Born That Way (13 page)

“What's wrong with Erika?”

“She's very immature. But that's probably mostly because of how Mom keeps treating her like a baby.”

“I don't think I've ever been treated like a baby.”

“Well you wouldn't like it after the first five minutes of getting whatever you wanted by throwing a tantrum.”

I think about having a tantrum as a way of getting a horse. It doesn't seem like the best way to demonstrate maturity and responsibility. Plus, I don't know how I could live with myself. Still, the notion of negotiating for what I want is intriguing. “So Erika gets her way by acting like a baby, and Stephanie gets her way by acting like . . . .” I can't think of the right word to describe her.

“By acting like Stephanie,” says Taylor.

“Maybe it's not so bad being an only child,” I say, imagining the perpetual uproar in that house, which leaves Taylor to slide around unnoticed under the radar of a worn-down parent. “So how do you get your way?”

Taylor is silent for a moment. “Well I concentrate my mind on what I want, and have positive thoughts about it, so if it's meant to be it will happen.”

“That's it? Is that how you got your ballet lessons?”

“I just asked. Mom said she didn't have the money but she'd ask Grandpa and of course he said fine. Then I had to promise that I would practice and commit myself for a whole year but of course that was unnecessary, I knew I'd love ballet.”

“But what if there was something big that you wanted . . . ”

“Like a horse for example.”

“Right. And you had positive thoughts about it for a long, long time, years even, and you asked your mom and she said no but you still really wanted it more than anything in the world and you had a place to keep it that wouldn't be expensive because you could work there, and you had someone to buy it, so all you really need is permission. Well, and some tack. What would you do?”

“I guess I'd keep the pressure on, gently, all the time. I'd keep talking about it. And probably I would pray.”

“I don't think I'm spiritual enough for that. Plus I think Dad doesn't approve of prayer.”

“Well I guess you could always play the guilt angle somehow—that's what Stephanie did. She whined about being separated from her friends last time we moved and Mom was so worried about her fitting into a new social group that she asked Grandpa to pay for the plastic surgery on her nose.”

“That won't work for me—we haven't moved. And I don't want to move.” I wouldn't mind changing schools but the thought of living farther away from Kansas is intolerable.

“Maybe you could get your parents to break up—divorce creates lots of guilt.”

“Very funny.”

“Stephanie thinks she's the reason my mom and dad broke up. I think that's why she's so mean and unhappy and has so many different boyfriends.” Taylor is obviously in training to be a therapist, but somehow I don't mind. Instead, I'm suddenly impressed by the amount of thought she has put into other people's lives instead of focusing on her own all the time, like I do.

“I don't want my parents to break up.”

“Then you have to find something else for them to feel guilty about. It shouldn't be difficult. Mom says she started feeling guilty the minute Stephanie was born and hasn't stopped since. She says this is normal, so your mom must feel the same way.”

I'm not sure about my mom, but I remember how flustered my dad became whenever he forgot to pick me up at school and how he then tried to make it up to me. Maybe Taylor's right, maybe Mom feels guilty all the time so it's become normal and I don't even notice it, and Dad only feels guilty when he makes glaringly obvious parental errors.

“As a matter of fact,” says Taylor, “now I remember—that's how Erika got Bunga. Mom felt so guilty about putting her in daycare when she went back to work after Dad left that she bought her a puppy. And Erika had only been talking about wanting one for about five minutes.”

“A horse is a lot bigger than a puppy,” I say.

“You'd need a ton of guilt,” Taylor advises.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I'm riding Nickers, bareback of course, and we're out in a field doing canter figure-eights exactly like I saw Kansas do on Hambone. Nickers seems to know what she's doing or maybe I'm guiding her with my thoughts because we're doing perfect little circles and each time we get to the center of the eight I feel a small bump which must be her doing a flying lead change, and then we're cantering a circle in the other direction. We're not going flat-out, it's all very controlled and deliberate and it is so magically, wonderfully harmonious I don't think I've ever felt happier in my life.

I stay in the dream as long as I can. We canter across the meadow and then along a trail in the woods. I can hear birds singing and a rabbit runs down the path ahead of us. Everything's perfect until I start worrying that maybe that grumpy unicorn is going to pop out from behind a tree and will want to talk about whatever is wrong with me, and that's when I wake up.

I lie in bed for a while, because it's Saturday. I miss my barnacles. I miss having something to take care of other than me. But I'm not going to re-capture them.

Instead I decide to get up and make French toast for Mom and Dad to have in bed again, because I need some free time out on my bike. I'm not waiting until I'm cured by Dr. Gelderlander before seeing Kansas again.

The carbs and sugar from the syrup have the desired effect. I don't bring them any coffee. They start cuddling and yawning and I tell them I'm going to ride my bike to the mall and I'll be careful, but they are so far gone they hardly notice. None of what I tell them is a lie; I just omit saying anything about the side-trip I'm planning on the way home.

First I go to the Dollar Store to buy some horse stickers. When I'm there I'm surprised to find quite a lot of other stuff that will be excellent for my campaign. Some things would not normally be to my tastes—for example, the pink pens with white plastic pony heads stuck on the ends. But I also find some little black napkins with golden horseshoes on them, and a candle with a rearing palomino on one side that is drawn pretty much in proportion. Then I find something really funny that especially my Dad will like: a package of toilet paper covered with cartoon drawings of horse bums, just the back two legs and the tail, and the funniest part is that the tail is lifted exactly like a horse does before it starts to poop. Dad is going to kill himself laughing when he sees this. I buy two packs. In total I spend all but $5 of the cash that Auntie Sally gave me for Christmas.

My bike is locked in the rack outside the thrift store. I'm standing beside it trying to stuff all the things from the Dollar Store into my backpack without wrecking anything when something in the window display catches my attention. For a few seconds I can't believe my eyes because right there beside some pink and white snow boots is a small pair of chocolate-brown leather laced ankle boots. I step close to the window for a better look. I have to put my face right up against the glass with my hands like blinkers beside my eyes to block out my reflection, and only then am I sure. These are Ariats. I see the logo stamped in the leather at the ankle, exactly like I've seen in the equestrian supply catalogue. I know the model and all the details. These are the Junior Performer Paddock Boots. They hardly look used. They are worth about $100 new. I know all about these boots. They're made of water resistant leather. They have forged steel shanks, a patented lateral motion control device and a dual direction traction system to make them comfortable in the stirrup and yet stable while walking. They have self-cleaning treads so you don't track horse poop into the house. They have spur-rests on the heels. Spur rests. What can be better than that? But then I put my palm on the window to steady myself, because in fact there is something better: someone has stuck a strip of masking tape across one toe cap and what they've printed on it tells me not only that these boots are one size bigger than mine, making them ideal for growing into, but also that they want $4 for them.

When I come out of the thrift store, I have to take everything I bought at the Dollar Store out of my backpack, put the boots carefully in the bottom and then re-load, making sure that nothing is going to scratch the leather. This is the best, most exciting purchase I have ever made in my life.

I leap on my bike and fly off to see Kansas. I don't have much time before Mom and Dad's attention will drift back in my direction. I'm not planning on telling her about the boots. They can be a surprise one day when I show up for a lesson, perfectly attired. And it's just as well, because when I get there Kansas has company. There's a strange truck right beside the barn in the no-parking zone.

“Hey,” says Kansas. I'm so happy to see her it that I'm afraid my face might split from smiling. She's holding Electra for a horseshoer who is bent over, pressing what must be a very hot shoe against the bottom of Electra's foot. There's smoke pouring out all over the place. Kansas is watching the horseshoer closely, which is understandable under the circumstances. I can hear sizzling and smell burning hoof, though Electra doesn't seem to mind.

Eventually, Kansas introduces us. “Sylvia, this is Declan, my new farrier,” she says.

Declan doesn't say anything; maybe he nods his head when I say hi, but I'm not sure. He takes the shoe to his anvil, bangs it a couple of times with his hammer, throws it in a bucket of water for a few seconds, then fishes it out along with another shoe and brings them back to Electra. He loads some nails in his mouth with the sharp ends pointing out, like Auntie Sally holds the pins in her lips when she's doing her sewing. He picks up Electra's foot, holds her leg between his knees, and positions a shoe on the bottom of her hoof. He takes one nail out at a time, lines it up carefully, then hammers it through a hole in the shoe and into Electra's foot, with three quick blows. I can see the sharp end of the nail emerge through the hoof wall; he twists it off with the back end of his hammer, then repeats everything with the next nail.

Kansas is watching his every move. I don't blame her. I know from my reading that if a nail went in the wrong direction and ended up in the sensitive laminae inside the hoof wall, it would be very bad for the horse.

“Where've you been?” says Kansas. “I was afraid you'd moved.” She doesn't sound very afraid. She sounds unfocussed and distracted. She doesn't take her eyes off Declan. He's wearing a t-shirt that, in my opinion, is on the small side for him, and he's sweating. He's more muscley than my dad.

“I'm kind of grounded,” I say.

This seems to grab her attention, though not in the way I would have expected. She turns to me and laughs. “Grounded? Parents are still doing that—punishing the whole family in one fell swoop?”

“Not officially.” I've never thought of it this way before, that my parents were being punished by having to spend more time with me.

“Well, what did you do?” asks Kansas. “I had the impression you were a good kid.”

“I am! They don't understand me, and they found some stuff on the computer that made it look like I'm . . . .” I stop because I don't know how to explain, and I expect someone to finish the sentence for me, but no one does, so I take my time and finally it comes to me. “They think I'm troubled.”

Declan has finished with one shoe. He lowers Electra's foot and moves to her other side. She's holding up the new foot before he gets there.

“Are you?” says Kansas.

“I want a horse. That's all.”

Declan takes all the nails out of his mouth and holds them between his thumb and finger. “That's trouble,” he says, then spits, wipes his lips on his sleeve and puts the nails back in.

“That's good news for you, Declan,” says Kansas with a warm laugh. “You've got another potential paying customer here.” She's smiling at him. She looks all sparky. She's still dressed like one of the mannequins at the thrift store, and her hair is pulled back in a fat blue elastic, and she's wearing rubber boots, but she seems to have more energy than usual. Mostly when I see her around the horses she seems more on the mature, placid side. Today something about her reminds me of those kids from my school who my mom says need to be on Ritalin because there are limits, she is sorry to admit, to the benefits of non-biological interventions.

But I'm thinking something else is going on with Kansas. I'm thinking that quite possibly she is not a lesbian.

“We're putting shoes on Electra so you can start taking riding lessons. See—the ring is finished.” She points with her free hand and I take in the riding ring beside the barn. It's like a great flat sandy beach surrounded by white board fencing. But the look of pride on Kansas' face tells me how important this is.

“Best outdoor arena in town,” says Declan, hammering in the last nail.

“You think so?” says Kansas.

Declan doesn't answer. From anyone else this would be rude, but I have the impression he doesn't talk much. He lowers Electra's foot, straightens and examines his work. He grabs another tool, picks up a hoof and clenches down the ends of the nails that are poking through the outside of the hoof wall. He does the same thing with the other foot. “Just front shoes should be fine for now,” he says. “See how she holds up. We can put backs on if she gets footy.” He picks up his tool box and slides it into the back of his truck.

Kansas hands me Electra's lead rope and tells me to hang on to her for a minute. She returns from the tack room with a stack of pamphlets which she offers to Declan. “I had these printed up to advertise riding lessons and boarding. Maybe you could take them with you on your rounds?”

“It would be my pleasure.” He reads the top one, then pulls it off and gives it to me. “For your parents,” he says.

There's a photograph of Kansas on the back. She's wearing a white blouse with a high collar, a yellow vest and a black jacket with gold buttons. On her head is a man's top hat. It's the uniform of the upper-level dressage rider. I knew she was good, but this surprises me. I look over at her and she's watching Declan drive off. She doesn't look anything like the picture. “There goes the only Irishman I've ever met who couldn't talk the ears off a field of corn,” she says.

Declan's truck turns the corner and disappears down the road and Kansas comes back to me and Electra.

“He wasn't wearing a wedding ring,” I tell her.

She laughs. “What are you, fourteen or twenty-five?”

“I dunno. I just notice things.”

“Well farriers never wear rings,” she says. “Working all day with hot metal, hammers and lead ropes, they probably need to keep their fingers clear. When do you want to start your lessons?”

I hadn't planned on telling her, but it spills out of me. “I have to see a psychiatrist first.”

“You're kidding me.”

I shake my head.

“Sylvia, are you okay?” She sounds deeply concerned, but not panicked. Not frightened. Not anxious. It's a tremendous comfort to me, like being wrapped in a soft warm blanket.

“I think there's something wrong with me but I don't know what it is.”

She nods her head as though she understands and doesn't need to argue with me or change my mind or make a point. “So how do you know?”

I shrug. Really, I don't know.

“Well maybe seeing a shrink is a good idea then.”

“I guess.”

“And after that you can start riding lessons. And after you've learned to ride you can start looking for a horse, maybe.”

A horse. My own horse. My breathing quickens and my heart pounds in my ears and my brain gets so excited I can't think straight. I have to focus on something or I'm going to pitch over in a faint. I flip Kansas's pamphlet and read the list of services and prices on the back. Lessons, boarding, training, consultations.

“I can give you a special rate on the lessons if you can come around and help out.”

I nod. I'm having to breathe through my mouth just to get enough air in my lungs, so even if I could think of something to say I probably couldn't get the words out. Not that there are any words coming to mind. Maybe I've been infected by Declan, who hardly says anything at all. I force myself to take a couple of controlled deep breaths. I look at my bike, leaning on the barn wall. My bike, which some day might be replaced by my horse, if only I can get my parents to agree. I check my watch. “I better go. They don't know I'm here.”

“Thanks for coming, Sylvia. It was great to see you again. Let me know if I can help with the parents. Us horse people have to stick together.”

I hold up the pamphlet. “This will help.” Then I tuck it into my backpack behind the horse-butt toilet paper, and head on home.

She wasn't just being polite, I could tell from her voice. She really did like seeing me again. She likes me, and she doesn't have to, I'm not even family. Well, not biological family. I'm part of the herd.

I'm late getting home. Mom is on the driveway looking up the road for me. She's pretending not to, she's trying to make it look like she's doing something with the garbage cans, but she never does this because it's one of Dad's jobs and besides, the collector truck doesn't come until Monday. When I get off my bike she inspects the tires and somehow manages to identify horse poop stuck in the treads. I can't deny the possibility and I'm not going to lie. So the result is that she is very disappointed in me and at dinner time she and Dad use the United Front Technique (which I have never been able to distinguish from piling on) and they make it very clear that (1) I am going to take ballet lessons and (2) I am going to see Dr. Gelderlander as soon as he can give me an appointment and (3) a horse is not in my near future.