by Susan Juby
I rode with Dawn for four years. I rode with her until I made the mistake that got me sent here, to Stoneleigh Girls’ Equestrian Academy a few weeks ago.
Rather than dealing with me by sending me to military school or therapy, like normal parents, my mother and father sentenced me to a riding academy in Canada.
My mom heard about Stoneleigh from some director friend of my father’s. The school is one of the only private, girls-only riding academies in North America, located on Vancouver Island, which is 286 miles long and around 50 miles wide, according to the Stoneleigh brochure. There is a city called Victoria at one end, and a bunch of small and medium-sized towns that run down the length of the island. Stoneleigh has low academic standards and extremely high tuition—a perfect match for my educational needs! My mother seems convinced that since Canada is so far north I won’t be able to get into any trouble here. She seems to have confused it with Switzerland or something. My parents didn’t tour Stoneleigh before they enrolled me or they might have realized that they aren’t getting what they’re paying for.
My parents bought me my own horse right before they shipped me off to Stoneleigh Girls’ Equestrian Academy, conveniently located here in Nowhereville, British Columbia, Canada. My new horse, Tandava, is a seventeen-hand Holsteiner mare. Holsteiners are this breed of German sport horses bred to be very good at jumping and dressage. She’s a warmblood, but her temperament leans more to the hot-blooded side of things. Some might even say the completely crazy side.
On the sales video my mom got, Tandy was described as an “extravagant mover with international potential.” She’s also what people sometimes refer to as a lot of horse, which is the polite way to say better handled by a professional and definitely too much horse for a sixteen-year-old who’s only been riding for four years. Today I am supposed to ride a third-level test, my first in competition. The third-level test is my lousy coach’s idea. And it would be a fine idea except for the fact that I am a first-level dressage rider. On my good days. And I haven’t had a good day since I got here to Stoneleigh Academy, not quite a month ago. Add to that the fact that I’m scared of my new horse and you can see why I wasn’t in any big rush to get going.
“Hello? Hello? Earth to Cleo?”
Phillipa’s voice penetrated my thoughts like a drill bit. “Sorry?” I said, looking up from the blank page in my Journal of Despair (J.O.D.) that I’d been staring at for at least five minutes.
“Aren’t you going to get ready? You’re on in like forty minutes. You haven’t even tacked up.”
Phillipa and I sat in the school’s royal-blue camp chairs with the Stoneleigh Academy logo printed on the back at the end of a row of stalls. We might not be the best riders at the Fall Fling Horse Show at Beban Park, but we definitely had the nicest folding chairs. As soon as we sat down, Phillipa started giving me a running commentary on everyone who rode past. I’d been pretending to make notes in my J.O.D. and fantasizing about being somewhere else. Anywhere else, actually.
“Cleo? Are you listening to me?”
Relentless. The girl was relentless. I was hoping to just sort of miss the class, pretend I forgot my time or something. But Phillipa, with her constant thoughtful reminders, was making that impossible.
This was my first show on Vancouver Island and so far it reminded me of every other show I’d been to, except that the arena and rings and barns and stuff were a bit more downscale and the people weren’t quite as tan. Or thin. Other than that it was the same basic scene: tidy girls in shiny boots bitching out their parents, people fussing around with their horses, dust, and hot dogs.
The main difference is that here I felt like an outsider. Not only because I just moved here, but because I go to Stoneleigh, which seems sort of isolated from the rest of the riding community. Even Phillipa is treated like a Stoneleigh interloper, and she grew up on the island.
Phillipa is the only other dressage rider at my new school, and so far, she’s my only friend. She’s been attending Stoneleigh since she was in Grade Five and I think I may be her only friend, too, which is verging on tragic. We started hanging out as soon as I got here.
“I can’t believe Svetlana didn’t even come,” Phillipa groaned. “She is the worst coach ever.”
I couldn’t disagree with her. Phil says there are lots of good coaches in the area, but they refuse to teach at Stoneleigh because Phil and I are the only ones who take dressage lessons regularly. Half the time coaches arrive to find that dressage lessons have been canceled for a jumping event or they have to try and teach in a ring filled with jumps and poles. It probably doesn’t help that Stoneleigh’s only two dressage students aren’t very good.
Phillipa has a decent seat and hands, but she’s kind of passive. It’s obvious that she’d rather be braiding her horse’s mane than riding him. If her horse, Hernando, wasn’t so good-natured she’d be in real trouble because she’s the opposite of a disciplinarian.
“Have you seen my mom?” asked Phillipa. “She said she’d be here by now. She’s bringing me my boots.”
That was enough to get me out of my chair. Phil’s mother is competitive enough for both of them. She’s as skinny and hard as Phil is plump and gentle. She comes to school every weekend to watch Phil ride and she spends half her time lobbing underhanded insults at the competition (me) and the rest of her time gossiping. It’s enough to make me appreciate my own absentee parents.
From what I can tell, Phil’s parents aren’t that well-off and they’ve had to make lots of sacrifices to send her to Stoneleigh. As much as I want to be supportive of the working class and everything, they are totally wasting their money. Phillipa isn’t ever going to the Olympics and Stoneleigh may be expensive, but that doesn’t mean it provides some superb education or anything. It’s not like my old school, Marlborough, which was all about academics. As far as I can tell, the majority of the girls at Stoneleigh are okay students and very serious riders. Then there are the screwed-up rich girls who just happen to be somewhat into horses. They’ve been sent to Stoneleigh in an attempt to keep them on their horses and out of jail. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which category I fit into. But at least I fit in somewhere. That’s more than poor old Phil can say.
As I walked over to Tandava’s stall I wiped at my face. I could feel my hand shaking. Why was I so nervous? I used to love shows, but that’s because Dawn was there, handling everything. In California I competed on Dawn’s perfectly trained school ponies. I was like Attila the Hun in the ring—you know, I conquered everybody in sight. On Tandava, I’m going to be more like the villagers Attila slaughtered.
All my black thoughts disappeared when I saw Tandava’s head poking over the stall door. She nickered a greeting and reached for a treat. Even her head was gorgeous.
“This is the kind of horse that could take you all the way,” the voice-over on her sales video had said. Yeah, all the way to Christopher Reeve–ville if I’m not careful.
The day Tandava arrived at Stoneleigh, she bolted as she was backing out of the deluxe air-conditioned trailer that my parents hired to bring her to school. The driver, barn staff, and students spent an hour tracking her before they finally found her in the parking lot of a small liquor store in a mini-mall a few miles away. She was surrounded by nervous shoppers and a couple of those Canadian RCMPs, who didn’t seem to know whether they should take out their guns or their lassoes. Poor horse. I sympathized with her. I wanted to run away the first day I got here, too.
Since then she’s expressed her feelings about the move by bucking me off a few times, kicking holes in her stall, and biting the horse in the paddock next to her. If my parents hadn’t thrown the headmistress a few bucks for the new indoor arena fund, I bet we’d be looking for a new home for her. And for me.
According to Phil, Stoneleigh girls have a reputation for having too much money and not enough supervision. The locals don’t seem to find that a winning combination. They don’t want their kids getting mixed up with us. You’d
think that with Phil and me being dressage riders and not jumpers, people might cut us some slack, but so far no one was breaking any legs coming over to say hello.
I caught some other girls around my age giving Tandava an intimidated look when I took off her sheet. She’s a spectacular-looking horse, but if anyone around here had seen me ride her before they wouldn’t look so concerned.
After running a cloth over her to remove every last speck of dust, I looked down at myself. I was a disaster. As usual. There was a big black smudge on my white breeches, the kind that would just get worse if I tried to rub it off.
I could feel sweat soaking all the way through my white blouse and black jacket. My nerves were getting worse by the second and Tandava could sense it. By the time I had the saddle on she was pawing at the ground and shifting nervously around.
I got the bridle on, with difficulty, and led her over to a mounting block, but she refused to stand still and nearly dragged me off it several times before some woman took pity and came over and held her while I got on.
All around me girls were being given a leg up by Mommy or Coach, while Daddy held the horse. I tried not to notice people looking at me as I rode over to the warm-up ring. Tandava barely touched the ground. It was like trying to ride a blob of mercury or a vial of nitroglycerine. She kept flinging her head around and overbending her neck. Sit up straight, I told myself sternly. At least pretend you’ve got the situation under control.
The fairgrounds were packed with people and horses and the afternoon went from freezing to scorching every time the sun came out from behind the gray clouds.
In the warm-up ring Tandava spooked at everything, including fallen leaves and stray dust particles. People were really staring now. She kept backing up instead of moving forward, jogging when she was supposed to be walking, and cantering on the spot. I’d only been riding for a couple of minutes and already Tandy was dripping with sweat. Her neck was lathered with white foam where the reins touched her but her mouth was totally dry. I felt my own sweat trickling into my boots.
Every time Tandava sensed danger, which was approximately every 0.4 seconds or so, she leaped into the air. I tried to hang on and kept muttering “sorry, sorry” to all the riders whose horses spooked as we went bolting past.
I gave up trying to tire her out before it was our turn to ride. I could have run her all day and it wouldn’t have made a difference. I jumped off and led her out of the warm-up ring. Her mahogany sides heaved and her flanks were black with sweat. Her nostrils flared, showing scarlet in their depths.
I took a moment to squeeze the sweat out of my gloves, praying that I’d survive the next half hour. When I finished, I noticed someone watching us. It was a boy. Not just any boy. A cowboy. I straightened and tried to pretend I was just taking it easy before it was my turn to ride, very much like a genuine cowboy would before getting on his roping horse or bucking bronco or whatever.
The boy, who had very dark eyes and was wearing sexy cowboy gear—a big silver belt buckle, shiny, pointy-toed cowboy boots, and a huge light-gray cowboy hat—gave me a little lip curl. If fact, I think what he gave me was a cool, genuine cowboy smile. If I wasn’t about to be killed, I totally would have smiled back.
“Number forty-eight! Number forty-eight! You’re up next,” called out the lady with the clipboard, looking for the next victim.
“Oh God, that’s me,” I muttered. Before I went, I looked again at the cowboy and he nodded. I couldn’t stand the thought of him watching my humiliation, so I led Tandy to a mounting block a bit farther away.
Four minutes later I tried to trot Tandava around the outside of the ring while I waited for the bell to ring to signal that we could enter, but she insisted on cantering. It was like riding a guided missile without the guidance part.
Dressage is all about harmony between horse and rider—calmness, suppleness, submission, plus not getting killed. All I had to do was pretend like I had things under control.
The bell tinkled and the whipper-in pulled back the piece of fence at A so we could enter. Dressage rings have letters around the perimeter to show you where you’re supposed to go. We entered at A at what was supposed to be a collected trot but was actually a very slow canter. I practically had to wrestle Tandy to get her to stop in the middle of the ring at X. When she did finally stop it was at an unknown letter off to the side of X. Let’s call it Q.
I saluted the judge, not daring to look at him. Tandava surged beneath me, ready to explode. I had to get moving again.
We tracked left at C and proceeded in a collected trot. Or in some weird variation of passage. I’m not sure which. It wasn’t my idea.
From S to V we were supposed to do a shoulder-in. This turned into a half pass across the diagonal, which landed us in no-man’s-land on the other side of the ring. How was I supposed to get back to where we were supposed to be? What were we supposed to be doing? Back when I rode Dawn’s schoolmaster ponies it took about fifteen minutes to get from one end of the ring to the other. On Tandava it took about six strides.
I turned Tandy in a small circle and the bell rang, signaling that I was off course. Frankly, I was just glad to be alive, but there was much more to come.
L to S, half pass left. Tandava was really gathering speed now. It was like trying to half halt a steam engine.
M, X, K, change rein at medium trot. Tandava streaked off at just under the speed of light. I only barely brought her back so we could make the corner. My head was sweating so much that my hat slipped sideways over one eye. I was riding blind!
K, collected trot. Yeah, right.
F, X, H, change rein, extended trot. With a bit of canter thrown in toward the end.
R to P, shoulder-in right. Also known as rush sideways with head thrust in the air.
Okay, okay. I took a deep breath. The test slowed down a bit now. I was going to get through this. Tandava’s huffing and puffing made her sound more like an angry rhino than a horse.
Between P and L, half circle right ten meters. Or fifteen if your steering fails.
L to R, half pass right. Then left. Then right again.
C, halt. (Praise God!) Reinback four steps. Or refuse to budge. Whatever works.
Proceed at medium walk. Or at slow, disobedient jog.
Between G and H, shorten stride, half turn on haunches right. Or have horse rear onto hind legs, causing rider to emit small scream of fear.
Walk around a bit more, unsure where to go. Hear off-course bell again. Force self not to finger person ringing it.
Aha! Suddenly remember to break into collected canter on left lead at A. Or break into right lead to show that your aids—hand and leg signals—are 100 percent ineffective.
A to C, three loop serpentine-simple change of lead each time crossing centerline. Or zigzag crazily around ring at canter with short breaks for fits of bucking.
H to K, medium canter. The less said about this, the better.
K, collected canter. Or continue with increasingly out of control extended canter, as horse wishes.
P, circle left. Use radical lean similar to that seen in barrel-racing ponies.
P to S, change rein with flying change between centerline and S. Give two violent bucks at centerline and bolt toward S. Run right over railing, knocking down half the ring. Go flying into the crowd, scattering kids and horses and dogs and spectators. Hang on for dear life as horse makes for the soccer field at warp speed while off-course bell rings madly behind you.
Be grateful that you didn’t run over cute cowboy on the way out of the ring. He probably walked away in disgust at your incredibly foul performance.
SEPTEMBER 8
3
Cleo
AFTER I BARELY survived what was probably the worst third-level test ever ridden at any Fall Fling in history, I put my foot down. “I want to come home. I’ve learned my lesson,” I said.
“Honey, you can’t come home. We are in Africa on the shoot until at least December. And you’ve proven tha
t you can’t be trusted on your own. You have poor judgment.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “What happened with Chad was almost like an accident. I was defrauded! Like an elderly person.”
“You were defrauded!” exclaimed my mother. “We were the ones who were defrauded! By you!”
“That’s not fair,” I said, even though she was basically right.
“As I said, you’ve proven you can’t be left alone. You are staying at school and that’s final.”
“But I don’t want to stay here! Tandava nearly killed me. The coach here is a nightmare. I have a sprained ankle! From falling off!” My voice was starting to climb.
I took a deep breath to center myself.
“So you want me dead. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Cleo, we’ve found you a fabulous situation there. You’re in Canada. At a girls’ equestrienne school.”
“It’s a school for people who jump their horses. They don’t even teach dressage here.”
“So jump, darling.”
“I don’t want to jump. I’m not into jumping! I goddamn hate jumping. Don’t you ever listen?” I shrieked.
I saw Phillipa’s eyes grow big. Apparently she doesn’t curse at her parents.
“Calm down, Cleo. Being negative is never a positive option,” said my mother. Then, without warning, her voice dropped two registers and she snarled, “Tell him that is out of the question. We are not going to be blackmailed into meeting that has-been’s every demand. He wants to leave, fine. He can walk back to the U.S.”
“Mom?”
“Sorry, honey, I am just talking to David’s agent.”
