Gift Horse (9 page)

“You'll have to talk to Ms. Brumby about that,” Summer said, glancing at our teacher.

Ms. Brumby stood beside her desk. “I explained when I agreed to help sponsor the trip. We must impose hardship on no one. Affordable for all.”

“Those tickets cost 30 or 40 dollars!” Kaylee whispered.

“You're kidding!” I said back. I knew they were expensive, so expensive that Lizzy and I had never even asked Dad about it. It would be fun to go there. Going with my class was probably the only way I'd get there too. Maybe I should at least try to sell some paper.

“I sold 11 rolls!”

“I sold nine, and I think I can get rid of six more tonight!”

“I sold six, but I was sick all weekend!”

They were all girls from Summer's herd, all trying to please the dominant mare.

“Good!” Summer exclaimed. “I want everybody to think Mantis and Magnum XL-200! Think Raptor and Demon Drop!” She paused for effect. “Think Wicked Twister! All the great rides.”

“Go, Summer!” came the cry.

“So your assignment is to sell at least five rolls of paper by tomorrow! And that's an order!” She did her pouty-lip thing again. “And if you let me down, fellow classmates, I'll never be able to show my face in Ms. Brumby's room again.”

Note to self: Let Summer down.

I thought English class would never end. The whole morning dragged. All I could think about was Gracie, home alone.

Life science was my last class before lunch. I was so worked up over Gracie that I knew I'd never be able to eat or even sit through another class.

I slid into Pat's room and went straight to the board, where she was writing long, fancy names for animal groupings. “Pat, do you care if I go home and check on Gracie? Please? Dad's in Mansfield all day picking up supplies. Gracie could be lying there alone, sick!”

Pat stopped writing. “Well, I reckon. Just this once. If it's okay with the principal—”

“Thanks, Pat! You're the best!” I was already putting on my coat.

“But we're reviewing for the final. You be sure to get Barker's notes.”

I was halfway out of the room. “Thanks!”

“Check with the principal! And you owe me today's assignment!” she called after me.

Gracie was okay, but her eyes looked empty. Her ears lopped as she paced her stall. I had to wonder if she was closer to foaling than I'd thought.

I ran to the house and came back with a bag of carrots, which I shared with Nickers and Gracie.

By the time I made it back to school, lunch period was almost over. The cafetorium, which is what they called the combination cafeteria and auditorium, smelled like grease, hot dogs, and sweat. I elbowed through throngs of kids to Catman and M's table and sat across from them.

“Have a hot dog, M,” I teased, pointing to the four dogs arranged on his tray in the shape of an
M.

“He's had nine,” Catman explained. “Dude's going for the record.”

Kids gawked.

Sal shouted over from Summer's table, “Go, M!”

“That is so gross!” Summer shuddered.
“I
hate hot dogs.”

“Which makes M have to eat more just to take up your slack,” I threw in.

M held each dog with thumb and forefinger and lowered it into his mouth, like a bird feeding its baby. I think he swallowed the last one whole. The crowd cheered.

After school I raced home, checked on Gracie . . . and Nickers . . . and walked back to Pat's Pets. Barker was finishing up his e-mail answers on the Pet Help Line. I read over his shoulder:

Dear Barker,

Help! I think i got a mean dog from the pet shop. Every time i get near him, he growls, puts his ears back, and the hairs on his neck stand up. Should i take him back?

—Dogman

Dear Dogman,

Your pet is worried, not mean. Ears back and growling could be aggression. And if your dog shows his teeth and opens his mouth, then look out! But with the neck hairs raised, he's just saying, “What's wrong? Are you trying to hurt me?” So he won't be afraid of
you,
don't grab him. Let him come to you. Then pat his chest, not his head. And congratulations on your new best friend!

—Barker

I pulled up a chair as Barker answered his last e-mail:

Dear Barker,

My dog, Sophie, keeps having run-ins with skunks. Mom won't let her back in the house until Sophie quits stinking. Can you help?

—Skunk-hater

Dear Skunk-hater,

Here's my favorite recipe for turning your stinker back into your sweet Sophie: 1 quart of 3% hydrogen peroxide; 1/4 cup baking soda; a tsp. of liquid soap. Get your dog all wet. Then work the skunk shampoo through her hair. Leave it on 3 or 4 minutes, then rinse. And try to get your Sophie a better playmate!

—Barker

I answered four horse questions, but they didn't seem very important compared to Gracie's problems. One girl wanted help convincing her mother it wasn't dangerous to ride bareback. Another one wanted ideas on a good name for a Palomino. And two questions got the same answers—give your horse more pasture time.

As soon as I finished with the e-mails, I logged off and started doing a little research on foals and broodmares. One site listed everything that could possibly go wrong in a horse birthing. I couldn't even finish reading it.

Pat scurried over from behind the counter. “Winnie, I plumb near forgot. It came!”

I turned around. “What came?”

“
It!”
Pat glanced around the store as if we were talking about sneaking in endangered species. “Lizzy's terrarium! It's a beauty! Want to go see? It's out back.”

Lizzy's terrarium!
I'd forgotten all about it. I still had enough to pay for it, but I figured I'd better wait until I found out how much I owed the vet. “Thanks, Pat. I'll have to wait. I better get back to Gracie.”

M was already in the barn, rubbing down Gracie's stall with cleanser, like I'd shown him. We finished with Gracie's stall, and M followed me into Nickers'. My horse knew I needed to muck, so she kindly stepped out into the paddock.

“So how did you get to know so much about horses?” M asked, picking up Nelson.

Before I knew it, I was telling M all about my mom. It was weird. I kept talking and talking, telling stories about horses she'd gentled, about mares we'd seen foal. I guess M didn't talk, didn't keep asking me questions out loud, but I felt like I was answering them all the same.

As I talked about Mom, I felt that familiar stab in my chest. But as much as it hurt to talk about her, it also felt good to remember, to picture her and know she was still a part of my life. I wondered if that's what Ralph's prophet guy was warning Mary about, that her heart would hurt and feel good at the same time.

When Lizzy was little, she used to talk about good hurt and bad hurt. Bad hurt was falling off her bike and skinning her knee. Good hurt was getting a splinter taken out or feeling the sting of antiseptic.

“My dad didn't have anything to do with Mom's horse business in Wyoming,” I continued. “I was pretty sure he didn't even like horses. That's why it was really something when he came up with the idea for me to be Winnie the Horse Gentler here. I thought he was starting to like Nickers and appreciate the other horses I worked with. Now I don't know.”

When I finally shut up, M nodded, as if I'd answered all his questions. I studied his face, which was too wrinkled for an eighth-grader, his black ponytail, his black eyes that let me see myself in them. My mom would have liked M.

He walked out of Nickers' stall and back to Gracie and rested his head against her side. “Hey, small horse. I'm M. How's it going in there? We're out here getting ready for your coming-out party. But you take all the time you need. We'll be right here.”

“Cookies!” Lizzy swept into the barn with an aluminum-foil-covered plate. The warm, sweet aroma mixed with the great smells of hay and horse.

“I'm starving, Lizzy!” I shouted. “What kind of cookies?”

“Hot-dog cookies!” she exclaimed.

Nickers snorted. I did the same. I'd tried Lizzy's oatmeal pie, tuna squares, beef candy, and peanut-butter-and-jelly, three-layer cake. But I have my limits. “Elizabeth Willis, that sounds totally—”

“—creative,” M finished. He lifted the foil and sniffed. “Definitely hot dog.”

“Geri said that Steven said that his brother said Catman said you liked hot dogs.” My sister was talking trotter speed. “But it's not all that creative. True, I may be the first to develop an edible hot-dog cookie. But Geri told me about this place called Mad Martha's on Martha's Vineyard in Massachusetts or one of those old states, which is where Geri got to go visit her aunt who has all this money, even though the rest of the family doesn't. Anyway, Mad Martha's had hot-dog ice cream on the menu! Geri didn't try it, so we don't know if it was any good.”

M ended up eating four cookies on the spot and taking the rest home with him.