another person on their team.
“I’m certain that your sister would be happy to help you bat and pitch and whatnot,” Dad says and signs. “Unfortunately, Ellie and I need to—”
Dad’s cell rings. He stares at it. Then he whispers to it, “Please don’t be Ms. Warden.”
Ms. Warden is Dad’s boss at Jingle Bells Ad Agency. It’s one of the biggest ad agencies in Kansas City. Colt’s mom works there too. Sometimes she and my dad drive in to work together. But most of the time Mrs. Stevens goes in too early and stays too late.
Dad flips open his phone. He frowns, then puts the phone to his ear. “Hello, Ms. Warden?”
Ms. Warden’s voice is so loud Dad has to hold the phone away from his ear. Mom says Dad’s boss is “sassy as sand and older than dirt.” But her lungs must be in good shape. Even I can hear her warning Dad to be prepared for the Riverfresh people.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Somebody’s pounding on the sliding door behind us. I look out to the backyard and see Colt. His nose is pressed to the glass. He looks like a cross between a fish and a pig—a fig. I almost laugh.
Colt holds up his catcher’s mitt and motions Ethan and me outside.
I raise my eyebrows at Dad and let my eyes do the begging.
This makes me think about my science experiment. One of my three ways of trying to get a horse is supposed to be begging. I used to beg for a horse night and day until even I got tired of it. It never got me anywhere. I suppose I could cross off begging already.
So that leaves crying and praying for a horse. Crying never worked. Plus, it made my eyes red. I gave up crying for a horse when I was about six.
So, God, that leaves You. I’ll never stop praying for a horse. Praying isn’t like begging or crying. I don’t end up mad or sad. It just feels like God and I talk about the idea of me getting a horse. Most of the time I feel better after I pray about it, even though I’m pretty sure God keeps saying, Not yet, Ellie.
I begin imagining my dream black stallion. He prances up to take me away from all this trouble—from the dreaded note, from the conference with my parents, from Larissa the Fox Richland, who always finds the exact thing to say that will make me feel worse.
But Ethan interrupts. Go! He pushes me toward the door.
Dad is shooing us outside.
I can hear Dad’s boss as the door shuts behind us.
“Thanks for the save, Colt,” I say when we are safely outside. “Dad was just about to open the note when the phone rang.”
Colt shrugs. “I’m just here because I promised to help Ethan with his pitching. That’s all.” He grins and tosses the ball to my brother.
“Yeah. I get it,” I mutter. Boys.
Ethan fires the ball back to Colt.
“Nice!” Colt yells. With his glove on, it’s tough to sign.
I love our backyard. Most yards in Hamilton are big enough to hold big dogs or pet pigs or just swing sets and stuff. Colt and I are lucky enough to be half in the country and half in town. Our backyards are bigger than ballparks.
Colt fires the ball to my brother. Then he glances at me. “Who’s your dad talking to? Miss Hernandez?”
I shake my head. “Ms. Warden.” Now that I’m not worried about Dad yelling at me—for the moment—I wonder why Ms. Warden was yelling at Dad.
“Figures,” Colt says. He and Ethan have a steady game of catch going. I like the regular thwack, thwack of the ball.
“What do you mean? Dad never gets calls from work when he’s home.” Mom says Dad leaves the office at the office.
“My mom gets calls at all hours. Woke me up last night. I couldn’t get back to sleep.” Colt holds the ball a few seconds too long, then turns to me. “Mom’s pretty sure she’s the one who’s going to win the big promotion.”
“Promotion? What promotion?”
Colt stares at me like I’ve turned into a scroungy pinto. “You’re kidding, right? The promotion.”
When I show no clue of understanding, he explains. “Jingle Bells Ad Agency needs a new vice president. Everybody who works there is trying to get that promotion. But your dad and my mom are next in line for it. I can’t believe your dad hasn’t told you about it.”
“Dad was pretty freaked out over some soap jingle thing. But he always gets that way when he can’t think of the right rhyme.”
“Well, the promotion is all my mom talks about. She really wants this job.” Colt goes back to playing catch with Ethan.
I glance in the sliding door. Dad is still on the phone. Mostly he’s listening.
Colt slips off his glove so he can sign to my brother. “Great fastball. Need work on your curve.”
Ethan nods.
There’s a tap on the glass. Colt and I turn to look. Then Ethan follows our gaze. Dad crooks his finger at me to come in. Me. Just me.
I nod.
Ethan signs that he’s praying for me. He means it. That kid prays about everything.
I touch my chin to sign, Thanks. I mean it too.
I leave Colt and Ethan and trudge in to face my dad.
“Hey, Dad. That was some phone call, huh? Everything okay at the office?” I grab a bottle of water and plop down at the table. I hope Dad will start telling me about the new promotion. I wouldn’t mind at all if he forgot about my note.
“The office is fine,” Dad says. “I had two phone calls, Ellie.” He takes the chair next to mine. People say I look like my dad. I think they mean it as a good thing. He has big brown eyes and curly brown hair to match, like me. He’s probably one of the shortest men at his work. Mom says he’s “the best-lookin’ dude this side of the Rockies.”
“Two phone calls?” I’m thinking that gives us twice the chance of getting off the subject.
“Yes. Would you care to know who the second call was from?”
There’s something fake calm in his voice. I’m pretty sure the real answer to this question is no. But I answer, “Sure, Dad.”
>
“Principal Fishpaw.”
My stomach twists. “Principal Fishpaw?”
“And do you know what he wanted?”
I shake my head no. But my stomach knows the answer is yes.
“He’d like us all to come in and talk about your daydreaming—again.”
Most kids’ dads would be shouting by now. Most dads would be angry if their kids got in trouble with the principal. But I know my dad is more scared than angry.
Fishpaw was Dad’s principal when he went to school at Hamilton Elementary.
“Ellie,” Dad goes on, “I thought you and I had a talk about your daydreaming at school.”
“I know, Dad! But I wasn’t daydreaming this time. Well, I was, but this was real. I mean, I wasn’t daydreaming when I saw that horse out the window.”
The front door opens and closes. Munch barks. Squash meows. Then my mom rushes in. The dog and cat are lost in the swirl of colors at Mom’s feet. Her pink, orange, red, and blue peasant skirt balloons over her purple sandals. My mom refuses to own a single white, gray, or black piece of clothing. She tries to mix as many colors as she can on a given day. “If it’s good enough for rainbows,” she says when somebody claims her colors clash, “it’s good enough for me.”
“I’m as tired as a two-pound hen with a three-pound egg. What a day!” Mom kisses Dad and me on the tops of our heads. She could do this even if we were standing. She’s very tall. And we’re very not. In Mom’s own words, she’s so tall that if she fell down anywhere, she’d be halfway home.
“Rough day, Bev?” Dad asks.
My mom is a professional volunteer. She helps out at a different place every day. I’m pretty sure today was cat farm day. Mom pets stray and half-wild cats so they get tame enough to be adopted.
Mom plops into a chair. She slides down so that her legs sprawl all the way under the table. Her short black hair is sweat-glued to her forehead. “Well, let’s see,” she begins. “How was my day? I guess it was fine . . . right up to the part where I lost a horse.”
5
Lost
“Mom, did you say you lost a horse?” My mind is racing. A horse? My mother lost a horse?
Horse Dreams Page 2