“Swell!” Pat greeted my dad, then turned back to me. “I can give you a lift to the pet store if you want to answer those horse e-mails now.”
I glanced at Dad. “I probably should catch up on the Pet Help Line.”
“Good idea,” Dad said.
I followed Pat to her car. She swept up her red-and-white checked dress to get in and then flung her straw church hat into the backseat.
We were out of the church lot when she asked, “So, Winnie, how did you get your shiner?”
A setup! Winnie Willis, you should have seen it coming! I stared out the window, imagining a getaway on Nickers. “I fell.”
“Uh-huh,” Pat mumbled.
I faked a laugh. “Clumsy as an ox—no offense!”
She didn’t laugh at my imitation of her “no offense” line. Pat was tougher than Lizzy and Dad put together. “What did you do after I left yesterday?”
“Hung out with Catman.” I willed her to drive faster.
“Didn’t jump that hunter, did you?” she asked.
“Beauty’s going to make an ace jumper, Pat!” I was doing word gymnastics to keep from out-and-out lying. “And thanks to your help, she’s not scared of cars anymore.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
I could have walked faster than Pat drove.
“So everything went fine with Beauty?”
“Sure.” Okay, not fine exactly. It was getting tougher to dance around the truth.
“Anything else you want to tell me, Winnie?”
“Just that I’m sorry about being too chicken to debate abortion.”
When Pat didn’t jump in with her “no offense” line, I cleared my throat. “Did you get anybody else yet?”
“Huh-uh.”
Finally we pulled up in front of Pat’s Pets, a brick building off Main Street. Pat unlocked the door. When she turned on the lights, dogs barked and birds fluttered against their cages.
Woooo-hoo! The wolf whistle could only belong to Hawk’s chattering lory. Peter zoomed at us and landed on Pat’s shoulder.
“Peter! You fresh thing!” Pat scolded.
I petted his bright red head the way Hawk did. “You miss Hawk, Peter?”
Peter bobbed his head. “Ring! Ring! Who’s there?”
“Just Winnie,” I answered. “And I’d better get to those e-mails.”
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Pat headed for the steps at the far end of the store.
Pat and her husband used to live in our house, the one we rent from her now. When he died, Pat opened the pet shop and moved into the attic apartment.
Pat called down from the top of the stairs, “Peter, here, would sure like to know how you really got hurt.”
I tried to laugh. “Tell Peter curiosity killed the cat. No offense.”
Pat didn’t laugh. I heard her door shut.
Sorry, God, I prayed as I waited for the computer to boot up. As soon as I figure out what went wrong at that hedge, I’ll tell Pat . . . and Dad and Lizzy . . . everything.
Another picture of the fall flashed into my brain. I fought it off.
Logging onto the help line, I checked out the homepage Barker was working on for the Pet Help Line. The moving graphics looked great but took a long time to load.
Pat padded downstairs again, and I prepared to be interrogated. Instead she handed me a plastic grocery bag. “Thought you might need these for school until that bruise heals.”
I peered into the bagful of makeup stuff. “Thanks, Pat.”
“And whatever you really did to get that thing, don’t do it again.” Pat walked off, Peter Lory still on her shoulder, pecking at her brown curls.
Feeling guiltier than ever, I opened the in-box and scrolled through all the e-mails since Friday. One of Barker’s made me think of Chico.
My Schnauzer, Muffin, won’t stop barking when we go on our walk! I love my fluffy, wuffy baby Muffy Wuffy. I pick her up and tell her, “Mama’s baby shouldn’t barky warky.” But she simply will not listen to her mommy! What’s a mommy to do????
—Princess
Barker had answered:
Dear Princess,
Dogs usually bark because they’re afraid. If you pick Muffin up when she sees another dog, she’ll really think she’s in danger. She’ll believe you’ve picked her up to keep her safe. My advice is to let her walk. And one more tip: some dogs understand 2,000 words—but no baby talk. They like clear cues. Hope this helps!
—Barker
My favorite Catman e-mail was actually about jumping, kind of:
Catman!
My cat won’t stop jumping onto the kitchen counter. I think it’s really cute. But Mom says if I can’t get Claribel 2 stop jumping on her counter, she’s going 2 give Claribel away! If she does, I’m running away. U have any other ideas?
—Katz
Cool it, Katz!
Don’t leave your digs yet, man. Plan A: Spread syrup over the counter. Cats hate sticky feet. Claribel will get the picture and steer clear. Plan B: In case Mrs. Katz isn’t cool with the syrup gig, cover the whole counter with aluminum foil. Claribel will freak out at the noise and hate that counter. So be cool, Katz!
—The Catman
Twelve horse e-mails waited for me. Eight of them got the same solution, even though the problems ranged from stall-kicking to friskiness. The horses needed more turnout time, more freedom to run and play. Otherwise that energy comes out in a way that makes owners write to me about their “problem horses.” Most of the time it’s the people who are the problems.
I took my time answering the other e-mails.
Dear Winnie,
Help! My horse, Shirley, won’t stop eating! Every time I go on a trail ride with my friends, I get laughed at. Shirley stops and grazes, and I can’t get her head back up. Shirley is huge, and I’m not. It’s not fair! How can I get her 2 quit trying 2 eat grass when I’m riding her?
—Embarrassed!
I could picture Embarrassed tugging as hard as she could on the reins, with old Shirley munching away.
Embarrassed,
When Shirley does graze, you might as well admit you can’t outpull her to raise her head. Don’t try! You might lose and get yourself pulled over her head! Instead, squeeze your knees into her sides and urge her forward. She’ll have to raise her head whether she likes it or not. Bad habits are hard to break. Better start by washing that bit so Shirley won’t be tempted by the taste of grass. Then try to read her actions and urge her on faster before she lowers her head to graze. And remember, she’s just doing what comes naturally to a horse. Don’t be too hard on her.
—Winnie
At the end of my messages, there was one from Hawk—all the way from Paris. I couldn’t wait to open it. I’d first gotten to know Hawk through e-mails on the Pet Help Line. Seeing her name pop up in my in-box reminded me of our e-mail friendship, which had been a lot easier than our face-to-face friendship. I clicked on her message.
Hello, Winnie,
We made it! Tomorrow we visit L’Ecole Internationale. Call me a Birdbrain if you like (I do consider it a compliment), but I still have not told my parents I don’t want to go to boarding school. I wish I had half your confidence.
I miss Peter! I left my other birds with our neighbor, but—
The message stopped in midsentence, then picked up a few lines down:
URGENT! URGENT! URGENT!
I hope you are reading this! My “New Mail” just beeped. It was Summer Spidell! She says Richard has found a new horse for the Howards! And he’s talked to somebody about buying Howard’s Lionhearted Lady as a camp horse. What’s going on, Winnie? What happened to Bold Beauty?
I could hardly sleep Sunday night. I kept imagining Bold Beauty trudging through the same boring routine, ridden by camp kids who didn’t appreciate her. She was a born hunter. She’d never be happy walking in circles all day long.
More than ever, I determined not to let anyone know Beauty had thrown me on the high jump. If Summer found out, sh
e’d tell the Howards, and that would be the end of my chance with Beauty. I’d cover up my black eye and do everything I could to stay away from Summer—no big sacrifice there.
Monday morning I spent 30 minutes in the bathroom experimenting with Pat’s makeup. When I finally joined Lizzy in the kitchen, I knew my attempt at glamour had failed.
Lizzy’s face crinkled. “Winnie? What’s the matter with your face?”
My sister spent another 30 minutes on me. “Isn’t this fun!” she exclaimed, dabbing something on my cheeks.
“Ow!” I flinched when she pressed too hard under my left eye.
“Sorry! Anything for beauty, right? Well, of course, not really. Beauty’s on the inside, which is a good thing because all the makeup in the world won’t hide this purple-and-yellow blotch under your eye, Winnie. God, please help Winnie’s shiner heal super fast.”
Lizzy prayed like our mom, slipping back and forth so smoothly between heaven and earth conversations it was hard to keep them straight.
I faced the mirror and wondered if Mom would have approved of me wearing makeup to school. It didn’t look half bad until I got close up. My black eye shone through, plain as night.
Dad was already hard at work on his rocking chair when I hopped on my back bike and headed for Ashland Middle School. He didn’t even comment on the new, made-up Winnie. I didn’t mind. I felt lucky to make a clean getaway.
At AMS, I shoved my bike into the rack and tried to push through the herd of kids on the steps. Sometimes I picture cliques and groups of students as herds of horses, like the Mustangs Mom and I had observed in the wilderness. Herds don’t like to let newcomers into the group. Horses try to impress each other. They struggle to be the leader. Only difference between horses and people is that horses are easier to talk to.
I kept my head down and saw more brands of tennis shoes than there are breeds of horses.
Keep a low profile. Nobody will notice.
“Winnie?”
I recognized Grant Baines’s voice. He and I ran in different herds at school. But I’d helped train Grant’s Quarter Horse and discovered he wasn’t too bad . . . for a popular kid.
“Winnie! Come over!” Grant shouted so loud that half the kids on the steps turned around. So much for a low profile!
I trudged over, my nose buried in my math book for the first time all year. “Hi, Grant,” I muttered.
Summer, Salena, and two other seventh-graders circled Grant like moons around a planet. Grant’s a head taller than me, and has thick brown hair and dimples that make girls act silly around him. Salena was one of Summer’s friends. I think she’s a redhead, but it’s hard to tell because she tries out so many colors. Today her red hair had a green streak on one side.
“I hear we’re both on the next life science debate,” Grant said.
I shook my head. “Not me.”
Salena, a.k.a. Sal, jumped in. “I thought Barker said you were! I finally volunteered. No way I want in on the next debate, that animal rights one. Like I could choose between giving up cosmetics or saving fuzzy guinea pigs! You sure you’re not on a debate team?”
I shook my head again. Witty conversation, Winnie. Amazing you’re not on the debate team with verbal skills like this!
Grant cocked his head. “You look different today.”
“You’re wearing makeup!” Sal exclaimed. Sal wore makeup every day, lots of it, with fake eyelashes and glitter eye shadow.
I stared at my toes.
Sal’s even taller than Grant and so thin not an ounce of flab showed when her short T-shirt rose higher than her low-cut khakis. “Kind of looks tight. Love that shade of blush!” Then, like a giraffe checking out lower branches, she bent down for a better look. “But something’s weird. . . . You have a black eye, Winnie!”
Great. Could you say it louder?
Grant laughed. “Get in a fight?”
Funny how everyone figured hotheaded Winnie had been in a fight. At least it kept them from suspecting the truth.
Summer, who had stared off into space since I joined their little clique, came to life. “A black eye?”
I retied my shoelaces. “I . . . ran into a door.”
Why did I say that? Saying I fell may not have been the whole truth, but it wasn’t a real lie.
I faked a laugh. “Gotta get to my locker. Later.” As I hurried away from them, I felt Summer’s cold glare on my back. The hairs on my neck tingled.
Okay, God. That one was an all-out lie. I’m so sorry. It just came out. But I knew better. The door explanation sounded more believable than a fall. And even saying “fall” in front of Summer could be dangerous.
But it felt crummy to be a liar. A black-eyed liar.
I hustled to English class and slid into my seat next to Barker.
“Your eye looks better,” Barker whispered.
Count on Eddy Barker to say the right thing. For the first time, it struck me that Barker was getting to look more like his dad—more muscles, taller. Even his black, curly hair had been cut short like Mr. Barker’s.
“Class?” Ms. Brumby stood in front of her desk. If our English teacher were a horse, she’d be a cross between a Barb and a Brumby, which is pretty funny since that’s her name—Barb Brumby. She has the frizzed hair and Roman nose of the Australian scrub horse, the Brumby. And she’s as tough as the North African Barb.
But she dresses better, with suits in more colors than horses’ hide and matching shoes. Today, total orangeness. Just once I’d like to see her grab the wrong shoes and show up in a green dress and blue shoes. She couldn’t handle it.
“Our next debate will have to be on a Saturday this time. We want all parents to have an opportunity to attend. Saturday evening is the soonest we can get use of the school gymnasium.”
Great. Now I knew I wouldn’t volunteer. At least the other debates had been right after school, when most of the parents couldn’t even show up.
“We have four volunteers for the side I’m coaching, pro-choice. But Barker and Sal still need two more volunteers for their pro-life team.”
Sal? I figured she’d be on the other team.
Note to self: Don’t jump to conclusions.
“Any volunteers?” Ms. Brumby asked.
My heart pounded. Please, somebody!
Ms. Brumby frowned.
Barker glanced at me, then back to Ms. Brumby. “I’m sure we’ll get more in life science,” he said.
“I hope so.” Ms. Brumby moved to the blackboard and started writing our assignments.
I wanted to go home and scream into a pillow. Not only was I a liar, I was a coward.
By the time I got to life science, a dozen kids had asked about my eye. I’d stuck with the door explanation, which got easier and easier to give.
Pat Haven rushed into class, dropped a stack of papers on the desk, and caught her breath. “We got ourselves a problem! I still need two more volunteers for our next debate. We have to get moving on this, folks.”
It had been bad enough wimping out in Brumby’s class. Letting Pat Haven down was going to be torture.
Nobody volunteered.
Summer muffled a laugh. I wheeled around to glare at her. She was whispering to Grant. I wanted to pull her out of her chair by her golden curls.
“Anybody?” Pat asked. “Don’t forget. You’ll have to be on a debate team sooner or later.”
Still no takers.
Most of the kids didn’t seem to mind talking in front of people. Why weren’t they volunteering? I’d kept putting off debating because I wouldn’t be any good at it. I can talk a horse into almost anything. But people? No way.
“Might as well give up, Mrs. Haven.” Summer sounded bored. “Nobody else is going to argue against a woman’s right to choose.”
“You may be right, Summer,” Pat admitted. “But I sure hope not.”
“This is a stupid debate anyway,” Summer muttered, loud enough for us to hear. “Haven ought to get with the times. Abortion’s been leg
al for years.”
Something inside me snapped. “It—that doesn’t mean right!” It hadn’t come out like I’d wanted it to.
“What?” Summer smirked and glanced at Sal for backup.
Barker took over. “Winnie said that just because abortion was legalized, that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
“That’s not what Winnie said.” Summer laughed and stared right at me. “What did you say, Winnie?” She said it like she was talking to a four-year-old.
I didn’t trust myself to answer.
“Maybe you’re saving it for the debate,” Summer suggested. “Oooh—I hope we don’t all end up with black eyes!”
My stomach tied in knots, like my tongue.
“There aren’t enough on your side to have the debate, Mrs. Haven!” Brian shouted. “So . . . we win!”
“You do not!” I shouted back. My ears roared and my face burned.
“Are you volunteering?” Summer asked.
“Yeah!” I blurted out. It was like hearing someone else say it. Not me. Certainly not me.
“Hot dog!” Pat exclaimed. “No offense. Three down, one to go!”
“You said it could be any seventh-grader, right? If we didn’t get enough from the class? Catman will recruit somebody!” Barker promised, patting my bruised shoulder. I didn’t feel it. I was too numb.
I didn’t look at Summer, but I heard her whisper to Sal, “This should be good. I can hardly wait to see Winnie in action!”
Mom always warned me that my temper would get me into trouble my whole life if I didn’t get a handle on it. Now I’d really done it. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about with Bold Beauty, I, Winnie the Tongue-Tied Horse Gentler, was now on a debate team!
I caught up with Catman in the cafeteria and waited until he sat across from me, his tray loaded with everything the cafeteria ladies had to offer. Between worrying about the debate and Beauty’s high jump, my stomach was too knotted to eat. “Catman, you haven’t talked to any seventh-graders about joining Barker’s debate team, have you?”
He scarfed the top of his hamburger bun in two bites and shook his head.
“Don’t try too hard,” I pleaded. “Or better yet, find two people! I sort of accidentally said I’d be on Barker’s team, but—”
Bold Beauty Page 6
