Wild Thing (3 page)

No wonder people think Lizzy is the older sister. She’s a hundred times more in control and at ease with people than I am.

Lizzy surveyed the barn. “You know, I’ll bet Larry’s found himself a good spot in here. I didn’t want him to be caged anyway.”

“Far out,” Catman said. “Cats won’t bother him.”

Half a dozen heads poked out from between the bales—cats—gray, black, orange. I took a step toward them, and they darted like the hay was on fire.

“We can’t have wild cats in here,” I said, imagining how they might spook the Arabian.

“Not wild,” Catman said, walking right up to the mountain of hay. He stuck his hands in his pockets, threw back his head, and let out an eerie screech:
“Keeeeee-y!”

All at once he was swarmed by more cats and kittens than I’d ever seen on the face of the earth. They pressed around him like he was the Pied Piper of Ashland, Ohio. A reddish, longhaired cat as big as a cocker spaniel rubbed at his bell-bottoms, while a litter of spotted kittens sharpened their claws on his ankles.

Lizzy leaned over and whispered, “Winnie, Catman rocks!”

“See?” he said, reaching down and petting a dozen cats who couldn’t get close enough to him. “Not wild—feral. Part wild.”

“Look,” I said firmly. My voice sent the cats racing back to the bales. “They can’t stay. I’m . . . we’re going to have horses in here. It’s a horse barn.”

Behind his small, round glasses, Catman’s eyes looked Siamese blue. “Cats were here first.”

“But it’s
our
barn!” I insisted.

“Don’t think so,” he said calmly.

My face felt like fire. “Yeah? Well, we’ll just see about that,
Catman!
We’ll see who pays the rent. Horses are in—cats are out!”

“Winnie!” Lizzy had moved to the barn door. “Dad’s home!”

I shot Catman one last frown, which he returned with a catlike grin. Then I stormed out of the barn.

Dad either didn’t hear us calling, or he pretended he didn’t. He strode straight into the house without so much as a glance our way, leaving the motor of the old cattle truck running. The truck was the only vehicle Dad had kept, and he was probably the only one who could keep it running.

By the time Lizzy and I reached the house, Dad came flying out, a suitcase in each hand, his sunglasses on top of his head.

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” Dad said, stepping around me to the truck and flinging suitcases inside. “Get your things. We’re moving.”

“Dad, no!” Lizzy squealed, bursting into tears.

Dad stopped, wiped his forehead, and put a hand on Lizzy’s shoulder. His tan work coveralls made him look like an astronaut. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d told us we were off to the moon.

“I’m thinking this town is too small for an odd-job man,” Dad said, his voice flat. “But Pittsburgh—”

My stomach knotted until I thought I’d hurl.

What am I thinking? I don’t deserve a normal life. Or a horse like that! Not after what I did. If it weren’t for me, we’d still be in Wyoming with Mom. I know it, and Dad knows it. And neither one of us will ever forget it.

Anger surged through my chest, down my leg, and came out in a field-goal kick to the nearest object—one of Dad’s bike tires. My toe throbbed as I watched the tire fly up, then crash at the feet of the Catman.

Lizzy and Dad stopped arguing, stunned to silence. Catman picked up the tire and examined the spokes.

I wasn’t mad at Dad or anybody else. I was mad at me. But there stood Catman, who had snuck up on us like a cat burglar.

“What do
you
want?” I snapped. “You win. Your stupid cats can live happily ever after in that run-down barn. No horses. No Willis family. Congratulations!”

Catman stared at the spokes as if I weren’t shouting at him. “Do this yourself?” he asked, glancing at Dad. His long fingers cupped the gears.

Dad left Lizzy and joined Catman. Side by side, they made an odd pair. Dad, with dark, curly hair and a deep tan from working outside instead of at the insurance office like he used to, looked like a negative of Catman’s pale skin and blond hair.

“It’s something I’m experimenting with,” Dad said, flipping a metal lever on the gear.

Catman spun the tire. “You reversed the whole thing.”

Dad looked surprised. “I did.”

“Did it work?” Catman asked. “When you crossed the chain and reassembled, did it go backward?”

“Yes!” The edge came back to Dad’s voice the way it did when he talked about his inventions. “It took 14 tries, but I got it working.”

Catman followed Dad to the tin lean-to beside our house. Lizzy and I trailed along, exchanging raised-eyebrow looks.

“First, second, third, right?” Catman said, pointing out each of the bikes in the shed.

“Right!” Dad said. “I learned more each time.”

Catman dropped to his back for a better look. “Cool.”

“You like it?” Dad asked, obviously pleased to find somebody who appreciated his genius. Dad’s inventions usually ended up embarrassing Lizzy and me.

“Winnie,” Dad said, not looking at me, “demonstrate the
back bike
for . . . I’m sorry. What was your name?”

“Catman Coolidge,” he said.

Dad unlocked the bike. “Winnie, take a spin around the yard for Mr. Coolidge.”

“Dad—,” I started.

“Do it, Winnie!” Lizzy whispered.

I sighed but got on.

“Don’t forget!” Dad shouted as I pushed off and pedaled backward. “Brake to the front!”

The bike doesn’t really go backward. It goes frontward. Otherwise it would be dangerous. The backward part comes in pedaling.

I pedaled backward, and the bike eased around the junk in the yard.

“Far out,” Catman said. “You sold many?”

“What?” Dad asked, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“I know a dozen kids who’d beg their parents to buy one of these,” Catman said.

“You do?” Dad asked.

Lizzy sprang into action as I pedaled forward to brake, then dropped one foot to the ground.

“Listen to Catman, Dad!” Lizzy begged. “We can’t leave here—not when your invention is catching on! Think about it. You could make a bunch of back bikes and sell them at a huge profit! Plus, you’ll get more odd jobs once people see what you can do!”

“Spidell might stock the back bike up at A-Mart, if you give him a more-than-fair cut,” Catman added.

“Do you really think people around here might buy a back bike?” Dad asked.

“Everybody bikes to school,” Catman said. “Being different is in. Backward is cool.”

Dad looked right through me and grinned at his bike invention. “I suppose it might be worth a try. . . .”

“Yes!”
Lizzy shouted. She did another jump that would have sent her sprawling if Catman hadn’t reached out to steady her.

“So we’re staying?” I asked, afraid to believe it. 

Instead of answering me, Dad turned to Catman. “When does school start up around here?”

“About a month,” he answered.

“Then we’ll give Ohio a month. Pittsburgh will still be there.” Dad jogged to the truck and pulled out his suitcases.

“You rock, Catman!” Lizzy exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. I knew she didn’t mean anything by it. That was just Lizzy. Then she twirled twice and dashed inside.

I was afraid to look at Catman. I didn’t know why he’d done what he had, after what I’d said about his cats.

“So where are your horses?” he asked.

“We did have horses,” I explained, not meeting his gaze. “But we sold them.”

“So you’re getting more?” he asked, fiddling with the bike chain. “Another horse for your barn?”

Am I getting another horse? Could I, God?

“I’m working on it,” I replied.

There was a time when I couldn’t tell my thoughts from my prayers. But that had been a long time ago. Lizzy would call Dad’s changing his mind another “God thing, grace.” Whatever it was, I had another chance. And I’d do everything in my power to buy that Arabian, if it meant working 24 hours a day to earn the money.

Suddenly I had to see her. I wanted to tell the Arabian not to give up, that I wouldn’t give up either. And I could start by asking for extra hours at Stable-Mart.

“I have to go,” I said.

I hopped on the bike and steered out to the street. I’d rounded the corner before I realized I hadn’t even thanked Catman.

To get to Stable-Mart without cutting through fields, I had to ride down the main street of Ashland. Friday afternoon traffic didn’t amount to much, but half a dozen cars eased past me. Nobody seemed to notice I was pedaling backward until I came to a stoplight.

“Look at that kid!” yelled the driver of a banged-up car that pulled beside me. He and his girlfriend looked high school. “No lie! She was pedaling backward!”

I managed to coast to the corner and make a quick right as the light changed, so he couldn’t prove his case. Picking up speed downhill, I changed lanes and took the corner at a tilt, trying to get back to the right road.

Straight ahead I saw nothing but clear sailing, a long downhill. Leaning forward over the handlebars, I imagined hugging the neck of my white Arabian as we galloped down a lush, green meadow, with nobody else around, the two of us flying.

Something moved at the side of the road, but sunlight half blinded me. A black dog scurried out in front of me.

“Macho!” shouted a boy running behind the dog. He turned and saw me, but too late. He froze to the middle of the road. Panicked, I hammered the brakes, pumping the pedal back. But that’s how normal bikes brake—not a back bike. Faster and faster, I headed straight for the kid and his dog.

Closer and closer. My brain kicked in. I slammed the pedal forward. The brakes screeched. My bike swerved sideways.

And I flew off, crashing smack into the kid.

We rolled down the hill, tangled in the dog’s leash. The dog whimpered.

Then we stopped.

“You okay?” the kid asked, unwrapping his dog’s leash from my ankle. He was about Lizzy’s height, dressed in blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt. He had close-cut, curly black hair and what my mother used to call “colt eyes,” big and brown. His skin was the color of a dark bay stallion we used to have.

He reached for his dog, but the skinny creature cringed, as if expecting a blow.

“Don’t hit the dog!” I cried. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“What?” The boy looked confused. “But I—”

I struggled to my feet. If I hadn’t worn jeans, I’d have been scraped to pieces.

The dog looked like a war-torn version of a black-and-tan hunting dog we’d had at the ranch.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said, trying to pet him.

He cowered and whimpered.

How could anybody do this to a dog?
I glared at the guy, trying to make
him
cringe.

“I’m really sorry,” the kid said. “Macho just took off!”

No wonder!

He laughed. “Good thing you weren’t a car. Is your bike okay?”

The back bike had skidded to the side of the road. I ran over and picked it up. It looked to be in one piece. I jumped on before the kid could try to help me. I can’t stand to be around anyone who would hurt animals.

“Hey!” he called as I pedaled off. “What’s your name? Aren’t you pedaling backwards? Maybe your bike’s broken!”

I didn’t turn around as his voice faded.

I made my way to Stable-Mart. As soon as the huge, white stable came into view, my heart started pounding—not because I’m crazy about that horse factory. The Spidells sell horses like they sell bubble gum in A-Mart or pizza in Pizza-Mart or pets in the giant Pet-Mart on Claremont Avenue. Their stable smells more like a hospital than a barn.

But somewhere on those grounds had to be the most beautiful horse in the world—the Arabian Richard called Wild Thing.

I jumped off the still-moving bike and leaned it against a tree. Then I jogged to the south pasture, where I hoped they’d had the good sense to turn out the Arabian. Spidells barely used that pasture, although it was the only one with a natural pond. They didn’t want their horses to roll in the mud and get dirty.