At Top Speed (Quartz Creek Ranch)

by Amber J. Keyser

  The hot food was exactly the opposite of what Ella wanted to be eating right now, but she spooned more into her bowl anyway. She was famished. Her clothes stuck to every square inch of her because she’d been sweating so much. Why didn’t the Bridles have A/C if the summers here got this bad?

  “Hmm,” said Kim, stirring his food with a pinched look on his face. “Totally overcooked.”

  Ma Etty didn’t even look offended. “Happens,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t cook meat for so long,” Kim went on. “Makes it carcinogenic. Can give you cancer. When my mom makes Korean food, she cooks the meat real fast, in boiling water. It tastes a lot better.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” said Ma Etty, even giving Kim a little smile that annoyed Ella.

  “Nobody asked you, Kimberly,” said Ella. The talk of boiling water in this heat made her feel sick. Or maybe she just wanted Kim to shut up. “Stop bragging.”

  “Ella,” said Madison. “Respect.”

  “What?” Ella demanded. “He’s insulting Ma Etty’s cooking and going on about how Korean food is better, and you’re telling me to show respect?”

  “It’s true that it’s not healthy to overcook things,” said Ma Etty, as if just to show she wasn’t injured and didn’t need Ella to defend her. “You lose good nutrients.”

  “My dad’s Irish,” said Ash. “They overcook everything! It’s so gross. I hate family reunions.”

  Ella directed her annoyance into cutting a big piece of gristly meat. She wanted Ash and Kim to stop talking because Ella had nothing to contribute. Mom had left before Ella was old enough to learn about Indonesian cooking. All she knew was that it used a lot of hot peppers.

  “You guys are lucky,” said Jordan, who watched her bowl while she spoke. “There’s no traditional food in my family. Well, besides sloppy joes and hot dogs. And my mom puts mayonnaise on everything.”

  “All-American, huh?” said Drew. “My mom’s family are all from South Carolina, and they take their barbecue sauce seriously there. At least we have some heirloom barbecue sauce recipes.”

  “‘At least’?” said Ella, bristling. Drew, of all people, making fun of Jordan? “Who cares about barbecue sauce?”

  Fletch put down his knife. “Come on, now, guys. Everyone can be proud of where they came from and the food their families make. Jordan, I ate the same kind of stuff as you growing up. It’s definitely All-American.”

  “Broke American, you mean,” said Kim under his breath.

  “Kim!” said Ma Etty, the patience in her voice evaporating. “What is with you all tonight?”

  Ella glanced at Jordan as she went back to eating. Her face was red.

  Kim was probably right. Jordan didn’t seem to have much money, but she had made it work. She’d even managed to get a regular gig riding horses—and probably not by taking expensive riding lessons.

  Ella glared down into her food and stirred.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Sunday was supposed to be another group activity, but before the day had even begun, Ash and Kim were already yelling at each other over the last pancake. Ash picked up a tin cup full of maple syrup and hurled it at Kim, hitting him in the head and spilling sticky, slippery syrup all over his hair, the wall behind him, the table, and the floor.

  Mr. Bridle got to his feet and slammed his utensils down on the table with a resounding clang.

  “That’s it!” he said, huge voice filling the dining room. The boys ducked back into their seats. “I’ve had enough. That incident yesterday with Paul, then the insults at dinner last night, and now this?” He took a long, calming breath. Ella felt dread curl up in her stomach. Even Mr. Bridle’s tolerance appeared stretched to its limit.

  “Everyone is going to be separated this afternoon,” he said finally, wiping his lips with his napkin. “All chores, all day. No partners.”

  “What?” cried Drew.

  “And,” Mr. Bridle continued, as if nobody had spoken, “I’ll be teaching lessons tomorrow. You’re off, Fletch and Maddie. Feel free to take a trail ride, or go help Paul’s boys with the new calves, or whatever you want to do with your free time.”

  Neither of the trainers actually looked pleased about this, but they nodded and said nothing.

  Had this happened before, that Mr. Bridle took over teaching? It seemed unlikely. Ella saw him as the sort of guy who sat quietly and did paperwork, or fielded phone calls and marketed the ranch to parents. Not the sort to get in front of kids and teach.

  A spike of fear ran through her. And, looking at the other kids’ faces, she wasn’t the only one.

  They’d really, truly messed up.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  Sunday was another sweaty, hot day, and this time, Ella had to suffer through it alone.

  First, Ma Etty showed her how to milk the goats and then left her to do every single nanny goat alone—all nine of them. By the end, her wrists and hands felt like lead weights, and one of the nannies, whose teat she’d pulled on too hard, had kicked her in the thigh.

  Then, after lunch, Ella mucked stalls. All. Afternoon.

  “This should be illegal,” Ella said to herself, since there was no one else around to complain to. “This is indentured child labor. This is illegal, I know it.”

  But nobody cared, because nobody could hear her.

  For the first hour, Ella repeated her complaints to herself, until even her own voice annoyed her. So she stopped talking at all.

  When the complaining ceased, she seemed to find a rhythm: stick the fork-rake-thing under the poop, tilt it back up to keep as much poop on the rake as possible while lifting it, then toss the poop into the wheelbarrow. Occasionally, as she went to dump each wheelbarrow of manure onto the manure pile behind the barn, she caught sight of the horses out in the pasture.

  They couldn’t look more pleased with the sunny weather, or the day off. They chased one another, flinging their manes around, running back and forth like puppies playing in a yard—even sweet Lacey, who she’d said such mean things about, was romping with the others.

  What a jerk Ella had been.

  Happy, at least, that the horses were having fun when she couldn’t, Ella went back inside with the wheelbarrow to fill it again. Her sore arms cried out, No more poop! Not another wheelbarrow!

  And yet, there was more poop. There was always more poop.

  By late afternoon, Ella had reached a meditative state. Stick the poop, lift the poop, toss the poop. She even stopped swiping at the bugs, because she felt bad for killing them. They were just trying to live too.

  Ella lost track of time, no longer caring whether her punishment ever ended. She was starting to think she deserved it.

  She deserved it for yelling at Figure Eight.

  Ella wheeled out another load of poop and dumped it, stopping for a moment to wipe sweat from her forehead and gaze up at the fiery sun.

  No wonder Jordan avoided her. Ella had mistreated her own horse. Ella would avoid somebody like that herself.

  Ugh. And then Ella had gone and called Jordan a liar, too.

  Once she got thinking about it, Ella found her list of sins was long: She’d egged Kim on at dinner. She’d punched Bianca at school.

  Ella looked down at the wheelbarrow, and shame crept up in her chest.

  She’d chosen Dad over Mom.

  And she’d let Mom leave. Her kind, loving mother . . . Ella had let Mom go without even telling her she loved her.

  As Ella headed back into the barn, tears starting to work their silent way down her cheeks, a blaze of white and fawn-brown shot across the pasture.

  Ella blinked, rubbing her eyes.

  Figure Eight galloped from one fence to the other, bucking and swinging her head. She looked utterly magnificent, that painted horse, frolicking in the green grass under the sunshine. As Ella watched, she couldn’t even feel angry at Madison and Ma Etty anymore for taking Figure Eight away. She just felt joy watching her.
>
  “Ella!” She turned at the sound of Ma Etty’s voice. “Come on inside! It’s time for dinner.”

  Ella had a vaguely disappointed feeling. She’d miss the predictability of the stick-lift-dump, because who knew what trouble might erupt at the dinner table?

  Ella sighed, put down her rake and wheelbarrow, and followed Ma Etty inside.

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  But she had nothing to fear. The others were all just as tired as she was, and hardly anyone said a word during dinner. Afterward, the kids stumbled back to their bunkhouses like zombies.

  As the girls went inside to change out of their dirty, sweaty clothes, Jordan held up a hand with her palm facing Ella. At first, Ella was so tired that she didn’t understand what was happening. Eventually she raised her own hand and met Jordan’s high-five, smiling.

  “You’re alive,” Jordan said, grinning in that unguarded way only total exhaustion can bring.

  “So are you!” Ella laughed, suddenly giddy. Jordan had chosen to approach her. Jordan had talked to her. Even high-fived her!

  The girls high-fived again at the fact they had both survived the day, and that was the last thing that Ella remembered before she dragged her numb body into bed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Everyone was slow to breakfast in the morning, and there wasn’t much talking.

  Ella figured their penance wasn’t over yet.

  She knew about penance. When Mom still lived with them, she made Ella attend mass with her every Sunday. Keeping still and silent for that long was hard even for some of the adults, but Ella had learned how to daydream while still looking attentive as the priest droned on.

  She’d learned how to confess, too. How to say her rosaries to make up for each mistake she’d made during the week.

  It seemed all the kids at the table knew they were finally saying their rosaries today.

  When breakfast was over, Mr. Bridle got up, hat so low it partially covered his eyes. He folded his napkin and set it on the table.

  “Let’s go.”

  Quietly, the kids got up out of their seats and followed Mr. Bridle out to the barn. He dragged out five wooden saddle stands, each with a student’s saddle already on it.

  “Get on up,” he said. Ella saw Kim bite back a sarcastic remark, and he climbed up on his saddle on the wooden horse with everyone else.

  Mr. Bridle meticulously corrected their feet, their knees, their legs, their seats—even their shoulders. He never raised his voice, never needing to. And when they were done, he put them on their real horses and made them walk around the arena for what felt like hours, doing the same thing. He nitpicked everything about their posture, their seat, their feet, their attitude.

  “Your horse feels what you feel,” he said in his deep, mahogany voice. Ash chuckled and Mr. Bridle said, “What about a thousand pounds of lean muscle and the power to read your mind is laughable to you, Ash?”

  Ash’s smile fell away. “Uh,” he managed.

  “You get on there thinking this is a joke,” said Mr. Bridle, “and what’s your horse to think? That this is just a game for him, too? That’s a horse that doesn’t back up when you ask, because he thinks you’re a clown for his amusement.”

  Ash flushed red.

  Next, Mr. Bridle picked on their hands, making them do figure eights around the arena, one after another, never changing speed. If a horse slowed down or sped up, Mr. Bridle jumped on the rider.

  “Why is your horse moving faster right now?” he’d say. “Bring it back down.” The horses were just as bored with the endless walking around the arena as the kids were, and would sometimes try to start jogging.

  Ella started to feel when Lacey was about to speed up, usually when she sensed the horse in front of her start to trot. Ella would adjust her posture to match, sending her weight back in the saddle and giving Lacey a tug on her mouth with the reins.

  “Don’t pull so hard, Ella,” called Mr. Bridle, and Ella hated how he seemed to see every single thing she did. “Small motions. Whispering, not yelling, not unless Lacey ignores you and you need to yell.”

  Obediently, Ella tried out using smaller, precise motions. When she did, Lacey paid closer attention and would listen to Ella’s quiet requests right away.

  Ella focused on getting better at this, keeping in constant contact with Lacey about what speed she wanted, about how close to the rail they should be.

  “Tell them with your eyes where you want them to go,” Mr. Bridle would say, over and over, as they cut across the arena one way, then the other, then back again. “You should be twenty-five feet ahead of your horse at any time. Look at the top of the fence posts. Pick the one twenty-five feet ahead of you and stare at it. Then the next one. Then the next one.”

  He was right. Ella found if she looked where she wanted Lacey to go before she signaled her to turn, it didn’t take much pressure on the corresponding rein to make her turn. It was as if Lacey got the sense, long in advance, of what Ella wanted, what she was going to ask—then prepared herself to do it.

  Ella thought of Jordan’s Antonio, Mrs. Rose’s horse.

  Mr. Bridle stopped them for lunch, and the kids fed and cared for their horses before eating. Ma Etty brought out burritos so they wouldn’t have to leave for too long. As they stood in the cool, dim barn, silent except for the rustling of paper burrito wrappers, Kim pointed at Jordan and started laughing.

  “You got some sour cream on your pants,” he said. “And it looks exactly like Mr. Bridle’s head.”

  Everyone stopped to peer down at the sour cream stain.

  “You’re right,” Ella said. “It looks just like Mr. Bridle’s head. The big hat, the square chin—it’s even got his ears.”

  As they all stood gaping, Jordan wiped it off, leaving a wet splotch on her jeans. Ash laughed. “Still looks like Mr. Bridle’s head.”

  “You should go inside and have Ma Etty wash that off for you,” said Ella, “so they don’t stain.”

  Jordan shrugged. “No biggie. These old jeans are so beat-up, you won’t notice later. They were already pretty ratty when I inherited them from Olly. Anyway, I’m up to get a new pair next month.” She smiled at this.

  Kim turned away at this information about Jordan. His cheeks flushed pink, while Jordan just picked at the stain thoughtfully. So even Kim could regret being so mean to her the other day.

  Ella finally broke the silence. “I really like your jeans, Jordan,” she said. “I thought you got them from a thrift store back home. I love thrifting. I mean, why buy new stuff when there’s plenty of great used stuff out there?”

  Jordan shrugged. “I guess.”

  “I buy almost all my stuff thrift,” said Kim suddenly. His face was still red as he pulled the collar of his GI Joe shirt out to show them. “This is my favorite find ever. Vintage. Very rare.”

  This was probably the closest to an apology Jordan would get from Kim.

  “What do you know about T-shirts?” asked Ash, snickering.

  “A lot. I collect them.” Kim grinned. “What about you, Dallas? You do anything interesting besides rabid fanboying over your favorite football team?”

  Ash wiped his mouth and balled up his empty wrapper. “Yeah. Art. I do art.”

  “Art?” asked Drew, leaning in. “Like what?”

  Ash lowered his voice as he said, “Street art. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You got caught tagging something?”

  Ash barked a laugh. “Tagging is for noobs. My buddy Cruiser and I were at my house one night and made this amazing wheat-paste piece.”

  Ella stared at him. “Where was your mom?”

  “She’s a waitress. She works late. So Cruiser and I take it a couple blocks down and start putting it up—”

  “You did it near your house?” said Drew, covering his mouth.

  “Sure. There’s a lot of art where I live. Anyway, we’d just gotten most of the Cowboy up when the cops caught us.”

  “You
were putting up Cowboys graffiti?” asked Jordan. Even she looked aghast.

  “Yeah, of course. Why?”

  Jordan just shook her head, and Drew laughed so hard he had to sit down.

  “It was a work of genius,” Ash said wistfully. “And nobody but us ever saw it.”

  \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

  After lunch, Mr. Bridle drilled them about pieces of tack, care and grooming, even horse anatomy. Once they’d parroted back to him all the facts and techniques he wanted, they got back on their horses and worked in the pasture. It was harder to control the horses out here, at least for Ash, Drew, and Kim. Lacey was too compliant to be much trouble, and Jordan had a perfect handle on Loco Roco.

  “Keep your legs back, Ella,” Mr. Bridle said as they made circles in the grass around him. “Heels down—no, that’s too much. Let them fall naturally; don’t shove them down. Press the balls of your feet into the stirrup, and the rest follows.”

  Why couldn’t Ella do it right? There were too many things to track and control: your hip, your leg, your heel and your toes, and that was before you’d gotten to just holding onto your reins right.

  “I’m trying,” said Ella.

  “Your elbows are sticking out,” said Mr. Bridle. “Elbows down by your hips. Reins right in front of you, not out over the horn.”

  “I’m trying!” It was too much to focus on at once. She couldn’t manage it all in her brain.

  In Ella’s frustration, a quiet thought occurred to her. Nobody was arguing. Nobody was mocking one another. Mr. Bridle had forced all of them to focus so much on their horses, on their seats, on their hands and their feet, that they had nothing left for squabbling. And slowly, they were starting to improve.

  Unfortunately, still always at a walk.

  Yet it had stopped being boring. Now Ella could see what she was doing wrong—why sitting incorrectly in her saddle, even just a fraction, could make a big difference. She saw it in the two laps she did sitting stiffly in her saddle, then the following two, where she sat down and back, like Mr. Bridle kept telling her.