Dark Horses

by Susan Mihalic

  No matter how much I liked him, I couldn’t do this. I needed to tell him it was impossible, thanks for the cocoa, see you around.

  “Does he ever go out of town?” Will said.

  “He’s teaching in Del Mar in January. He’ll be gone three or four days.”

  “So in January, what if we have a real date?”

  The leash pulled taut. Daddy didn’t want a boy calling me. He definitely didn’t want one kissing me or making me tingle—and it wasn’t because he was afraid I’d be distracted.

  I was distracted, though, by the memory of yesterday morning in the woods, the soft thud when Daddy dropped my helmet on the ground, his weight pressing me up against the cold bark, the painful friction.

  “Okay,” I said slowly, “but if we’re going to see each other, there are conditions.”

  He laughed.

  “I mean it. I train all the time. Nothing can interfere with that.”

  “We’ll work around your schedule.”

  “And Daddy can’t know.”

  “Obviously. Do you feel bad about going behind his back?”

  “Not if I don’t get caught.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it, I guess.”

  “Well, future Olympian Roan Montgomery, I agree to your conditions.”

  “Future Olympic gold medalist Roan Montgomery,” I said. “I’m ambitious.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “What about you? What are your conditions?”

  He shrugged. “Reckon I’m not the type of person who goes into a relationship with conditions in mind.”

  “Yeah, what kind of asshole does that?” I said.

  “Someone who’s not very trusting,” he said. “Or someone who’s afraid.”

  In the half hour that remained before Daddy picked me up, we launched an all-out mission to find his gift.

  Will spotted it in minutes in one of the heavily scented shops on the square: an antique trunk a bit larger than a shoebox, its arched lid secured by a heavy lock that opened with an iron skeleton key. Will said it had dovetailed corners and was made of American chestnut, but the real reason it was a perfect gift for Daddy was that he liked to keep his possessions under lock and key.

  It was nearly four when we left the store. We retrieved my books from Will’s truck, and he carried them to the north side of the courthouse. The sun slanted blindingly between the brick buildings.

  “This was good.” He shifted the books from his arms to mine. “I’d kiss you again, but I reckon that’s out of the question.”

  “Daddy will be here any minute.”

  “So… see you tomorrow.”

  “See you.”

  He started to walk away and then turned. “Ah, what the hell.” He kissed me swiftly on the lips.

  I took a step back. “You can’t—”

  “I think about you all the time,” he said.

  And that was how he left me—standing there breathless, alarmed, and on the verge of falling for him.

  * * *

  IN THE WEEKS before Christmas, I mucked my stalls mornings and evenings and had a lesson every afternoon. Sometimes Daddy and I worked out together, and occasionally we rode out, but the weather had turned glacial.

  After evening chores, I started homework. Gertrude served supper at seven, and then I washed dishes and finished my homework. Most nights, after I’d turned off my lamp, Daddy came to my room. He’d been right when he’d said nothing would change for me.

  He’d also been wrong. For the first time in my life, I lived to get to school, inventing reasons to go early two or three days a week: I’d made an appointment to talk to Mrs. Kenyon about my term paper, I was on the decorating committee for the Christmas tree the honor society was putting up in the lobby, I’d volunteered to help Ms. Simi catalogue a shipment of library books.

  “You don’t need to get involved in extracurriculars,” Daddy said.

  “It’s only until training picks up again.”

  In reality, my extracurricular activity was meeting Will.

  The bleachers where we’d gone after Steve’s memorial had become our special place because no one used the stadium in winter. Sitting on the top row, huddled together against the cold, we’d kiss, and he’d put his arm around me—and I was getting better at hand-holding. Mostly, though, we talked. There was much I couldn’t say, but I knew me. I wanted to know him.

  We talked about his brother, conversations that often ended with Will unable to speak. Once, after he’d told me about making custom cabinets for one of the houses his parents had built, planing the wood with finer and finer planes so it didn’t have to be sanded, he said, “If I don’t go into the business, I’ll be the second son to disappoint them.”

  “Do you mean that?” I slipped my arm through his and put my hand in the pocket of his heavy winter jacket.

  “No. Steve was never a disappointment.”

  “But you are?”

  “What do you think?”

  His parents probably hadn’t been too happy about the failed drug test, but his grades weren’t that bad—although he was too smart to be skimming by with a C average.

  “You don’t ever think about giving up pot or trying to get better grades?”

  “Pot’s the only reason I’m getting the grades I’m getting.”

  “So why don’t you give it up?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

  I had too many secrets of my own to pry into his, so I waited for him to decide whether to continue.

  “When I was ten,” he said, “I was diagnosed with ADHD.”

  That was his secret? Probably half the kids in school had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

  “The drugs used to treat it gave me migraines. I couldn’t eat or sleep. When I was twelve, I said no more. It was a battle, but once they took me off the meds, the headaches mostly went away. But I had to repeat seventh grade because I couldn’t do the work. It’s frustrating, not being able to absorb what’s right in front of you no matter how hard you try.”

  I hadn’t known he’d been held back a year.

  “Steve got me into running, which helped. Then a couple of years ago, I was at a party and somebody had a joint… and I found out weed helps. It lights up this part of my brain that was always dark before. I can concentrate.”

  “And your parents know?”

  “My parents help me get it.”

  I stared at him.

  “They didn’t believe me at first. What’s a better story than ‘Hey, getting stoned makes me functional’? But the proof’s in my grades.”

  So he wasn’t really a stoner—not in the conventional sense.

  “Isn’t it legal for medical use?”

  “Not for this, and not for minors. My parents would be in real trouble if anyone found out they get it for me. Mostly I use edibles, but I buy some smoke from Wedge now and then. The only side effect is people think I’m a burnout.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Better than puking all over myself because I’ve got a migraine.”

  I suspected that was true. “Do you use anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “So why do you say you’re a disappointment to your parents?”

  “Because I’m not Steve.”

  He said it as if he’d worked a puzzle and that was the last piece, the one that made the whole picture make sense.

  As much pressure as I was under and as twisted as our relationship was, I’d never felt Daddy wanted me to be anyone but me.

  “I like who you are,” I said.

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing about you. I like who you are.”

  I melted a little bit inside before I remembered: He liked who he thought I was.

  He kissed me, one of those perfect, sweet kisses, chaste but with a promise of heat behind it. He had more respect for my body and my boundaries than Daddy did. What Will offered felt safe.

&nbs
p; But for me, safe felt like something was missing.

  * * *

  THAT AFTERNOON I came home from school to find wreaths entwined with blue and silver ribbons on all the windows and doors, garlands winding up the banister, and a big fragrant blue spruce in front of the bay window in the living room. It was decorated with shiny blue and silver ornaments and topped with a shimmery silver starburst.

  After supper and dishes, I took a closer look at the tree. The ornaments belonged to the florist whose staff decorated the house in a different theme each year. I fingered a sparkling angel with feathered wings and a pale porcelain face.

  The chandelier overhead went out. I stiffened. The lamps at each end of the sofa were extinguished, too, until the room was illuminated only by the tiny white lights on the tree. Daddy folded his arms around me. When he put his lips on my neck, I turned in his arms. Daddy wasn’t safe. I felt it in the way his tongue probed my mouth. I wasn’t safe, either.

  Afterward we lay side by side on the rug, my knees on fire with carpet burns. Good thing it was winter so I could wear tights instead of knee socks to school.

  “My God, darlin’,” Daddy said, winded. “What’s got into you?”

  There was no way to answer that.

  “Come here.” He drew me to him, and I rested my head on his shoulder. Under my cheek his skin was clammy with sweat.

  “Now,” he said. “Tell Daddy what you want for Christmas.”

  I closed my eyes. All I could think was Will.

  - eleven -

  I NEVER UNDERSTOOD why the exams before Thanksgiving were called midterms when they were held past the middle of the term. Finals, right before Christmas, came up fast. Biology, algebra, and French required little effort. The night before winter break began, I crammed for history and used Daddy’s computer to write my lit paper.

  As usual on exam days, there was no homeroom. I went first to Mr. Diaz’s history class and developed writer’s cramp scrawling answers to his essay questions. When the bell rang, I went to lit.

  Will and Chelsea were at their desks, presentation folders ready to hand in. Mrs. Kenyon had assigned us a term paper in lieu of an exam, but we had to sit through an introduction to the syllabus for the second semester, which included reading assignments for the break.

  Finally, the bell rang. Will and I exchanged a look. We’d have a whole hour and a half in the bleachers before Daddy picked me up, because I hadn’t told him classes were on a short schedule.

  “Are you going anywhere over Christmas?” Chelsea asked as we walked to our lockers.

  “Where would I go?”

  “I thought you might visit your mom.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  Christmas had never made Mama nicer to be around. She bought too many presents, which made me uncomfortable, which led to comments about my lack of gratitude for the privilege I was growing up in, which led to accusations that I looked down on her.

  I opened my locker. I’d left Chelsea’s present and Will’s inside this morning before class. “It’s okay. What are you doing?”

  “Going to my grandparents’ place in Charleston.”

  I handed her the small gift-wrapped box that held her earrings. “Merry Christmas.”

  Her eyes lit up, and then her face crumpled. “I didn’t get anything for you.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  She tore into the gift wrap and opened the box. “Oh, wow. These are gorgeous.”

  “Is purple still your favorite color?”

  “It is.” She hugged me. “Thank you. I’ll bring you something from Charleston.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No, I will. Merry Christmas.” She embraced me again. “See you next year.”

  Next year was something I was looking forward to. I’d be a year closer to the Olympics, Daddy would be going to Del Mar, and Will and I would have our date. I’d embarked on a subtle campaign to persuade my father to allow me to stay by myself in the house; if I stayed with Gertrude and Eddie, there would be no date.

  It was another clear, cold day, the sky bright and hard. Will waited at the top of the bleachers, a plaid wool blanket spread over the concrete steps, picnic-style, with a plastic bag of Christmas cookies, a Thermos, and two disposable cups.

  He gestured grandly. “Merry Christmas.”

  I joined him on the blanket. “This is great. I’m starving.”

  While he poured cocoa, I selected a tree-shaped cookie decorated haphazardly with green and red icing.

  He held out a cup to me. “Cheers.”

  We bumped the cups together.

  The cookie, buttery and sweet, tasted better than it looked.

  “Did your mom make these?” I was trying to resolve the sloppily iced cookie with the stylish, elegant Mrs. Howard.

  “She started them. After she mixed up the dough, she broke down crying. But Carrie had been looking forward to it, so I cut them out and baked them, and Carrie decorated them.” He must have seen the astonishment on my face. “What? I can’t bake cookies?”

  “Evidently you can.”

  He looked away. He didn’t want sympathy. In the past month I’d learned a lot about Will and a few things about myself. I wouldn’t have expected Mama’s departure to leave me vulnerable, but without her, Daddy threatened to engulf me. Will gave me something to hold on to.

  I helped myself to a snarling snowman. “I’m trying to imagine Mama baking. The gingerbread man has diet-pill eyes and a tranquilizer smile.”

  Will came back from the hard, sharp edges of grief. “What do diet-pill eyes look like?”

  I assumed a crazed expression, like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard.

  He laughed. “That’s how I felt when I was on all those meds. Maybe your mom’s overmedicated.”

  “You think?” I took his present from the shopping bag. “For you.”

  “I have something for you, too.” He reached under the seats and brought out a box wrapped in metallic Christmas paper. It weighed almost nothing. “Open it.”

  “You first.”

  He removed the wrapping paper to reveal a box of polished dark wood. He started to examine the workmanship.

  “The gift’s inside,” I said.

  He found the latch at the front of the box and opened it. Inside were individual compartments, each with its own lid. He peered at them and grinned.

  It was an array of teas from around the world, thirty different kinds. Daddy hadn’t blinked when I’d told him my favorite teacher loved tea. He’d taken me to Murphy’s to buy the tea chest for Mrs. Kenyon.

  “This is great. I’ll think of you every time I drink”—he checked one of the labels—“jasmine ginger dragon tears. Thanks. Your turn.”

  I untied the ribbon and tore the gift wrap from a flimsy white shirt box. Inside, buried in tissue paper, was a manila envelope. It held a single sheet of heavy textured paper, a pen-and-ink sketch. From the arch of the neck, the curve of the ears, and the soft dark eyes to the powerful haunches and the set of the tail, it was unmistakably Jasper.

  “You did this?”

  “All by my ownself.”

  “It’s incredible. I had no idea you could draw.”

  “Drafting and design. It’s all angles and curves.”

  “But you’ve only seen him once.”

  “He’s all over the internet. So are you. You’ve never Googled yourself?”

  I shook my head. “I love it. Thank you.” I tucked the drawing inside my lit book.

  After we finished our picnic, we stuffed our trash in the shopping bag. Then I climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs, and pulled the picnic blanket over our heads. In the cozy darkness, we kissed, and the promise of heat became more than a promise. His erection pressed against me. His hands slid down my back to cup my butt, pulling me closer, and together we found the rhythm. Then he tore his mouth away. “Wait—”

  I bit his earlobe.

&n
bsp; “Wait—”

  “There’s no one around.”

  He put his hands firmly on my hips. “Stop.”

  I did. “What?”

  “This isn’t how it should be. Not here. Not now.” He kissed me again, his lips soft and sweet and hot.

  I rested my forehead against his, aching with the effort of stopping.

  “Anyway, we don’t have time.” Beneath me, he pulled out his phone to check. “It’s almost one. What did you tell your father?”

  That was an unwelcome non sequitur. “About what?”

  “Picking you up.”

  “I just didn’t tell him we were getting out early.”

  “Yeah, but everybody’s gone. I parked behind the gym so he wouldn’t see my truck, but all the other cars are gone.”

  The breath whooshed out of my body the same way it did when I hit the ground in a fall. I had planned this rendezvous so carefully—but not carefully enough.

  “Shit.” I scrambled off his lap.

  “Is it really that big a deal?” Will emerged from the blanket.

  “Yes.” Why didn’t he get that?

  He scooped up my books and shoved them into my arms. “Hurry.”

  I ran as if water dragged at my legs. We had an underwater treadmill at the farm, used for exercising horses when they were recovering from leg injuries. This must be how they felt, galloping along, getting nowhere.

  I’d barely plopped down on the bench in front of the school when Daddy turned the Land Cruiser through the gates. I was breathing hard. He’d never think I’d been sitting here.

  My heart jumping like a rabbit, I opened the passenger door.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked. “Why are you out of breath?”

  Best defense, good offense. “I’ve been waiting more than an hour.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were getting out early.”

  “I told you last night in bed.”

  He flinched. He didn’t hesitate to talk dirty when we were naked or about to be, but context was everything. Casually tossing out the euphemism “in bed” violated our intricate rule system.

  “The school was locked by the time I realized you must’ve forgotten.” Assigning fault to him was a ploy I used with care. He couldn’t stand being wrong. “I went down to the gym, but the pay phone’s broken. Then I thought you might be here, so I ran back. And here you are.”