Carole (15 page)

I was smiling as I kept cleaning my tack, thinking about all the good times we’ve had since we became friends and started The Saddle Club. Then I looked up and saw Farthing standing in front of me. (That’s this crotchety old pony Max used to have who died a few months before you moved to Willow Creek.)

Farthing turns out to be the Horse of Pine Hollow Future, naturally. “Come, Stevie,” he told me in a solemn voice. “I must show you your future.”

I went along with him, expecting to see something nice, like me and Lisa being bridesmaids at your wedding to Cam (ha ha!), or the three of us taking a trail ride with our children, or something like that. Instead, we floated down over the Fenton Hall cafeteria. “Why are we here?” I asked Farthing, totally confused.

“This is the site of the gala Hollywood film premiere of Lisa Atwood’s latest picture,” Farthing said.

“Really?” I probably should have been surprised that they’d hold something like that in the Fenton Hall cafeteria, but at the time I was a lot more surprised that Lisa was a famous movie actress. I couldn’t help feeling kind of proud of her, though. “Lisa is the star of the movie?”

“She’s the star of
every
movie,” Farthing informed me. “Every director in Hollywood refuses to make any film unless she agrees to star in it. But that’s okay, because audiences
have stopped going to any film that doesn’t feature Lisa Atwood.”

“Wow.” As Farthing swooped us down for a better look, I saw that there was a long red carpet stretched across the cafeteria, and cameras were flashing everywhere as the press crowded around to catch their first glimpse of Lisa. I guessed that she was in the long, black limo that was just pulling up to the door. Everyone started yelling and cheering and calling her name and waving stuff for her to autograph.

Before the car door opened, though, I caught a glimpse of a couple of familiar faces in the waiting crowd. It was us—you and me. We were clutching a couple of envelopes and looking just as excited as everyone else.

“I can’t wait to see her,” the future me said.

“Me either,” the future you replied. “I’m sure she’ll love seeing these pictures of Prancer that we brought for her.”

I was just thinking how nice that was of us (bringing the pictures, I mean) when the car door finally opened and Lisa stepped out. At first I didn’t realize it was Lisa. She looked a lot more sophisticated than usual—she had all kinds of makeup on, her hair was piled up on top of her head with little tendrils falling down at the sides, and she was wearing this sparkly long red dress with matching red high heels that had to be four inches tall. Oh, yeah, and I think she had a red feather boa, too, but I’m not totally sure about that.

Anyway, we started yelling and screaming her name, jumping up and down and waving our envelopes. Meanwhile, all these huge linebacker-type guys in dark sunglasses got out of the car, too, and sort of surrounded Lisa. I guess
they were supposed to be her bodyguards. The whole group of them started down the red carpet, and Lisa still didn’t seem to hear us.

She moved closer, pausing every few steps to pose for the cameras or to sign an autograph for her swooning fans. We screamed her name even louder, and the future you opened your envelope and pulled out a handful of photos. “Lisa! Over here!” you yelled. “It’s us! We brought you some pictures of Prancer so you can see how well she’s doing these days!”

“She’s great!” the future me added at the top of my lungs. “But she misses you since you moved to Hollywood. We all miss you!”

Lisa was finally right in front of us, but she still didn’t seem to hear what we were saying. She did see the photos you were waving at her, though. She paused and grabbed one of them. “Thanks for your support,” she said in this sort of bored, haughty tone. “It means a lot to me to have fabulous fans like you.” Then she took the pen that one of her bodyguards was holding out and scribbled her signature on the photo—right across a scene of Prancer in the outdoor ring!

It was horrible. “But why doesn’t she recognize us?” I asked Farthing. “We’re her best friends.”

Farthing shook his head, making his mane flop around. “Not anymore,” he intoned. “Acting is her only friend now.”

By the way, I guess I probably should have mentioned that I fell asleep tonight reading
A Christmas Carol
—we have a quiz on it tomorrow in English class. So I guess that might have inspired the second part of the dream a little. But it was still pretty freaky, don’t you think?

Whew! It’s getting late (early?), so I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow at the stable for dressage practice and Lisa duty. Wish me luck on that quiz. I’ll need it!

P.S. Maybe I should send Lisa this list to remind her why she loves riding? What do you think?

Why Riding Is Better than Acting:

1. You don’t get to spend time with horses when you’re an actor (usually, anyway, unless you’re acting in a cowboy movie or
National Velvet
or something).

2. Riding is much better exercise than acting (probably? Although now that I think about it, Lisa has to do a lot of dancing in this particular play. But that’s not always the case, right?).

3. You don’t have to wear lots of stage makeup and gunk in your hair when you’re riding.

4. Riding gets you more fresh air.

5. It just is!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s hard to believe that the dressage rally is tomorrow. I can’t wait! Lisa’s dress rehearsal for
Annie
is tomorrow, too. She invited Stevie and me to come watch—I can’t wait for that, either. I’ve never been to a dress rehearsal before. Lisa says it will be just like watching the real play, at least as long as nothing goes wrong. The actors will all be in full costume and makeup, with all the lights and music and everything, just like in an actual performance.

It’s been such a busy couple of weeks! I’ve hardly had time
to write anything about all the practicing Starlight and I have been doing for the rally. We’ve learned a lot, and I think we’re ready to make a good showing tomorrow.

Stevie is in great shape, too. I was just thinking about what happened that day last week, when she and I decided that she should work with Prancer to practice for the rally, since Stevie needed to practice hard and Topside really didn’t, and since Lisa didn’t have time to give Prancer the extra effort she needed. It made perfect sense.

I’m not sure Max agreed with us at first. He stopped by to watch part of Stevie’s first session with Prancer (I was helping them), and he seemed a little disturbed when we explained what we were doing.

“You know as well as I do,” he told us, “that Lisa should be the one riding that horse. She needs as much ring time as possible before the rally, and instead she’s getting less than usual.”

So he had definitely noticed Lisa’s crazed schedule. I tried to defend her, remembering how she had asked Stevie and me to cover for her as much as possible. “I know that, Max,” I said, “and so does she. At least Prancer’s getting ridden. That should help get her ready. And Lisa’s really trying to get here as often as possible.”

Max looked skeptical. “
Trying
to do something isn’t always enough, especially when it comes to riding horses.”

I knew he was right, but I wasn’t sure what Stevie and I could do about it, other than keep trying to help Lisa fit everything in.

I think it was that same day that Mrs. Reg sat us down for her stable management talk. Actually what she was doing
was telling us we had to fend for ourselves instead of getting one of the younger kids to act as our stable manager at the rally. There was some kind of birthday party planned for the same day, so there really wasn’t anyone available except the six of us who were competing.

Stevie and I weren’t too thrilled about that. At that point the rally seemed to be taking over our whole lives. Just when we thought we’d made progress in one area—getting Prancer ready to compete by having Stevie practice with her—Mrs. Reg had reminded us about another area that we’d been completely neglecting. We knew she was counting on us, The Saddle Club, to make things run smoothly at the rally. I mean, she had to know as well as we did that there was no way Veronica diAngelo was going to lift a finger to help out with stable management stuff. She usually doesn’t even bother to tack up her own horse if she can help it. And Betsy and Polly are good teammates in most ways, but they’re both a little lazy about stable chores. They tend to skimp on stuff like cleaning tack unless someone keeps after them about it.

We knew all that. But we still weren’t feeling too good about the problem. “We’re no good at this sort of thing, either,” I told Stevie glumly.

“You mean
I’m
no good at it, right?” Stevie asked.

It’s true that she’s not exactly famous for her untamed enthusiasm for stable chores, but I shook my head. “No, I really do mean we,” I said. “I love doing all that stuff on my own for Starlight, but I can never seem to get everyone else as excited as I am.”

It looked like a real problem, but we didn’t have much time to worry about it. There were too many other things to think about, like whether our best friend would give up riding for acting. Stevie was still fretting about that wacky dream she had where Lisa was a big-time movie star who didn’t even remember our names. I wasn’t sure things could ever get quite that bad, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

So we kept on with our plan. We had Prancer tacked up and waiting whenever Lisa rushed in before or after rehearsal. Of course, that didn’t help a bit last Saturday when Lisa and Prancer turned in a totally disastrous performance at our lesson. Max didn’t say a whole lot, but it was clear that he was disappointed, and Lisa ended up rushing off in tears. The worst part was that Stevie and I didn’t even get a chance to talk to her about it, since she had to race off to another rehearsal.

Meanwhile the rest of us had our hands full, trying to get organized for the rally without a team manager. It wasn’t a pretty sight. We spent a long time arguing about it (Stevie, Betsy, Polly, and I did, anyway—Veronica took off right after class, as usual). Finally we just agreed to get our own stuff ready as much as possible and pray that we found somebody to step in to manage the team’s equipment and everything when show time came. That didn’t seem like much of a solution, but it was the best we could do.

After that was settled, Stevie and I decided to call Lisa to see how she was doing after her tough day. “I’ll bet she’s calmed down by now,” I said. “Maybe she has time to meet us.”

Stevie was doubtful about that, but we figured it couldn’t hurt to call her and see. So we called her house. Mrs. Atwood answered.

“Is Lisa there?” Stevie asked politely.

“You mean she’s not with you?” Mrs. Atwood asked.

“Us?” Stevie said. “No, she left Pine Hollow hours ago.”

Mrs. Atwood sounded confused. “But I thought she must be with you because the director of the play has called three times looking for her.”

“You mean she’s not at rehearsal?” I demanded.

“No, she never showed up.” Lisa’s mom was starting to sound concerned. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

Stevie and I looked at each other. I knew we were both thinking the same thing. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Atwood,” Stevie said into the phone. “We know where to find her.”

Soon the two of us were heading out across the fields behind Pine Hollow. We hadn’t bothered to put saddles on Starlight and Topside, just bridles. We entered the woods on our favorite trail, and before long we had reached our favorite spot by the creek. Lisa was there, sitting on that big rock that juts over the water, staring down at the rushing creek and muttering to herself. Her eyes were red and her skin looked blotchy, the way it does when she’s been crying.

“Phew! I’m glad you’re here,” Stevie greeted her brightly as we dismounted and headed toward her. “We thought a Broadway director might have whisked you off for a starring role.”

“Fat chance,” Lisa replied bitterly. “At the rate I’m going,
the only starring role I’m up for is Queen of the Failures. I’m a failure at Pony Club. A failure at
Annie.
A failure at school …”

That last part was pretty bogus, of course. For Lisa, failing at school means getting an A-minus instead of an A-plus, which I guess is what happened on some quiz or other she’d taken that week. Stevie and I were a lot more concerned about the other two items on her list. We launched into a pep talk, reminding her how hard she’d been working and how talented she was—at riding
and
acting.

“No one ever said acting was easy, you know,” I told her, remembering how worried she was because she was the only first-time actor in the play. “But you walked in out of the blue and got the lead.”

“Sometimes I wish I’d never auditioned.” Lisa’s voice was cracking a little. “This is such a familiar feeling—being a beginner. Everyone else seems to have been born riding or acting.”

Stevie and I nodded sympathetically. Lisa’s such a good rider now that both of us had practically forgotten that she hadn’t been riding as long as either of us.

“At least I’m over the hump in riding,” Lisa went on. “I don’t have to ask what a martingale is or how to pick out a hoof anymore. I can’t even remember not knowing. But being in
Annie
is like that time my French class went to Montreal. Everyone looks at you funny because you can hardly speak the language. At first it’s fun. But pretty soon you want to go home to Willow Creek—or Pine Hollow.”

“You mean you’re not going to quit riding after all?” I asked.

“Quit riding?” Lisa repeated incredulously. “What ever gave you that idea?”

“We—We, ah—” I stammered, not quite sure how to explain.

Stevie jumped in to save me. “We thought you might be having so much fun acting that you’d decide you liked the stage better than horses and that you’d want to be in a lot more plays,” she said. “And then you’d start hanging around with the theater crowd at school, and pretty soon you’d get a personal acting coach and join a mime troupe and run off to Hollywood to star in movies and forget our names when we asked you for autographs.”