Code Name: Whatever

by Emily Asad

  Chapter 10: Gallant Rose

  Statistic: The average parent only spends six minutes per day in meaningful conversation with their children.

  October kept me busy. Although I auditioned for Chamber Singers, despite my dislike for Naomi Bell, I didn't get a position because I couldn't read music. Naomi was thrilled and squashed me at every opportunity during choir. But it got easier to ignore her because I was busy with drama rehearsals after school, and juggling during lunch hour. I mastered the clubs pretty quick, and the rings too. So I turned my attention to doing my beanbag tricks with the clubs, which were much more difficult.

  Not long after the talk with Roger, I overheard Mom say that they couldn’t afford a horse. She decided it would be best to wait until next summer.

  “Next summer?” I told Matt. “We’ll be lucky if we’re in the same house next summer. I’ll never get a horse at this rate!”

  “What about your seven hundred dollars? Or is it up to eight hundred now?”

  “Nah, I haven’t done any babysitting for a long time. And that summer job was only temporary. Although, they might hire me back next summer… You think she would take it?”

  “It’s your horse,” he shrugged. “If you pay for it, she can’t say no.”

  “The timing is perfect, too,” I said. “We have the barn, the property, the other animals… and Roger.”

  Matt flinched when I mentioned Roger’s name.

  I noticed it. “What’s wrong? You’ve got that look.”

  “I don’t like him. I mean, he’s nice and all, but he’s really starting to get on my nerves. He keeps trying to be our dad.”

  “I think it’s nice. The others didn’t try very hard at all.”

  “Yeah, but we’re sixteen. It’s fine for Peter and Becky, ’cuz they’re younger, but I’m too old for a father.”

  “I know what you mean. I hate it when he tries to get authoritative on me, but it’s no big deal.”

  “You’re just saying that because he sings with you. He’s got you wrapped around his little finger.”

  “Does not.”

  “Does too.”

  “You don’t like him because he won’t take you hunting.”

  “I don’t need a father,” Matt huffed. He got angry all of a sudden, and left me in the barn alone.

  He always had a temper, but it seemed to be growing lately. I knew that school bothered him, but I also knew it went deeper than that. Matt had been through too many marriages. He was resisting Roger as an authority figure, because Roger would probably be gone in a year or two anyway. Being a girl, I wasn’t as violently inclined as he was, but I understood his behavior.

  Mom didn’t. She didn’t even bother to talk to him about it. She just saw it as challenge after challenge, and doled out punishment freely. He was grounded for the slightest infraction. He didn’t need punishment, he needed a listening ear – but Mom never had the time. And Matt didn’t want to invest in Roger’s time.

  I ran upstairs for my money, which I kept in a sock underneath my mattress. A dirty sock, too, in case anybody even thought about investigating.

  It was gone!

  I reached my hand further, but it wasn't in its usual place. I tore off the sheets and pushed the mattress onto the floor. I even got on my knees and rummaged underneath the bed itself.

  Gone.

  It was gone.

  Erika had stolen it!

  I was sure of that. She was the only other person who knew about my secret money, aside from Matt. And he never would've stolen it. I felt absolutely sick. Erika was at her mother’s for the weekend, giving her plenty of time to either spend or hide my money. I'd never be able to prove it – or to get it back.

  I slumped to the floor and cradled my face in my hands. I would never get my horse, now. My last hopes had been torn away from me. Just like my name.

  I heard the familiar putt-putt of Erika’s ‘new’ car pulling down the driveway, the junker her mom gave her a few weeks ago so she wouldn’t have to ride the bus.

  My head shot up. She was coming home? What for?

  Through the window, I could see her car come to a stop. Margaret got out and walked toward the car. I dashed down the staircase and out to the driveway.

  “Erika! Have you seen an envelope full of money lying on my bedroom floor?” I gasped, running up to the driver’s side window.

  She screwed up her face. “No.”

  “But… you’re the only one who could have seen it. It’s gone.”

  “How much was in there?”

  As if she didn’t know! “A couple hundred dollars.”

  “Haven’t seen it.”

  I stared at her, trying to tell if she was lying to me. If she was, she was very good at lying. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you accusing me of stealing your money?”

  “I… no! It’s just that it’s missing, and I need it today!”

  “I’m not a thief.” She rolled up her window and locked the door, as if I would physically search her car.

  Margaret returned carrying some outfits. “I got ’em.” She slid into the car, ghostlike, and quietly pulled the door shut.

  I stepped back as Erika sped away, screeching her tires at me.

  What now? What on earth was I going to do without my money? I kicked a pebble.

  “Beverly, I need you to go into town for some groceries,” shouted Mom from the porch. She held out her list, some cash, and the car keys. “Be back by lunchtime. I need those ingredients.”

  I stomped over to her and snatched the list from her hand without saying a word. Maybe a drive would do me some good.

  “Can I come?” asked Becky.

  “No. Go away.” I brushed past her, almost knocking her down.

  Mom saw it and yelled at me. “Beverly! That’s no way to treat your sister.”

  “Sorry,” I shouted back. I was, sort of.

  Usually I loved shopping for groceries. It gave me a chance to pretend that I was running my own house. Today’s list was pretty standard, except that it included sugar cubes, carrots, and apples. It reminded me of horse food, and my throat began to squeeze again. Shopping wasn’t any fun today.

  After an hour I returned home. Mom greeted me at the door and took the bags from me. “Help me unpack?”

  I stuffed the boxes carelessly into the cupboard. Mom was being very chatty. It was too bad that I wasn’t in a listening mood. When we were done, I started upstairs to go read a book.

  She stopped me. “Have you done your chores today?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “What about the stalls? Have you cleaned them out lately?”

  “I did it last week.”

  “You should do it every week. Go clean the stalls.”

  “Mom! I can do it later. I wanted to read now.”

  “You can read later.”

  Arguing would probably get me grounded, so I changed direction and tramped out to the barn.

  If you’ve never had a dream come true, you can’t understand the emotions that coursed through every fiber of my being when I opened the door.

  There, in the horse stalls beside the sheep pen, were two horses! Not one, but two!

  I let out a high-pitched squeak of complete euphoria. “No way! No possible way!”

  The dappled white one, a mix of some sort, was about sixteen hands high. He was much bigger in real life than I had imagined. I approached him first, since he had his nose over the gate.

  Babbling incoherent sweet nothings, like “Who’s my pretty horse” and “Look at you, you darling baby, you,” I reached out and touched his nose. He did not pull away. I blew a breath into his nostril so he could get used to my scent.

  That attracted the attention of the little black filly. I knew right away that she was a purebred Arabian, and I wondered how we could have afforded her. “What’s your name?” I said, scratching her ear.

  “That one’s Gallant Rose.”

  I swivel
ed my head to see who had answered. It was my mother, who stood in the door frame with a shy, pleased smile on her face.

  “I got her from a breeder who raises Arabians for show. Her father’s a champion.” She walked toward me. “See her top line? It should be perfectly straight. She dips a little too much. She’ll never be able to show or breed.”

  “What about halter shows? Obedience doesn’t depend on looks.”

  “Well, she’s yours, so you decide. You can’t ride her until she’s two, and that’s not until August, and we’ll have to break her, but…”

  I attacked her with a huge hug. She stood stiffly for a second or two – it had been a very long time since we had hugged – but she did eventually pat my pack awkwardly.

  I thanked her and thanked her and thanked her again. She nodded, trying to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal.

  “I found your savings fund a few days ago when I gathered your sheets for laundry,” she explained, “and I knew right away what the money was for. I hope you don’t mind that I used it.”

  I giggled. “For a horse, you can raid my hoarding fund any day!”

  Suddenly we both grew quiet. We were still hugging each other. We broke away clumsily and turned our attention to the horses.

  “That one’s Charlie. I couldn’t think of a better name for him. He’s half-Arab, one quarter Thoroughbred, and nobody knows what else… We’ll be riding him until your filly gets old enough.”

  I liked the way Mom said ‘your filly.’ I patted Gallant Rose with maternal pride. I could just imagine myself riding her now. After all, I only weighed one hundred and eighteen pounds. She looked sturdy enough to handle my weight… No, better not rush her. I had all the time in the world.

  The next two hours were the best hours I ever spent with my mother. She showed me how to currycomb my new filly while she brushed Charlie. We picked their hooves and led them up and down the driveway. I learned how to saddle and bridle Charlie without making him fight me, and then we went for a ride. Mom steered, of course, while I hung on to her waist. Charlie had a really uncomfortable trot, but I didn’t complain at all!

  The best part about the horses was the fact that I was sharing them with my mother. Mom was always too busy before, so it was a unique experience to find myself telling her about school – about how the other kids picked on me because my clothes were old and unfashionable, how much choir meant to me and how hurt I was when Naomi ridiculed my voice, and about the friends I was making after school at rehearsals.

  “You are coming to the play, right? It’s in four weeks.”

  “Of course I’m coming.” A slight edge returned to her voice. “Why wouldn’t you think I’m coming?”

  I started to remind her that she never came to any of my events, but we were having such a good time, I didn’t want to spoil it. “I knew you’d say yes,” I lied.

  She relaxed instantly.

  I was astonished at the effect my new attitude had on her! Right then and there, I decided to start being less quarrelsome and paranoid – an attitude that had been building over the past several months - and it paid off. I don’t remember everything we talked about, but we covered more material in those two hours than we had in the past year. I found out that she had been a barrel rider when she was my age, and she had won many awards. Her own home life had been agonizing; her own mother never hugged her or said she was proud of her, and so she avoided being home as much as possible.

  Sounds like us, I realized.

  She told me that an older couple named John and Beverly had hired her to take care of their horses, and John had become a father figure to her, teaching her to barrel ride. Beverly was the surrogate mother, giving advice and encouragement. She made such an impact on my mom that I was named after her for remembrance.

  I always hated the name Beverly; it was an old lady’s name. But now, after Mom shared how special her Beverly had been to her, I decided it wasn’t such an ugly name after all. Maybe not as pretty as Margaret, who was the oldest sister in Little Women, but it was noble and dignified in its own way.

  I wanted to ask Mom why she hadn’t changed her mother’s habits when she had us. It seemed so easy. If Grandma never hugged Mom, then Mom should have hugged us kids instead of passing along bad parenting strategies. I held my tongue, though, knowing that it would sound accusing instead of curious.

  Reminiscing seemed to have a nostalgic effect on my mother. As we returned to the paddock, she began to talk about her father. He was her idol and her hero, but he never acknowledged her presence. She had always tried to please him but never seemed to succeed. She had gotten married and moved away, never to see him again until the week before he died. He knew he was dying, which is why he had called her home.

  It was the first and only time he ever told her he loved her.

  Matt and I were perhaps eight years old at the time, and I remember that my mother cried all the way home. He had never told her he loved her before, and he died a week later.

  I felt injusticed somehow. It seemed to be the same story I had, except that Mom wasn’t dying. She just never told me how she felt. I always believed that she was disappointed or ashamed of me, because she never told me otherwise.

  I couldn’t restrain my self any longer. “Didn’t you have a List?”

  “What kind of a list?”

  “You know. A list of good and bad things you wanted to change about yourself when you grew up and became a mother and a wife.”

  “Why should I have had a list?” Although she was facing forward, I knew from her tone she was frowning at the question.

  “Well, I have one. I thought everyone did.”

  She was silent. Too silent. Then, in a low, sad voice, she said, “You keep a list of all my mistakes so you don’t make them when you grow up?”

  I had never thought of the List that way before, but that was a good description. I didn’t answer her.

  Sometimes not answering is an answer enough.

  Her shoulders slumped. She pulled Charlie to a stop and dismounted, leaving me up on him alone. She flipped the reins over his head, and led him the rest of the way.

  I unsaddled him while she watched, but our conversation was terminated. I felt terrible. I meant to share something intimate with her, and ended up insulting her. And it had been such a pleasant time.

  Why did everything always go sour?