“I think Kennedy really wanted to be a gymnast but was too tall, so she made up for that by vaulting from the back of every pony she rode,” Jamie said.
“Not true.” Kennedy shook her head and stuffed another piece of cake into her mouth. A bit of blue frosting dotted the end of her nose.
“I was there for almost all the falls,” Joe said. “I think your dad might have a point.”
“I object to your comment, sir,” she said, grinning. “Bryce, how many times have you fallen off since you started riding?”
Bryce was perched on the edge of the desk with a cup of hot chocolate in his hands and a brown mustache on his upper lip.
“Too many to count,” he said. “But the good news is, even with all our falls, Kennedy and I survived. So will Lizzie.”
Mr. McDaid leaned toward Mom like they were in cahoots about something. “It’s an initiation thing. A fall here and there just toughens you up. Little Lizzie will be fine.”
Bryce flinched. He looked at his dad like he didn’t want him to be part of our group. Mom smiled, but I could tell the whole idea of my falling made her nervous. Kennedy saw it, too, and changed the subject.
“Speaking of which,” she said to me, “we have a gift.”
She held out a small velvet box.
“For me?”
“Of course for you, unless there’s someone else in here with a birthday we didn’t sniff out!” Mr. McDaid said.
I rubbed my fingers over the fuzzy top and opened the lid. Inside was a tiny gold locket, no bigger than my thumbnail, shaped like a heart, and hanging from a delicate gold chain.
“Look inside,” Mom said.
The locket popped right open. Inside was a miniature picture of Fire with his forelock falling over his eyes.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”
“I guess ‘oh’ means you like it?” Kennedy asked.
“I love it so much. I don’t know what to say.”
Mom lifted the hair from my neck and fastened the chain so the locket hung just above my heart. I went into the dressing room where they’d all been hiding and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were glistening, and my swollen lip was turning purple. But none of that mattered, because the girl staring back at me was happy.
Twenty
I carried the last piece of cake home in a McDonald’s bag left over from Joe’s breakfast. Jamie was driving Mom back to work, and Mr. McDaid took Bryce to a doctor’s appointment.
When I came up behind the cedar tree, a black-capped chickadee flitted away from the empty bird feeder, calling high-low notes from the snowy branch of a birch. Feed-me, feed-me. My pockets were empty. I’d forgotten to bring a handful of sweet-feed from Birchwood. Instead, I crumbled the last slice of cake into the base for the birds to share. Who would have fed the birds if we hadn’t come to Good Hope?
Miss May stopped me in the hall, her face stern. “You have mail,” she said, as if my having mail had been a terrible inconvenience to her. She jerked her head toward the table by the front door. “In the basket.”
A manila envelope sat on top with Elizabeth St. Clair typed on the label. In the upper left corner was the name and address of Mom’s lawyer in New Haven. I tore the envelope open and pulled out another one, robin’s-egg blue, the size and shape of a birthday card. No return address but none needed. It was from Dad. I stalled for a second, holding the envelope over the trash can, then changed my mind and raced to my room.
Lizzie St. Clair.
He’d written my name in the funny half-script he used back when he would leave Mom and me notes on the fridge: kind of curly with big loops and long tails. Inside the bottom of the z’s he’d drawn happy faces, and the i in our last name was dotted with an open heart. I sat on the bed and traced each letter with my fingertip. Twelve months had gone by since everything had changed. An entire year of longing and fear and missing him, then anger. So much anger. Then nothing. What could he possibly say in a single birthday card that would give me back those twelve months? What could take away the pain of knowing he’d done a crime and then discarded Mom and me?
I slipped my thumb under the sealed edge and lifted the flap.
Dear, sweet Lizzie,
I hope you get this card. It’s all I’ve got for right now, but you deserve so much more. I can’t believe you are turning thirteen. A teenager. My Lizzie. I hope, too, that we can talk soon and I can explain. I know you must think I am a horrible, terrible person. I miss your hugs and your fuzzy blue slippers.
Happy birthday, my beautiful girl.
Love,
Dad
He didn’t even know my fuzzy blue slippers were in a storage unit somewhere and I’d probably outgrown them by now. I read the card twice, three times, waiting to feel something. Anything. Relief. More anger. Regret.
Maybe a part of me was still hoping he would say he was innocent. Or that he was guilty but he was sorry. Maybe then the long overdue combustion of emotion simmering inside would ignite. Maybe then I wouldn’t care who found out what he’d done. Maybe then I wouldn’t care what he’d done, either.
But there was nothing.
I took off my coat, my hat, and my boots, and lay on Mom’s bed, pressing the card to my heart, waiting for tears. Nothing came but sleep.
When I woke up, the heater puffed out air, and bright yellow fabric I hadn’t noticed before swayed in front of the window. I rolled off the bed and stumbled across the room. Yellow curtains—fresh, clean yellow, not the stained, off-white leftovers that were so old and bogged down with years of wear they didn’t even flutter when we’d opened the window this summer. I touched the crisp fabric and rubbed it between my fingers. It was new, and very real. Mom had spent money on an unessential item for my birthday. It could only have been Mom. No one else knew this fabric was exactly the same as my bedroom curtains back home. Yellow-and-white plaid with tiny red birds.
I crawled to the top bunk, dug out my old poetry notebook, and started writing. Outside, in the gray light of a winter afternoon, a blue jay flew behind the cedar tree to get his cake.
Twenty-One
The next Friday, the weekend before school started back up, Mr. McDaid picked up me and Bryce at Birchwood to drive us to the indoor polo match. To keep Good Hope a secret from them, Mom and I had concocted a plan where they would drop me off at O’Toole’s pub afterward. Jamie already knew where we lived and why, and he could drive Mom and me home together.
“I’ll show you everything,” Bryce said in the car. “It’s easier than anything you do at Birchwood, and it’s fun. Plus, moola.” He rubbed his fingers together.
We pulled up a dirt driveway to a red barn at least three times as big as Birchwood and stopped next to a life-sized statue of a man jumping a horse over a fence.
“That guy used to ride here,” Bryce said. “He was in the Olympics.”
Mr. McDaid handed Bryce a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Here’s some money for hot chocolate for Lizzie. You two stay warm.”
“That’s a lot of hot chocolate,” I said when Mr. McDaid left.
“Yeah, well, I’ll buy some for you, but I’m keeping the rest of the money myself.”
I shook off the unpleasant sense of envy and followed him inside a spacious building where steam from sweaty horses raised the temperature by at least fifteen degrees.
“We’ll wait over there,” Bryce said, pointing to a wall on the other side, right next to a solid double gate.
Horses pranced all around us, chomping on their bits, their tails bound up and wrapped tight so they looked like dogs who’d had their tails docked. The polo match hadn’t started yet, but most of the horses were already sweaty. The riders buckled their helmets and spurs while sitting on horses so worked up, they couldn’t keep all four feet on the ground at the same time. One by one, the players grabbed their mallets, then urged their horses forward and cantered off into the ring. Finally, the last one was in. A big double door closed, a loud buzzer sounded, and cheers went up in th
e stands.
“Whoa,” I said. “A girl could get killed standing in the wrong place.”
“There is truth in that,” Bryce said. He held out the twenty-dollar bill. “They’ve just started the first chukka, so if you want a hot chocolate, now’s the time to get it.”
I could hear the horses’ hooves pounding the earth inside the ring. The ball made a thwack! sound when a mallet connected with it and a thud every time it hit a wall. People cheered, the riders yelled, and the mallets kept swinging. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through my veins. I shook my head.
“I want to stay here and listen to them play.”
Bryce leaned against the wall and grinned. “Uh-huh. Another one bites the dust.”
“What does that mean?”
“Polo is addictive. Sounds like the bug might have already bitten you, and you haven’t even seen a game yet.”
I stood on my tiptoes to try and see over the top of the gate. Riders raced by on their horses, back and forth, back and forth, until suddenly a roar of cheers went up, a buzzer sounded again, and the gate to the ring burst open. Bryce grabbed my jacket sleeve and snatched me out of the path of hot horses streaming from the ring. A man on a tall gray gelding dismounted and handed Bryce his reins.
“Thanks, kid,” he said.
Someone else held out the reins of a fresh horse. The man mounted swiftly, guzzled from a bottle of orange Gatorade, and was gone.
Bryce led the gray horse away from the crowd. I started to follow him, but he turned and said sharply, “No, wait there for yours!”
“My what?”
“Your horse! Just stay. I’ll be over here.”
I pressed my body against the wall, out of the way of nervous horses and flying hooves. Sweaty riders dismounted, rehydrated, and mounted new horses, then spun around and spurred them into the ring. A woman trotted up on a bay that was nearly as tall as any Clydesdale I’d ever seen in a commercial. She jumped off and handed me the reins like she’d been expecting me to be there.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m only switching for one chukka, so don’t go too far.”
A man led over a smaller black mare. The mare’s flanks already shined with sweat, and her eyes darted nervously.
“Hold on, Missy,” the lady said. She had her left foot in the stirrup, but Missy kept spinning in circles and lunging toward the gate. The man grabbed her bridle and held her still for the two seconds it took the rider to leap into the saddle and take off. The gates closed again and another buzzer rang.
The bay horse beside me huffed and puffed and rubbed his mouth against my jacket, leaving a mark of white slobber on my sleeve.
“Hey, Lizzie!”
Bryce waved me over. I zigzagged through the crowd, bringing the bay along while dodging his giant hooves.
“Holy moly,” I said. “That was crazy!”
“Yeah, you gotta move fast. Come on, let’s walk. Did you loosen his girth?”
“No, I didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“Just like at Birchwood. Loosen his girth two holes, then right before the end of the next chukka, get him a drink, tighten it back up, and be ready by the gate for his rider.”
“I thought you said we were walking polo ponies,” I said, loosening the giant bay’s girth. “I haven’t seen one pony yet, and here I end up with this guy whose head is as big as a half bale of hay!”
“You won’t see any ponies here. They’re just called that because they have to be quick and agile, like a pony.”
“What’s a chukker?”
“Not chukker, duh. It’s a chukk-a,” he said, grinning. “It’s a time frame like innings in baseball but about seven minutes instead of three outs. The whole game is six chukkas plus breaks in between.”
We walked down an aisle that was twice as long as any at Birchwood. At the end, instead of spilling to an outdoor riding ring, the barn curved to the left for another stretch, then another, and we walked back up to the area outside the ring. After two trips around the barn, Bryce checked his watch and led me to a long metal water trough.
“Only let them drink to the count of ten,” he said. “No more than that.”
Both horses dunked their noses into the water, and Bryce counted out loud.
“. . . eight, nine, ten,” he said.
We pulled them away with water still dribbling and tightened the girths. A minute later, the buzzer sounded again, the gate to the indoor ring flew open, and a whole new set of hot and sweaty horses rushed out. The lady on the black mare found me and jumped off.
“You give him a little drink?” she asked, taking the reins of the bay.
“Yes, until the count of ten, and his girth is tight.”
“Good job. Thanks, kid.”
She handed me Missy’s reins and pulled a crumpled ten-dollar bill from her pocket.
“Lucky you. I forgot to get fives today. There you go. Leg up?”
She faced the side of the bay horse and bent her knee. I grabbed it with my free hand, helped her into the saddle, and the bay horse whirled around.
“Missy’s cooler is hanging on the wall,” she called over her shoulder. “The red one, gold tie in the front, only one like it. Thanks!”
Missy’s breath came much harder than the bay’s had. Sweat laced her eyelashes. I wiped them dry with my sleeve and loosened her girth two holes, then laid the red flannel sheet over her back. “Good girl, Missy.”
Bryce was waiting for me in the same place.
“You loosen the girth?”
“Of course.”
He raised his hand for a high five.
For well over two hours, Bryce and I walked polo ponies used in two separate matches. We gave them water, loosened and tightened girths, and hoisted riders into saddles. Before we left, the lady who rode Missy told me her name was Kate.
“I’ve never seen you here before, but I hope you’ll come back. You’re responsible. We don’t always get responsible kids to hot-walk,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Lizzie.”
She put her hand out. “Nice to meet you, Lizzie. And welcome to the polo family.”
Inside me, everything glowed as bright and warm as the candles on my birthday cake.
Bryce and I stood outside under new falling snow after everything was over, waiting for Mr. McDaid. Bryce pulled wads of money from his pocket and counted.
“How much did you make?” I asked.
“Seventy-five. You?”
“Eighty.”
He shoved me playfully. “Hey, no fair. Here I bring you to help and you make more money than me. How does that work out?”
I laughed, and he laughed and bumped my shoulder with his. My toes were frozen inside my paddock boots, my feet throbbed and my legs ached, my nose was red from the cold, my shirt was soaked in sweat underneath my jacket, and I hadn’t gotten my cup of hot chocolate. But that was okay, because instead I was eighty dollars closer to buying Fire.
That night, I started a whole new page to keep track of my growing savings account.
TO BUY FIRE
$1,000
−245 (carried over)
= $755
−80
= $675 to go
In only two months I’d earned almost thirty-three percent of what I needed. There were seven more weeks of indoor polo. Seven times eighty would give me another five hundred and sixty dollars. That would be the beginning of March. If Angela kept paying me and the polo money kept coming in, and no one else bought Fire first, I could make it.
That was too many what ifs. What if I didn’t make eighty dollars every time? What if I was sick on a Friday and couldn’t go? What if Angela lost her job? Or Mom found out and said I had to give the money back? I had to figure out another way to make more money. I lay on my bunk and massaged my stomach, trying to work the knots out. There had to be something I wasn’t thinking of where I could earn more money faster.
Twenty-Two
I’d like to sell these, please.”
“Awwww, what have we here?”
He stood up and wiped dust from his pant legs, then took the palomino pony from my arms.
“I’d like to sell these,” I repeated. “Do you know how much I can get?”
“These are adorable. My own kid would love this pony. Well, she would have in days gone by. You’ve outgrown them, huh?”
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to say yes out loud.
He examined the palomino pony from forelock to tail, then took the golden retriever and checked the seam where Mom had sewn his head together after the ear got chewed up by the vacuum cleaner.
“Well, that makes for an interesting look,” he said, smiling. “Let’s go see what the others sell for. Stuffed animals are always popular here.”
I followed him to the far wall where a basket of ragtag puppies and kittens and even a goldfish sat beneath some shelves. He fingered the price tags of a few.
“We’re selling these guys for eight dollars each,” he said. “Fifty percent of that goes to the consignor. That’s you, a consignor.”
He said consignor really slow, like maybe he thought I was stupid.
“So four dollars each?”
“If they sell; not everything sells. We keep things for two months. If they don’t sell, you come back and pick them up.”
Sixteen dollars. I held them a little tighter. The man folded his hands in front of himself and looked thoughtful.
“Tell you what,” he said. “These are nicer than the others. Even with the stain and the missing ear, I could probably sell yours for twelve bucks each. That would give you six dollars for each one that sold. If they sell. Not everything sells.”
I looked at the golden retriever and remembered that day when I had to pick what I brought with me to Good Hope and what got left behind.
Lizzie Flying Solo Page 13
