Another Kind of Cowboy (4 page)

I could feel sweat soaking all the way through my white blouse and black jacket. My nerves were getting worse by the second and Tandava could sense it. By the time I had the saddle on she was pawing at the ground and shifting nervously around.

I got the bridle on, with difficulty, and led her over to a mounting block, but she refused to stand still and nearly dragged me off it several times before some woman took pity and came over and held her while I got on.

All around me girls were being given a leg up by Mommy or Coach, while Daddy held the horse. I tried not to notice people looking at me as I rode over to the warm-up ring. Tandava barely touched the ground. It was like trying to ride a blob of mercury or
a vial of nitroglycerine. She kept flinging her head around and overbending her neck.
Sit up straight
, I told myself sternly.
At least pretend you've got the situation under control
.

The fairgrounds were packed with people and horses and the afternoon went from freezing to scorching every time the sun came out from behind the gray clouds.

In the warm-up ring Tandava spooked at everything, including fallen leaves and stray dust particles. People were really staring now. She kept backing up instead of moving forward, jogging when she was supposed to be walking, and cantering on the spot. I'd only been riding for a couple of minutes and already Tandy was dripping with sweat. Her neck was lathered with white foam where the reins touched her but her mouth was totally dry. I felt my own sweat trickling into my boots.

Every time Tandava sensed danger, which was approximately every 0.4 seconds or so, she leaped into the air. I tried to hang on and kept muttering “sorry, sorry” to all the riders whose horses spooked as we went bolting past.

I gave up trying to tire her out before it was our turn to ride. I could have run her all day and it
wouldn't have made a difference. I jumped off and led her out of the warm-up ring. Her mahogany sides heaved and her flanks were black with sweat. Her nostrils flared, showing scarlet in their depths.

I took a moment to squeeze the sweat out of my gloves, praying that I'd survive the next half hour. When I finished, I noticed someone watching us. It was a boy. Not just any boy. A
cowboy
. I straightened and tried to pretend I was just taking it easy before it was my turn to ride, very much like a genuine cowboy would before getting on his roping horse or bucking bronco or whatever.

The boy, who had very dark eyes and was wearing sexy cowboy gear—a big silver belt buckle, shiny, pointy-toed cowboy boots, and a huge light-gray cowboy hat—gave me a little lip curl. If fact, I think what he gave me was a cool, genuine cowboy smile. If I wasn't about to be killed, I totally would have smiled back.

“Number forty-eight! Number forty-eight! You're up next,” called out the lady with the clipboard, looking for the next victim.

“Oh God, that's me,” I muttered. Before I went, I looked again at the cowboy and he nodded. I couldn't
stand the thought of him watching my humiliation, so I led Tandy to a mounting block a bit farther away.

 

Four minutes later I tried to trot Tandava around the outside of the ring while I waited for the bell to ring to signal that we could enter, but she insisted on cantering. It was like riding a guided missile without the guidance part.

Dressage is all about harmony between horse and rider—calmness, suppleness, submission, plus not getting killed. All I had to do was pretend like I had things under control.

The bell tinkled and the whipper-in pulled back the piece of fence at
A
so we could enter. Dressage rings have letters around the perimeter to show you where you're supposed to go. We entered at
A
at what was supposed to be a collected trot but was actually a very slow canter. I practically had to wrestle Tandy to get her to stop in the middle of the ring at
X
. When she did finally stop it was at an unknown letter off to the side of
X
. Let's call it
Q
.

I saluted the judge, not daring to look at him. Tandava surged beneath me, ready to explode. I had to get moving again.

We tracked left at
C
and proceeded in a collected trot. Or in some weird variation of passage. I'm not sure which. It wasn't my idea.

From
S
to
V
we were supposed to do a shoulder-in. This turned into a half pass across the diagonal, which landed us in no-man's-land on the other side of the ring.
How was I supposed to get back to where we were supposed to be? What were we supposed to be doing?
Back when I rode Dawn's schoolmaster ponies it took about fifteen minutes to get from one end of the ring to the other. On Tandava it took about six strides.

I turned Tandy in a small circle and the bell rang, signaling that I was off course. Frankly, I was just glad to be alive, but there was much more to come.

L to S, half pass left.
Tandava was really gathering speed now. It was like trying to half halt a steam engine.

M, X, K, change rein at medium trot.
Tandava streaked off at just under the speed of light. I only barely brought her back so we could make the corner. My head was sweating so much that my hat slipped sideways over one eye. I was riding blind!

K, collected trot.
Yeah, right.

F, X, H, change rein, extended trot.
With a bit of
canter thrown in toward the end.

R to P, shoulder-in right.
Also known as rush sideways with head thrust in the air.

Okay, okay. I took a deep breath. The test slowed down a bit now. I was going to get through this. Tandava's huffing and puffing made her sound more like an angry rhino than a horse.

Between P and L, half circle right ten meters.
Or fifteen if your steering fails.

L to R, half pass right.
Then left. Then right again.

C, halt.
(Praise
God
!)
Reinback four steps.
Or refuse to budge. Whatever works.

Proceed at medium walk.
Or at slow, disobedient jog.

Between G and H, shorten stride, half turn on haunches right.
Or have horse rear onto hind legs, causing rider to emit small scream of fear.

Walk around a bit more, unsure where to go. Hear off-course bell again. Force self not to finger person ringing it.

Aha! Suddenly remember to break into collected canter on left lead at
A
. Or break into right lead to show that your aids—hand and leg signals—are 100 percent ineffective.

A to C, three loop serpentine-simple change of lead
each time crossing centerline.
Or zigzag crazily around ring at canter with short breaks for fits of bucking.

H to K, medium canter.
The less said about this, the better.

K, collected canter.
Or continue with increasingly out of control extended canter, as horse wishes.

P, circle left.
Use radical lean similar to that seen in barrel-racing ponies.

P to S, change rein with flying change between centerline and S.
Give two violent bucks at centerline and bolt toward
S
. Run right over railing, knocking down half the ring. Go flying into the crowd, scattering kids and horses and dogs and spectators. Hang on for dear life as horse makes for the soccer field at warp speed while off-course bell rings madly behind you.

Be grateful that you didn't run over cute cowboy on the way out of the ring. He probably walked away in disgust at your incredibly foul performance.

SEPTEMBER 8

AFTER I BARELY
survived what was probably the worst third-level test ever ridden at any Fall Fling in history, I put my foot down. “I want to come home. I've learned my lesson,” I said.

“Honey, you can't come home. We are in Africa on the shoot until at least December. And you've proven that you can't be trusted on your own. You have poor judgment.”

“That's ridiculous,” I said. “What happened with Chad was almost like an accident. I was defrauded! Like an elderly person.”

“
You
were defrauded!” exclaimed my mother. “
We
were the ones who were defrauded! By you!”

“That's not fair,” I said, even though she was basically right.

“As I said, you've proven you can't be left alone. You are staying at school and that's final.”

“But I don't want to stay here! Tandava nearly killed me. The coach here is a nightmare. I have a
sprained ankle
! From
falling off
!” My voice was starting to climb.

I took a deep breath to center myself.

“So you want me dead. That's it, isn't it?”

“Cleo, we've found you a fabulous situation there. You're in
Canada
. At a girls'
equestrienne
school.”

“It's a school for people who
jump
their horses. They don't even
teach
dressage here.”

“So jump, darling.”

“I don't want to jump. I'm not into jumping! I goddamn
hate
jumping. Don't you ever listen?” I shrieked.

I saw Phillipa's eyes grow big. Apparently she doesn't curse at her parents.

“Calm down, Cleo. Being negative is never a positive option,” said my mother. Then, without warning, her voice dropped two registers and she snarled, “Tell him that is out of the question. We are not going to be blackmailed into meeting that
has-been's every demand. He wants to leave, fine. He can
walk
back to the U.S.”

“Mom?”

“Sorry, honey, I am just talking to David's agent.”

“God!” I shouted. “You're not listening to me.”

“Don't be silly.”

“Is Daddy there? Does he want to talk to me?”

“Honey, you know he's on set and can't be disturbed over minor things.”

“Nearly getting killed is not a minor thing! I can't stay here. The school sucks. The people suck. And my riding's just getting worse.”

I quickly looked over at Phillipa. She was staring at the floor.

“Tell you what,” said my mother. “We'll get you a new instructor. We'll even get you a new horse if that's what it takes.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Do what you want. I'll just be over here doing street drugs to deal with the pain of my broken ankle.”

“Oh, Cleo,” said my mother. “Please don't take anything that isn't prescribed by a doctor. Darling, I have to go. Daddy says hello.” Without missing a beat her voice switched back into bitch mode. “That is not going to happen. You tell that lazy bastard that he
better get his ass back on set
right now
or I'll get him blacklisted with every director in Hollywood
and
Africa. You hear me?” Then she hung up.

I slammed the phone down on the desk a couple of times, then put the receiver back in the stand.

“The phone still works,” I said, picking it up and turning it on so Phillipa could hear the dial tone.

“Good,” she said.

“And, uh, you don't really suck. I just said that.”

Phillipa's round pink face flushed slightly. She hesitated for a moment and then asked, “
Are
you doing drugs?”

“Just Tylenol.”

“And what was that about getting defrauded?”

“Oh, that. There was just this thing with this guy back home. It's nothing.”

“Okay,” she said. “Well, I guess I should head back to my room.”

“Seriously. I'm not on drugs. I'm just high-strung,” I said.

“If you say so,” said Phillipa, but she smiled when she said it.

She really is a nice girl. Someday I may tell her about the little incident with Chad. Actually, since I've brought it up here, I might as well get the whole
thing off my chest. I never should have gotten in the front seat. That's where the trouble started.

Chad drove me to riding lessons for almost four years. I looked forward to those drives out to the barn for my dressage lessons. We had these terrific conversations, although I didn't say much. I didn't need to. Chad was extremely charming and open. He was twenty-two and he talked to me like I was an adult instead of a teenager. He said I was easy to talk to, that none of the other people he drove listened as well as I did. He said I listened like a much older girl.

For the first three years and seven months, I rode in the back of the car. Then one day I came running out to the car with my sneakers untied, carrying my boot bag. I was late and Dawn was going to be pissed. Chad had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes. I tried never to be late for my drives with Chad. They were half the reason I loved riding lessons so much.

“I'm so sorry,” I said as I ran to the driver's window, which he had rolled down.

“No prob, C.” He hesitated and then looked deep into my eyes. “Why don't you hop in up front here?”

I felt my heart flutter.

“Okay. Sure.”

“It's easier for us to talk that way,” he said as he
grinned at me. “I want to know what's happening in the Kingdom of Cleopatra.”

I looked back at the house. No one was watching. My parents were in Germany, and they never looked out the window even when they were home.

“Hang on,” said Chad, getting out of the car.

He followed me around to the passenger side. His suntanned hand brushed my arm as he took my boot bag. “Let me get that,” he said, as he put it in the backseat. Then he opened the passenger door for me.

“My lady,” he said as he gestured for me to get in.

With him opening my door and everything, it suddenly felt like I was on a date. A real date, my first. And it was with the most beautiful guy in the world.

That was the last time I got into the front seat in our driveway. After that I got into the backseat, as usual, but once we were out of sight of the house he pulled over and I got into the front seat so I could hear him better.

One day, after I'd been sitting up beside him for a few weeks, he asked if I wanted to play a little game.

“Sure. Yeah!” I said. If he'd suggested we play a quick round of Russian Roulette, I'd have been right there.

“It's like truth or dare. Only there's no dare part.”

“Okay,” I said, already feeling us getting closer. More intimate.

“It's kind of a sexy little game,” he said. “I think you're going to like it.”

“Okay,” I said, trying not to sound as breathless as I felt.

He went first. He told me that he liked my eyes.

I told him that I thought he was a really excellent driver.

“Thanks, hon,” he said, which made my thighs go all quivery.

“You look really good in those riding pants,” he said.

I made a noise between a squeak and a giggle.

“I love your hair.” I didn't mention that for almost four years I'd been in love with the back of his head.

“Thanks, babe,” he said.

Oh, I loved the sexy little game, which is how I always thought of it. We played it every time he drove me to and from the barn. He told me that he dreamed of becoming a competitive surfer. He told me how hard it was to find surfing sponsors. How his employers at the car service company weren't cool about giving him time off to compete.

Because of my sheltered existence and my school's annoying emphasis on academics and athletics as opposed to sophisticated life experience, I only had so many secrets to share. When your whole life consists of going to school, watching TV, and taking riding lessons, you tend not to build up much of a store of secrets. I could have told him that I felt lonely most of the time, except when he was driving me to lessons, but then it would have been a depressing little game instead of a sexy one.

We even shared very small secrets. Household secrets. I used a Sonicare toothbrush. He used Crest Whitestrips. He told me where he kept the spare key to his apartment. I told him where we kept ours. It was all part of the sexy little game!

“I really feel like I can tell you anything,” he said, one day after we'd been playing the game for a few months.

I tried to control my face. I felt like he just told me he loved me.

“Look, I'll prove it. Here's the PIN number for my bank card,” he said.

I was so moved I told him the security code for our house alarm.

He turned the car into a strange neighborhood and pulled over.

“You're amazing, C.,” he said. “I love that we have no secrets.”

Then he leaned over and kissed me. He slipped his hand between my knees. He tasted like salt and mint breath spray. After we kissed, he drove me the rest of the way home with his hand on my thigh, like I was his girlfriend. Or his wife. We stayed like that until he pulled over a couple of blocks from our place so I could get into the backseat.

I left the next morning for a four-day riding camp. My parents were in Budapest. When I got back I discovered our house crawling with cops. They'd been called by Consuela, our housekeeper, who arrived after her day off to discover the house had been robbed. Stripped bare. I instantly knew that Chad was responsible because whoever robbed us hadn't broken any locks or set off the alarm system. I was sad that his dream of becoming a pro surfer and traveling to all the big competitions required that he take not only all our antique vases, but also our art, furniture, electronics, and carpets. Still, he'd left my plastic horse collection, which I took as evidence that he
loved me, even if he had gone a little overboard with stealing the rest of our stuff.

The cops and my parents were extremely suspicious, but I tried to throw them off the scent. I wasn't about to rat out the man I loved and who probably loved me. My parents, especially my dad, were furious that they'd had to leave in the middle of the shoot. I didn't bow to pressure.

“No,” I told them. “I don't have any idea how anyone could have discovered the code.”

I waited a few days until things had calmed down before I went to see Chad. I wanted to wish him well in his surfing and let him know that even though our house was basically an empty shell, his love for me was keeping me warm and comfortable and I was willing to wait for him to achieve all his surfing goals before we got married.

I didn't know where Chad lived but he'd told me where he liked to surf, so I caught a bus to Manhattan Beach. It turned out that Manhattan Beach went on for what felt like approximately a hundred miles. I was on the verge of giving up when I finally spotted Chad. He was sitting on the sand, his surfboard beside him. As soon as I saw him, I knew
I'd done the right thing.
Look at him,
I thought.
He's financially secure for the first time in his life, thanks to me.
I walked quickly toward him.

“Chad!” I cried. “Chad!”

He turned at the sound of my voice. When I was about twenty feet away I broke into a run.

“Chad!” I said.

He kind of jumped to his feet and held out his arms. I went to throw myself into them. Only it turns out he wasn't holding his arms out in a romantic, catch-a-flying-girl kind of way. He was holding them out in a
defensive
way, so I kind of bounced off him.

He looked around. “Cleo,” he said without much enthusiasm.

“Chad,” I said.

“Dude, what are you doing here?”

Dude?

“But I just wanted—”

“Cleo, man. You shouldn't be here.”

Man?

“But you…we. What about us?”

I looked and finally noticed the tall, thin woman he'd been sitting beside. If I had to describe her in a
police lineup, I'd have used the word
model-y
.

He patted the air, indicating that I should pipe down.

“Chad?” said the undeniably hot girl, who still hadn't gotten to her feet. It was a good thing, too, because she was nearly as tall as me when she was sitting.

“Dude, you have to split,” said Chad. “This isn't cool.”

“Chad? What's going on?” asked the girl. When the girl squinted she looked just like Kate Moss.

“It's cool. This is Cleo. I work for her parents. She's just a—”

That's when the big guy in the surfer shorts walked up.

“Fancy meeting you two here,” he said. Then he dug around in his shorts and pulled out a private investigator's I.D.

“Chad?” said Kate Moss.

“Chad?” I said, still trying to figure out what was happening.

“Look, man, I barely know this girl. She's been coming on to me…. It's like she's obsessed or something.”

“Chad?” said Kate Moss again.

“You took our TVs,” I said.

Chad spoke to the investigator like I wasn't even there.

“It was her idea,” he said. “She asked me to steal their stuff.”

“Chad,” said the investigator in a disappointed voice.

The point of this story is that I have occasionally displayed what my mother refers to as “faulty decision-making.” But I am completely confident that my worst decisions are behind me. I'm pretty certain, anyhow.

 

Three days after I told my mom I wanted to leave Stoneleigh, I was pulled out of class for a phone call. Right away I was convinced that my parents had been killed by one of those giant parasites they have everywhere in Africa. You know, those ten-foot worms that burrow their way into the skin of your foot and have to be pulled out of your elbow. Maybe they stepped outside and were run down by a herd of stampeding rhinos or mauled by a pack of wild jackals. I wish my parents could occasionally work on movies set somewhere normal, but it's always the Arctic Circle or Timbuktu or some place.