Grows That Way Page 4

  Auntie Sally is pleased with this news, and launches into the history of her singing career, unfortunately sidelined by motherhood, and how lessons really help when you have raw talent which sadly none of her own girls inherited. I don’t argue with her at all, or tell her I have no time for singing lessons. I’m just glad that Auntie Sally is so perfectly happy to ignore the fact that Brooklyn is fully tacked-up with bridle and saddle. There will be no news bulletin going to my parents about my doing a solo trail ride. Brooklyn has cooled enough that I give him a quick brush-over then leave him in his paddock. Fortunately Kansas is still nowhere to be found—she wouldn’t have been as easily fooled.

  It’s a miracle, but I’ve escaped getting into trouble. Except for the trouble that I’m in with myself, trying to control my brain and the image that I can’t erase.

  chapter

  seven

  Dad is in a better mood after work, which is not to say great. At least he’s not throwing things. He even volunteers to take me to the bike shop in the morning to talk to them about fixing my bike.

  “Fixing it?” says Mom.

  “It just needs a little straightening. It’s a perfectly good bike,” says Dad.

  “It’s a perfectly good twisted metal sculpture,” says Mom.

  I hate it when this happens, when something I’ve done becomes the focus of one of my parents’ arguments. Though even if I wasn’t around, they’d have lots to disagree about, they wouldn’t exactly go back to being a happy romantic couple. They are always disagreeing on money for one thing. Dad says it’s what comes of him being a saver who’s married a spender. Mom says it’s what comes from her marrying a total cheapskate. It usually gets worse from there.

  I don’t have a great appetite at dinner. As much as I try not to, I can’t stop thinking about the big hairy creature with the big hairy breasts. I’m pushing the peas around on my plate hoping no one will notice that I’m not eating. Fat chance. My mom is always on the lookout for my developing an eating disorder.

  “Eat up, Pumpkin,” she says. “There’s fruit salad for dessert.”

  I eat a pea. Mom reaches over and feels my forehead. I force myself to swallow a chunk of potato before she comes up with some sort of terminal diagnosis requiring quarantine in the house.

  “How was school?” she asks.

  School. That was like an ice age ago. I try to remember, then give up and tell her it was fine.

  “Maybe she’s tired out from walking to school and back,” says Dad with a smug tone that makes me squirm.

  No one was home when Auntie Sally dropped me off. She promised not to tell.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I say, steadying myself. “I’m not used to walking.”

  “It’s a good lesson for you then,” says Dad, tipping his head sagely.

  Oh brother. But I nod. “That’s right, Dad.” I’ll say anything that helps me get my bike back so I can spend time with Brooklyn and Kansas. Not that I can talk to Kansas about what I saw in the woods; she’d kill me for going off on my own like that. I wish there was someone I could talk to, and for some reason I think of Logan Losino and feel better. I’m even able to finish my dinner, then I go to my bedroom to do my homework. It’s Friday night and I have all weekend to finish it, but I’d rather keep Saturday and Sunday free for riding. Or bike shopping. Sigh.

  I don’t sleep very well that night. I don’t have any lucid dreams either.

  In the morning Dad and I head out to the bike store. He has a tee-time at the golf course at eleven, so he figures he has enough time if we stay organized and focused.

  He’s in a pretty good mood when we set out. More like his normal mood. Normally my dad is a fairly happy guy who jokes around a lot. He can get uptight about money, but he makes his living as a financial planner and advisor, so I guess that makes sense. Kind of like how Mom is a mental health professional and always terrified I’m showing the signs of some mental illness, while Dad is looking for signs of poor financial management which would lead us to financial ruin and living in a cardboard box in a ditch. I guess when you’re sufficiently afraid of something, there are signs of it all over the place.

  We hit every red light on the way into town and I can feel Dad’s mood deteriorating with each delay. We reach Fifth Street, and ahead of us someone is trying to parallel park a van outside Graham’s Jewelry. There’s steady traffic coming the other direction and no way around.

  Dad checks his watch and drums the steering wheel with his thumbs. The rear wheel of the van hits the curb and then it draws ahead into the traffic lane again.

  “Second time lucky,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. The van backs towards the space again, but ends up about six feet away from the curb. The driver pulls ahead into the lane.

  “Jesus Christ,” says Dad.

  I look behind us. There are at least five cars waiting now.

  “Moron!” shouts Dad as the van ends up in the curb again. “Some people don’t deserve to drive.”

  I turn on the car radio, thinking the distraction might help, but Dad switches it off. He throws the transmission into park and flings open his door. I shrink down in my seat. What’s he going to do?

  Dad walks up to the driver door of the van and opens it. I see him gesture for the driver to get out. She’s a girl I recognize from school—a member of Taylor’s vast fan club. Dad points to the sidewalk and she goes and stands there. He climbs in behind the wheel of the van, drives ahead until it’s straight, then backs into the parking spot, perfectly, first time. He gets out of the van, slams the door, and stomps back to our SUV. I’m so embarrassed I could die. I try to sink lower in my seat. I hope the girl on the sidewalk doesn’t see me and spread the news around school about what a total Neanderthal my dad is. If Amber hears this story, I’m dead.

  Dad opens his car door. That’s when I hear the applause. I raise my head enough to see out my window. There are people on the sidewalk clapping and whistling. Dad’s face transforms from glowering storm clouds to happy entertainer. He pauses and bows to the crowd, then climbs back into his driver’s seat. He guns the engine and the wheels squeal on the pavement, almost as though he’s showing off, like a sixteen-year-old. I can’t believe it.

  Fortunately there’s a parking space for us right in front of the bike shop. Dad hauls the twisted wreckage of my bike out of the back of the SUV. He has to carry it into the shop because none of the wheels are working.

  The guy in the bike store tries not to laugh when my dad asks him how much it would cost to straighten the frame; he covers his face with the inside of his elbow and pretends to cough, but I can tell he’s faking even before he winks at me. Dad doesn’t notice—he’s too busy trying to get the warp out of the front wheel with his bare hands.

  “I’m afraid this is one for the recycle bin,” says the bike guy. “I can give you a good deal on another bike though. We have a couple of smaller-framed models on sale right now.”

  “On sale?” says Dad. He’s heard the magic words.

  “Twenty-percent off,” says the bike guy.

  “With full warranty?” says Dad.

  “The warranty wouldn’t cover everything. Just manufacturer’s defects. Not traffic accidents.” He winks at me again, but Dad doesn’t see.

  “Whatever,” says Dad.

  The guy pulls a pink and white bike out of the rack. Oh no.

  “I’m fourteen,” I tell him, which obviously confuses him and he’s about to turn to Dad so I say, “I know I don’t look it. I’m short for my age.” I point at the pink monstrosity. “This is a bike for a six-year old.”

  Dad says, “I think you should try it, Munchkin. It looks like it’ll fit you.”

  “We have a small frame in blue,” says the clerk, “but it’s not on sale. It’d be another two hundred dollars.”

  “Two hundred!” sa
ys Dad. I see his eyes flick to the clock on the wall. Ten-thirty. There’s not much time for negotiation.

  The clerk steadies Pinky and I climb on. There are sparkles on the handlebar. He says it fits. Oh god. I hate pink. But it’s also my fault that I need a new bike: I parked the old one in the wrong place and that’s why Dad drove over it. Plus my horse is expensive and if extra money has to be spent on my behalf, I’d rather it go towards riding.

  But pink?

  “Any room for adjustment when she grows?” Dad asks. He never gives up on this one. He still expects a miracle to occur and maybe overnight some time I will shoot up to five feet tall. The clerk nods and tells us there’s lots of room yet. For a growth spurt. Ha!

  Dad pulls out his charge card. I close my eyes and sigh. Okay, I should be grateful, I really should. It could be worse—the bike could have streamers, or training wheels. But I don’t know how I’m going to hold my head up at school.

  I’m pushing my new pink abomination to the door when something catches Dad’s eye. “That’s a good looking bike,” he says to the clerk.

  “Our new road bike. Disk brakes, of course. Alloy frame. Carbon forks.”

  Dad wraps his fingers around the grips on the handlebar. It’s a beautiful bike, all black and silver, exactly like I would have liked.

  “Why don’t you take it for a spin?” says the clerk.

  Dad checks his watch. He stares at the bike. “I haven’t ridden a bike since I was a kid.” He pauses, thinking. “Must be twenty years…maybe more.” It’s like he’s talking to the air. He isn’t really in the room anymore, he’s lost in space or lost in his past. Does this make him lost in space-time?

  “No kidding,” says the bike guy. “You don’t look that old.”

  Somehow this draws Dad’s attention back to the room. “Really?” he says.

  “You’ll notice a lot of improvements. And you could go biking with your daughter.”

  I glare at the guy. Is he nuts? Hasn’t he caused enough trouble for me? I ride my bike for transportation purposes only. I don’t have time for recreational rides with my dad. That would cut into my time at the barn.

  “Or you could try road racing. There’s an active club. Unless you’d prefer a mountain bike, for trails.”

  Trails? Oh I hope not.

  Dad is testing the brake levers, looking wistful. “Maybe I’ll come back,” he says. He takes a pamphlet with a business card stapled to the top. Then he loads my bike in the SUV and we drive off towards the stable.

  “Nice bike,” says Dad with a tinge of unfulfilled desire, so I know he’s talking about the black one, not mine. “Though maybe if I buy a bike, it should be a trail bike. I could go with you when you’re on your horse. We’d have some fun.”

  I look at him to see if he’s serious.

  “Oh I’m not so interested in trails any more,” I say, which surprises both of us.

  “I thought you loved trail riding. I thought you were preparing for riding in cross-country competitions,” says Dad.

  I shrug. For a change Dad’s BlackBerry isn’t buzzing him and I have almost his full attention. I wonder if I can trust him. I’d like to know if there are any exotic wild animals in the woods, perhaps escapees from a zoo somewhere, or better still I’d like to know if I was imagining what I saw and hear a logical explanation for it. I watch him as he watches the road. On the other hand, if he thinks I’m in danger on my horse, he’ll start treating me like a five-year-old again.

  Suddenly his right foot dives for the brake pedal and he swerves the car onto the verge. My seat belt tightens and presses me into the seat cushions. Dad puts a palm on the horn and shouts, “You stupid idiot! Watch where you’re going! You can’t stop in the middle of the road!” He pulls up on the shoulder beside the other car. There’s an old man driving. He’s probably the same age as Grandpa. He can barely see over the steering wheel. He’s probably not much taller than me, which is amazing but true. “You should have your license revoked!” Dad yells at him.

  “Dad,” I say, “he’s old…”

  Dad’s face is crimson. He shakes his fist and then, I can’t believe it, he gives the guy the finger.

  I sink back in my seat. My heart is racing. I’m not used to this. My dad doesn’t usually have a bad temper, especially with little old people. What’s he going to do next?

  He guns the engine, we bounce off down the edge of the road through a mass of pot holes and then lurch back onto the pavement.

  “Stupid old fart!” he says.

  Obviously this isn’t a good time to discuss my trail riding adventures. I’m beginning to think that Dad has enough troubles of his own.

  I have to sort out my problems by myself. I can do that. Probably the best thing to do is to focus on ring work for a while, and convince myself that I imagined everything. At worst, I saw a bear, and it ran away. Simple as that.

  chapter

  eight

  My simple plan falls apart the minute I set foot in the barn.

  Kansas is grooming Hambone in the cross-ties. She wants us to go on a trail ride. Today.

  As soon as she tells me this, my ability to convince myself that I imagined everything, or saw a bear, crumbles.

  Plus it’s too cruelly ironic that I’ve been dying to do a trail ride for weeks, and Kansas has been saying, “Not yet” or “I don’t feel like it,” and finally she thinks the time is right and now there’s no way I want to go, not with Godzilla out there roaming the woods. How do I get out of this one?

  “Couldn’t I have a jumping lesson?” I say.

  “You want a lesson instead of a trail ride? You are getting keen,” says Kansas, and for a second I think my ploy has succeeded, but then she shakes her head. “You’ve been in the ring too much lately. I am impressed with your dedication to your horsemanship, but it’s time to get out on the trail. It’ll be good for you and Brooklyn, and good for me too. I could use a kick in the butt to stop feeling like a slug—I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

  Oh this slays me. The fact that Kansas is impressed by my dedication means more to me than anything in the world, and I can’t ruin everything by telling her that yesterday I snuck out of the ring against her orders. If I disappoint her, my heart will break. But if I go out on the trail I run the risk of meeting up with that creature. Given some time, I could possibly re-convince myself I’d imagined the whole thing, but if I see it again today there’ll be absolutely no fooling myself. I’ll spend the rest of my life in terror, hiding in a closet in my bedroom, never leaving for school, or to get married, or have a career. I just know it, because I’m that kind of person. My imagination has gone wild on me before: when I was little I saw a science fiction movie about human-eating monsters from outer space and couldn’t sleep properly for weeks.

  “Maybe I’ll stay here and practice my flatwork,” I say.

  Kansas comes out from behind Hambone holding a body brush in one hand. As usual she looks like she selects her clothes from the drop-box at the Salvation Army. Nothing fits quite right, the pocket on her shirt is half-torn, and the button at the top of her jeans is either missing or undone. “You want to practice flat work?” She looks at me with amazement, as though I’ve said I’d prefer to wait in the barn while they’re gone and do math puzzles. “What’s going on?”

  I’m panic-stricken and study the floor hoping for an idea, or a plausible story. I’m not very good at lying to Kansas. I can do it in an emergency. I’m not sure this is one.

  Kansas misreads my silence. “Look, Sylvia, it’s not unusual for any of us who spend a lot of time schooling in the ring to feel nervous about heading out on the trail. There’s a sense of security with riding inside the fence. But there’s more to horsemanship than ring riding. You’ll be fine. Your seat is secure and Brooklyn is sensible. I have a world of confidence in the pair of
you. You don’t need to be nervous. Kelly Cleveland’s coming too, there will be three of us. It’s a perfect opportunity.”

  I cannot imagine how Kansas and Dr. Cleveland could protect me from a great hairy were-ape monster, but I can’t very well say this. I have to face it: I am doomed, there is no way of avoiding participation in this life-threatening event, so I shuffle off to collect Brooklyn from his paddock. I groom him then tack him up, all at dinosaur-speed in the hope that they’ll leave without me, but when I finally make my way out to the riding arena, there they are patiently waiting.

  I lead Brooklyn to the mounting block, step into the saddle, then do a couple of laps of the ring at walk and trot, hoping that maybe for once Brooklyn will be lame, but I have no such luck.

  Dr. Cleveland peers down at me from Braveheart, who is very tall. Actually they are both very tall. I feel like a midget on a Thelwell pony in comparison. With Hambone being on the chunky side, once we penetrate the forest wilderness Brooklyn and I will make the tastiest little morsel out of this group for sure.

  Dr. Cleveland’s eyes are wide and shining and Braveheart is making funny snorkeling noises out his nose. He’s grinding on the bit with his teeth as much as the snug noseband will allow, and a froth of saliva covers his lips. “Our first trail ride this year,” Dr. Cleveland explains. “I lunged him for a while, but he’s still a bit fresh.” She grins at me; there’s a space between her front teeth that I’ve never noticed before. This must mean that despite having spent several hours in her company, including a couple of therapy sessions for when my mom was worried that I was bisexual, I’ve never seen her actually smile before, never seen her as happy as she is heading out on a trail ride on her barely-controlled 17.2 hand monster horse.

  Now maybe I’m not the best one to judge, seeing as how I can become terrified of things that might well be totally imaginary, but it seems to me that there are some things in life that people should be scared of, objective obvious things like huge horses with steam pouring out their nostrils.