Made That Way (4 page)

“Jesus Christ,” says Dad.

I decide to ignore this. “Because Mom thinks my headaches might be from anxiety, but I think they're from the growth hormone.” Surely I can get someone on my side about this issue.

“I don't know, Shorty,” he says. He hasn't called me Shorty in a long long time so I know he's exasperated. He checks his watch. “Shit,” he says.

“Dad!”

He apologizes.

“And you said you wouldn't call me Shorty any more.”

He puts his great big hand on top of my head. His face looks so sad, I regret reminding him. “I'm sorry, Sylv. I'm really sorry. I'll try harder. It's just I'm so busy right now, and I'm stressed about work, the economy's a mess, all those sub-prime mortgages . . . .”

I sigh. “It's okay, Dad. Don't worry about it.”

He grabs his briefcase. “Look, Munchkin, I really have to run. We'll talk more tonight.” And he dashes for the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

I cook a piece of toast and smear it with extra-crunchy peanut butter, but can't eat it. I know if I put it in my mouth I'll throw up again. Last night I somehow managed to eat dinner so maybe I'll have enough nourishment on board to take me through the morning. I grab an apple from the refrigerator and cut it into thin slices and put all but one of them in a zip-lock bag in my backpack. The extra slice I slip between my teeth and suck it carefully, drawing out the juice and swallowing a teeny bit at a time.

The phone rings, startling me into chewing and swallowing. I'm spluttering as I say hello.

“Sylvia? Is that you? You sound funny. It's me, Taylor. How'd it go yesterday? Did your horse arrive?”

Miraculously the apple stays down in my stomach where it's supposed to be. “Yeah,” I say.

“And . . . ? You don't sound very excited. Is he okay? What's he look like? ”

I'm reluctant to tell Taylor that the new pony has a striking resemblance to the unicorn that I dream about, or to any unicorn for that matter. “He's small and grey,” I say.

Fortunately this is enough to satisfy Taylor, who is no more a horse-person than she is a unicorn-person any more. “Oh,” she says. “Well, I have some news too. I have decided on the new motif for my bedroom. I'm going to do angels.”

“Angels?”

“They're perfect. They like to dance and they're a form of spirituality I can take forward with me into adulthood, because lots of people believe in angels.”

I can well-imagine Taylor's room converted to a shrine for angels, with fluttery wings, gauzy fabric and sparkles strewn everywhere. “Sounds good, Taylor. I'm glad you found something finally to replace . . . you know what.”

“My mom and I are going to the wallpaper store today. I'm so excited!”

I try to feel excited too but can't. I should be even more excited than Taylor because Taylor is only getting new wallpaper and curtains, and I have a new unicorn.

“I have to go!” says Taylor. “But I just had to tell you my news. Hope you have a great day!”

I have a shower, and afterwards stand barefoot against the edge of my bedroom door. I put my Pony Club manual on my head and then check my height against the measurement I took two days ago. I know I'm not supposed to check this often, I know the medication takes several months to make significant changes, but I can't help myself. Today there is no change, unless I cheat and slant the book, and what's the point of that?

I dress, grab my backpack, hop on my bike and pedal off to see Kansas. And Brooklyn, I remind myself. Brooklyn Bridge. I shake my head, which makes it hurt more and also makes my vision kind of blurry.

I pedal more gently and remember what the unicorn said in my last dream. What is so bad about being short? Sure, the kids at school tease me, but if they didn't tease me about being short they'd tease me about something else. Kansas isn't very tall—she's over five feet, but no where near as tall as Dr. Cleveland who doesn't seem happier for it. If being tall was so important, you'd think that Dr. Cleveland would be ecstatically happy all the time. It's not that she's unhappy, she's just kind of subdued most of the time, though not yesterday of course.

I pedal and think. I imagine being back at school and being a horse-owner. Even Amber and Topaz should take me more seriously because of this. It's not like owning a new kitten. I am responsible for a very large animal. Soon I will be competing and jumping huge fences and undertaking death-defying acts of bravery. I will be a person to contend with instead of a shrimp with funny ears.

By the time I reach Kansas's driveway I'm feeling downright pumped. I decide I'll find a way of getting off the growth hormone. I'll stay short, and everything will be fine. Maybe I've just imagined everything about Brooklyn. Maybe he's not a unicorn, or even part-unicorn. Maybe he's an exotic pony imported originally from Europe. He had a rough trip from Saskatchewan, and all he needs is some time. Instead of looking up growth hormone tonight on Google I can investigate unusual pony breeds. I'll find something that looks like him somewhere.

But then I arrive at the barn and see that Brooklyn is in the wash rack. Kansas is beside him with the hose, trickling water over his right front leg. She doesn't look happy at all. And I remember thinking Brooklyn looked lame when he came off the trailer.

“It's nothing,” she says. “He's a bit touchy on this foot, and there might be some heat in the pastern. It could be an abscess. His feet are terrible. They've been neglected. Declan is coming.” Her expression changes momentarily when she says Declan's name, a small smile comes to her lips, but then she looks back at Brooklyn and a scowl takes over.

I'm frozen astride my bike. Right front. Brooklyn has the same sore foot as the unicorn. I feel a swell coming up from my stomach and swallow hard.

“Don't fret, Sylvia. This isn't a big deal. He'll be fine. We'll just have to start slow. Put away your bike and you can help me.”

I prop my bike against the back wall of the barn and when I come back Declan's truck is rolling up the driveway. He turns around in the yard and backs to the doorway of the barn. I watch Kansas's face transform when Declan climbs out of the cab. It goes all soft and warm and gooey. The outer corners of her eyes go down and her head tilts off to one side like she's got water in one ear.

“Hey, Declan, thanks for coming so quickly,” she says.

“I was in the area,” he says. I know he's lying.

“This is Sylvia's new pony.” She puts extra emphasis for some reason on the word
pony
. Could she know? “I think he has an abscess,” says Kansas.

I can't understand why Kansas is cold-hosing the leg if Brooklyn has an abscess. When Hambone had an abscess Kansas soaked the foot in warm water and Epsom salts. According to my Pony Club manual cold hosing would make sense if there was an injury to the fetlock joint, but if that was what Kansas was worried about then why did she call Declan? I look from Kansas to Declan and back again. Sometimes people, even smart people that I like, seem to do stupid things. This is terribly frustrating, because I have to take care of Brooklyn. He is my responsibility now and even with backup from my Pony Club manual and Google I know I can't do it all on my own. I don't know enough. I need help, but no one seems dependable.

Declan stands and appraises Brooklyn. I pray he doesn't say he's not a bad little fellow. I don't want Brooklyn busting the cross-ties and taking Declan by the arm. Or throat. He looks over at Kansas for a second, and I don't know if it's my blurry vision, but it seems to me that she quickly shakes her head then looks away. She's acting like there's some secret she doesn't want me to know.

Declan crosses his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge out below the short sleeves of his t-shirt. “Now this is a fine animal,” he says.

Kansas drops the hose and water sprays into the air as the nozzle hits the cement. Kansas jumps but Brooklyn stands steady as a rock, his eyes fixed on Declan.

Declan steps forward and runs a hand along Brooklyn's spine, over his rump and all the way down the right hind leg to the fetlock which he grabs briefly before Brooklyn raises his foot. “Well now isn't this interesting,” says Declan examining the hoof. He lowers it gently, inspects the other hind foot. Then he moves to Brooklyn's left shoulder, bends and squeezes the fetlock; Brooklyn shifts his weight to his right foot and lifts the left. Declan sweeps the sole with the palm of his hand, presses the sole with his thumbs then lowers the foot and turns to me. “Two things here about your pony. First, did you see how agreeable he was about picking up his left foot when he has pain in the right? Second, his feet are an unusual shape, and it's a sin how they've been neglected, but the walls are thick, the soles are solid and concave. We'll have him fixed in no time.”

“I'm just glad he didn't bite you,” I say.

“Bite me? Now why would he do a thing like that?” Declan pats down Brooklyn's mane and forelock which have been standing up like a Mohawk, and takes a quick look at Brooklyn's ears. With his mane lying down, the ears look even bigger. Could this be a trait of young unicorns before they turn white?

“He bit the transport driver when he called him
not a bad little guy,
” I say.

Kansas says, “I hardly think that was why—”

Declan ignores her. “Well can you blame him?
Not a bad little guy
?” He snorts with disgust. “Let me get my tools, we'll check out that right front.”

While he's out of earshot digging around in the back of his truck, Kansas murmurs, “I've never heard him talk so much.”

“You don't think he's just being nice, do you?” I say, but Declan returns before Kansas can answer.

He buckles on his leather farrier chaps, takes a short curved knife from his tool box and sets to trimming Brooklyn's foot.

I watch Kansas staring at Declan's backside. She hasn't stopped smiling since he got here. “I have another new boarder,” she tells him. “He came in with this one, from the prairies.”

Declan grunts.

“He's a beauty. Huge. 17.2 hands.”

Declan shakes his head. “Horses weren't meant to be that big. Good luck keeping him sound. Horses are supposed to be this size.” He gestures with an elbow towards Brooklyn's ribcage.

“Oh not this small,” says Kansas.

“I know you women like them bigger, but if you left everything up to Mother Nature you'd never see a horse over fifteen hands. This may hurt a bit, son,” he says to Brooklyn, “but if we can find the abscess and release it you'll be glad when we're done.” In quick succession he flicks off several bits of sole with his knife.

“But you know, the conformation on the other one is fantastic,” says Kansas. In my opinion it's rude to be talking like this in front of Brooklyn, and maybe if Kansas wasn't so set on impressing Declan she'd be thinking the same way. “He has a neck like a swan and the slope of his shoulder . . . .” Kansas stops momentarily when she hears Declan scoff, but then she starts up again. “He's a very well-bred animal. He's a branded Hanoverian. They've been breeding them selectively in Europe for decades.”

Now she's really showing off. This is so disappointing. One of the things I like about Kansas is that she isn't a lecturing know-it-all, and here she is lecturing Declan of all people.

Declan lowers Brooklyn's hoof, slides the knife into the sheath stitched on his chaps. He stands and stretches his back, then strolls to Kansas's side. He doesn't look at her, but turns so they can both watch Brooklyn, then he leans against her shoulder. A red flush works its way up Kansas's neck and her smile disappears.

“And his feet?” says Declan. “What are they like? Can he go barefoot like this one or will we be looking at re-shoeing every five weeks to stop his walls from falling apart? And some nutritional supplements as well, I expect. A load of biotin in his feed. Of course the feet may not be bad now, coming from the prairies, but a wet winter on the coast will tell a different tale.”

“You haven't even seen him,” says Kansas. Her cheeks are flaming red.

“Now this pony of Sylvia's is another matter,” he says ignoring her completely. I wonder if he's really so dense that he doesn't know what's going on, and all he notices is the horses. “Once his feet are trimmed up properly, you'll see. Strong walls. Good angles. Straight legs, my god look at him, he could be right out of a textbook. And not a mark on those legs, no splints, no wind-puffs—for a middle-aged fellow, he's got the legs of a five-year-old.”

“Middle-aged?” I say. “I thought he was young, because he was still grey and hadn't turned white yet. Kansas told me that's what happens with greys.”

I look at Kansas to confirm this, but she's dabbling her boot in a puddle of water left on the floor and won't meet my eye.

“Well he's not exactly young,” says Declan. “Not that it matters, because a pony that's built like this one has lots of miles left in him.”

“How old?” I say.

“Didn't the vet tell you, from the pre-purchase exam?”

“What's a pre-purchase exam?” I ask.

Declan turns to Kansas and another of those annoying unspoken adult messages passes between them. Perhaps two messages, because Kansas breaks her gaze and studies the floor.

“Well then let's have a look at his teeth,” says Declan and moves back to the pony.

My heart races. If Brooklyn maims Declan, Kansas will never ever forgive me.

But Brooklyn stands calmly as Declan strokes his face. Declan's fingers linger momentarily over the scab in the middle of his forehead, then slide down and part Brooklyn's lips to expose his teeth.

“Jesus Christ,” says Declan. “Would you look at these fangs?”

My stomach turns over and I swallow hard to suppress a retch. A sharp-toothed unicorn is what frightened Taylor so badly. That was in my dream world, but there are so many cross-overs now between that world and this one my head is swimming, my vision is blurring. I blink hard three times, try to focus on something, and find Brooklyn's right front foot, though now there seem to be two of them.