A few minutes later, she had answered six of the ten and was fairly confident that most of the answers were right. Deciding to come back to the last four questions later, she flipped to the second page.
Uh-oh, she thought, feeling her heart sink. Essay questions.
There were five of them. As she scanned the first one, her heart sank even more: “Describe what turn-of-the-century philosopher George Santayana called the Genteel Tradition, and explain the forces that opposed it in the early years of the twentieth century.”
Carole bit her lip. She definitely didn’t remember anything that sounded like that from chapter five. Still, the other four essay questions didn’t look any easier, so she decided she’d better just plunge right in and hope for the best.
She read the question again, trying to focus. The Genteel Tradition, she thought. That sounds like something Mrs. Atwood would like. Before her divorce, Lisa’s mother had spent a lot of time trying to turn Lisa into what she called a proper young lady. One of her favorite words was genteel, and Carole was pretty sure it meant something similar to proper. Here goes nothing, she told herself grimly, gathering her thoughts as best she could. Calling to mind a vision of Mrs. Atwood as she had been before her divorce, she began.
“The Genteel Tradition was the idea that there’s only one proper way to do things,” she wrote, clutching her pencil so tightly she was afraid she was going to break it. Forcing herself to relax, she went on writing. “The people who believed in it thought they knew what was genteel and what wasn’t. For instance, they thought they knew the best way to dress, the proper foods to eat, the correct books to read, and so forth. They didn’t like it when anyone disagreed with them. But some other people opposed their ideas and wanted things to change.”
Carole paused, trying to figure out how long her answer needed to be. She was running out of ideas for this particular question, though she had the nagging feeling that she wasn’t getting it quite right.
“The upper classes believed in the Genteel Tradition,” she wrote. “They didn’t want things to change because any change could only be bad for them. A lot of them didn’t even care if poor people couldn’t afford food or new clothes or even hay for their horses.”
She smiled, feeling rather proud of herself for working in that reference to horses. One thing she did remember from reading chapter five was that horses were still the primary means of transportation at the turn of the century.
Just imagine, she thought, lowering her pencil for a moment. It wasn’t even that long ago—just a hundred years, give or take. And almost everyone relied on horses for their daily life. Horses pulled carriages, plows, fire engines. They carried the mail, went into battle during wartime, herded cows and sheep, hauled lumber. They were the original public transportation in cities and the precursor to the tractor on the farm.
Her mind boggled at the thought of all those horses, everywhere, helping human civilization to run.
And now, not all that much later, she added to herself, resting her chin on one hand thoughtfully, most people in the United States don’t so much as set eyes on a horse from one day to the next.
In a way, that was even harder to believe. Carole couldn’t imagine going one day without the company of horses. Saddling up a pony for a younger rider, mucking out Starlight’s stall as he watched with his ears pricked forward in that way he had, swinging herself into Samson’s saddle and feeling his eagerness to take her anywhere she wanted to go …
She sighed wistfully, wishing she could be sliding her foot into Samson’s stirrup right that moment. He was such a special horse. She had known that from the day he was born, but he proved it again and again every minute that she knew him. She knew that Max was expecting great things from Samson someday soon. The big black horse had the talent, the speed, and the fearless, determined character to be a real contender in the show-jumping ring. Carole planned to help him reach that potential.
That reminded her of their trail ride the day before. She had noticed something that troubled her a little—Samson had hesitated slightly when she’d asked him to ford the creek that crossed the trail in one spot. It had only been a momentary hesitation, after which the big horse had splashed through the broad, fast-moving, shallow stream with no further problems. But Carole knew that even such a minor thing could signal trouble in the future. She had known of at least one champion show jumper with a fear of water. In fact, she had watched a competition on television just a few months earlier in which that very phobia had cost the horse and its rider a ribbon. Not every course included a water jump, but this particular one had, and the horse had refused the jump once and then knocked down a rail when his rider rode him to the obstacle again. Those had been the pair’s only faults, but they had been enough to keep them out of the jump-off.
Carole didn’t want to take the slightest chance of having a problem like that develop with Samson. She was determined to head off any nervousness the horse felt about water before it could take hold.
I don’t think he was really scared, she thought, chewing on her eraser as she went over the scene at the creek slowly in her mind, trying to pinpoint what Samson’s reaction had been to the bubbling brook. I think it was just something new and strange that he wasn’t expecting. He probably won’t think twice the next time he encounters water on the trail.
She mentally chastised herself for taking a different way home the day before, one that didn’t involve fording the stream. Now she would have to wait and wonder.
Still, she wasn’t too worried. Samson was spirited and sometimes impulsive, but under it all he was an intelligent and sensible horse. She was sure she could cure him of any minor water phobia he might have. All it would take was patience and understanding, much like any other part of training …
She was still thinking about that when a shrill sound jolted her out of her musings. It took her half a second to remember where she was—sitting in history class—and another half second to recall what she was supposed to be doing.
The test! she thought in a total panic. I forgot all about the test!
She felt like kicking herself. She couldn’t believe she had sunk so deep into her daydreams that she had completely lost track of reality. Class was over, and most of the questions on her paper were still unanswered. She could hardly believe it. Usually class seemed to last forever, but somehow that day the time had passed in what felt like the blink of an eye. Now the bell had rung and the other students were already hopping out of their seats, gathering their books, and hurrying forward to drop their test papers on Ms. Shepard’s desk.
Carole flipped back to the first page and frantically scribbled random answers to the remaining multiple-choice questions. She gulped as she peeked at the second page again, the one that seemed glaringly white with the answer space for four of the five essay questions still blank.
But it was too late to do anything about that now. Crossing her fingers and hoping for a miracle, Carole stood and shuffled toward the front of the room with her test paper clutched in her hand.
FIVE
Later that afternoon Lisa pulled into her driveway and coasted to a stop. Glancing at the garage, she saw her mother’s car inside. That meant Mrs. Atwood wasn’t working that day—her shifts at the clothing store where she was assistant manager generally ran either from eight-thirty to four or from two to ten, which meant that if she was home when Lisa got home from school, she was home for the whole day.
Lisa climbed out of the car and hurried toward the back door, already planning her evening in her mind. She really wanted to finish her English paper in time to meet everyone at Callie’s house at eight. Luckily she had made a lot of progress the day before—she had spent most of the day in the tiny public library in downtown Willow Creek and the evening planted in front of the computer in her bedroom. Another bit of luck was that her other teachers hadn’t assigned much homework for the night, thanks to a quiz in her Spanish class, a substitute in calculus, and a two-part lab in physic
s.
She let herself into the kitchen, noting the breakfast dishes still sitting in the sink and the scattering of crumbs on the table that meant her mother had probably eaten cheese and crackers for lunch again. Lisa shook her head, wondering once more why life sometimes seemed so unfair. Back when her parents had still been married, Mrs. Atwood had been … well, maybe not happy, exactly, but content in her own way, while Mr. Atwood had been miserable. He had hidden it reasonably well at the time, but after seeing how happy he was with his new wife and baby in California, Lisa knew that the difference was dramatic.
The difference had been equally dramatic for her mother, but in the opposite direction. Since the divorce, Mrs. Atwood had sunk into a morass of bitterness, regrets, and recriminations, refusing to accept what had happened and move on. She had always been very concerned with appearances, twisting virtually everything to fit her own vision of a perfect life and a model family. However, the divorce had turned out to be impossible for even a practiced spin doctor like her to absorb. It had shattered her hopes for that perfect life she’d worked so hard for, and she had all but shut down her former self.
“Lisa!” Mrs. Atwood hurried into the kitchen, wearing her old chenille bathrobe and carrying a fashion magazine. “Welcome home, dear. How was school today?”
Lisa smiled weakly. She hated seeing that look on her mother’s face—that overeager, slightly desperate glitter that meant she was counting on Lisa to make her day worthwhile. “It was okay, Mom,” she said, doing her best to sound cheerful and normal. “Nothing special.”
“Good, good.” Mrs. Atwood tossed her magazine onto the table and clasped her hands in front of her. “Who did you sit with at lunch?”
“Actually, I didn’t eat in the cafeteria today,” Lisa said as patiently as she could, edging toward the hall. “I went to the library to do some more work on my English paper. Remember? It’s due tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course!” Mrs. Atwood said. “You told me what it’s about. Now, let’s see …”
“The Canterbury Tales,” Lisa supplied. “It’s sort of a research report about the Middle Ages.” She had told her mother exactly the same thing the day before, but she knew that these days things didn’t always sink in at first hearing. “Since it’s due tomorrow, I’d better get to work now.”
Mrs. Atwood’s face fell. “Oh. Of course, dear,” she said. “Run along. It’s almost time for my favorite talk show anyway.”
Lisa couldn’t help feeling guilty as she hurried up the stairs, away from her mother’s needy, insistent gaze and voice. She knew that life wasn’t easy for her mother. She hadn’t had many real friends even before the divorce, and what few there had been had mostly been chased away by her bitterness after Mr. Atwood moved out. In addition, she had found it difficult to find much companionship at work, since her boss was a smarmy, self-important man who was only interested in profit margins and inventory, and most of the other employees were high-school or college students. Aside from Lisa herself, just about the only person Mrs. Atwood spent any time talking to these days was Lisa’s aunt Marianne, and she lived in New Jersey, so their conversations were limited by the long-distance phone bill.
Lisa sighed as she dropped her backpack on her tidy white-painted wooden desk and sat down. Her concern for her mother was a familiar feeling by now, but somehow it never got easier to deal with. She did her best to push it out of her mind. She had her own life to worry about, beginning with her English paper …
She dug into her backpack, looking for her copy of The Canterbury Tales. As she did, her fingers skimmed the stiff fabric of Alex’s favorite baseball cap. The passenger-side window of his car had gotten stuck open on their way to the movies on Saturday night, and as he was driving her home, Alex had gallantly insisted on lending her the cap so that her hair wouldn’t get tangled by the wind.
She smiled as she remembered the sweet, loving expression in his eyes as he had adjusted the brim over her face. But thinking about that also reminded her of the rest of that evening—particularly the promise she had made to Stevie.
What was I thinking? she wondered as she turned her attention back to her bag. I never should have promised her I’d tell him. I hadn’t even decided yet whether I think he needs to know.
She bit her lip. Alex hadn’t understood her decision to spend the summer in California with her father. How was he going to accept that she had almost decided to stay there permanently? And how could she convince him that considering staying there didn’t mean she wasn’t in love with him?
Why should I tell him? Why make waves? she thought. Is it really that important? After all, I did decide to come back, and even the closest couples probably have a few secrets from each other.…
She located her book and pulled it out, setting it on the desk beside her notebook. Then she reached over to flip on her computer. As she waited for it to boot up, she sat back in her chair and thought about how complicated having secrets always made things. Thinking about that reminded her of the other big secret hanging over her head these days—the secret that Max was keeping about Prancer. Lisa had spent half her physics class stewing about her brief conversation with Carole in the hall. What had that expression on Carole’s face meant when she’d said, “Sometimes Max has to be the one to make the big decisions?” It had sent an arctic chill down Lisa’s spine. Did Carole know—or at least suspect—more than she was telling about Prancer’s condition? After all, she spent practically every spare waking hour at the stable. How could she not know what was really going on?
Unless it’s something so horrible that Max is even keeping it a secret from Carole, Lisa told herself, her stomach clenching at the very idea. Maybe Carole’s worried about the possibilities, too, and that’s why she doesn’t want to talk about it.
At that thought, Lisa couldn’t block the list of possible ailments from once again parading through her anxious mind. She had stopped by to visit Prancer every chance she got, so she knew she would have noticed any obvious symptoms or lameness. She also knew the mare couldn’t have any serious infectious disease, since Max wouldn’t put his other horses at risk by keeping her at the stable. But there were plenty of problems that weren’t contagious and didn’t have very noticeable external symptoms. Prancer might have leukemia or some other form of cancer. She could be suffering from heart problems, perhaps valvular degeneration. Or, perhaps, some kind of degenerative joint disease. After all, she’d always had that problem with her pedal bone; maybe this was somehow related. She might have a serious gastric ulcer, lymphosarcoma, or even diabetes. For all Lisa knew, Prancer’s radial nerve could be paralyzed or her spinal cord might have been injured somehow. Since she hadn’t actually seen the horse so much as step out of her stall in weeks, she had no way to judge whether Prancer could still move as well as she always had.
Lisa squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed them hard with both hands, trying to will her pessimistic thoughts away. But it was almost impossible to hold them back—sort of the way it had been impossible for her to look away from those horrible, bloody, stomach-churning films her teacher had shown in driver’s ed. She couldn’t stand the idea of Prancer—her Prancer—suffering from some hopeless, fatal disease. She couldn’t stand the thought of Pine Hollow without the sweet, loving mare. But she couldn’t stop imagining the worst.
This is ridiculous, Lisa told herself angrily. If Max realized how nuts this is making me, I’m sure he’d tell me the truth. I’ve got to talk to him again. And this time I won’t let him off the hook until I know what’s going on.
That made her feel better. Whatever was wrong with Prancer, whatever horrible facts she had to face, nothing could be worse than not knowing. She would go to the stable the next day after school, and she wouldn’t leave until she was satisfied.
But first she had some work to do, especially if she wanted to make it to Callie’s gathering. She glanced at her watch, then turned her attention to her books. This time it was easier to push her worries about Prancer
to the back of her mind. Now she knew what she had to do.
Stevie finished gulping down a glass of orange juice and wiped her mouth. “Bye, Michael!” she shouted as she set her empty glass in the sink and headed toward the key rack beside the back door. “You’re on your own. I’m out of here!”
Before she could reach for her car keys, she heard footsteps pounding down the stairs. A moment later, her thirteen-year-old brother dashed into the kitchen.
“Wait,” he said breathlessly. “Where are you going?”
Stevie gave him an amused look. “Why? Afraid of being left alone?” she teased. “Don’t worry, Mommy and Daddy will be home from work in an hour or two. You can hide in the closet until then.”
Michael rolled his eyes dramatically. He had started doing that a few months before whenever any of his family members said something he considered stupid. “Very funny, Stevie,” he said sarcastically. “You’re a laugh riot.”
“I try.” Stevie turned and fumbled for the horseshoe-shaped key ring that held the keys to the small blue car she shared with Alex. “See ya.”
“Wait,” Michael said again. This time he took a few steps forward and put a hand on Stevie’s arm.
Stevie glanced at him. When he stood this close, she always noticed how tall he was getting. Michael had been shorter than average as a little boy, but a recent growth spurt had brought his height within an inch or so of Stevie’s own. Soon, she guessed, he would shoot up until he was as tall as Alex and their oldest brother, Chad. Still, even when that happened Stevie knew she’d always think of him as her little brother. Some things never changed.
“What do you want, squirt?” she asked now. “I’ve got to go. Phil’s expecting me.” She had promised to swing by Phil’s house and pick him up. Then they were going to drop in on A.J. as they’d planned over the weekend.
“You’re going to Phil’s?” Michael asked. “Good. Then the mall’s right on your way. You can drop me off.”
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