Unhappy Appy (12 page)

Mason didn't stop though. He moved from one side to the other, following Towaco's head until Towaco gave up and let Mason pet him.

“Blow into his nostrils,” I whispered, feeling the cold air charged with static electricity, as if the world waited to see what would happen. “His nose holes, blow into them. That's how horses say hello.”

Mason stood on tiptoes and blew.

Nothing happened. Towaco didn't pull away, but he didn't blow back.

Mason blew again. And again.

“Maybe you can try it next time,” I suggested.

But Mason hoisted himself up on his wobbly tiptoes and blew again.

Towaco's ears flicked, and he blew back.

Mason giggled and rubbed the Appy's muzzle.

My breath caught in my chest as I watched them. “You don't give up, do you, guy? Blowing hello like that is a Native American custom, Mason. Hawk's Native American.”

“I did not know the trick though,” Hawk admitted.

Hawk watched over my shoulder as I showed Mason how to massage Towaco. “See how the Appy sways when you scratch his back? He's loving it, Mason!”

Towaco had been so out of it lately that he hadn't rolled in the dirt to get rid of the itchies. Scratching his back must have felt great. His eyelids drooped, and he sighed—horse language for
This is the life!

Mason was still rubbing Towaco's back when Madeline and Dad joined us.

“Well, look at that!” Dad exclaimed. “Ready to ride, cowboy?”

“Everything all right, Mason?” Madeline asked.

“Mason, you want to ride Towaco?” I asked.

He turned to us, his smile so big he didn't need words.

“Here you go, Mason,” I said, lifting him into the saddle while Hawk held the reins.

“Hold on to the horn, honey!” Madeline offered.

He took the saddle horn in both hands, and I guided his feet into the stirrups. Mason's body slanted to the right, throwing him off balance in the saddle. I tried to push him straight, but he tilted back, still angling to the right.

“Dad, you stand on this side and keep one hand on Mason's leg.” I took the reins from Hawk. “You do the same on this side.”

I led Towaco down the stallway. Mason laughed out loud. I walked the Appy past Madeline, to the end of the barn, turned, and walked him back.

“Are you okay, Mason?” Madeline asked as we passed her again.

You just had to take one look at Mason's smiling face to know he was more than okay. He giggled. He gurgled. He loved every minute, as I led him back and forth inside the barn.

Towaco changed too. He had spring in his step, and I sensed the Appy was finally enjoying something.

“I think Mason could do this for hours,” I said as we made another lap of the barn.

“But I have a feeling this is about all Mason's mother can stand for one day,” Dad whispered.

We ended the ride, and Mason helped us brush Towaco before I turned him out into the pasture.

Madeline thanked us, and Dad walked them to their van. Mason walked backward so he could stare at Towaco the whole way.

“See you tomorrow!” I shouted.

Just before he was lifted into the van, Mason turned and grinned, showing me the perfect dimple Lizzy had thanked God for the night before. How could I have missed it?

Wednesday was just a half day at school. About all the teachers managed to get from us were our papers. I'd stayed up late finishing my horse-partnership paper for Pat's class. Hawk had written the friendship paper on her own and turned it in to Ms. Brumby from the three of us.

By the time I got home after school, our house had been transformed into a zoo. Lizzy and Geri were babysitting their class pets over the holidays—a gerbil, two hamsters, and three white mice. Peter Lory swooped the room, flying circles above the rodent cages, while the lovebirds sang to each other. Willises' Wild World of Pets.

“Hawk called!” Lizzy shouted over the squawking and scratching. “She said she was eating over at Summer's tonight.”

“But she can't!” I protested. “I need her to spot for Mason's ride. They'll be here any minute.”

I could use a helping hand here, God,
I prayed as I raced to the barn to tack up Towaco. I rounded the corner and rammed smack into Catman Coolidge. He didn't budge, but I fell backward.

Catman stuck out his hand. “Need a hand, man?”

Thank you, God.

As we got Towaco ready, I explained to Catman what I needed him to do for Mason's ride. We'd just finished saddling the Appy when I heard the van pull up.

Mason ran into the barn in his boots and helmet, a wool jacket buttoned up to his chin. He stumbled, and one leg dragged a little, but he didn't stop running until he reached Towaco.

Catman shook Mason's hand. “Nice threads, little man. Call me Catman.”

“Today,” I explained, “we'll take you for a spin in the paddock, Mason.”

Madeline wrung her hands as Catman lifted Mason into the saddle. Dad and Catman took their positions on either side of Mason, and I led Towaco into the paddock. Madeline watched from outside the fence.

I grinned up at Mason. “Can you say ‘Go, Towaco!'?”

Mason giggled. I tried the phrase again. He giggled again.

Madeline waved each time we walked by her. The sun was shining, taking the chill out of the air. It may have been my imagination, but it looked like Mason was already sitting up straighter, not so off balance.

After five trips around the paddock, Catman and Dad stopped holding on to Mason. They stayed close beside him but let him sit on his own. Mason never stopped smiling.

Dad hadn't said much. As we walked past the barn, circling again, he cleared his throat. “So . . . things are . . . okay?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked, smiling back at Mason. “Take a look at that face.”

“And . . . everybody else? Getting along better? You . . . and Madeline?”

I glanced at Catman. He held up the two-finger peace sign. “I guess,” I said.

“That's good. Because I . . . vite . . .” Dad mumbled the last part.

“What'd you say?” I asked. I looked to Catman again, but he stared off at the sky.

“Hmm?” Dad brushed something off Mason's boot. “Just that I invited Madeline to Thanksgiving din . . .” His voice trailed off, but not before I understood what he'd said.

I stopped cold. Towaco bumped into me. A stabbing pain started in my forehead and traveled through my skull.

My dad had invited another woman to Thanksgiving dinner!

Towaco shook his head, anxious to keep going. The air in the paddock had gone stale, sucked out by my dad's little announcement.

“Tell me you're kidding!” I shouted. “You can't invite
her!”

“Shh-h-h!”
Dad glanced at Madeline, who waved from the fence. “Don't you remember our tradition, Winnie?” He was trying to make his voice light, like this was nothing. But he couldn't look me in the eyes. “Each of us can invite a friend to—”

“A
friend
?” If I heard that word one more time, I'd scream.

Towaco tried to walk on. Mason squirmed in the saddle.

My throat ached, and my head throbbed. How could he do this? And on Thanksgiving? Didn't he care about Lizzy and me? about Mom?

“We can talk about this later,” Dad said. “Mason wants to keep riding.”

“Is everything all right?” Madeline shouted from the fence.

Everything
wasn't
all right. It was all wrong. How could he have gotten over my mother that fast?

I turned Towaco back toward the barn. “We're done.”

Catman took over, helping Mason down and unsaddling Towaco.

Without a word to anyone, I slipped the hackamore on Nickers and rode out of the barn and down the road. We followed a dirt path, galloping farther and farther from town. I tried to call up every mind photo of my mother. Usually I can't control which picture will flash back when, but one image flooded my mind.

It was the year Mom planned to cook our turkey overnight. Her friend said the meat would turn out extra juicy. Mom stuffed and basted a huge turkey and stuck it in the oven about midnight. When she woke up the next morning, she couldn't smell anything. That's when she realized she'd forgotten to turn on the oven.

I woke that morning to a loud noise coming from the kitchen. My mind picture had captured the scene as I walked into the kitchen. Mom had laughed so hard she'd dropped the turkey, then slipped on the greasy floor. When I saw her, she was sitting on the kitchen floor, a giant, raw turkey in her lap. And she was laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks. That was the year we'd eaten Thanksgiving macaroni. It was the best Thanksgiving of my life.

Thursday morning I tried to sleep in, but Hawk's lovebirds were singing, Peter Lory was squawking, and the gerbils wouldn't stop spinning their exerciser wheels.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Winnie!” Lizzy shouted. She was peeking into the oven. The scent of roast turkey floated out. I was grateful that Lizzy loved to cook. She says it brings out her creative side.

“Ditto,” Geri said, stirring something in a big bowl.

“Thanks. You too.” The last thing I felt like doing was celebrating Thanksgiving. But my sister was going to so much trouble, I didn't want to ruin the day for her. “Smells great, Lizzy.”

“We're eating at three,” she announced. “Dad's outside.”

“Where's Hawk?” I asked.

“She went somewhere with Summer,” Geri answered. “And her parents called twice to wish her Happy Thanksgiving.”

Lizzy shut the oven and got out a bag of potatoes. “Dad said Madeline's bringing Mason over for another lesson this morning.”

I cringed at the mention of
her
name. And with Hawk gone, Dad would have to help again.

Lizzy kept chattering. “Did you know they're coming for dinner? Geri can't stay because her parents won't let her. Her parents don't have to work. The whole cookie factory closes for Thanksgiving. Do you think Mason will like apple stuffing?”