Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage)

by Mary Casanova

  Libby pushed away from the counter, rinsed her green bowl, and added it to the dishwasher. Heading upstairs, she ran her hand along the banister, her feet cushioned by soft carpet. She hurried past her parents’ room, their clothes piled on their four-poster bed.

  In the bathroom, white curtains fluttered at the window beside the embroidered plaque of the Ten Commandments. Guilt panged her. Trespassing. She’d broken a rule, somehow, but she didn’t know which one. She scanned the small framed sign, relieved to not find a “Thou Shalt Not Trespass.” She brushed her teeth, rinsed, and spit in the pedestal sink.

  At the end of the hall, in her bedroom, Libby glanced out her dormer window. Apple trees stood like soldiers in neat rows, all the way to the white fence. The horses were not in sight. She had to see Thunder again, but she’d have to think of a way to sneak over in broad daylight. There was one way she knew of that might work.

  She sighed, back-flopped on her bed, and smoothed her hands over the quilt’s soft squares of pink, lavender, and light blue. The colors weren’t her. Only last year, her mother had helped her redecorate. Grandma had made the quilt to match the lavender walls bordered by pastel clouds. Libby would have chosen brighter, bolder colors, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt her mother’s feelings.

  On her dresser, fourteen plastic horses struck poses: rearing, grazing, running. There was a time when she’d play with them for hours, when they were almost as good as the real thing. Her chest tightened. She slapped the bed, palms down, and hopped up.

  She returned to the open window. A warm breeze lilted through the screen. Legs splayed, a gray squirrel circled up the nearest oak. In the distance, the pasture was still empty. She missed seeing the herd: from Cookie, the twenty-eight-year-old pinto, to Sagebrush, the nineteen-year-old black mare with turned-in front feet. They were gentle horses—older, quieter—good for trail rides.

  She couldn’t let Thunderbird slip out of her life, too. She needed to be his owner. No. Even owner was the wrong word. It was different than that. More of a bond. Friendship. If ownership were based on love, not money, she’d be Thunder’s rightful owner.

  She changed out of yesterday’s clothes, pulled on denim overall shorts over a white tank top, fastened the metal clasps, then stood in front of the antique vanity and studied herself in the mirror. Her face was changing. Less round and more heart-shaped. Honestly, she didn’t know if she was pretty or ugly. Slivers of green sparked her brown eyes. Freckles spread like wildfire over the bridge of her nose. Her face was like meeting people at the Roselli family reunion last year in South Dakota; familiar yet different.

  From one of the six small drawers, she grabbed a brush and worked it quickly through her hair. She pulled her hair back into a red barrette, let wisps fall where they willed, and hustled downstairs.

  From the front porch, she snatched her tennis shoes, then sat on the outside top cement step. As she tied her laces, she looked for signs of her parents. To the south, seven cars were parked outside the apple packing building, where the fresh-picked apples bobbed in a giant “hot tub” of soapy water, then made their way along a conveyer belt to be waxed, polished, weighed, bagged, and boxed. Libby had helped plenty of times before. When she was too young to help, when she probably got in the way more than anything, she loved to shout “Echo-echo-echo!” in the adjoining room-size refrigerator.

  In the distance, a car murmured north along the road, and turned at the Porters’ driveway. She wondered if someone was going there to buy the remaining horses.

  She jumped to her feet, hurried to the garage, yanked her black twelve-speed from alongside a tractor tire, and rolled it out. A monarch butterfly floated above the roses. Heat rose up from the gravel driveway. Libby glanced around, hands on her handlebars, and forced the pedals down—hard.

  She’d be back before her parents noticed she was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At Apple Blossom Drive, Libby veered left on her bike. Sun warmed her bare shoulders. A hawk perched on a white fence post, rose to the air, screeching, and flew off.

  Libby scanned the Porters’ green pasture for Thunderbird, but it was eerily empty. Last night’s ride seemed like a dream. A good dream gone bad, that is.

  Nearing the next driveway, she slowed, searching for any hint of Mr. Porter. Beyond the blue spruce, the stable doors—X’d white—were closed. To the right, at the end of a stone sidewalk, the Porters’ chalet-style house sat quietly, flowers blooming red in the window boxes. In the driveway, a dark four-door was parked; the driver waited, elbow jutted out the window.

  From behind Libby, to the south, the grumble of a vehicle grew. Louder, closer. Libby hugged the shoulder, waiting for it to pass. In a flash of glimmering teal, Mr. Porter cruised by, truck windows down, music cranked up. A stone caught air and hit her spokes. The truck braked, red lights glowing, and turned into the driveway, leaving dusty clouds. He had to have noticed her. She’d hoped he’d be at work. Then she remembered: it was Saturday.

  Head down, shoulders shrunk forward, Libby biked past the two wooden poles that held the Northwind Stables sign, a carved wooden board with three galloping horses hand-painted in the top right corner. She passed by, bike tires humming, and fought down the tidal wave in her chest.

  Beyond the three-foot hedge, a truck door slammed shut, and then it was quiet, except for the snapping, whirring sounds of cicadas and grasshoppers. The roadside was lined with purple asters, daisies, and black-eyed Susans. Ahead, the air shifted above the road, a mirage of water on the warm pavement. At the top of the rise, looking down the valley at the winding Mississippi below, she slowed. Just out of view of the stable, she stopped and straddled her bike.

  To her right, the road gave way to a ravine, a thick, fern-carpeted forest where she rode on hot days with Jolene. Its paths were steep and root-woven, but shady and cool. To her left, the slope climbed toward the stable and orchard country, a region of rolling hills and deep valleys. A horse trail ran along the small creek, which paused to widen into a swimming pond. The pond was edged by willows, just north of the Porters’ property. Many times, Libby rode alongside the pond and let the willows’ long feathery branches brush her shoulder. Willows that were absolutely perfect—large and knotted, thick with leaves—perfect for climbing.

  Perfect for spying on Mr. Porter.

  She hopped off her bike, stashed it in the weeds, then hiked up the slope. The narrow path was branded with hoof prints. Only last week she and Jolene had ridden this way. She shook her head, trying to shake out her thoughts. She missed Jolene. There was so much she didn’t know or understand. If she could only talk to her, get some answers. The first one: Why, really, did you leave? It all left her feeling empty as a hollow watering can.

  Weeds tickled her legs as she ran along the path, sidestepping occasional mounds of dried horse manure. On the freshest mounds, flies lifted halfheartedly as she neared, then settled again, buzzing. At the next property, cows grazed on a far hill outside a stone-foundation barn.

  A pheasant lifted from tall grasses, its long tail iridescent.

  Free of algae and weeds, water flowed from the creek and pooled to a depth of five or six feet, then flowed on beneath the road and down the ravine toward the “mighty Mississippi.” Libby hiked around its edges, scared a painted turtle from its log, and took cover in the shade of the willows. A mallard scooted across the water to the pond’s furthest edge, flapping its wings, as if it threatening lift-off. But it didn’t.

  She glanced around—she was alone—then, nimble as a cat, climbed the largest willow, which arced over the water. Up past the rope swing, higher and higher. Libby found a notch that supported her back, then straddled the tree’s arm and dangled her legs. The tree reached its roots into the bank and stretched above the white fence and stone wall, commanding a broad view of the stable.

  The car was already gone. Though his teal truck was there, Porter wasn’t in sight. Libby shrugged.

  She hadn’t climbed the tree since the Porters
had moved in. When she was seven or eight she’d straddled the tree’s largest branch, swung her legs, and yelled “Giddyap!” What a moron. Then she caught herself. No, she wasn’t a moron. That was the word Emily and Rachel slapped on anyone they didn’t like. She was just little then and loved horses. Dreamed of having her own horse someday.

  She settled in and took up duty. The house and stable were about a football field’s width away. Between the house and barn, the red horse trailer sparkled in the sun; the stable’s name in brass letters arced along its side. When Mr. Porter first drove the trailer home, Jolene had danced around it. The cab was equipped with a bed, dining nook, fridge, and smelled of new upholstery. Jolene had invited Libby inside for a Coke. And at the Mendota Horse Show, the new trailer brought as much praise as the horses. Whenever somebody asked about it, Porter would pat its glossy enamel as if it were the coat of a well-groomed horse.

  Beneath the canopy of green leaves, a mosquito hovered by Libby’s leg, then landed. She smacked it, leaving a bug imprint on her tan skin. Below her, sunlight dappled the ground like spots on Thunder’s rump.

  Part of her wished her friends were with her. And another part of her felt relieved—free—without them. Rachel and Emily were always part of the “in” group. Like magnets, they had the power to pull Libby in, seemingly as a friend, but—it struck Libby for the first time—they never really returned the friendship. Not really. At times Libby felt she was part of the group; but many times, she felt completely on the outside. Rachel and Emily loved to talk about music, boys, and clothes. If Libby mentioned horses, they rolled their eyes. “That’s all you talk about,” Rachel would say, shooting Emily a knowing look. Libby had learned mostly to keep her mouth shut. No wonder Thunder made such a good friend. He always listened.

  Near the stable, a splash of movement caught her attention. Two-Step, the broad-backed bay quarter-horse, and Cincinnati, the smaller white Arabian, trotted from the pasture toward the stable. Mr. Porter was tossing hay over the fence into the paddock—not into the hay bins, which protect the animals from eating bugs and larvae with their food. The horses lowered their heads, eating. Then Porter walked to his house and stepped inside.

  Libby wrinkled her brow and scanned the pasture. Thunderbird was still nowhere in sight. Something felt wrong. Her heart quickened.

  Libby snugged her arms around her waist, waiting. Watching.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Minutes later, near the pond’s edge, something shuffled. Libby slowly drew up her legs. Branches fluttered below, followed by a strange sound—thwuck-thwuck-thwack. More shuffling, mumbling. Libby stared at the path beneath the tree. She held her breath. Leaves partially blocked her view.

  “ … Come on, baby, come a little closer, baby … come a little closer to my love, ooooooo—oo—oo—yeahhhhhh … ” Singing painfully off-key, a boy about her age came into view. He carried a long stick, its bark peeled off, slicing at willow branches. Like a jungle traveler with a machete, he sent leaves and long grass flying. As he sang, he bounced his head; sun-bleached blond hair skimmed his ears. He stepped toward the pond and, just beneath her tree, gingerly poked his stick at the bottom. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped his stick and removed his faded blue T-shirt, then his leather boots, one worn toeless, then his socks. His singing turned to humming and he swayed to his own music.

  Libby held her breath.

  He started singing again. “Come on baby, come a little closer now, baby … oooooooo—yeaahhhhhh … ” Facing the river, he unzipped his jeans, slid them off his ankles, and stood in faded plaid boxers. With one last glance he hooked his thumbs inside the elastic waist and …

  “Stop!” she yelled, as loudly as she dared.

  The boy fell backward on his rear. “Hey!” Then just as quickly he sprang to his feet, grabbed his stick, and held it across his chest. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice suddenly high-pitched. “Who’s spying on me?”

  Then she recognized him. Her mouth fell open. He was the boy who started at LaCrescent Elementary last April. Her grade. Rachel and Emily had thought he was really cute, but because during his first days there his ears turned red, her friends called him Dumbo. Now his blond hair hid his ears. Libby hadn’t joined in the teasing, but she hadn’t told her friends to stop either. One time, they’d teased about his living in a foster home until he slugged Rachel in the shoulder. Hard. A playground aid saw it and made him go to the principal’s office. He got a week of detention. After that, the girls stopped teasing and instead just wrote notes about him. Rachel claimed him. “He likes me best,” she said, running her hand through her silky black hair. “When he had to apologize, he looked me straight in the eyes. You can always tell.” Libby wasn’t so sure.

  “Up here,” Libby said finally. “It’s just me.”

  The boy looked up with pale-blue eyes—eyes clear as a northern lake—then grabbed his jeans and began yanking them on. He was different in a way that made her insides swim. And somehow, a thousand times better-looking than she’d remembered. If her friends knew she was here with him, they’d die of jealousy.

  “Hey,” he said, squinting. “Stop staring. You could have said something sooner! I mean, do you get a thrill or something out of watching a boy undress? Are you some kind of pervert?”

  Forget the eyes. “No,” Libby said sourly, “you’re the one who intruded on me.” She pressed her back against the tree, locked her arms around her knees, and looked straight ahead. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d leave.

  “You’re just like my sister,” he said, sitting on a log and pulling on his boots.

  She stared ahead, but felt his presence. “Oh? How?”

  “Crabby.”

  Libby didn’t answer. Crabby? She’d heard sweet and nice before, but never crabby.

  “She’s not my real sister, actually,” the boy continued, more to himself now. He laced up his boots. “Foster sister. She’s always crabby, too—but Beth, my foster mom, she says it’s … ” The boy rolled his eyes. “Anyway, you’re acting exactly like her. Hey, wait a second.” He looked at Libby harder, studying her. “I know you.”

  Libby feared he’d connect her with Emily and Rachel. She jumped in, heading him off. “I go to—I mean, went to—LaCrescent Elementary,” she blurted. “Junior high this fall, though.”

  “Yeah,” the boy said. “I knew you looked familiar. You were always with those other two, kind of hanging your head. Followin’ them like a puppy dog.”

  She swung her legs around and inched down the tree, her feet finding the branches and bumps she needed as a ladder. She dropped to the ground and faced the boy, who was dead even with her height.

  “Listen,” she said, arms crossed high, “you don’t know me, so—so why do you want to put me down … call me a—”

  He shook his head hard. “No, no. I didn’t mean like a dog.” He laughed. “I’m sorry, but you always hung your head, and your hair is so thick, I could barely see … anyway, pulled back like that, it—it looks good.” He glanced at the tree, then reached quickly for his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, but not before Libby noticed his tan skin and shoulders. And at the fine soft hairs on the back of his neck.

  “So—what are you doing here?” he asked.

  His question startled her. “I … uh … my horse … ” She struggled to sort out her thoughts. She let out her breath and gazed beyond the rock wall, nearly hidden by moss. “Well, it’s not my horse actually.” She paused. “I don’t think you’d understand.”

  Mourning doves cooed.

  The boy didn’t say anything. He picked up his stick, slapped at the water, then began walking away. Suddenly, Libby strongly wished he’d stay. Just a little longer.

  As if hearing her thoughts, he turned and reached into his jeans pocket. “Uh, hey, you want one?” He held out a pack of strawberry bubble gum.

  “Uh, sure.” A sliver of sun seemed to suddenly burn the back of her neck. She reached out her palm, then unwrapped the stick of striped gum an
d popped it in her mouth. She looked back toward the stable. No sign of Mr. Porter or Thunderbird.

  “So what were you doing?” he asked. “Spying?” He blew a quarter-size bubble of pink, then popped it, drawing it back in his mouth.

  His directness took her off-guard. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

  “C’mon,” the boy said. “You can tell me. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  A monarch butterfly lilted through the air between them on yellow-and-black wings. Libby didn’t answer. With the flat of his hand, the boy swept his hair back, momentarily revealing a one-inch scar in the middle of his forehead. “Okay, then. Well, what’s your name?”

  “Libby Roselli,” she said, suddenly shy. “And I already know your name.”

  “Yeah?” In his eyes, something flickered.

  She remembered the day Mr. Lenkin put his bony hand on the new kid’s shoulder and introduced him. All the girls sat frozen. “Griffin Kane,” she said now.

  “Just Griff,” he said, and seemed to hold back a smile.

  Suddenly, in Libby’s mind, Thunderbird nickered, reminding her why she was there. She chewed at her inside lip. “Listen,” she began. “I’m … um … really busy right now.”

  His smile vanished. A veil of coldness passed across his eyes.

  She pushed ahead. “And I don’t have much time. My parents want me to help with … ”

  A door banged.

  Libby crouched down, hurried to the stone fence, and pressed herself against its mossy rocks. She watched. Griff scooted next to her. The sleeve of his T-shirt brushed her bare shoulder.

  “I could have guessed,” Griff whispered. “You’re definitely spying!”

  “I’m just … ” Her voice faded.

  On the back doorstep, Mr. Porter ran his hand through his hair, then stretched his arms wide, as if he’d just roused from a nap. He looked around. Libby feared he’d turn his gaze to the willows. But instead he drew his attention to the flower boxes beneath the front windows. He walked to the side of the house, returned with a green watering can, gave the geraniums a drink, and repeated this three times; then, seemingly satisfied, he walked up his steps and disappeared again inside.