Comeback (3 page)

My phone blinked. The pink smiley face on my phone screen meant I had a
new mention.

BrielleisaBeauty: @LaurBell: Wish @AnaArtiste & I
had a lesson w u! xx

Smiling, I typed back to Brielle, my Briar Creek bestie.
@BrielleisaBeauty: Miss u and @AnaArtiste 2! Skype soon! Say hi 2 Kim 4
me.

Another message came before I exited the app.

@LaurBell: Xcited abt r lesson. C u there.

It was from Drew. Or, SwmerGuy. OMD! Should I write back? Or was this his
reply to me, and then I'd be replying to a reply, which would be weird? I
couldn't decide, so I exited Chatter and tried to focus on homework.

So far I'd only read a couple of pages and the handout Mr. D had
given us. He'd warned us that the book was tough subject matter, but it was
something he wanted to expose to our class. Apparently, it focused on African-American
issues and women's rights.

Mom would be proud that I was learning about both
of
those—especially women's rights. She always instilled her belief that women
could do anything men could do upon my sisters and me. I smiled, thinking back to Take
Your Kid to Work Day last year. Charlotte, my oldest sister, had been away at Sarah
Lawrence College, but Becca and I had gotten the day off from Yates to go with Mom.

We'd dressed in skirts, fitted shirts and shiny ballet flats, and
swapped our backpacks for purses. Mom had driven us to the law firm where she
worked—an enormous steel-and-glass building. Becca and I had to check in at
security, and the guard gave us badges with our photos on them. We'd ridden an
elevator up ten stories to Mom's floor.

All day we watched her do lawyer stuff. She made lots of phone calls,
paced back and forth in her stilettos, read piles of documents on her desk, and drank
lots
of coffee. She let Becca and me take turns playing
secretary and answering her phone. We had to say, “Hello, you've reached the
law office of Ms. Towers. How may I assist you?” Then we took messages. I'd
thought the day would be (sorry, Mom!) boring, but it was cool to see her in action.

I opened my English notebook, started a new page for Ms. Angelou's
book, and started reading. I'd read the first
page when my
phone blinked. I checked it and opened a BBM from Khloe.

Khloe:

Every1's in! C said we should def come 2 her
room. Yay 4 2nite!

Lauren:

Awesome! V xcited! C u @ the stable.

Khloe:

I saw DREW Chattered @ u! :D

Lauren:

I know! Eeeek!

Khloe:

LOL. Awe-SOME!

I went back to my book, trying to focus on the text. Soon the words pulled
me in, and I flipped the pages, forgetting to be thinking about an essay topic.

“. . . dismissed and happy Friday!” Mr. Davidson's voice
jolted me out of my reading. Everyone around me shoved back their chairs, piled
textbooks into their bags, and rushed for the door. I hurried out with them—I
wanted to get back to my room as fast as possible, change, and get to the stable.

Whisper.
Thinking her name made me smile. I
hadn't had a lot of free time to spend with her this week. I missed her even
though we'd had a lesson every day except yesterday.
We needed
some QT stat. Mr. Conner had told each of us on the seventh-grade intermediate team to
meet outside the stable. My gut said one thing: cross-country.

Back in my room, I pushed aside my dirty laundry basket and opened my
closet door. I'd already tossed down my backpack and kicked off my ankle boots. I
reached for the stack of breeches and pulled out a moss-colored pair. I looked at my
T-shirts, going through them twice.
Just pick one!
I said to
myself. I yanked a black V-neck with white stitching off a hanger and got dressed.

I was glad Khloe hadn't witnessed that. She would have pointed out
the exact reason why I was taking so long with a shirt for
lessons
. It might have had something to do with a certain black-haired,
blue-eyed boy.

In the bathroom, I gathered my loose waves and pulled them into a low
ponytail. I grabbed my makeup bag from under the sink and pulled out an oil-blotting
sheet. I pressed it on my nose, chin, and forehead, then tossed it in our trash can. A
coat of shiny gloss with SPF and I was ready. My pale skin looked stark against the
T-shirt; my blue eyes were the focus of my face, since I'd kept everything else
neutral; and my light-brown hair was smooth.

I grabbed my bag for the stable and left. Outside Hawthorne Hall, the
September air was warm. I took my
favorite route to the
stable—skipping the main sidewalk and taking less populated ones to the giant
black and white building.

Happiness bubbled inside me the closer I got. Horses always had that
effect on me. I passed glossy fences that held beautiful horses inside. Several
pastures, big and small, were separated by gates. Some horses grazed in herds, a few
sipped water from the troughs, and a playful few chased one another, squealing and
dancing when another horse got too close.

I laughed. There was something beautiful about seeing horses play and be
free without any interaction from a person. Each horse had his or her own distinct
personality, which really came through during playtime. But even during play, something
was different about Canterwood horses.
These
horses could
change from mischievous to competitive in seconds. Just like their riders. The dizzying
variety of breeds—some bred for speed and others for strength—were always
on
. Watching the horses interact was almost like seeing
riding students dance around one another.

Walking a bit faster, I stepped onto the gravel driveway in front of the
stable and walked through the open double doors. The stable was packed for a Friday. No
way was I going to find a pair of cross-ties. Horses and riders
filled the main aisle, and the hot walker buzzed as horses followed the mechanical
arm around the circular track. I stood on my tiptoes, but I didn't see Drew.

I took a left, going down a side aisle to the tack room. Unlike yesterday,
when I'd hovered outside the door and eavesdropped on Drew and Khloe, I pushed
open the door and walked right inside. The tack room was almost the size of my living
room at home. Rows and rows of gleaming saddles lined the walls. Bridles hung above them
on pegs. A colorful array of saddle pads were paired with each saddle. We couldn't
use fun colors to show, but Mr. Conner allowed them for practice.

I reached Whisper's gear. I put my arm under her saddle, picked out
a hot-pink saddle pad, and slid her bridle from the peg and onto my shoulder. Sometimes,
it still didn't seem real that Whisper was
my
horse.
After riding stable horses for my entire riding career, Whisper had been a gift from my
parents for my acceptance to Canterwood.

Whisper and I were the newest pair on the intermediate
team—we'd only been together since the summer. Imagining her sweet face made
me hurry out of the tack room, down the side aisle, and back to Whisper's
stall.

“Happy Friday, girly!” I said, putting her tack on top of her
trunk.

A low whicker came from inside the box stall, and
before I reached the door, Whisper stuck her head over and looked at me.

“Hi, beautiful.” I put a hand on her baby-blue halter and used
the other to scratch her cheek. Whisper, the lightest shade of gray I'd ever seen,
was a Hanoverian-Thoroughbred mix. She had no markings except for the black and pink
snip that I loved to kiss. “You ready for today's lesson?” I
asked.

Whisper closed her eyes and lowered her head. When she opened her eyes,
her flirty, curly lashes blinked at me. Liquid brown eyes looked sweet and full of
understanding. Whisper was my dream horse, and I couldn't imagine
Canterwood—or my life—without her. A lot of her past was a mystery to me,
and sometimes I could sit for hours and imagine where she'd lived, who'd
ridden her, and how we'd ended up together.

I unlatched the stall door and lightly put my hand on Whisper's
chest to move her back. I pulled a matching lead line off the hook at the stall door and
went inside. Whisper sniffed my hands and arms, tickling me with her whiskers, as I
clipped the lead line to her halter.

“Not yet, missy,” I said, grinning at her. I tied her to the
iron bars at the front of her stall. “You get treats
after
our lesson. Not before.”

Whisper gave up and let out a short sigh,
disappointed.

“I think you'll make it
just
fine,” I said.

I stepped outside her stall, then moved her tack to get into my wooden
trunk for her grooming kit.

“Oh, hey!” I said, looking up to see Lexa. Her mare, Honor,
was Whisper's neighbor.

“Crazy busy, right?” Lexa asked. She had a purple lead line in
her hands. “I'm copying you and doing the stall grooming and tacking up
too.”

“Yeah, it's not even worth trying to find a pair of
cross-ties. Let me know when you're done if you finish first, and we can go to the
arena together.”

Lexa nodded.

We split into our stalls and got to work, in too much of a hurry to talk.
I hung Whisper's grooming kit on her stall door and fished out her hoof pick.
Starting with her right front hoof, I used the metal to pry loose layers of dirt. I ran
the metal all along the shoe's inside, checking for pebbles. I released her clean
hoof and patted her side as I moved to one hind leg. She lifted it when I ran my hand
down her leg, pressed my body slightly against her, and squeezed above her hoof. After
picking this hoof, I peered at the shoe, frowning.

“I think it's time to ask Mr. Conner to schedule you
a visit from the farrier,” I said. “This shoe's
growing off faster than the front.”

The rest of her shoes and hooves were fine, but I made a mental note to
talk to Mr. Conner after our lesson. When I recalled when she'd last been shod, I
realized that Whisper was due for a new set of shiny shoes.

Whisper treated grooming like a princess getting pampered. She made tiny
grunts as I worked the body brush through her near-white coat. “Good girl,”
I said. “No stains!” Keeping her gorgeous coat clean wasn't easy. Her
mane and tail took minutes—the wide-toothed plastic comb ran through the
strands.

I'd braid her tail and give her mane button braids for the schooling
show. Thinking about it made me shiver. The show was only two weeks away.

Stop obsessing! Go back to thinking about
braiding,
I told myself.

I liked using a needle and thread and making the bunlike plaits that
showed off my horse's neck whenever I competed. “It'll be the first
time I'm braiding
you
,” I said to Whisper.

“Tacking up!” Lexa's voice carried over the stall
wall.

“Me too!”

I grabbed a clean cloth and ran it over Whisper's
muzzle and eye area, then picked up her tack from outside the stall. I lifted my
Butet saddle onto her back and lowered it onto the clean saddle pad. I tightened her
girth and moved to her head. After slipping off her halter, I put the bit in the palm of
my hand and raised the bridle over her head. She took the snaffle bit without pause,
chomping on it for a second while I bucked the straps. A recheck of her girth and we
were set.

I grasped the rubber-grip reins I loved using during lessons. The rainbow
reins were perfect for practice, especially jumping. They kept my fingers from sliding,
and I didn't need gloves.

Lexa and I met outside our horses' stalls. Whisper's ears
swiveled as she listened to the sounds of other horses and riders around her. Honor,
seemingly uninterested, kept her head near Lexa's arm, her body relaxed. The
strawberry roan was beyond used to the noise of the stable.