by Janet Rising
Skinny Lynny on Drummer? Don’t think so! But then, I could hardly say no, could I? I got my gaping mouth working again and went to say OK, but it came out as a sort of mouse squeak.
“Right, it’s a date!” said Dad. He never seems to understand that I might have plans. It’s as though I’d been moping around, with nothing to do, just waiting for him to call so I can let his horrible, skinny girlfriend ride MY pony. Then I remembered that I’d promised myself to make an effort with Skinny Lynny, and what had I just learned from the ponies?
“Er…” I said.
“We’ll meet you at Drummer’s at eleven o’clock tomorrow. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Pumpkin. We both are!”
He hung up.
“Did I hear right?” inquired a wide-eyed Drummer, his head up like an indignant llama. “Do I take it I’m giving pony rides tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I told him. “And before you get all huffy about it, remember that my dad pays for your keep so play ball or you could find yourself in one of the classified ads in the local paper.”
“No need for threats,” Drummer sniffed. “I knew your positivity wouldn’t last.”
Oh, pooh, I thought. It seemed no sooner had we fixed on one problem, another galloped up to fill its space.
Chapter 7
It was almost a quarter to twelve when they arrived. I’d had Drummer tacked up for over half an hour. You can imagine how he felt about that!
“Hi there, Pumpkin!” shouted Dad, once he’d parked the car next to Sophie’s luxury horse trailer. I’m probably getting a bit old to be called that. I mean, it had been OK when I was six. Would Dad still be calling me Pumpkin when I was sixteen, or eighteen, or really old, say twenty-one?
When Skinny Lynny got out of the car I couldn’t stop my mouth from becoming a black hole. She was wearing bronze-colored breeches and the latest Sublime Equine lime-green polo shirt. Long, leather riding boots made her walk as though she had no knees and her long, blond hair spilled out from under a top-of-the-range blue velvet riding hat. I thought this session on Drum was a tryout to decide whether she was going to take up riding? She looked fairly committed to me. At least four-hundred-dollars committed, and my dad would have paid for it. I heard a gulp behind me.
“Check her out!” Drummer exclaimed. “I thought you said she couldn’t ride?”
“She can’t!” I hissed back.
“Doesn’t Lyn look the part, eh?” said Dad, looking all pleased and proud with his trophy girlfriend in her over-the-top getup.
“I thought you’d look a bit nicer, Pia,” scolded Lyn, looking me up and down. Rude! I was dressed in jodhpurs and a polo shirt.
“I think I might enjoy this.” Drummer chuckled.
“Drummer…” I growled in a warning voice. Skinny Lynny tipped her head to one side and smiled.
“Dear Pia,” she said in the sort of voice you use to tell tiny children that their teddy bears will cry if they don’t eat up all their greens, “are the ponies talking to you again?”
Skinny Lynny had never really believed that I could hear what horses and ponies were saying. She’d always treated me as though I was making it up, or I was bonkers. I didn’t really care whether she believed me or not. Impressing Skinny Lynny wasn’t a priority of mine.
“Now,” said Dad, rubbing his hands together, “I can’t wait to see the future show jumper of the year onboard.”
I led Drummer to the outdoor school and over to the mounting block, showing Skinny Lynny how to mount, and after a few squeaks and squeals, and a shove from me, she was soon sitting in Drum’s saddle, looking scared stiff.
“It’s very high up,” she said.
“No, it isn’t,” I mumbled sulkily.
“You look fantastic in the saddle, darling,” shouted Dad from the other side of the fence.
“No, she doesn’t,” I argued. Skinny Lynny sat stiffly with her bottom jutting out and her heels clamped into Drummer’s sides.
“Now sit up and tuck your tail under you,” I told her.
“I haven’t got a tail,” said Skinny Lynny, breathless at the suggestion.
“I know, but make like you do. That’s better. Now breathe.”
“Oh, I was holding my breath!” gasped Skinny Lynny. “How did you know that?”
“All beginners do it. OK, don’t rest your hands on the saddle; carry them like this…Good. Now put all your weight down your legs and into your heels. Let them drop. Relax…” I wobbled her legs until they softened. “Now I’m going to lead Drum around and I want you to stay in that position.”
Drum took a step forward. Skinny Lynny squealed. I just spotted the wicked gleam in his eye as Drum shook his head, which had Skinny Lynny clutching his mane, squeaking like a guinea pig.
This wasn’t going well.
“Don’t squeal, you’ll scare Drummer,” I said. Skinny Lynny looked at me wide-eyed and terrified. “It’s OK, he’s not easily scared,” I reassured her. “But you need to be quiet.”
“Will he throw me off?” she whispered.
I so wanted to say yes. Instead, I said, “No, no, he’s a pussycat, honestly!” as Drummer—encouraged by the success of his head shaking—put in a hop and squealed himself. Skinny Lynny squeaked and yelled, “Make him stop or I’ll get off!”
“Oh, this is going to be such fun,” sniggered Drummer. Secretly, I agreed with him. Skinny was hopeless. I mean, we’d only taken three tiny steps and she was all for throwing in the towel.
“Just sit up and Drummer will be fine,” I told her. “Honestly, I won’t let go of him.”
Dad climbed through the fence and came over.
“Are you all right, darling?” he said, all concerned. He wasn’t talking to me.
“This horse is dangerous,” Skinny replied accusingly, “and Pia can’t control him.”
“Of course he isn’t, and of course I can,” I said.
“I could be!” threatened Drummer menacingly.
“Come on, Lyn, you’ve got all the gear now. You might at least walk around,” Dad encouraged.
“Well, I’ll try to be brave,” Skinny Lynny replied, smiling at Dad.
“That’s my girl!” beamed Dad. I thought I was going to throw up. I mean, it was hardly heroic, plodding around with me hanging on to Drummer’s reins.
So we walked around, and the squeaking died down— at least it did from the saddle. Drum had realized he was onto a good thing, however, and as soon as I took my eye off him, he put in a hop, or he threw his head down to scratch his knee, or he shook his head and squealed. Every time, Skinny Lynny clutched his mane and caught her breath or she squealed back. It was like the clash of the squeaky toys.
“Shall we try a trot?” I said wearily.
“Is that fast?” Skinny gasped.
“Fast-er,” I said.
“Oh, OK, second gear. All right,” she agreed. I explained what trotting would feel like and got her to hold the front of the saddle.
“Keep your heels down and sit up tall,” I said. “Here we go—nice and gently!” I growled at Drummer.
“Hee-hee!” Drum chuckled, and he bounded forward into trot. Skinny yelled for him to stop, stop, stop! And Drum obliged, very suddenly, snorting when Skinny landed on his neck.
“Trotting’s awful!” She gulped. “How can this be so difficult—it looks so easy!”
“Yeah, well, everyone thinks that, but it takes a long time to learn,” I said. “You want to try again, now you know what to expect?”
We did. We even managed half a circuit in trot. After that, I decided to stick to walking and got Skinny Lynny to steer instead. That went rather well, and Skinny Lynny managed a smile. Once she’d learned how to stop, she was much more confident.
“Come on, now,” Dad called, already bored. “We don’t want to be late for lunch, Lyn.” I remembered that he’d never been very interested in watching me ride either.
“Oh, hold on,” said Drummer, and he lifted his tail and dropped a large poop on the san
d.
“Oh, that’s so awful!” whined drama queen Skinny, dropping one rein and wafting her hand in front of her face.
“It’s only pony poo,” I muttered.
I got Skinny Lynny to lead Drummer back to the yard. Of course, he grabbed hold of the bit and dragged her over to the feed room, and I had to rescue her. Then he rubbed his head on her, leaving brown hairs all over the lime-green Sublime Equine polo top, and concluded by scoring a direct hit on her foot with his near front hoof, offering Skinny Lynny yet another screaming opportunity.
“Oops!” exclaimed Drummer, all innocent.
“I don’t know that Drummer is a very safe pony for you, Pia,” mused Dad, nursing Skinny Lynny’s foot. “He seems a bit wild. I can get you a quieter pony, if you like.”
“Of course Drummer isn’t wild,” I told him. “Honestly, Dad, he’s just playing up because he knows Lyn isn’t very experienced. All ponies do it.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” Dad continued.
“Stop it!” I hissed, looking Drummer in the eye. “I know what you’re doing, but it’ll backfire on you. She’s not an Xbox game.”
“I don’t know how you put up with the awful horsey smell around here,” said Skinny Lynny, screwing up her nose.
“Horses smell OK!” I said.
“But all that manure—from the muck heap. I mean, it’s steaming,” said Skinny. “It can’t be healthy.”
“It’s fine. No one notices it after a while,” I said firmly. Now she was going to get Drum sold on the grounds of health and safety. Honestly!
“If you think that’s bad…” began Drummer, lifting his tail and letting out a long, and very smelly, fart. Skinny put her hand over her nose and whimpered. I couldn’t understand it—I mean, she lives with my dad and he’s much worse than Drum when he’s had Mexican.
“Well, good-bye, Drummer. Thank you for the ride,” Skinny Lynny said, patting Drummer on the forehead. Drum blinked dramatically every time her hand connected. Pat-blink, pat-blink, pat-blink.
“Bye-bye, Lyn!” Skinny Lynny said in a pretend Drummer voice. “Come and ride me again soon!”
“Oh, puh-leeese!” said Drummer, rolling his eyes and backing into his box to escape.
Skinny wiped her hands on a nearby bale of hay, anxious to get any Drummer-scent and Drummer-dirt off them. I don’t know why, Drum smells great—when he’s not farting.
We went out for lunch. And, get this, Skinny Lynny didn’t even get hat hair! Peeling off her riding hat, she just shook her head and looked gorgeous. How does that work? When I take my riding hat off, my hair’s stuck to my head like it’s been glued.
All the men in the pub swiveled around to stare at Skinny in her breeches and boots. I could see Dad puffing out his chest in pride, like he was personally responsible for Skinny’s figure. I suppose that’s why he ran off with her in the first place. The thought of my dad behaving like those lecherous men made me feel a bit strange. I mean, yuck!
“So what’s on your agenda this summer vacation, Pia?” asked Dad. I told them about the Sublime Equine Challenge, and how Drum and I were the wild card. I sort of glossed over how badly our team had performed in the first qualifier, concentrating instead on our plans to get to the Brookdale final.
After lunch, Dad dropped me back at the yard. “We’ll have to do this again,” he said.
“Mmmm,” agreed Skinny. “Now that I’ve got all the gear, I’ll need to use it!”
I waved and sighed with relief as I watched the car bounce down the drive and away. Then I remembered how I had promised myself I’d make an effort with Skinny Lynny.
And how I had failed.
Again.
Chapter 8
Having had our confidence shaken so much at the first qualifier, we were all very nervous at the second, held at Beeches Riding School, even though the ponies had promised to do their best, and we were all determined to make them feel good whatever the outcome. If we didn’t make the first three this time, it was the end of the road as far as our Brookdale ambitions went.
Beeches was miles away, so by the time we’d ridden over there, we were all pretty well warmed up. I had our outfits in my backpack, so they were a bit creased, but we had to go with it. I wished I’d asked Dee to bring them with her—her mom was dropping her off by car after her schooling session with Dolly. Her HOYS campaign was in full swing, and she’d just missed qualifying at her last show by one place. Not for anything would I have swapped places with Dee in the horse trailer on the return journey with her miffed mom. Can you imagine?
This time, Drum and I were first to go in the wild card event. As I waited in the collecting ring, trying not to look at the other teams and smoothing down the creases in my skirt, I whispered to Drummer, reminding him of his promise.
“Stop worrying,” he said. “I’ll be an absolute pro. Honest. Your wimple’s wonky, by the way—you’re letting me down.”
I pulled the conical hat straight. There was a stiff breeze, and the chiffon scarf kept blowing across my face. My yellow dress threatened to trip me up. I saw Katy, Bean, Dee-Dee with Bluey, and Tiffany and Moth, all grinning and giving me the thumbs-up sign. Well, the humans were. The ponies couldn’t because they don’t have thumbs, obviously.
“The next competitors are Pia Edwards and Drummer, for the Great Eight,” the announcer managed to say without sniggering, which was impressive. Drum and I walked into the ring and faced the judges—three of them standing with clipboards, looking all stern and important. I nodded toward James and he started the CD player. It was now or never!
Drummer was as good as his word. He twirled, he shuffled, he did exactly what we’d practiced and what I asked him to do. He even shook his head a couple of times to get the bells going. At the end, we bowed to the judges, and I could see them all smiling broadly—they even clapped.
“You star! ” I hissed to Drummer, patting him like crazy as we left the ring.
“Told you,” he said smugly.
“Oh, well done, you were both amazing!” squealed Katy, peeling off Drum’s leg bandages.
“Good old Drummer!” cried Dee-Dee, forcing pony cubes into my pony’s willing mouth.
“Hey! Lay off the ‘old’ part,” Drummer mumbled, shaking his head as I peeled off his ear protectors.
“Good job, Pia!” said James.
“Now you all have to be fabulous, too!” I laughed, relieved our part was over. It was a tremendous start. Our score was a decent fourteen out of twenty. Not bad!
I caught sight of Cat and Bambi performing their polished routine, their teammates cheering at the end. But we couldn’t stay long, because it was Bean’s turn to perform her dressage.
“I’m so nervous. Look!” she said, thrusting wobbly hands out in front of her. “What if we mess up again? I’ll let you all down. What if I let Tiffany down? She’s been so fantastic lately—and she’s been so brave about the noseband.”
“Just do your best,” said Katy, patting Bean’s arm.
“You looked great at the last practice,” said Dee-Dee.
“Oh, why couldn’t you do the dressage?” whimpered Bean. “Dolly would just walk it.”
“OK, you go to shows with my mom,” offered Dee.
Bean pulled a face at her. Suddenly the dressage didn’t seem so bad after all.
“Just do your best, that’s all we ask,” said James. “No one is going to blame you if you don’t do well.”
“Oh, my legs are shaking so much, I don’t think I can mount Tiffany,” moaned Bean.
We all shoved her into the saddle, and I glanced at Tiffany. “Don’t worry,” she said huffily, “I’m going for it this time.” She gulped. “Is it time for the noseband?”
As we threaded the noseband on at the very last minute, Tiffany closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She really did hate it. I had to admire her courage—but could she get past her bad memories? And could Bean remember the test?
Tiffany pulled out all the stops and did a
good test with only half a head shake. Bean managed to hold it together through a few wobbly moments when we could see she wasn’t sure whether to make a transition or turn across the arena. She still went wrong though. Twice.
When Bean finished her test, we crowded around her making encouraging noises.
“Why am I so bad at dressage?” she cried, dismounting and ripping off the noseband before giving Tiffany some polo mints. Tiffany rubbed her nose across Bean’s shoulder as if to rub away the memory of the hated noseband. “I was so much better at home—I just can’t remember anything when it’s a competition.”
Their score was 41 percent—better than last time but still pretty terrible. No one else had a score less than 57 percent. Gloomily, we all regrouped at a tree we’d picked out. Although there was a breeze, the sun was strong, and we tied the ponies up to some string we’d tied around the trunk and had a break.
“My mom should be here any minute,” James said, looking at his watch. “She’s bringing some lunch.”
Now that my part was over I was ravenous, and I’d been eyeing up the burger van. I wondered what James’s mom would be like. When I’d first moved to Laurel Farm, James’s scruffy appearance had so fired my imagination, I’d believed him to be some kind of gypsy prince. After hearing that his parents had bought him Moth at the drop of a hat, I’d had an instant rethink. I’d seen his dad—he often dropped James off at the stables in his (expensive-looking) car, but I’d yet to meet his mom.
Petite, blond, expensively dressed, James’s mom looked chic, young, and very, very glamorous, like an ex-model or something. James ran to help her carry the huge cooler she had brought along, and she opened it up and invited us all to dig in. There were sandwiches, sausage rolls, hard-boiled eggs, and chips, then éclairs, doughnuts, cheesecakes—and cans of Coke underneath. Dee-Dee, Bean, and I stuffed ourselves, and Katy and James made us save some for them to eat later—they were feeling too nervous to tackle anything now.
“I’ll only bring it back up again,” Katy told us.
“Yuck, don’t waste it!” Bean exclaimed, cramming another doughnut into her mouth, happier now her part in the challenge was over.
