Matt & Zoe (11 page)

“How do you mean?” I ask.

She shrugs. “My dad was a professor at Mount Holyoke. So—sometimes people stick together. I didn’t get into UMASS on my own power.”

“I’m sure you would have been accepted if you had gone through the normal process. Right?”

She smiles. “Now, how would you know that?”

“I don’t. You seem pretty smart. I bet you did well in school.”

She nods. “I did. Top of my class.”

The words slip out of my mouth without thought. “But you joined the Army.”

She gives a minute shake of her head. “That’s a bit of stereotyping, don’t you think? There are plenty of smart people in the Army, even if they aren’t academics.”

“True. Forgive me.”

“Of course,” she replies. “I’ve spent the last five years fighting stereotypes. Outside the Army they think we’re all idiots. Inside the Army, the idiots think women can’t be soldiers.
Outside
the Army too. I spent my whole tour in Iraq patrolling near Baghdad, often on foot. My first time coming home, the guy next to me on the plane asks me how I like nursing.”

She spent a year in Iraq? On patrol? On foot?
I don’t let my surprise show on my face. A moment later I hear loud steps thumping down the hall above us, then almost a gallop coming down the stairs.

“Jasmine,” Zoe says in a still voice. “Sounds like she’s already dressed to ride.”

Less than a second later, Jasmine clomps in wearing riding boots. She stops in the doorway of the kitchen. “Mister P?”

“Hey, Jasmine.”

Jasmine looks confused. A deep line creases her forehead as her eyebrows draw together. “What—what—what—why are you here?”

As she stumbles over the words, her face screws up in frustration.

“Well, school’s closed, but I wanted to stop in and make sure you were okay. Also, I had these extra donuts, and I didn’t know what to do with them, so I brought them to my favorite third grader.”

Jasmine flushes a deep red. “I’m—I’m—your favorite third grader?”

I press my index finger to my lip and blow. “Shhhhh… don’t tell anyone. Just come get a donut.”

Trick-rider (Zoe)

I’m not sure I know what to make of Matt just showing up here. My first reaction when I saw him out the window was to not answer the door. I’m a mess, my hair’s a mess. I felt a moment of sheer panic, and that bothers me, because who cares what he thinks?

Apparently I do.

After eating four donuts and washing it down with a large glass of water, Jasmine announces she’s going out to the stable to see to the horses. Hopefully she won’t vomit the donuts onto Mono. Then she turns to Matt. “Want to meet my horse?”

“Sure, I’d love to,” he says with a big lopsided smile that forms a dimple in his right cheek. The smile does stupid and undignified things inside my chest. Things I don’t want, because the last thing I need right now is to get involved with my sister’s teacher.

No. Just no.

“I’ll go get a shower and catch up with you two in a few minutes.”

Jasmine runs for the door. Matt stands awkwardly and takes another swig of his coffee. “Off to see the horses, I guess.”

I smile. “Don’t be nervous when you see her on Mono. She’s an expert on that horse, even though he’s the size of an elephant. She’s safe.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Okay.”

I don’t wait for him to leave the kitchen. I get up and walk out. I cannot
believe
I said what I did about the Army and being on patrol on foot. Really, Zoe? It sounded like I was bragging. And maybe I was a little bit. I’m proud of the year I served in Iraq. I’m proud of my Combat Action Badge. Still, my face feels flushed and I’m off balance as I head upstairs. I’m halfway upstairs when I hear the kitchen door bang shut.

In the shower—I always take long, luxurious showers, because you never know when you’ll get another one like that—I stay for a long time, my mind turning over the conversation. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not some silly ditz. But it would be a lie to say I wasn’t attracted to Matt. A lot. He’s in shape, that’s clear enough, but not the over-muscular bulkiness of most of the guys I knew in the Army—guys who bench pressed at the gym every day and directly equated their muscle size to dick size. They didn’t care about
brain
size.

Matt’s built like a dancer or gymnast—muscular, with powerful shoulders, arms and calves. And he seems smart.

He’s Jasmine’s
teacher.
Come on, Zoe.

Does that matter?

It matters if we date, and it doesn’t work out. She needs some stability in her life. She needs someone she knows, an
adult
she knows. She doesn’t know me. I’m sad to say, but Matt’s spent far more time around Jasmine than I ever have.

She was born a few weeks before the beginning of my junior year in high school. I was busy in those days—cheerleading practice ran two hours every night, plus football games, plus planning for college (my Dad insisted) while I secretly thought of a way to go my own way. I was accepted at Boston College and Dartmouth (a real long shot), along with Mount Holyoke, but I dithered over making a decision until the very last minute. Which drove my parents insane, of course. Mom fussed and yelled, and Dad did too. In April of my senior year—three weeks before deposits were due at whatever school I chose—I skipped school and met with an Army recruiter at their office next to Friendly’s.

My parents were livid. Especially Mom.
You’re throwing your life away. Dad is so disappointed.

Thinking of it now, I find myself scrubbing my hair too roughly.

We never repaired that rift. They came to some peace with it—especially after I came home from Iraq alive. Dad openly wept when I got off the plane and met my parents at Bradley Airport halfway through my Iraq tour.

Mom begged me not to go back. She didn’t get it. You can’t just walk away. Aside from the legal complications—which of course are serious for deserters—Nicole was still over there. You don’t leave your friends behind.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to think about Iraq.

I don’t want to think about my Dad being disappointed in me.

Wow. My mind is everywhere this morning. I take a long shuddering breath and turn off the water, then towel myself dry.

As I brush my hair, I can’t shut out their voices.

Zoe, we’re just frightened for you. Don’t you know there’s a war going on?

Your Dad is so sad, Zoe. You’re wasting your potential. You’re so smart—you need to be in college.

That was all before Iraq. But later on—it was about reenlisting. How could I do that to him? I wasn’t seriously considering staying in as a career, was I?

I wish I’d had a chance to talk with him about it when I was home last. He didn’t understand why I’d reenlisted. Mom yelled at me about it—a lot. Dad was quiet. He was warm, and hugged me, and told me how much he loved me. I knew that, behind that, he was sad.

I struggle to shake off the past. I walk down the hall to my room—I’ve not even considered moving into the master bedroom, I haven’t even
entered
the room. I change into tough jeans and a flannel shirt and riding boots I’ve worn once or twice in the last five years. They were a Christmas present my senior year. Because my mom always wanted my priorities to be
her
priorities, or at least Dad’s. She loved horses and he loved academia and neither left room for me.

I tell myself to forget about it. I thump down the stairs and head toward the stable.

There I stop short.

The first thing I see is Mono, with tiny little Jasmine perched on his back. That’s not so unusual a sight.

The unusual sight is Matt Paladino, third grade teacher, who apparently has unforeseen talents. He’s riding Nettles around the paddock sitting
backwards
in his saddle while Jasmine laughs and giggles. Matt has a mock terrified expression on his face. Then I gasp in an almost scream when he falls off the back end of the horse. But in some miracle of bizarre tricks, he does a somersault and lands on his feet.

Jasmine claps. Nettles comes back around the circle, and I see the tension in Matt’s legs as he bends them slightly, then runs alongside the galloping horse and jumps back into the saddle.

It’s one of the most expert displays of horsemanship I’ve ever seen. And I grew up around horses and horse shows.

I walk up to the fence and lean against it, resting one foot on the middle rail. Matt sees me and reins Nettles in. The horse rears up with a loud whinny, then comes back down to all fours. Matt flushes.

“I didn’t realize you were a trick-rider,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I grew up around horses, that’s all.”

Liar.
He did a lot more than grow up around them.

“Where was that?” I ask.

“Oh, Central Florida.”

Whatever. Jasmine is captivated, though now I’m worried she’ll try some hare-brained jump like that off of Mono. It’s obvious, watching her in the saddle, that this is where she belongs. On the ground she’s despondent. Melancholy. Eyes on the ground. Hair in her face.

In the saddle her eyes are bright, she’s active and looking around. She’s in love with that horse.

“You want to ride with us, Zoe?”

Jasmine’s question instantly melts my concerns about Matt. “I’d love to.”

Five minutes later I’m riding on Nettles, an Andalusian gray—my horse since my seventeenth birthday. You can tell he’s older—his hair is almost entirely white now. He’s still a strong, athletic horse, a little over fifteen hands. Nettles broke a leg during a race at Rockingham Park, and would have been put down, but Mom bought him for next to nothing from his owner and nursed him back to health. It was a miracle—instead of shattering, the leg broke cleanly, a greenstick fracture. A horse recovering from a fractured leg is very unusual, but it’s become more common in the last few years. Mom drilled me on all of that knowledge, of course. I spent many nights and weekends with Nettles when he was recovering. He doesn’t race any more, but he’s still a beautiful horse.

The three of us head across the property with Mono and Jasmine setting the pace. The horses are happy and the weather is beautiful. We ride south down the pasture at a gallop, clods of dirt and grass being thrown up by the hooves of the horses.

Almost at the south end of the property, Jasmine pulls Mono to a slow canter parallel with the fence. I fall in on her left, closer to the fence, with Matt on the other side.

“Whoo,” Matt says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden like that.”

“How long? Where? When did you learn to ride like that?” My questions are pretty intrusive, I realize.

He shrugs. “I told you, I grew up around horses. A lot.”

In an excited voice, Jasmine says, “Zoe, did you see him? Riding backwards? And that somersault! Wow! Will you teach me how to ride backward? Will you? Please? Please?”

“I don’t know—”

Matt meets my eyes when I say the words. He doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe sometime,” I finally say. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

At the sound of hooves and a shout, I look up. Paul Armstrong is riding toward us from his property on the other side of the fence.

Can I? Can I? (Matt)

The guy riding toward us is almost a stereotype of a cowboy. Possibly thirty five years old, he looks like he was born in his saddle. He wears loose clothing and well-worn boots. Muscular, with strong arms and a square jaw. His face is red, as if he’s been out in the sun and wind for his entire life. Or maybe he has high-blood pressure.

Whoever he is, Zoe brightens instantly when she sees him. Before, she was a little guarded, asking me probing questions about my past. Questions I don’t want to answer. This guy—her eyes widen and her mouth shifts to a very genuine smile, showing bright white teeth. Her expression is captivating. And directed at horse guy.

I hate him.

“Matt, this is my neighbor, Paul Armstrong. Paul, Matt Paladino. He’s Jasmine’s third grade teacher.”

Paul maneuvers his horse right up to the fence and reaches across to shake my hand. I take it—he has a firm grip. “I recognize the name—you’re one of the negotiators for the teachers’ union, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, a little puzzled. I realize he’s wearing a wedding band. “Do you have kids in the school system?”

Paul chuckles. “No, but I had a rash of parents calling me to see if they could schedule all-day sessions while school is out.”

Zoe says, helpfully, “Paul owns the Armstrong Training Center—they do horse camps and lessons, and compete all over the East Coast.”

“Oh, I see,” I say. I don’t know much about the horse-show circuit, other than the fact that it exists.

“When I saw you three I wanted to come over, Zoe, and offer some help. If you need to take care of things while the strike is on, you’re always welcome to send Jasmine over. We can slide her right into one of the classes with the other girls.”

This irritates me. Why? Maybe it’s because Zoe looks so happy and grateful, when she was just suspicious of me. Maybe it’s because Paul Armstrong is a great big lunk of a guy, the kind of carefully cultivated five-o’clock shadow guy that women seem to chase.

Jasmine seems excited. “Can I? Can I?”

Zoe raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

He leans closer to the three of us. “It’s what neighbors are for. And friends. I’d love to have her over. I know you’ve got a lot to take care of.”

“I do start classes on Monday. And there’s so much to do. I’d be grateful.”

Paul says, “Forgive me for asking, but—do you have plans for a—a—you know —”

“Funeral?” Zoe asks. Her voice is somber, and her eyes dart to Jasmine. In a calm tone, she says, “Both of them were cremated. There’s going to be a memorial service next Tuesday at Abbey Chapel, at Mount Holyoke.”

Paul nods. “I’ll be there, then. I’m gonna miss your Mom. She was one hell of a horsewoman.”

“Thanks,” Zoe says in a subdued voice.

“Sorry,” he says. “Anyway, Jasmine, we’d love to have you over, any time.”