Wild Girl (7 page)

Downstairs, I stopped to take a roll of peppermints I’d seen in the kitchen drawer and let myself out of the quiet house. Outside, it wasn’t as quiet: José was exercising Storm Cloud, whose hoofs pounded down the exercise track. A flock of crows cawed in the trees beyond the fence. I caught a glimpse of the orange cat, on her way somewhere, her tail high. She looked at me, then kept going.

I went into the barn, first to see the old horse, Love You. She was contented in her stall, chewing on a clump of hay, her large jaws working as she turned to see me. I let myself inside and began to brush her, listening to the
drip-drip-drip
of the water in her pail.

She was a lovely old horse, and she could live here for many years, in a stable where there was plenty to eat and cool water to drink and other horses to see. Her stall was warm and the golden hay under her feet was fresh.

Smiling a little, I pictured her leaning over her half door when all was quiet, having conversations with the other horses.
Nice exercise this morning
, she might say, or
What did you think of breakfast?

I thought again about what it would be like to go back to Jales, to fly across the field calling for Cavalo. I tried to brush the thought away as I brushed the dust from Love You’s flanks and lifted her hooves to be sure there were no pebbles caught in her shoes.

I finished with the soft brush and gave her one of the peppermints from my pocket. Cavalo’s owner, the farmer, had taught me that horses loved them.
Peppermints remind the horses of the fields with the smell of mint, the taste of the leaves
, he’d said once.

She chewed it with her thick yellow teeth, then nosed my hand for another one.

“Just one more.” I gave it to her, leaving her stall with that minty smell behind me.

At last I went down to the end, to Wild Girl’s stall. I walked fast; I was anxious to see her. Her eyes were half closed, when I wished she’d been leaning over her door, her ears pricked with curiosity.

“A Sunday nap,” I said to her softly. “Did they exercise you this morning?”

She turned to look at me. I opened her door and went
inside slowly, a clean currycomb in one hand and a peppermint in the other.

I knew she could smell the mint; I saw the curious look as she brought her head around.

“Gotcha,” I said, and opened my hand, the candy on my palm.

She thought about it; then I felt her muzzle on my hand as she took it.

I started with the currycomb, moving in circles against her wonderful gray body, the veins underneath like the ripples of the
rio
at home.

She began to relax, to move into the comb as I went. I sang
“Nana, nenê”
—”Sleep, baby”—and the water dripped into her bucket as a pale sun came in the window behind us.

And suddenly I was talking to her, really talking, not just horse talk or baby talk. “Here’s everything,” I told her. “I tried not to think of how much I wanted a family, not just to hang out at Titia Luisa and Tio Paulo’s. I wanted the Pai who had held me up to the lemon tree. I wanted to belong.” I was surprised at myself. I’d never really thought it all out before. “But I don’t feel as if this is really a family.”

I didn’t want to think about Pai and the lemon tree now. I leaned against her. “Oh, Wild Girl,” I said, “even if I don’t belong here in America, you do.”

I was silent then, and Wild Girl turned her head, looking at me.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out another peppermint.

“I love the way your eyes look,” I said. “And I’d try to ride you, but can you imagine what Pai would say?”

I told myself I didn’t care.

I went to work on Wild Girl’s mane, and then I couldn’t help myself. I stood on a box and held on to that mane as I tossed myself up on her broad back.

I put my head down on her neck and crooned to her, crooned to myself.

It was something, not everything, but the happiest moment I’d had since I’d come here to New York.

The filly felt the taste of the strange food in her mouth long after she’d swallowed. It was a good taste, the taste of a field on a summer day
.

One of the creatures had come into her space. The noises it made were soft. It had brushed her side until her skin rippled with its good feeling
.

And when the creature had climbed up on her, the filly had barely felt its weight, just its warmth
.

It was something…
.

It wasn’t like being in the field with other horses, but still …

Something
.

I stopped to e-mail Tio Paulo. I told him that America was wonderful and school was exciting. I didn’t feel one bit guilty, even though
exciting
wasn’t exactly the right word. Besides, Tio was the one who was always said how great it would be in America.

Then I went up to sit on the bedroom floor, leaning against the baby-pink wall.

“Lidie?” Rafael called, rapping on the door.

I couldn’t open it. How could I let him see that Snow White and those seven dwarfs were mostly covered with pictures of horses? It looked as if Big Brown were dangling from Snow White’s dainty fingers.

“I’ll be right down.”

“Never mind
right down,”
he said. “How about timing me on Doce?”

“Why not?” I opened the door just far enough to squeeze through and followed Rafael downstairs and outside along the path.

He took my arm and began to talk about school.

I didn’t want to hear any of it.

“When I first came,” he said, “I knew about three words of English, and none of them were any use. Everyone laughed. I couldn’t even find the bathroom.”

I didn’t look at him. But I told myself there was no way that he knew what had happened to me.

“Then I began to pick up words. I didn’t even know where they came from.” He glanced at me. “And some of the kids thought it was cool that I could speak another language.”

I didn’t answer, but he knew I was thinking about it.

At the barn, he glanced at his watch. “Want a riding lesson on Love You before you time me?”

I shook my head. The first time he saw me ride, it wouldn’t be on Love You. It would be on a fast horse, a Thoroughbred. It would be Wild Girl.

I heard him say something about not being afraid as he strapped on his helmet and saddled Doce.

He handed me the stopwatch as I followed them along to the exercise track. The orange cat sat next to the gate, and I saw she had six toes on each of her front paws. I reached out slowly and ran my hand over her rough back.

Rafael brought Doce around the track once; they went slowly, almost meandering. They came toward me then. He waved, and they began!

As they galloped by, the sudden wind blew against my face, and the sound of Doce’s hooves vibrated in my chest.

I could almost feel myself on the horse, sensing the movement with my arms and legs, Doce’s mane flying, the sound of his breathing, the feel of my own breathing. He was faster than Cavalo, much faster.

Rafael had more grace than I would have imagined. He was almost one with the horse. It was thrilling to watch as he guided the horse close to the rail, and I forgot the stopwatch, forgot that I was supposed to be timing him.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The orange cat came up to me, and I picked her up and began to work out a burr behind her ears with my fingers.

The way Rafael rode reminded me of the painting in the hall: the horse’s legs extended, the dust in swirls under his feet. For the first time, I realized that the horse in the painting was actually Doce, and Rafael was the jockey. Had Rafael painted it? Had Rafael painted the other pictures, too? The one in the living room and the one in the barn of Native Dancer?

Rafael turned Doce, trotting back toward me, and saw my face. “You were wonderful, really fast,” I said. I looked down at the stopwatch. “Sorry, I forgot…”

He raised one shoulder helplessly, and of course, he laughed.

“You were fast. So fast.” I thought of Tio Paulo. “You were born to ride.”

His face changed, and I saw the look in his eyes. Was it a sad look? Maybe he was worried about his race coming up? His first race. Maybe he was worried about losing, and what Pai might say.

But I forgot about that as I watched him grooming Doce back in the barn, still talking about school and how wonderful it would be for me.

At home, we went back into the kitchen. Pai was scrambling eggs and stirring a pot with beans and molasses, and Rafael poured himself a cup of coffee.

And I tried not to think about school.

On Monday morning, I went to school after all. I really didn’t have a choice.

“I’ll take you,” Rafael said, standing in the kitchen, making lunch for me again.

But I shook my head. “Thanks, I’m fine. I’ll walk.”

“Good. I want to help with the exercising.” He made pointers of his fingers, reminding me of the way: straight to the end of our road, two blocks left, another one right.

At the table, the Horseman glanced up from his newspaper. “I could take you.”

“I’m all right,” I said.

“The math. We forgot.” His hand went to his upper lip. “Paulo said that you’re smart, that your teacher said you can
do anything—” He broke off. “I don’t understand what happened the other day.”

I tried to think of what to say that would bring us away from that morning.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The math will be fine.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’ll see.” I was going to do something about math today, no matter what.

“And English, too,” he said. “Don’t forget about the English.”

One thing after another.

I didn’t answer him.
Days of the week; the tree is nice; I’m hippy to be here; watch out, the mosquito bites
.

I nodded at them both. “After school, I’ll take care of Love You. Don’t worry about that, either,” I said, and let myself out the door.

I went along the driveway, looking back to see José on one of the chestnuts, then took the long road to the end where it turned. I practiced what I was going to say to Mrs. Bogart, mumbling to myself.

I passed the fruit store, but it wasn’t open yet. There was a sign on the door, BACK ON MONDAY.

The words came into my head. A weekend sign. And I knew what it meant.

“Back on Monday,” I said aloud. “And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.”

And another sign. FRESH APPLES.

Ah
.

Soon the school was ahead, and I saw the drumming boy, Ian, up ahead, talking to someone and waving his arms
around, but I didn’t see anyone else from our class. Never mind. I knew my way to the classroom, too.

I went down the hall and straight to the teacher’s desk, waiting while she wrote something on a pad in front of her.

At last she looked up. “Lidie. I’m glad to see you.”

I said it slowly: “I know math.”

“Yes, good.”

I said it again, realizing I’d forgotten a word. “I know
hard
math.”

She tilted her head, said something, but I caught none of it.

“I want—” I began.

“Hard math,” she said.

She went to my desk and sat down next to me, a thick book in her hand. She gave it to me to look through, waiting patiently.

It began with the easiest adding problems, baby subtraction, and I thumbed through the pages. Halfway through, I went back a few pages.

I picked up a pen and worked out the problems on that page,
X
equals this,
Y
equals that. I couldn’t do the ones that had long English questions, but no matter. I skipped over them.

I did a few on the next page, then moved forward two or three pages, and kept going until I didn’t know any more.

I looked up to see Liz standing there with a few others, watching me. Mrs. Bogart smiled at them. “Wow,” she said.

I knew from the sound of this word
wow
that I had done well, really well.

“Wow,” I said, too, and they all laughed, but the laughing was kind. Mrs. Bogart went to her closet and brought me another math book to put in my desk. She patted it. “For you.”

Girls spoke to me now, interrupting each other, still talking as if I were deaf, but I was smiling, smiling, and so were they.

“Library,” Mrs. Bogart said.

I looked at Liz. I wondered if I knew that word.

“Books,” Liz said.

Ah,
biblioteca
.

We lined up at the side of the room, on our way to the library.

I passed my hooded jacket on its hook, with its slight bulge in one sleeve, the baby scarf that no one could see. Maybe my jacket belonged there after all; maybe I did, too.

Upstairs, we went through double doors. The librarian was a man with wavy gray hair; he looked as if he liked to eat. “Hello, Lidie,” he said, and placed a thick book in my hands, a book with pictures.

I drew in my breath. I had seen this book many times before, but now the words were in English.

I paged through. It began with a picture of a herd of horses running together, all legs, a cloud of dust behind them.

I thought of Tio Paulo’s words:
They came from herds, living with horses all around them. And even though it was thousands of years ago, they haven’t forgotten. They need friends
.

A few pages later, I saw Gallorette, the famous tomboy filly. On another page, I saw Ruffian, queen of the fillies.

I sat there the whole period with Liz, saying their names.
Then I saw the photo of Native Dancer. “I have …,” I told Liz.

“The horse?” she asked.

“No, not the horse.” I tried not to laugh. “The …”

I reached for the word, and suddenly it was there. “The picture.”

And then we both laughed. “Look,” she said, reading, then pointing to the blur in the corner. “Isn’t that a cat?”

“Yes, the cat was…”

I stopped.

The cat was his friend
. The whole sentence came to me in English.