“My dad’ll still pick you up,” Megan continued. “Eight o’clock OK?” She sounded more like her old self now, thank goodness.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Brill. And look, Megan, when your dad picks Jenny-Jane up, let me sit in the back with her. I’ll make a proper effort this time. I promise I’ll not say a thing about her brothers or anything.”
There was a short gap before she spoke again. “Jenny-Jane’s still coming to stay, so she’ll already be in the car,” Megan said quietly.
My stomach buckled as if a slab of uncooked pastry had been dropped into it. “She’s staying over but I’m not?” I asked.
“She needs to be calm before the tournament…” Megan repeated.
“And I don’t?”
“Well, obviously you need to be calm too, but you will be calm because you’re always calm. You’re a calm person … and you live in a calm house.”
Calm house? I thought about Mum frantically locking everywhere up earlier on. That wasn’t what I’d call calm. Nor was how I was feeling right now. And what Megan said next didn’t help.
“And, let’s face it, you only wanted to come because it’s a sleepover, not because it’s football.”
“’Scuse me?”
“The football bit’s not that important to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you do only play because I do. You’d never have thought of going to football otherwise. That’s the main difference between you and JJ, you see.”
“What is?”
“Well, that JJ would turn up to football whether I was there or not; she’d go whatever.”
“Because I’m a fake, like you told me last time, and she’s not?” I said. My voice came out in a whisper.
I think Megan realized she’d gone too far then. “Oh no, that’s not what I’m saying…” she began, but it was too late. I knew exactly what she was saying. I got the message loud and clear. What she was saying was that I, Petra Ward, only turn up to practice every week because I’m so pathetic I have to copy everything she does. Well not any more, sunshine.
I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. My hands were shaking as I clasped the phone. “OK, well … er … I guess in that case I won’t turn up at all then.”
“Oh, come, come, Miss Fawcett, don’t go fretting your eyelids!”
Huh! If Megan thought she could get round me by using silly Dickens talk she had another think coming! “Get lost!” I told my ex-best friend. “Get totally lost.”
Then I hung up and burst into tears.
It took me ages to stop crying, but after about half an hour I managed to just get down to sniffling and nose-blowing level. When Mum saw me she asked what was wrong, and I told her I thought I had a cold coming and I wanted to go to bed early. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “You don’t want to pass it onto Charlotte.”
I headed upstairs. I didn’t even wait up for Dad’s nightly phone call or brush my teeth. I just slid into bed, pulled the duvet right over me and closed my eyes.
10
The next morning the heavy-pastry feeling was worse than ever. I plodded downstairs to the kitchen, still in my PJs, where Mum cornered me as I was helping myself to a cream cracker.
“Ah, so you’re up!” she said. “How are you feeling?”
“Not great,” I said, which was true.
She strode towards me and laid a hand on my forehead. “Mmm. Your head’s quite hot and you do look peaky. Why don’t you go back to bed for the morning?”
“I might…”
She did her hairy-eyebrow thing. “Not might, young lady. Definitely. You don’t want to spread cold germs around. Summer colds are as nasty as winter colds, and if Charlotte comes down with something this week her performance will be affected…”
Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte! If I didn’t like my sister so much I’d probably have to put slug pellets in her cornflakes or something.
“I’ll bring you up some honey and lemon as soon as I’ve fed the hens.”
“All right,” I said, and sloped off back to my bedroom.
Up there, I discovered that falling out with friends and having a cold have got very similar symptoms:
You feel funny
You can’t concentrate
Your eyes sting with tears
You blow your nose a lot
The main difference is that when you have a cold and friends phone or text you to see if you are OK you can usually sniffle a few words to them, but when Megan called just after lunch I wouldn’t talk to her. Not the first time, nor the second, nor the third. I was tempted to sometimes, but then I’d remember what she’d said and why I’d fallen out with her in the first place, and I’d end up feeling angry all over again and shaking my head when Mum or Charlotte told me who was on the line or just deleting her message when she texted.
In the end she took the hint and stopped calling.
Another thing I discovered was that even though pretending to have a cold and staring into space can make an hour seem like ten hours, time still passes. Before I knew it, it was time for football training again. Not just any old football training, but the last training session before the tournament. The one where they gave out all the details of the matches we’d be playing and where to go and what to do. Pity I wouldn’t be there. “I think I’ll give training a miss,” I told my mum. “I’m still not over my summer cold.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened just yet. I couldn’t stand the cross-examination.
Mum didn’t mind at all. “That’s very sensible of you, Petra. You can come and watch Charlotte instead. It means we don’t have to leave early to pick you up and she can have longer on the jumps.”
“Great,” I mumbled.
So I stood watching Charlotte and her team jump over fences and bales of hay for two hours, trying my best not to think about what Megan and the others would be doing.
Don’t even go there, I told myself sternly. Your time in the team is like your friendship with Megan. Finito. No more. So over. “Mum,” I said, shaking her arm to get her attention.
She glanced round at me and smiled. “Did you see Charlotte? A clear round!”
“Yes,” I fibbed.
“The team coach will put her on fourth on Saturday if she has any sense. Betty Boo’s a calm horse; that’s what you want from your last rider – someone calm and steady.”
Calm! Did she have to use that word? “Mum, if you wouldn’t mind giving me your attention for one tiny second,” I said, my eyes welling with tears.
She looked concerned and put her hand on my forehead again. “Oh dear, aren’t you feeling well again? Do you want to go and sit in the car?”
“No! I just want to tell you I’m not going to the tournament on Saturday.”
Her whole face lit up. “Really?”
“Yes. I’m not … I’m not bothered about football any more.”
“Ha! I knew it was just a phase.”
“Yes,” I said. “You were right.”
The strange thing was I thought the heavy-pastry feeling would disappear when I told her that, but it didn’t. It just turned into cement instead.
11
Next morning Mum sent me down to the stables with a long list of things for Charlotte to do. “She left it on the kitchen table, silly girl. You can tell the stress is getting to her, poor thing. Take her a snack – and some water, too.”
I arrived at the stables just as Charlotte was leading Mum’s horse, Ginger, into the paddock. “Oh no, what now?” Charlotte asked when she saw me.
“Nice welcome!”
“She’s sent you with the list, hasn’t she?”
“She might have,” I said.
Charlotte patted Ginger on the rump and closed the gate behind him. “She’s driving me nuts! I’ve done everything on that list twice. If she gives me one more piece of advice about Saturday I’m going to scream.” She strode towards the stables again.
“I’ve brought you a KitKat to
o,” I called after her.
“Hang on, I just need to check the haynets and fetch Betty Boo.”
She disappeared into the stables for a few minutes. I didn’t follow her. The stables make me feel claustrophobic, especially if the other horses are there too, following you with their huge heads and liquid black eyes. Eugh!
A few minutes later she came out again, leading Betty Boo by a leather rein. Betty Boo is a Welsh grey mare – but don’t ask me how old she is or how many hands high and stuff like that. She’s way bigger than me and whinnies a lot; that’s all you need to know. I stood well back as Charlotte tethered Betty Boo to the fence.
“How’s your bogus cold?” she suddenly asked me, patting Betty Boo’s mane.
I frowned. “’Scuse me?”
“Your bogus cold. How is it? And when are you going to fess up to what’s really going on?”
“I … I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tch! Yeah, right,” Charlotte scoffed before disappearing into the stables again.
This time she came back carrying a lilac and black rucksack over her shoulder. She threw it down near Betty Boo, pulled an old towel from the side pocket, spread it out on the ground and started whipping out all sorts of combs and brushes and bits of kit for grooming. It looked like a giant’s manicure set.
Charlotte grabbed a curry comb and began brushing Betty Boo’s coat. “So,” she said, “tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you’ve dropped football. I don’t believe for one second you’ve lost interest, just like that. Come on, spill.”
I focused on the long metal hoof pick in the manicure set, but it kept going blurry. “OK.” I sniffed. “The thing is, I’ve kind of fallen out with Megan.”
“Well, dur! I know that! What I don’t know is how come?”
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised she’d noticed. Charlotte is pretty observant. She’s good at choosing times to talk, too. Like now. I took a deep breath and, as Charlotte brushed Betty Boo’s coat, I blurted out everything.
“That doesn’t sound like Megan,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
“Well, it’s what happened.”
Charlotte paused mid-stroke. “It’s her blind spot,” she said.
“What is?”
“Football. Football’s Megan’s blind spot, just like horses are mine and Mum’s.”
“I suppose.”
“And Megan’s yours.”
“Megan’s my blind spot?”
Charlotte looked up at me and nodded, then began brushing Betty Boo again. “Megan’s your blind spot. You’ve always been a bit clingy with her.”
“Well, I’m not now!” I bridled. “I’m as cling-less as you can be.”
“OK – don’t get all radgy with me; I’m just saying.”
I stood there fuming for a few seconds while Charlotte swapped curry combs and started on Betty Boo’s mane.
“So where does that leave football?” Charlotte asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re so quick to pack it in, that means Megan’s right. You do only go because of her.”
“Thanks for taking her side!” I said, my eyes starting to fill with tears.
“I’m not taking sides,” Charlotte soothed. “I’m just trying to see things from all angles. What I was going to go on to say, if you’d let me…” She paused, to check I was listening. “What I was going to say was you seemed to enjoy going.”
I thought about it and nodded. Charlotte was right. I did enjoy going. I liked having a laugh with everyone and being part of the team. I even liked some of the drills. “I do enjoy it, even though I’m not much good.”
“Not much good? Come on, Petra – you’ve only been playing for a few months; you’re bound not to be that good yet. It’s taken me three years to get into the show-jumping team.”
“I suppose.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should go to the tournament. If you hate every second, then fair enough, but if you enjoy playing for even one second, despite falling out with Megan, you’ll know you should keep going. Otherwise you’ll always feel you’ve let yourself down.”
I didn’t say anything. I stared at the ground for a few moments, taking in what she had said. Then I looked up and gave her a watery smile. “Don’t forget your KitKat,” I said, and trudged back to the house.
12
As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, Mum thrust a basket full of wet washing into my arms. “Go and hang these out for me, Petra, there’s a good girl.”
I took the basket with a heavy sigh. I had wanted to go to my bedroom and think over what Charlotte had said – but I guessed the garden was as good a place as any.
“Oh, Petra, Hannah just called,” Mum said as I turned towards the door. “She was wondering why you weren’t at practice yesterday, so I told her.”
I twisted round. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her you’d lost interest and wouldn’t be going any more.”
“Oh,” I said.
“That is what you told me last night?” Mum asked.
“Yes,” I mumbled, “it was,” and I headed for the garden.
As I hung the washing out, bending down for an item of laundry, then reaching up on tiptoes to peg it on the line, the cement in my stomach started churning and churning. So Hannah knew I had left the team. It was official.
I should have felt relieved, but I didn’t. I felt awful – and that’s when I knew Charlotte was right. I had given up too easily and I didn’t just feel bad about it, I felt terrible.
Leaving the rest of the washing, I dashed inside. Quickly, I searched for the last Parrs newsletter, found Hannah’s mobile number and dialled. Luckily she answered straight away. If I’d got her message service, I would have bottled it.
“Hannah?” I asked, my voice all croaky.
“It is. Is that Petra?”
Instead of the word “yes” a sort of strangled sound emerged, a bit like when Dylan does her chicken impression.
“Are you all right?” Hannah asked.
I managed half a grunt.
“Your mum was telling me you don’t want to play any more.”
“No … I mean yes … I mean I didn’t but I do now,” I said, swallowing hard.
“You do? That’s brilliant! It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
I was a bit surprised by how forcefully Hannah said it. I mean, I don’t want to harp on but, as I might have mentioned once or twice, I am not that great a player.
“You know, I’ll never forget that Sunday when I first met you and Megan,” Hannah continued. “I can see you now, listening so intently as I showed you how to shoot…”
I tried not to but I couldn’t help smiling. That was one of my favourite memories too: just me and Megan messing about in the goal.
“And you cracked me up telling me Megan was high-maintenance.”
“Oh yeah!”
“But it was you I noticed first, taking those penalties.”
“Was it?”
“You were my first Parsnip.” She laughed.
I had such a surge of emotion I thought I’d faint. “I was?”
“You were.”
Her first Parsnip! First. I was so used to being second with everyone – second with Mum to Charlotte, second with Charlotte to Betty Boo, second with Megan to Jenny-Jane and football – that hearing I was first to someone was such a shock! And of all the people to be first with, I’d never thought it would be Hannah Preston, our coach and captain of the Parrs. “I didn’t know that,” I whispered.
“Well, it’s true.”
“Thank you.”
“Look, I know you and Megan have had a bit of a domestic. That’s why I phoned earlier.”
“Um … you could say that.”
“And I’m guessing things are a bi
t awkward at the moment?”
My voice deserted me again.
“Between you, me and the goalpost, Megan does take her football a bit too seriously at times.”
“Tell me about it!”
“But please don’t be put off, Petra. Katie and me just want you all to enjoy taking part, whatever your reasons are for coming.”
“I know.”
“So if you do want to play on Saturday, I can always pick you up.”
“Could you?”
“Sure.”
I took a deep breath. “OK, then, yes please. I’d love a lift.”
“Brilliant!”
I hung up, feeling happier than I had done in days. I was going to the tournament. I was going to play football. It felt … right.
13
On Saturday morning we were tripping over each other, toing and froing, packing this and sorting out that. I was just glad I only had a small kit bag to fill and not a whole horsebox.
When Hannah beeped her horn, I gave Charlotte a tight hug. “Good luck,” I told her. “I know you’re going to win.”
“Don’t!” she pleaded. “I’ll probably fall off in the first round.”
“That’s true,” I said. “You’ve polished Betty Boo so much you’ll slip right off her!”
She laughed. “I’ll text you, whatever happens.”
“Back at you.”
I then turned to Mum and hugged her, too. “You’re what?” Mum had said when I told her about changing my mind. “I still can’t believe you’re going to football instead of show jumping,” she said now.
“Believe it, Mum!” I told her and kissed her cheek.
I felt a bit hyper as I hurried to the front gate.
14
In the car, Hannah filled me in on all the details I needed to know. We’d be playing three matches in the first round, all six minutes each way. We had Southfields Athletic first, then the Tembridge Vixens and finally the Misslecott Goldstars.
Can Ponies Take Penalties? Page 3