Harmony gives me nothing in response.
I put her in the cross ties and groom her. The whole time she maintains her silence. Saddle on, bridle on, my helmet on, and we are ready to go. I get on her over at the mounting block. As soon as I do, something shifts in Harmony. She becomes a nervous ball of energy, prancing and dancing. Her ears prick forward. She jigs to the side and at one point kicks her right hind leg out straight.
I speak in low tones to her. If the horses at home—including Dean—had behaved like this, they would have first gotten a decent scolding from me. And possibly a crack on the butt with a crop. But I don’t know this horse, other than that she has experienced trauma. Losing her owner would have been traumatic itself, but my sense is there might be something more than that. Call it a hunch.
See, every horse has a history—just as we do. And horses have distinct memories of people, in particular. Scientists say that the memory of a horse rivals that of an elephant, which according to the experts is pretty remarkable. If I didn’t see Dean for ten years, he would remember me the minute he and I saw each other again. And not because of my “gift.” It is simply true of most horses. Each one comes with a unique personality and set of quirks, and like children, their histories help dictate what and who they become as they age.
I have to learn more about this horse’s history if I’m ever going to figure her out and become her friend and riding partner.
We ride to the open arena, where I appear to be the only one out on a horse. Considering her squirrelly behavior, this is a good thing.
I put her to work. I put my leg on, relying on the strength of my core muscles for posture and balance, as well as correct breathing, and after a walk around the arena, I ask her for a trot. I’m pleasantly surprised when she moves her hind end nicely up underneath herself, using her muscles properly. Her gait is smooth, and she’s round and supple. We move this way around the arena and then cross the diagonal, changing direction. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see someone watching me. As I make the bend and go long, I see who it is: Tristan. I swallow. He smiles and gives me a little wave.
My body tenses, and the second it does, so does Harmony’s, and we fall apart. She flies hard to the left, and then bucks so athletically that the move would have made a rodeo bull proud.
The last time I was bucked off I was seven years old, and it had been this nasty pony who let me know before I ever climbed on his back that he hated me because I was not his original kid. He only wanted her. Foolish me, I only wanted that cute pony. Yeah. That didn’t work out so well. And neither did that moment on Harmony’s back, because I went flying off.
Stunned and on the ground, I see hooves race past me. Harmony whinnies shrilly up and down the arena, tail in the air as she races around. It takes Tristan a couple of minutes to catch her. I stand up and brush myself off. He brings the horse back over to me.
As if yesterday hadn’t been bad enough! Now this. Tristan hands me the reins. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod and mutter, “Thank you.”
“Happens to everyone,” he says.
“Yeah. I need to get back on.”
“Can I help? I can maybe coach a little. It’s hard when you get a new horse. I totally get it. You should have seen Sebastian the first couple of months I had him.”
“No,” I reply, probably a little too curtly. “I’ve got this.”
“Yeah, she’s got it.”
I hear Lydia from across the arena. Where had she come from? Where is the nearest rock, so I can quickly crawl under it?
Tristan looks back at her. “I’m just trying to help.”
“She doesn’t need your help. She said so, T.”
He looks at me again. “I’m sorry. You’re really okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I think you better head off with Barbie.”
He makes a funny face at me.
“Wait. I’m sorry.” I pause for a moment. “Actually, can you give me a leg up? I don’t want her to think that she can get away with that. I mean Harmony, of course.”
“Sure.” Tristan gives me a three-count and then hoists me back into the saddle. Harmony jigs to the side, but this time I’m prepared.
Lydia begins to clap haphazardly. “Nice going, Scholarship.”
“Screw you,” I mutter as I bite back the tears that want really hard to come. I refuse to cry. I even ask myself, Why in the hell am I wanting to cry—because I came off? Because that stupid bitch saw the incident and made fun of me? Or because her gorgeous boyfriend, who I want to hate, has helped me and Harmony?
As I ride Harmony for about another twenty minutes, she settles back down and does as I ask, but neither of us is really happy.
When I take Harmony back to the barn, I’m still so upset that I’m afraid I might burst into tears. When I put Harmony away, she never gives me a damn word, a damn picture, a feeling. Nothing.
What is it with this mare? Or is it me?
I tuck my pride away and go back to my room where, alone, I bury my head in the pillow and bawl like a baby for the second time in two days. I want to go home and be with my Dean. With my mom. With Cole. With my friends and Gail. Back to all of it. And away from here. This is the worst feeling I’ve ever felt, because I am beginning to really dislike a horse for the first time in my life.
CHAPTER eleven
Luckily, Martina comes back cheerful and ready to go to the mixer. And I think my cry-athon actually did me some good, so I don’t tell her what happened at the barn. Besides, we agreed to go, and Kayla has actually left us a message on our phone voice mail saying that we “really need to be there.”
I do what I can to look decently mixer-able, but after spending half a day crying, I am puffy and red-eyed, so it’s not easy.
Martina gives me a quick, curious look. “Viv, have you been crying?”
“Oh, no. I just have these stupid allergies.” I am not good at lying and I think she knows this, but she doesn’t press the issue, and I am grateful for that.
Mom and I went into Portland last week and she bought me some nice things—including this flouncy turquoise leopard-print skirt, which is much shorter than I am used to. Can I really wear this out in public?
I mean, I have spent the last ten years in either a pair of breeches or jeans, and a T-shirt or sweat shirt. But after I put on a little makeup on and curl my hair, I think I look okay—except for my legs, my ghostly, ghastly white legs.
“You look cute,” Martina says. “I love your hair down.”
“Thanks, but take a look at my chalk-stick legs.”
Martina takes a step back. “Hmm. I see what you mean.”
“Ouch! But true, right?”
“Wait. Don’t worry—” She holds up a hand. “I have just what you need. Come—to the bathroom!” she orders.
I follow her and she holds up a spray can with the word “Luminosity” in gold letters. “What’s that?”
“Instant self-tanner.”
“Can’t you get cancer from that stuff?” I ask.
“No, silly, that’s tanning beds. This is going to be so easy. I’ll just spray it on your legs and you’ll get this nice golden glow.”
“I’m not sure.”
“My mom uses it all the time. Turn around.”
With trepidation I do as ordered. The next thing I know, she is spraying the back of my legs. Then the front, and you know what? The stuff does take the chalky edge off!
“Told you,” Martina says.
“I guess you did. Thanks. Shall we mix?”
“We shall,” she replies. “And don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”
“And I’ve got yours.”
Down in the main hall the mixer is already under way and my stomach is growing ever queasier. But, my mom is always telling me to “put myself out there,” and that “good things happen when we least expect it.” Mom, she loves a good cliché.
Inside, the place is really nice, all decorated in the school colors of silv
er and royal blue. There are tables with floral arrangements on them, and candles. I feel like I’m at a fancy wedding, not some high-school social. It’s all a little surreal, and not half bad at all. I am used to going to high school dances where tissue streamers are all the decor, never candles or flowers.
Rihanna’s latest is booming through the speakers and I immediately spot Tristan standing next to Lydia in the buffet line. That queasy feeling intensifies.
“Should we grab a bite?” Martina asks.
“Sure.”
About the time Martina and I have nearly made it through the buffet line, Nate Deacon butts in between us. “Hey, girls. Don’t mind if I sandwich in here, do you?”
“Actually yes,” Martina replies.
“Ah, you are always such a buzzkill.” He turns to me, and gives me a once-over. “You look great, Vivienne.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You still got my number, right?” he asks.
“Oh, definitely.”
“Hey, Nate, go troll somewhere else,” Martina says.
He laughs. “Call me!”
“Jerk,” I say.
“Yep. Come on, let’s sit down.”
Martina and I have just set our plates down at a table in the back corner when we are immediately joined by three other girls. I’ve already met the charming Emily Davenport.
I notice Martina frowning. “Hello.”
“Hey, Tina,” one of the girls says. She has long, dark hair that she keeps flipping back behind her shoulders.
“It’s Martina.”
“Oh right. So, Martina, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?”
“Oh, let me,” Emily says. “We met yesterday. Vivienne Taylor, these are my friends Alicia Vicenzia”—she points to the dark-haired girl—“and this is Shannon Burton. Shannon received the scholarship two years ago.”
Shannon is petite, with brown hair and blue eyes. “I heard about you being bucked off.”
There is this thing that happens to me when I am angry, embarrassed, or faced with confrontation—my ears heat up, and I know for a fact they first turn pink, then red, and finally violet. I think they have gone straight to violet.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been bucked off,” Shannon says. “I hope you’re okay.”
Her fiendish pals all nod in mock sympathy.
“I’m completely okay. Thank you so very much.”
“Cute skirt,” Alicia says. “Very… what is it, Versace?”
“That’s so funny,” Emily chimes in. “Versace!”
Riley Reed takes the last empty chair at the table. “What’s going on, ladies?”
“Ri—” Shannon smiles. “It’s about time. We were just getting to know the new girl. This is Vivienne.”
“We’ve met,” Riley says. “And if I know you three, you aren’t here to be the welcoming committee. You’re here to be the bitches r’ us committee.”
“Riley,” Alicia snaps. “Why would you say that?”
He rolls his eyes and tosses up his hands. “Oh my God, I have no idea why.”
“You know, I think I’ve lost my appetite,” I say to Martina.
“No, stay,” Riley says, placing a hand over mine. “Seriously.” He then looks at the girls. “Take your tired old mean-girls thing and go somewhere else. Don’t you have lips to gloss or nails to paint, or someone else you can talk crap about?”
“Riley!” Shannon says.
“What?”
“Why are you acting like that? Like we aren’t friends, and like you actually care about her?”
He leans back, tipping his chair onto two legs. “Maybe because I’ve decided that I am sick of all of you.”
I can’t believe this is happening! They all stand up and then Alicia bends down close to Riley, and I hear her say, “You’ll be sorry for this, Riley. I have no clue what you’re up to, but I think you’ve lost your mind.” She then looks at me. “Nice self-tanner.”
“No. I actually think I found it,” he replies. “My mind, that is.”
As they walk away, Martina looks as dumb-and-stunned as I must. But Riley is grinning hugely.
“Why did you do that?” I ask.
“Because it’s true. I’m over their drama. But more important, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty sure you could use another friend around here.”
CHAPTER twelve
Abandonment, confusion, deep-hearted soullessness, I felt all of that over the following week at Fairmont. It was the same exact feeling that had taken hold of me when my dad left us. But just like when he took off… eventually life creeps back in, it envelops the bones and the brain, and then encompasses the heart. Life must go on. There is no way around that.
I have figured out in my years on this planet that I can choose to let the crap eat away at me and keep me in that dark mixed-up state, or I can just move the hell forward. Harmony may not want to allow me into her world—even after nearly two weeks of grooming, riding, feeding, and attempts to bribe her with carrots or any other treat that might appease, the mare still wants no part of me. Fortunately, she hasn’t pulled any more nasty stunts and is fairly calm with me while I’m in the saddle.
Plenty of other horses want a part of me, though. I learned early on with my gift that as soon as horses figured out how well I understand them, then they usually share away.
The hardest thing is that I have no one to talk to about all of this. The only one who understands is Mom. But spilling about the more awful elements of life at Fairmont after how hard she worked to get me into this place? This is not an option. Instead, I keep our conversations light and just tell her what I know she wants to hear—mainly that I am having a great time and learning a ton. And I am learning a lot, and there are moments that are thrilling and fulfilling. Like when Newman Becker offered me accolades—and I quickly learned that he is not one to dole these out. Or, when Holden Fairmont—another one who is not easy to please—praised me.
As far as my regular classes go, they aren’t easy, but I am enjoying the challenge. On the social front, I have made two fantastic friends—Riley and Martina—plus some friendly acquaintances. Sadly, Nate Deacon is in my barn management class. Sir Slimeball is always giving me these little looks and slightly dirty comments. I feel like he’s up to something that has something to do with me. Paranoid much?
And the other Distracting Guy in that class? Tristan. He is on my mind way too much. Ugh.
Even my subconscious knows this. For the past few nights I have been having the same dream—sort of a nightmare, really. In it is a spotlight focused on a ladder in the dark. The ladder falls over and over again. I don’t ever see it hit the ground. Everything goes dark before that. But when I wake up, I feel like I have repeatedly hit the ground. I’ve thought about this dream. A lot. Does it mean that I am in such foreign territory that it is like falling off a ladder over and over again?
My phone suddenly trills, breaking into my thoughts.
“Hi, Shnoopy!”
“Hi, Mom.”
“So, how’s the new horse?” Mom asks.
“She’s good,” I lie. I look over at Martina studying at her desk. We are going to dinner soon.
“Good? That’s all you can say about her?”
“Yeah.”
“Vivvie?”
“What, Mom?”
“I know you, and I know how you relate to horses. And I’ve never heard such a short answer from you regarding a horse, especially one who is now basically yours. When we talk, you barely mention her. She must have something to say to you. We both know they aren’t short on opinions.”
“True, but… this one kind of is. I guess you could say that she lives in the moment.”
“Interesting.”
“How’s Dean?”
“He’s good. Ren loves him and he seems to be getting on with her quite well, but I’m sure he misses you, like they all do. Like all of us do. But I want to hear more about this horse. Is she a good mover?
Does she have the heart to event? What is she like in the dressage arena?”
“She’s… great, Mom. Really. That’s all I can say for now. Martina and I are getting ready to go to the cafeteria, and I have a ton of homework, so I want to grab some dinner and get to it.”
“Of course. Have a good one, Shnoopy. Miss you. Love you. Wish I could be there this weekend.”
“Me, too, Mom. Love you.” I hang up the phone, and that miserable angst sets in again. My mom is not dumb. I know she could hear in my voice that things aren’t as great as I keep insisting. Fact is, Harmony isn’t giving me much on an emotional level. That’s not to say that she isn’t talented. Harmony can jump a four-foot oxer without an issue. She floats across the diagonal line in our dressage lessons like no other horse I have ever been on. We have not been out on the cross-country course yet, as course lessons are less frequent than dressage and show jumping. But if what I have learned about her athletic abilities already is indicative of what she can do out on course, then I have a strong sense that Harmony is going to shine out there as well.
But this issue of disconnect for me is huge. I can’t deny it, and there is no one to talk to about it. Not Mom, who would know how the horse’s lack of interest in connecting with me would affect me. Certainly no one at school would or could understand. I’m not going to be with the popular crowd. And if my gift is discovered, I am pretty sure that instead of people being in awe, it will only fuel the gossip pipeline. No, thank you.
I am also pretty sure that Riley’s friendliness toward me has sealed my fate with what I have come to refer to as the drama zone, and shortened to “DZ.”
“Everything okay back home?” Martina asks.
“Yeah. My mom, she just worries. You know how it is.”
Martina closes her textbook. “I know, even with my parents living so close, they still worry like crazy.”
“Uh-huh. Hey, can I ask you something that I’ve been wondering about?”
“Sure. But let’s start walking. I told Riley we’d be there in five.” She puts on some lip gloss.
Silent Harmony: A Vivienne Taylor Horse Lover's Mystery (Fairmont Riding Academy Book 1) Page 6
