Grows That Way Page 7

  But Kansas returns quickly with the martingale, and I dismount and she shows me how to slip it over Brooklyn’s neck, run the girth through the long end, and pass the reins through the metal rings.

  “He likes to jump,” says Kansas.

  “A lot,” I say.

  “The martingale will give you some leverage. I don’t like gizmos on horses, but he has a strong neck. I don’t want him running off with you.”

  I snort. “I can control him. He listens really well to emergency stop aids.”

  Kansas slows as she refastens the rein buckle, so I realize what I’ve done. She slips the end through its keeper. “And when exactly did you do an emergency stop on Brooklyn?” she asks.

  I lead Brooklyn to the mounting block, wondering how much I can say, or better still, how little I can say.

  I step onto the mounting block and Brooklyn positions himself beside me. He’s still excited, his neck is up and he’s looking at the closest jump in the ring. I stick my toe in the stirrup and swing into the saddle.

  “It was last week sometime,” I say, hoping she’ll be satisfied with a vague answer. No such luck.

  “And what exactly were the circumstances?” says Kansas.

  I can’t brush her off. If I try, she’ll stop my jumping lesson.

  “He took me on a trail ride,” I say.

  “He took you?” says Kansas.

  “I put him on a loose rein, and let him go where he wanted.” Kansas doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “We went to the river.”

  “To the river?” says Kansas. Her voice is getting high. “Did you cross it?”

  “Of course not,” I say. “There was a…” Now what am I going to say? I don’t want to explain the extinct ape thing to Kansas. Kansas doesn’t use the Internet so she won’t understand. “There was a bear,” I tell her, “in the water. Fishing.”

  “Jesus,” says Kansas.

  “It was fine,” I tell her. “Brooklyn was good. He got kind of excited, but then he…galloped me to safety.”

  “Oh lord,” says Kansas.

  “And I did a pulley rein stop before we had to turn that sharp corner where the trail divides. I did it exactly the way you taught me,” I say. I pick up my reins and ask Brooklyn to trot down the long side of the ring, and we circle at the far end, giving Kansas some time to absorb all the news and come to the reasonable conclusion that no action needs to be taken given that no one was hurt and that Brooklyn took care of me and never got frightened. I was the one who was frightened, but I’m not going to tell her that.

  We trot down the other long side. Kansas is in the middle of the ring considering her rubber boots. “What did your parents say about all this?” she asks.

  I know what she’s getting at. She wants to know how much trouble she’s in for letting me go on a trail ride all by myself.

  “I haven’t told them yet,” I say.

  I figure this is a good way of influencing her to raise the jumps above baby height.

  I trot through the grid, and Brooklyn sails over the bounce as usual, but I have better control on the far side thanks to the martingale. We do two circles, and I yell at Kansas, “Raise the last rail!”

  She does. She puts it at two feet. Brooklyn jumps it as though it’s twice that high, then we gallop off around the ring.

  I’m so happy I could scream.

  chapter

  thirteen

  The lesson is over and I’m riding Brooklyn on a loose rein until he cools off. I have to be careful not to let him stray too close to any of the jumps or he lurches towards them, hoping for another opportunity to play rocket-launcher. Kansas is moving a few of the jumps so they won’t be in the way when Dr. Cleveland comes out for her ride this evening. I’m thinking how much I have enjoyed being an extortionist when Declan appears near the out-gate. Bernadette is cowering at his feet. This dog never cowers. When she sees Kansas, she bolts for her even though she’s never allowed in the riding ring and is usually really good about staying outside.

  Kansas must be too surprised to reprimand her. Bernadette shoves her nose between Kansas’s knees and hides her head. Her tail is clenched tight and she’s quivering all over.

  Kansas strokes her, and looks to Declan. “What happened?” she says.

  Declan shakes his head. “I have no idea. We went for a walk, and I thought I’d take the pup to the river to teach her to swim. She ran off down the trail ahead of me, then came tearing back as though her life depended on it. There was no way I could get her to the river after that, all she wanted to do was hide, or come home.”

  My eyelids have flown so wide apart I’m afraid my eyeballs may fall out. Fortunately Kansas isn’t paying any attention to me (as usual when Declan is around). I clutch one trembling hand in Brooklyn’s mane to steady myself.

  “She must have seen a bear, maybe the same one Sylvia saw,” says Kansas. “Or a cougar. Poor puppy.”

  “There are cougars around here?” says Declan looking back over his shoulder in the direction of the trail. I follow his gaze, aware that I would be relieved beyond words to see Declan’s worst fear appear over the rise.

  Kansas misses all this. She strokes Bernadette’s back and coos, “You’re safe now, Bernie, whatever you saw, silly puppy.”

  I’m thinking about what Dr. Cleveland said, and wondering if dogs could possibly be as capable of self-deception as humans are, and whether they have defense mechanisms like displacement, but somehow I don’t think so. Dogs are more straightforward than that.

  Kansas picks up Bernadette who has in my opinion grown too big for this sort of treatment, and carries her across the ring. When Kansas passes through the out-gate, Declan puts his arm around her shoulders, and together the three of them bumble off to the trailer behind the barn.

  Neither of them noticed my bug eyes, my shaking hands. Only Brooklyn has sensed my anxiety and now, as though taking care of me, has settled into a slow plod. When he’s cool, I dismount and lead him to the alleyway in the barn where he stands like a rock while I untack him. He doesn’t even flinch when I pull the saddle off his back and forget about the martingale being connected to the girth and end up with a mess of saddle and straps around his feet. I sort this out eventually, then brush him until all the sweat is removed from his coat, and I pick out his feet again, and brush his tail until there’s not a single knot, and I realize I’m procrastinating. I’m still scared, and it’s dusk, and I don’t want to be riding my bike home alone. I’m turning into a weenie. I throw my arms around Brooklyn’s neck, and hold him, thinking: I didn’t imagine anything. I know what Bernadette saw. It’s the same thing as I saw, and Brooklyn saw: the prehistoric ape, or a were-ape, truly it could be either.

  Declan clears his throat behind me. I spring away from Brooklyn and try to look composed and self-assured.

  “I thought I should give you a lift home,” says Declan, “seeing as how there may be a cougar in the neighborhood.”

  “Sure,” I say, though I think it’s odd. I would have thought that Kansas would drive me if they were having concerns. I put Brooklyn in his stall, grab my backpack from the tack room, then meet Declan at his truck. The engine is running and I climb into the passenger seat, and that’s when I remember Pinky. “My bike!” I say, knowing that the bed of Declan’s truck is full of horseshoeing supplies, and his gas forge, and there won’t be room for a bike back there. But Declan is out of the truck already, and I watch as he wheels Pinky from beside the barn, opens the crew cab door, picks up the bike like it’s a feather and slides it in behind the front seats.

  “New bike?” says Declan, taking his seat behind the steering wheel.

  I sigh. “Yes. I hate it.” I feel badly because I sound ungrateful, but Declan doesn’t say anything. He’s not the lecturing type. He’s barely the speaking type most of the time. “It’s pin
k,” I explain, and I see him nod as I point left and we pull out onto the roadway. I tell him I live on Willow Crescent and he says he knows the way.

  “You could paint the bike,” he says. “What colour would you like it to be?”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nods again. Declan knows all about metal of course, being a farrier.

  “Silver would be good,” I say.

  Declan utters some vague sounds to the effect that he thinks this is possible. He makes a little coughing noise and clears his throat. “What you saw…” he says, then stops to gather his thoughts, and my heart pounds because I’m thinking he wants to talk about the were-ape, but then he says, “What you saw in the tack room—I need to apologize for that. I don’t want you blaming Kansas. She’s feeling guilty that she’s let you down, and she’s unhappy that you’re angry with her.”

  Declan stops talking, which gives me time to gather my thoughts too. I stare off down the road ahead of us. Yes, I am mad at Kansas. I rerun the event in my mind. I picture opening the tack room door, and all I see is the pink bra. That’s what’s bothering me. Well, not the bra exactly. I’m upset because Kansas has always acted as though all that girly stuff was not important, and we could be kindred spirits in a gender-free sort of way, then Declan came along and, without my noticing, everything changed.

  There’s no way I can explain all of this to Declan. I can barely explain it to myself.

  “Kansas could have talked to me herself,” I say.

  Declan nods. “You’re right. But she’s all emotional these days.”

  This makes me even more mad. I haven’t been able to notice that Kansas is all emotional because I’m not getting any time with her.

  I point out my house and Declan pulls into our driveway. Neither of us says anything. We get out of the truck and Declan hauls Pinky from the cab. Declan is a good person. He apologized to me and I can’t remember the last time an adult did that. I look up at him as he gives me my bike. “Declan, I accept your apology,” I say, because that’s what Mom says when I apologize to her, though she usually follows up with a lecture about where I went wrong in the first place.

  The corner of Declan’s mouth twitches. I guess he doesn’t know what to say. He holds out his hand so we can shake on it.

  I wish I was better at making conversation with people. I wish I had talked to Declan about the were-ape, but it’s too late now. I settle for shaking his hand (which is mind-bogglingly strong and calloused). Maybe some things don’t need to be said.

  chapter

  fourteen

  I roll my bike into the garage, thinking it’s been a long hard day, and then I notice my mom watching from the doorway and realize it’s not over yet. She’s all excited: her cheeks are rosy and she’s bouncing from one foot to the other. Either she’s won the lottery or she’s been drinking way too much coffee.

  “Aren’t you having an interesting day!” she says, making bug-eyes at Declan as he backs out the driveway. She flutters a palm below her throat and bats her eyelashes. “Boys all over the place!”

  Oh no. What else has happened? I’m not sure I have the energy to cope with any more emotional events today. Maybe if I don’t say anything she’ll leave me alone. I tuck Pinky in the corner then try to edge past Mom into the house. She pins me against the doorjamb.

  “Sugarplum, you had a phone call!” She pauses for drama, as though we were in short supply. “From a B—O—Y!” she spells. We all know I have trouble with spelling, but this is ridiculous.

  I close my eyes for a moment. A boy? There is a remote chance I would be excited if only Mom wasn’t excited enough for both of us, basically ruining everything.

  “Mom—”

  “Didn’t I tell you there’d be boys some day?” says Mom, proudly, as if she was responsible for this miraculous event.

  As if I cared about boys.

  As if I’ve ever cared about anything other than horses.

  She hands me the cordless phone which she’s been hiding behind her back. “I left a message in your room, but his number shows in the call display too.”

  I take the phone, but won’t look at the display, not in front of Mom. I’ll find out who called when I’m in my bedroom, where there won’t be an audience. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome, Honey. Let me know if you need to talk. It’s a whole new world for you.” She gives my shoulders a squeeze as I slide by.

  The message in my room says to call Logan Losino ASAP.

  Franco answers. At least I think it’s Franco—he’s the only one I could imagine grunting that way on the phone. I ask to speak to Logan. I hear Franco yelling for Logan to get his little fairy butt to the phone because his girlfriend is on the line. I can hear the sneer in his voice when he says girlfriend. It makes me want to hang up, but before I can, Logan says, “Hi Sylvia.” So he knew it was me, which means I must be his only girlfriend, and that makes me feel better though I don’t know why because I’m not sure I even want to be his girlfriend, or anybody’s girlfriend.

  “I read that article,” says Logan. He’s so excited that I can’t get a word in edgewise. “And I couldn’t understand all the terminology, and I didn’t want to ask my dad because he can go off on some weird tangents but I was stuck so in the end I asked him, as casually as I could, and he explained some of it, but then he wanted to know why I was suddenly interested in Ardipithecus, so I told him I had a friend who’d seen one and that’s when he went bananas.”

  “Oh no,” I say. I should never have involved Logan. Now his dad thinks I’m a moron for believing I’ve seen an extinct prehistoric ape. He probably won’t let me hide Pinky in his shed, and I’ll have to bike all the way to school and be even more humiliated.

  “Actually, it was great to see him so enthusiastic,” says Logan. “We talked and talked. I haven’t had so much fun with him in ages. He wants me to ask if you’ve told anyone else,” says Logan.

  “Only Dr. Cleveland, but she thinks—”

  “Oh I told him about that, and he laughed and said her response was typical. Anyone else?”

  “No one.” I decide not to mention that I almost told Declan in case that made Logan jealous.

  “Good,” says Logan. “He doesn’t think you should tell anyone, except your parents, because you need to ask their permission to talk to him. He wants to meet with you. He wants to know everything you saw.”

  “He wants me to tell my parents? Are you kidding? I’ll never be allowed to ride again, my dad will lead a SWAT team into the woods…”

  “My dad thinks you’re amazing,” says Logan. “He’s really impressed with your research. He says Ardipithecus is interesting, but usually they think more along the lines of Gigantopithecus.”

  “What?” Now I’m really confused.

  “He’s been obsessed with these things for years. I couldn’t tell you before because I never believed him, but I do now, because you saw one,” says Logan.

  I am so lost the best GPS in the universe wouldn’t help me. “I saw one what?” I say.

  “You saw a sasquatch,” says Logan.

  Over dinner I try and try to think of how to tell my parents. Mom is doing her best not to pry, but I can tell she’s desperate to know about my phone call to the B—O—Y. She keeps glancing at me and blinking and raising her eyebrows meaningfully. Dad doesn’t notice a thing. He doesn’t even seem to be present. He twirls strands of spaghetti onto his fork, then lets them slide back into the sauce. He sighs heavily. “Sorry, I don’t seem to have much appetite,” he says.

  Of course this draws Mom’s attention away from me. Dad’s at risk of breaking one of the family rules about cleaning one’s plate because of the starving children in Darfur and because of the example one sets and because we certainly don’t want Sylvia to develop an eating disorder. She doesn’t say any of
this—she doesn’t have to—we’ve heard it all before. All she says, with her reminding tone is, “Ahem—Tony?”

  “What?” says Dad.

  Mom flicks her eyes in my direction.

  “This is good, Mom,” I say, digging in.

  “I’m not hungry,” says Dad.

  “I’m working on a group science project at school,” I say.

  Mom says, “Tony, have you thought about seeing Dr. Destrie for a check-up?”

  Dad drops his fork on his plate. A glob of sauce splashes onto his placemat. “That washed-up old fossil?” says Dad. “I’d rather go to a walk-in clinic.”

  “Tony,” says Mom, this time with her warning tone.

  “Not that I’m going to any clinic,” says Dad. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  I think about mentioning his short fuse, his bike-tossing, his car-hijacking, his elder abuse, but decide against it.

  “I’m just a bit tired these days,” says Dad.

  “And no appetite,” says Mom. “Of any variety,” she adds.

  At first I don’t know what she’s getting at, but then I figure it out. Oh god. This I didn’t want to know.

  “We have some homework and I need to go to Logan’s house tonight after dinner,” I say.

  They both stare at me, Mom with a pleased smile, Dad with something else.

  “Is Logan another of these New Age androgynous names that you girls have assimilated now?” says Dad.

  “He wants to know if Logan is a girl,” says Mom.

  “She knows what I meant, I don’t need you interpreting me to my own daughter,” says Dad. A bottle of pills rattles as he drags it out of his pocket and he plunks it on the table in front of Mom. “I’m taking these. Jerry recommended them.”

  Mom examines the bottle. “You’re taking a nutraceutical product called Bali Mojo? Do you even know what’s in it?”

  “It worked for Jerry.”