Chasing Dream (3 page)

5

Ready

Larissa Richland is waiting for me when I walk into our classroom the next morning. In all the years we've known each other, Larissa has never waited for me. No way can this be good.

“There you are, Ellie James!” she shouts.

“Yep. Every Monday through Friday,” I answer.

I move past Larissa toward my desk. But I keep one eye on her. Granny used to say, “You can put glitter on a glue stick, but it's still a glue stick.” I don't know what that means. And I can't ask my grandmother because she died when I was little. But Mom quotes her a lot. And she says this glue stick saying is for when people try to act fancier than they are.

Larissa follows me to my desk. “So why didn't you call me?”

“Was I supposed to call you?” I ask. But I think I know what she's talking about.

“Duh. The race?” Larissa glares down at me. If I'm as short as a second grader, she's as tall as a sixth grader. “You called everybody else about your little race. But you didn't call me. Why not, Ellie? Could it be because you know Custer's Darling Delight and I would win?”

I stand as tall as I can. “No. I didn't call you because your number is unlisted.” The Richlands are the only people in town who won't put their number in the Caldwell County phone book.

A bit of the punch leaks out of Larissa. But she snaps back, “I have a cell, you know.”

“I know,” I say, slipping into my seat. “And when exactly did you give
me
your number?” Last night I realized all I'd have to do was ask Cassie for Larissa's number. I guess I wasn't all that anxious to call her. But not for the reason she thinks. Larissa's three-gaited American saddle horse would be the favorite in a horse show but not in a race. I figured I get enough Larissa at school.

“Well, just so you know, Custer's Darling Delight and I will be at your dumb race,” Larissa shouts. She says it loud and standing up, even though the school bell already rang and everybody else is sitting down. “And we're going to win!”

“Larissa?”

“What?” Larissa spits out the word at top volume, then spins around to see who said her name.

Miss Hernandez gives her ponytail a tug and says calmly, “Larissa Richland, take your seat. You and I will have a talk about this during recess.”

“But that's not fair! It was Ellie's fault. She—!”

“Take your seat, Larissa,” Miss Hernandez says. “Now.”

Our whole class gets super quiet. This is the first time in five years of school, counting kindergarten, that Larissa Richland has gotten into trouble with a teacher.

Today is off to a good start.

At lunch all anybody can talk about is the big race. At least at my table. Rashawn and Cassie are my two best friends (besides Colt), and they both have backyard horses.

“This is such a great idea, Ellie,” Rashawn says. “Dusty isn't very fast. But I still think a race will be so cool. I'm going to braid Dusty's mane. It's really grown out over the spring.”

“Perfect!” I tell her. I love Dusty. She's a big dappled farm horse, as sweet as they come.

“That will be awesome!” Cassie agrees. “Her braids can match yours.”

Rashawn's mother usually braids Rashawn's hair in neat rows of tiny braids. I'd give anything to be able to do that. My hair won't even stay put in one braid.

“Is it okay if I ride bareback?” Rashawn asks.

Dusty is over seventeen hands high. It's like the eighth wonder of the world that Rashawn can mount that horse bareback.

“Of course you can ride bareback,” I answer. “You can ride any way you want.”

“You know,” Cassie begins, “I think Misty might be fast.” She stares at the table, then grins at us, her blue eyes wide. “I'm not saying that to brag or anything. I'm not even sure if my horse
is
fast. I've never let him run all out. It's just that he's always wanting to go faster.”

My friend would never brag. Cassandra Bennet, “Cassie,” is one of the prettiest girls in our class. Her hair is blonde, and no matter how it's cut, it does what it's supposed to. She's as popular as Larissa and Ashley. But it's like she doesn't even know it. Or care.

“I'll bet you're right, Cassie,” I say. “I've seen Misty run. He's got short legs, but they move like lightning. It'll be fun to see what he can do.” I take the last bite of my peanut butter sandwich. That's what my mom makes for my lunch. If I want something else, I have to buy it.

Rashawn is leaning on her hand, elbow on the table, and staring at me. “Ellie, what made you decide to have a horse race anyway?”

I think about how I want to say this.

Rashawn presses me for an answer. “Couldn't have anything to do with Dream being in the library yesterday, could it?”

“Maybe.” I get a flashback of Dream and me leaving the school and Larissa and her friends laughing at us.

Then I get another picture of when I first saw my pinto on school grounds. She wasn't mine then. She looked scraggly and skinny. She tore around the school yard, dodging the animal control people. The entire school was laughing at her.

“I guess I want to show everybody that my horse isn't some kind of joke. I want people to see how wonderful Dream—”

“Aw, isn't this cute?” Larissa interrupts sarcastically. She turns to Cassie. “Are you bringing Phony Pony to watch the big race tomorrow?”

“My pony's name is Misty,” Cassie answers. “And
Misty
and I will be racing on Friday.”

“How cute is that!” Larissa exclaims. She turns to Rashawn. “Don't tell me you're bringing Musty too.”

Rashawn glares at Larissa but keeps her cool. “
Dusty
and I will be there. Thanks so much for asking.”

Larissa turns her red head in my direction. “Wait. Ellie, I thought this was going to be a race . . . not a tractor pull.”

Every year at the fair, there's a tractor-pulling event. Giant horses, like Clydesdales, compete to see how far they can pull big farm machinery. Larissa's crack is a direct slam on Rashawn's horse. And I won't stand for it.

“What's up with you, Larissa? Are you so worried about the competition that you have to make fun of everybody else's horse? Why don't you save it for the race?”

“Oh, don't worry about that, Ellie,” she says. “I'll have plenty left for the race.”

6

Get Set

After school, Colt and I go riding together. We walk the horses down our road until gravel turns to dirt. Then we trot. I still haven't gotten a saddle, so I'm riding bareback. At horsemanship practice, Mr. Harper, Ashley's dad, lets me borrow any of the saddles Ashley's not using. Sometimes I ride Western, sometimes English. I'm not sure how I'm going to ride in the big race.

I glance at Bullet. When Colt got his horse, you really had to use your imagination to see the cow horse underneath all that fat. But Bullet's muscles are taking shape again.

“If you ask me, Colt, I'd say our horses are looking good. Dream has gained so much weight, I'll have to start cutting back on her Omolene pretty soon. And Bullet is really slimming down.”

“I can't wait for Bullet to be in tip-top shape,” Colt admits. He frowns, and he's quiet for a second. “It was strange—yesterday I found the lid off of the can where I store his oats. I could have sworn he'd broken in and eaten half of the oats in there. But when I looked for him, he was still out in the pasture. There's no way he could have gotten into the bin from out there.”

Colt is bouncing a little too much in the saddle. But his riding skills get better every day we take the horses out. “I guess Bullet will lose the rest of the weight in his own time. Until he does, though, I'm afraid to make him gallop hard. I don't want him having a heart attack.”

“I know. You're doing the right thing.” We turn left at the Penney farm. J. C. Penney grew up in Hamilton. Dad says my great-great-grandpa went to school with “Jimmy Cash.” But eventually he left Hamilton and opened all those department stores, and the farm was sold off to someone else.

“I wish I could all out compete in that race of yours, but I can't. Bullet and I will be in it but just for fun. When my horse gets in shape, I'll demand a rematch.”

“You got it.” I feel bad for Colt. He's so competitive that he can't stand losing at anything. I hadn't thought about Bullet not being able to run. I was too busy thinking about showing off Dream's speed. “How about I make it up to you?”

Colt squints down at me. I think he gets taller every day. And tanner—not that I'm noticing. It's only May, and already Colt has an August suntan. “How are you going to do that?”

“Barrel racing. I know Bullet can't run barrels at a gallop yet. But he could start at a trot or maybe a canter. I've got the barrels from Dad's Harvey's Hardware campaign. They're not the kind you'd have in an official barrel race. But they'd work for practice.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Colt says. He leans down and strokes Bullet's muscled shoulder.

“Plus, I could help you with the rules and everything. I've read so many books on barrel racing and cutting horses. What do you say?”

“Great! Thanks, Ellie.” He urges Bullet into a gentle lope.

I lean the slightest bit forward, and Dream eases into a canter. We keep pace with Bullet and Colt until we're past the Penney farm. Dirt crunches under our horses' hooves. Dust clouds puff up behind us. We make our own breeze on a windless afternoon while geese honk from a crooked V overhead. And everything in me tells God, “Thank You.”

As soon as we get back, Colt wants to start setting up barrels in my backyard. But I need to practice for the race. So Dream and I head to the fairgrounds by ourselves.

When I ride up to the fairgrounds, I'm surprised to see Ashley Harper already in the arena. The Harpers have their own stable and their own horse arena. That's where we usually have horsemanship practice. Mr. Harper owns more prizewinning show horses than one rider can handle. Ashley rides Cindy Lou, a beautiful three-gaited mare, in saddle horse competitions. If she's entering a jumper division class, she rides a bay gelding called Hancock's Warrior.

Today Ashley is riding Galahad, their young quarter horse gelding. I watch her gallop Galahad around the arena. They look pretty fast to me. Then Mr. Harper hollers from the far side of the ring, “Go!”

Immediately Galahad takes off like he's on fire. Chunks of dirt fly behind him. I can hear his heaving breath from where Dream and I stand.

“Now! Turn it on!” Mr. Harper shouts. He's holding a giant stopwatch in one hand. He clicks it, then divides his gaze between the watch and his horse. “Stop!”

Galahad slides to a stop. Ashley shakes dust from her long blonde curls and walks Galahad over to her dad. They talk for a minute. Then I see Ashley's shoulders slump. She nods and rides Galahad to a starting position again.

If I were Ashley, I'd want to ride those horses night and day. I'd love to work with Galahad, time the runs, get Mr. Harper's instructions all to myself.

But Ashley's not me. Sometimes I think she doesn't even like to ride. Not like I do, anyway.

Ashley seems to finally see me. “Ellie! Hi!”

Mr. Harper waves. He says something to Ashley, and she walks Galahad over to meet me.

Dream and I go through the opening in the arena and stop when Dream and Galahad are nose to nose.

“You and Galahad looked great out there,” I tell her. “He's so fast.”

“You think so?” Ashley asks like I'd know more about it than she would. “Dad says Galahad has a long way to go.”

I holler, “Hey” to Ashley's dad.

Mr. Harper walks up and pats Galahad's broad chest. The horse is barely sweating. “Hi, Ellie. Dream is looking good, kiddo. Is she still on the Omolene?”

“Yeah.”

“Might want to cut back on it, with all the spring grass you've got in your backyard.” He faces Dream and squints into her eyes. Then he lifts her upper lip and checks her teeth. “She's a sound horse, Ellie. You got yourself a good one.”

“I know, Mr. Harper. Thanks.”

He tilts his head and puts his hand under Dream's jaw. “She been feeling good?”

“Yes. I mean, I think so.” My heart is starting to trot. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

“I'm sure there's not, honey.” He moves his hand to Dream's chest. Then he walks back to her flank. “I'll check just to be sure, okay?”

I can't answer because my throat is too tight. If something ever happened to Dream, I don't know what I'd do.