A Breath of Eyre (29 page)
Authors: Eve Marie Mont
“Well, shit,” Barbara said, letting the roast drop into the trash can with a loud clatter. “I guess we’ll order pizza.”
That night my father put on a Mozart CD to try to salvage the mood of Barbara’s fancy dinner. We ate pepperoni pizza off the good china and talked about books and movies and summer plans the way I imagined real families did. Later that week, I even let Barbara take me shopping. She bought me a turquoise blouse that she said complemented my pale skin and a flouncy black skirt embroidered with turquoise ribbons. I didn’t hate them.
I spent a lot of that week soul searching, walking the beach, thinking about what I’d do once I got back to school. The essay symposium was only three weeks away, and with everything else that had been going on, I hadn’t given it much thought. But when I got back from the beach that afternoon, I opened my laptop and read the draft of the essay I’d sent to the qualifying panel.
Disgusted with it, I closed that file and opened a new one, typing some ideas about Bertha, the mysterious woman in the attic who was loved by no one, abandoned by her husband and brother, and left in the care of a drunken servant, alone and terrified and trapped. Who wouldn’t go mad under those circumstances? Bertha was a victim of society’s propensity to marginalize anyone who was different, any woman who dared to speak her mind, any woman who was poor, downtrodden, or socially undesirable. Even though we lived in the twenty-first century, not much had changed.
With everything I’d witnessed this year, Bertha had emerged as a more fascinating study than Jane. Who had she been before society and Rochester had sucked the soul from her? What were her unfulfilled hopes and dreams? Why hadn’t she escaped her situation instead of killing herself? What drove her to such an act of desperation? Maybe she’d been sick like my mother. Or maybe, with all that had been taken from her, she’d simply lost the will to live. Before I knew it, I had three pages written, then five, and in the end, a brand-new ten-page essay about Bertha Mason.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love Jane anymore; in fact, what I came to realize was that Bertha and Jane were two sides of the same coin. Bertha represented the wild and untamed side, the woman who lashed out in anger at anyone who tried to keep her down. Jane represented the socially acceptable side, the girl who obeyed the rules and tried to be good, even when it seemed society was out to destroy her.
Each of us was essentially incomplete, composed of multiple fragments that sometimes held us together, and other times, split us apart, leaving us lost and confused. Like my mother, we all had this duality—only with my mother, it had broken her completely. But we all felt this essential paradox in our natures. I was both reckless and careful, smart and foolish, strong and scared. I was Bertha, and I was Jane.
C
HAPTER
29
HAPTER
29
W
hen I got back to school, the campus was in a frenzy of activity with all the upcoming events and competitions scheduled for the final six weeks of school: the essay symposium, band and orchestra championships, the choral festival, lacrosse and softball playoffs, and of course, the usual chaos of final exam preparation and summer session registration.
hen I got back to school, the campus was in a frenzy of activity with all the upcoming events and competitions scheduled for the final six weeks of school: the essay symposium, band and orchestra championships, the choral festival, lacrosse and softball playoffs, and of course, the usual chaos of final exam preparation and summer session registration.
On the morning of Michelle’s equestrian competition, I woke at six and shuffled to the bathroom to shower. When I got back to the room, Michelle was already dressed in her riding outfit. She had tamed her curly hair into a tight braid and was holding her helmet in her hand.
“You look just like your mom,” I said, pointing to the photo on her dresser.
“I know.”
“Did you tell Aunt Darlene you were competing today?”
“Of course not.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
“You know how she feels about riding.”
“I just think it’s sad that she won’t be there.”
“It’s fine,” Michelle said, going into her impervious mode.
We met at the van in front of Easty. Michelle’s trainer, May, was picking up Curry at the farm and taking him in her trailer, and Owen was going to meet us at the fairgrounds. Elise looked fearsome in her sleek black outfit, like some beautiful evil princess. She gave us a cocky sneer, and we both tried our best to ignore her. Even though this was supposed to be a championship pitting school against school, we all knew what the outcome of this competition meant. Whoever won this competition would be the unspoken victor of an epic high school battle.
We piled into the van, Michelle taking the window seat and closing herself off from the world with her headphones. I took out the latest book assigned by Gallagher,
Lord of the Flies,
about a group of British schoolboys who get stuck on a desert island and try to govern themselves, with disastrous results. I read it hesitantly, hoping I’d never allow myself to slip into such a bleak story.
Lord of the Flies,
about a group of British schoolboys who get stuck on a desert island and try to govern themselves, with disastrous results. I read it hesitantly, hoping I’d never allow myself to slip into such a bleak story.
The drive to West Springfield took a little over an hour. When we arrived at the fairgrounds, the sight was a spectacle to behold. Trailers were lined up in the field behind the arena. Some of the horses were tethered to their trailers, still blanketed before judging. Others were being trotted around by their riders to get them accustomed to the ring. Michelle and I met May, who backed Curry out of the trailer. Curry seemed to know this was an important day. He looked anxious but regal, his muscles flexing against his harness, his nostrils flaring from the smell of the other horses, from the thrill of imminent competition.
I felt overwhelmed; there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the goings-on, but Michelle assured me this was very much like all the other equestrian competitions she’d participated in. I was relieved when Owen arrived. He would be my only company on the bleachers all day. Owen greeted Michelle with a hug, but she was clearly rigid with nerves. I wished that Darlene had been there to give her some sense of grounding, some parental burst of confidence.
“Relax, Michelle,” Owen said. “Remember what May said. Your strength is your connection to Curry. If you’re nervous, Curry’s going to pick up on it, and you guys aren’t going to ride as well. When you two are in sync, there’s no one who can beat you.”
“I know, I know,” she said, her voice tense. “I’ll relax when I’m in the ring.”
She turned from him and went to talk to May, and they saddled Curry and led him into the ring to warm up. I shrugged at Owen apologetically.
“She’s right,” Owen said. “She usually relaxes once she’s in the ring.”
“This must be hard for her. It’s her first competition since her mom died.”
“She’s ready,” he said.
We bought ourselves some soft pretzels and soda, then found a spot on the bleachers and waited for the first class to begin. Owen explained to me that some competitions judge the look of the horse more than the rider’s skill. In those, Elise would have had the edge since Odin was a far more polished show horse than Curry. But this competition judged what the rider did—how well she sat and performed certain movements, how seamlessly she controlled her horse. During training sessions, I’d noticed Michelle and Curry’s special synergy, a true partnership of minds and hearts.
Sixteen riders were taking part in the high school division. I watched the first few classes in a constant state of confusion, cheering whenever Michelle and Curry competed and sitting on the edge of my seat as Elise flawlessly went through her paces. Owen was tense; he kept grabbing my arm or involuntarily pushing against me, tapping his foot compulsively on the bleachers beneath us.
When Michelle finished in the jumping class, Owen stood up and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking and whooping. This was the only way I knew that Michelle had performed well. I sensed someone staring at us and glanced over to see a petite blonde with a perfectly smooth bob and enormous sunglasses, immaculately dressed in a pastel green golf shirt and khakis. When she noticed me looking, she diverted her gaze back to the ring, but I’d registered her emotion. Pure hatred. Next to her was a tall, elegant-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing blue eyes punctuated by crow’s feet. He looked kinder than the woman but every bit as aristocratic. He glanced over at me and smiled slightly, then continued watching the arena.
I nudged Owen and motioned to the couple. “The Fairchilds,” he said.
“Ah.”
“Who would have thought such attractive people could yield the spawn of Satan?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Her mother looks so young.”
“The magic of Botox and plastic surgery.”
By noon, Elise seemed to be fulfilling her prophecy that this would be her year. She hadn’t made a single mistake, whereas Michelle and Curry had taken a few events to hit their stride. Around three o’clock, I began to get antsy. We’d been sitting on the bleachers for hours, and my butt had long since gone numb. Owen told me the last event was coming up: reining. It was a solitary event, just one rider in the ring at a time.
We watched the other competitors enter the ring and go through the motions of the pattern, slow and steady. Elise and Odin handled the maneuvers like pros, both precise and poised. When it was Michelle’s turn, she and Curry trotted into the ring, and Michelle peered out into the bleachers. I thought I saw her wink at us. Owen lifted his sunglasses and shot me a nervous look.
Michelle made a little motion with her feet, and suddenly, Curry sprang into action in a blur of dust. As they began to perform the pattern, every motion seemed faster and more dramatic than the last. In her red jacket, Michelle looked like a dancing flame. Horse and rider had truly found their rhythm, matching each other move for move like poetry in motion. After a spectacle of whirls and spins, they skidded to a dramatic stop, and the crowd erupted in applause. Even Mr. Fairchild was clapping, although his wife remained motionless.
We waited anxiously for the final scores to be tallied, and I felt sore and sunburned and a little sick from all the carnival food we’d eaten. Finally the judge’s voice came over the loudspeaker and announced a ride-off.
“What’s that?” I asked Owen.
“If the scores are too tight, they ask the riders to perform a final test to decide the winner.”
We listened as the judge announced the three riders who would be called back: Anne Braithwaite from Newbury Academy, and Elise Fairchild and Michelle Dominguez from Lockwood Prep. Owen and I hugged each other and screamed Michelle’s name at the top of our lungs.
The three riders would have to do a jump-off pattern that involved canters, counter canters, halts, and numerous jumps at various fences before returning to the lineup at the end of the ring. Owen and I watched breathlessly as the student from Newbury glided across the first few fences. On the third fence, her horse grazed the rail. He didn’t knock it off completely but jostled it a little, which set off his gait ever so slightly on the landing. Owen leaned over and whispered, “She’s out.”
“Really? Just one rail?”
“When competition is this tight, that’s all it takes.”
Michelle was next. Her face was intense and determined, but Curry seemed relaxed now, almost exultant, like he was having fun. They set off over the first fence, gliding gracefully across without a hitch, then cantered to the next fence and put that behind them with ease. I got this strange jolt of confidence watching them out there gliding over rails like they were flying. They responded so artfully to one another’s motions that they seemed to be a single creature riding as one, no longer a separate horse and rider. They sailed over the last fence to screeching applause.
Elise and Odin trotted to the starting point, and at the signal, launched into the canters and counter canters, moving like a well-oiled machine. Elise kept her head high and straight, looking supremely confident that she would nail each portion of the routine. Owen frowned when Odin cleared the first few jumps, looking imperial and powerful. Elise’s face took on a fierce concentration as they neared the final jumps. And then, as if someone had whispered in Elise’s ear, she shifted her head ever so slightly. She tried to correct herself, but the moment had flustered her. As they flew over the final fence, I watched with held breath as Odin’s back hoof clipped the rail and knocked it off. Off! Elise’s face collapsed immediately because she knew that something that had been right in front of her had veered infinitesimally and was now forever out of reach.
I smiled gleefully and clutched Owen’s arm. Owen couldn’t contain himself. He lifted me up and spun me, and as I twirled, I thought I caught Elise’s mother’s mouth dropping to the floor at our premature display of victory. Elise could still take the prize, particularly if she was the judges’ favorite. Owen took my hand and led me down from the bleachers. We squeezed our way through the crowd and went to congratulate Michelle, who had been watching Elise’s performance from the side of the arena.
When we got to the ring, Curry’s sleek body glistened with sweat. Michelle’s face was radiant as she took off her helmet, quickly unwinding the braid and shaking out her hair. The gesture had the effect of a supermodel removing her bikini top. I’d never seen Owen quite so enraptured as he looked then. He picked Michelle off the ground and swung her around, returning her to her feet and kissing her hard on the mouth. It was such a passionate kiss I had to look away.
Then Michelle and I did a victory dance, and all of us stood around marveling at the events of the day. So much adrenaline was pumping through our veins that we’d kind of forgotten the judges still needed to make a ruling. When we heard feedback from a microphone, Michelle shushed us all and we held hands as we awaited the verdict.
We listened intently as the head judge announced the results: Elise Fairchild in third place, Anne Braithwaite in second, and Michelle in first!
Michelle and Owen began hopping and screaming, but it took me a minute to realize that Michelle was going home with the gold medal and Elise had come in third! Michelle walked into the arena with Curry to accept her prize, and we cheered loudly from outside the fence. The judge also awarded Michelle a beautiful dressage saddle and a new bridle for Curry. Michelle kissed Curry on the snout as she laid the new saddle across his back. Curry seemed to know he was a victor because he neighed triumphantly and pawed the dust with his hoof.
After the excitement died down a bit, May took Curry back to the trailer, and Michelle went to change out of her riding outfit. While Owen and I waited for her by the parking lot, Elise and her parents walked past. We heard Mrs. Fairchild talking to Elise in clipped tones.
“We rehearsed those jumps thousands of times,” she said. “How could you have missed the final one? You lost concentration for just a second, and look what happened. That piece of baggage took the prize from you. This was
your
year!”
your
year!”
“Apparently not,” Elise said under her breath, and her mother slapped her hard and quick against the cheek. When she saw we had witnessed this, Elise’s mother gripped her daughter by the arm and led her away toward their car. I hated to admit it, but at that moment, I actually felt sorry for Elise.
Michelle finally came out to meet us, looking comfortable and happy in jeans and a T-shirt. We were making our way to Owen’s car when a booming voice stopped us all. “Michelle!”
We turned around to see Elise’s father standing with a dozen red roses in his hands. “I’m Mr. Fairchild,” he said, extending a hand to Michelle. She accepted his hand and stared at him like he was a ghost. “You did great out there today.”
“Thanks,” Michelle said, a bit stunned.
“These were meant for Elise, but I don’t think she’d appreciate them at this time.” He gave a sheepish nod back to his wife. “You deserve them anyway. Congratulations.”
He handed her the bouquet, which she accepted and laid in the crook of her elbow, as one might cradle a newborn baby. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Is this your only cheering section?” Mr. Fairchild asked, referring to Owen and me.
“My aunt couldn’t make it.”
“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’m sure she’d be very proud of you.” He smiled a little sadly, then turned and walked back toward Elise and his wife.
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