Golden Filly Collection Two

by Lauraine Snelling

  “More good news. The note I have from the office says this class gets to vote on how the money will be used.” Cheers erupted again.

  “You mean you didn’t know about this either?” one of the kids asked.

  “Nope. Best kept secret. Lets me know why Mrs. Olson kept grinning at me in the staff meeting this morning. Now, how should we go about deciding what to do with the money?”

  “Throw a pizza party to end all parties.” The suggestion came from one of the boys in the back of the room.

  “Sorry, I asked for suggestions on how to proceed, not on what to do.” She motioned to a girl toward the back.

  “Form a committee?” Groans met her suggestion.

  “That’s one way. Stacy?”

  “Each of us come up with one suggestion and we all vote.”

  “Good.” Ms. Wainwright wrote them both on the board.

  “How do we know what’s really needed? Like, you know, projects the school board or some teacher has thought of?” another student asked.

  “Good point.”

  “This democracy stuff is sure slow. I say let’s just have a party.” Snickers followed this observation.

  “Just helping you understand why it takes so long to get a bill through Congress.” Ms. Wainwright perched on the tall stool she kept at the front of the room. “Any other suggestions?”

  “How about we make a list of people to talk to—for suggestions, you know—and all of us in the class volunteer to talk to one.”

  “Good idea.”

  “And then we could vote on the best idea.”

  “No, then committees could research the ideas we like best so we’d have all the information.” Rhonda’s red hair crackled from the excitement generated.

  Ms. Wainwright finished writing all the ideas on the board. “Any more suggestions?” She waited, tossing her chalk from one hand to the other. “Good, then let’s look for the process here. First, what is our ultimate goal?”

  “To spend the money in the best way for Prairie High.” Rhonda again, nearly bouncing in her seat.

  “Well put. Anyone have any additions to her statement?”

  “I still think a pizza party would be easier.”

  By the end of the class, they’d made a list of people to talk with, and all the students had volunteered to interview one and bring back a report by Friday.

  Trish chewed her bottom lip. Most of the decisions would be made the next week, and she would be in Kentucky. Though she’d forgotten her anger during the discussion, it all came flooding back now. All the choices she had to make, and someone was out there trying to mess up her life even more.

  “Good going, Rhonda.” Rhonda and Trish stepped back to keep from bumping each other going out the door.

  “Thanks.” An icicle fell from the answer and crashed on the floor.

  “Can I help?” Amy asked in the car going home.

  Trish shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ve never had a fight before. I said I was sorry.” What if Rhonda stays mad forever? The thought sent Trish crashing even lower. “What would you do?”

  “Guess I’d go over to her house after she gets home and tell her we need to talk. I’ve never felt waiting for something to blow over is the best way to handle it.”

  “Yeah, and my dad would say to pray about it first.” A car horn blared behind them. Trish jumped. Her heart hit high gear before her foot could hit the gas pedal. “Same to you,” she muttered. Her hands shook on the wheel.

  “Pull over, Trish. Get your breath before we go on.”

  Trish couldn’t summon enough spit in her desert throat to answer. Instead she did as ordered.

  As soon as the van stopped, she dropped her head forward on her hands—hands that gripped the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline thrown in a raging sea.

  A car passing broke the silence after she turned off the ignition.

  Slowly but surely her heart resumed its normal pace. She could swallow around the sand and her fingers released their stranglehold on the wheel.

  “Better?”

  Trish nodded.

  “Okay, then let’s talk about how you’re feeling. In our police training we are taught how to handle the kind of stress you’ve been experiencing. But even so, at the end of a rough time, we find someone to talk with. There are counselors for post traumatic stress for us. We can recognize the symptoms of a body on overload. Honey, you’ve got ’em all, and it’s not your fault.”

  “I hate him.”

  “That’s a normal emotion. Who wouldn’t?”

  “And I hate being mad at people and having them mad at me.”

  “You bet.”

  Trish sucked in a deep breath and leaned her head back against the headrest. When she let it out, she could feel her entire body sigh. “Why is he doing this to me?”

  “I wish I knew.” Amy shook her head. “I just wish I knew.”

  “I’m scared.” Trish could barely force the confession past her trembling lips.

  “Of course. Nut cases always scare me. Give me a good old-flashioned robbery any day. Then you can see who and what you’re up against. Trish, there’s no shame in being afraid or angry. If you ask me, you’re doing a good job of coping.”

  Trish shot her a raised-eyebrow look.

  “Well, most of the time. And even NBA players get time out once in a while.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a far cry from an NBA star.…”

  “But you are a star, a star athlete—only in another field—and stars, sad to say, are most often the focus of stalkers.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Keep talking. Don’t try to stuff your feelings and don’t think you can handle everything yourself. There’s no crime in asking for help. That’s one reason police always have buddies—we work in teams. Helps keep us sane. Besides safe.”

  Trish flexed her fingers and rotated her shoulders. “Thanks, Amy.” She started the car and put it in gear. “You know, I almost hate going home, just in case there’s something else.”

  “We’ll get him, Trish. I promise.”

  Caesar wobbled to his feet and barked one yip from the front step when Trish got out of the van. “Hey, old man—no, you stay there. I’m comin’.” Trish left her stuff in the van and trotted up the sidewalk. Caesar sat on his haunches, tail dusting the concrete, one yip telling her to hurry. When she hugged him, she could feel him sway. “Still mighty weak, aren’t you?” She drew back from hugging him and studied his face. His pink tongue flicked out and caught her nose. “You could have stayed inside, you know.” He shuffled forward, crowding as close to her as possible and resting his muzzle against her chest.

  The door opened and Marge appeared, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Sandra called from Detroit. I told her you’d call as soon as you got home. How come you’re late?”

  Trish buried her face in Caesar’s ruff. “Kinda fell apart there for a minute.”

  “Amy?” Marge shifted her attention to the young woman carrying Trish’s gear as well as her own up the walk. “Did something else happen?”

  “No, not to worry. She’s a trooper. Just needed to clarify some things.” Amy dropped a pat on Caesar’s head and went on into the house.

  Sure, nothing happened. Trish let the thoughts ramble. My best friend isn’t speaking to me, and I nearly flipped out when a car honked at me ’cause I forgot to pay attention at a stop sign. But…The thoughts rambled onto a brighter road. At least he didn’t rear-end me or use obscene gestures.

  “I’m okay, Mom. How long ago did she call?” Trish gave Caesar a last pat and rose to her feet. “Man, am I thirsty! Did you get more Diet Coke? I drank the last one last night.”

  Marge nodded her head. “I went to the grocery store. How does fried chicken sound for dinner tonight? You don’t have any mounts, do you?”

  Trish shook her head before diving behind the fridge door. She popped the top on a Diet Coke can and chugged several swallows. Amazing how panic made one thirsty. But s
he surely wasn’t going to tell her mother that bit of information.

  Trish dialed the phone number in front of her, the phone tucked between shoulder and ear so she could sip from her drink at the same time. Hard to believe she was really going to be in an ad for one of the big three American car companies.

  “I have some news I think you’ll find exciting,” Sandra said after the greetings. “Are you sitting down?”

  “No, but I will.” Trish pushed herself up on the counter. “Okay, what?” She listened intently. “Really! You’re kidding.”

  Chapter

  10

  Red’s going to be in the ads too? You’re not just making this up?” Trish slapped her free hand on the counter. “I can’t believe it. He doesn’t know any more about acting than I do.”

  “The lines won’t be difficult, we promise.”

  “Lines—I forgot about lines.”

  “Don’t worry, Trish, you’re going to have a ball with this.”

  Amy and Marge stood in front of Trish, hands on hips, waiting for some answers. Trish waved them back with her free hand. She didn’t dare release her clutch on the phone. If she did, this crazy dream might just spin away.

  She listened while Sandra gave her more instructions. Their tickets were all booked and would arrive by overnight express. All she needed for the shoot were several sets of silks, her helmet, and all the other gear she used every day. Trish nodded her understanding, then caught herself. These weren’t video phones, not yet, so she added “uh-huh’s” in all the right places. When she finally hung up the phone, she leaped to the floor.

  Arms in the air, she danced first around Amy, then Marge. “You won’t believe all that’s happening.”

  “It would help if you’d tell us.” Marge leaned back against the counter. “I’m sorry it’s such bad news.”

  “Yeah, terrible. Trish.” Amy grabbed the dancer’s arm. “Tell me, now!”

  “Red’s going to be in the commercials with Spitfire and me.”

  “Got that part.”

  “We leave Sunday morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re sending three tickets. One for you.” Trish tapped her finger on Amy’s chest. “You ever been to Kentucky, m’dear?”

  Amy looked as if someone had doused the sun. “No, and I’d love to go, but the department isn’t planning on sending me.”

  Trish danced again. “They don’t have to. Chrysler wants you along to protect me, and they’ll pay you and your expenses. If Parks won’t let—”

  “It isn’t his decision. It’s the chief’s.”

  “Don’t worry. Sandra is taking care of that too. You have vacation time coming—use it for this, or else she said something about a loan. You know, like an interlibrary loan. Only you’re not a book.” Trish quit dancing to double over with laughter at her joke.

  Amy and Marge laughed along with her. Who could resist?

  “Maybe I’ll really get to go?” Amy copied Trish’s thumping dance step. “Who-ee.”

  “Just call Sandra a miracle worker. Come on, Mom, get in the act.” She pulled her mother into the chorus line. “We’re going to Kentucky on Sunday.” She stopped so fast, Amy bumped into her. “We’re flying first class.” She whooped again. “I gotta call Rhonda. Wait till she hears this.”

  At the thought, her dancing feet planted themselves firmly on the floor. What if Rhonda still won’t talk to me?

  “What is it, Tee?” Marge leaned back against the counter. When Trish told her the sorry tale, she shook her head. “All these years you two got along so well, and now, wouldn’t you know, a guy comes between you.”

  “It’s all my fault.”

  “Well, I’ve learned through the years that it takes two to fight but only one to begin the making up. You’ve got a couple of horses who need training, and then I suggest you go see Rhonda. That way she can’t hang up on you.”

  “You’re right.” Trish stared out the window. “Isn’t Brad coming over?”

  “Not today. He had something else he had to do. I’ll help you.”

  “Me too. That way I can loosen up these aching muscles from riding yesterday. And I thought I was in good shape.” Amy rubbed her inner thighs. “I better call the chief too—find out what he thinks about my trip to Kentucky. How long we gonna be there?” She chuckled, her voice carrying a sinister tone. “Wait till Parks hears about this.”

  As soon as the horses were all brushed and fed, Trish turned to leave Amy at the house and jog down the long drive.

  “Where you going?” Amy stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “Over to Rhonda’s. Why?”

  “Not by yourself you’re not.”

  “Amy, it’s just down the road, not even half a mile away.”

  “We’ll drive and I’ll wait in the car.” Amy snagged the van keys off the hook above the phone. “Come on.”

  Trish gave her a disgusted look but did as told. The phone rang just as they closed the front door behind them.

  “Hang on.” Amy tossed Trish the keys.

  Trish felt the symptoms strike her body. Speeding heart, tight stomach, clenched fists. Even her hair seemed to lift from her neck. All because of the ringing phone. Sure, she was handling all of this just fine.

  “It’s for you. They’re ready to release your car.”

  Trish took the offered receiver. “But I can’t pick it up tomorrow. I have to be at the track right after school,” she said after listening to the caller. “How about later in the evening?” She groaned at his answer. “Just a minute.” She put her hand over the receiver so she could listen to Amy.

  “You can have the repair shop pick your car up if you know who’s going to do the bodywork.”

  Trish nodded her thanks and gave the instructions to the caller. When she hung up, she reached for the phone book. “You sure make my life easier,” she told Amy. “You want to take on the job of big sister permanently?”

  “Well, if I had my choice, I couldn’t find a better baby sister anywhere.” Amy gave Trish a quick one-arm hug.

  Blurry eyes made it hard for Trish to decipher the phone number of the body shop. They’d be able to pick up her car, no problem, and a paint repair like that would take two weeks. Trish groaned. They’d call with the estimate as soon as they saw the damage. She hung up the phone, shaking her head. “Everything takes so long.”

  “You don’t want them to rush a paint job like this. They gonna touch it up or repaint the entire vehicle?”

  “They’ll let me know when they see it.” Trish shuddered at the memory. “I’m glad I don’t have to see it again before it’s finished.” Together they headed for the van and Rhonda’s house.

  “Sorry, Trish, she’s not home yet,” Mrs. Seabolt answered when Trish stuck her head in the door. “Jason is taking her out to dinner and an early movie.”

  “On Wednesday?”

  “I know, there go the rules, but you kids are seniors now. Guess you should be able to make your own decisions—right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Ummm—don’t tell her I was here, okay?”

  “Trish, is there a problem?” Tall and with hair several shades darker than Rhonda’s carrot top, Mrs. Seabolt studied Trish through emerald eyes of love. “Okay, my other daughter, what’s up?”

  “Nothing much.” Trish couldn’t look her in the face. “I’ll get back to her later.” She turned and waved over her shoulder. “See ya.”

  “Kinda reminds me of a stakeout,” Amy said when Jason’s car had finally left the Seabolt home a bit after nine. This was her and Trish’s third drive by. “As I said, I’ll wait out here.”

  With her thumb cuticles chewed raw and her bottom lip feeling like it might begin to bleed any moment, Trish sucked in a life-giving breath when she mounted the stairs to the back door. All these years of running back and forth and nearly living at each other’s houses, here she was having a terrible time going in.

  “Please, God,” she muttered the words she’d been p
raying all evening. “Please make Rhonda listen to me and forgive me. I can’t stand having her mad at me.” When she entered the Dutch blue kitchen, Mrs. Seabolt pointed upstairs. Trish heard Rhonda’s voice on the phone.

  “Thanks, Mom. Tell her I’ll call later or she can call me when she gets home.”

  Trish felt her heart leap right up into her throat. Rhonda had been trying to call her.

  “This soon enough?” Trish stepped through the door into Rhonda’s teal and mauve room.

  “Trish, I…”

  Trish held up her hand, traffic-cop style. “Me first. I’ve been practicing all evening. Please forgive me for being such a downer and for my mean remarks about Jason. I’m really sorry.”

  “No, it was my fault. I know all the terrible stuff that’s been going on. I shoulda been more understanding.”

  The two friends collided midway between the bed and the door. Between hugs and giggles, along with a bit of cheek wiping, they made their forgiveness definite. They both flopped backward on the bed.

  “Man, let’s don’t ever do this again.” Trish laid the back of her hand across her forehead. “I can’t take it.”

  “Me neither.” Silence but for their breathing rested gently on them.

  “How was the movie?” Trish elbowed Rhonda in the ribs.

  “Funny.” Her voice settled into dreamy. “Trish, he’s such a neat guy—not a kid like all the boys we know.”

  “Is he a good kisser?”

  “Tricia Marie Evanston!” Rhonda picked up a pillow and bopped her friend in the face. “That’s none of your business.”

  Trish rolled over on her stomach, feet in the air. “Well, is he?”

  “How should I know? He’s the first guy I’ve really kissed.” Rhonda assumed the stomach position also and crammed the pillow under her chin. The silence draped comfortably around the room.

  “So, what’s gone on today in the saga of Trish Evanston, girl jockey?”

  “Well, we haven’t heard from what’s-his-name.”

  “The Jerk!”