Lizzie Flying Solo

by Nanci Turner Steveson

  “Yeah, I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll let Bryce know I can’t go with him.”

  “Great! Friday night we’ll bathe and braid the horses and have pizza in the clubhouse, then we leave at five thirty Saturday morning. Tell your mom I can take you home Friday night and I’ll pick you up at four forty-five on Saturday. She can call me if she has any questions. Oh, and no need to tell Bryce. He’s one of the fifteen.”

  Twenty-Four

  Bryce was absent from school on Friday, and he was a no-show at Birchwood that night, too. The other fourteen riders flooded the barns like a school of starving fish. Trying to put a saddle away meant stepping over a whole slew of people sitting on the floor in the tack room. They were rubbing sponges wet with glycerin soap in circles on saddles, polishing silver bits with toothpaste, smearing shiny black polish over their tall leather boots, and talking about the show the next day. They waited impatiently in line to use the wash stalls to bathe their horses and called for Kennedy every time something happened they considered tragic.

  “Kennedy, the edge of this strap on his girth is frayed. I can’t use it!”

  “Kennedy, Piglet won’t pick up his hooves for me to clean them.”

  “Kennedy, I can’t find Bluebell’s left stirrup!”

  Kennedy ran from group to group all evening, fixing problems and rolling her eyes every time she passed me.

  Outside Joe’s office, a bunch of parents had gathered in a group, waiting their turn to sign permissions slips and pay the show fees.

  “Coldest day in twenty years,” someone said. “And we get to take our kids to a horse show.”

  “Ha! Amanda will wait all year for the chance to stay out in the freezing weather at this show but says it’s too cold to get out of bed on a school day.”

  “Wendy gets up Saturday mornings at six o’clock to get here and clean horse you-know-what all day, but her room is such a mess you can’t see the floor.”

  “Excuse me,” I said politely, trying to squeeze past them with my wheelbarrow full of horse show supplies. My breath made a cloud in front of me in the frigid air. Two people moved aside, but no one offered to help me trudge across the frozen tundra to the trailer.

  “The way I figure,” a dad said, “this will keep her occupied until past her initial boy-crush phase. Maybe she’ll have more sense than other girls about all that.”

  I wrangled the wheelbarrow over the bumpy ground and unloaded grain, lead ropes, buckets, and blankets into the tack room of the trailer. By the time the pizza came, I’d hauled bags of shavings, bales of hay, water buckets, and extra halters and saddle pads across the ice in the dark and loaded them by myself. My arms and back ached. Droplets of sweat crystalized on my forehead before I could wipe them off. I was hanging the last of the bridles on the hooks when Joe stuck his head in.

  “Hey, kiddo, pizza’s here. Come on in. You’ve earned your keep for the night.”

  He pushed the empty wheelbarrow back to the barn for me. “Everything okay? You hanging in there?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just cold.”

  “Single digits tonight. Bring ChapStick tomorrow and extra clothes in case you get wet.”

  “Where’s Bryce?”

  Joe leaned the wheelbarrow against the wall and rolled the door closed. The barn was empty now. Braided horses munched on hay in their stalls, and the kids had already gone to the clubhouse to eat pizza.

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I couldn’t let him come. He hasn’t taken the show team lessons. It’s part of his dad’s requirement.”

  “But he takes lessons with Kennedy.”

  “Not the same. He knows the deal. Michael said he could have the dressage lessons so long as he learned equitation, too.”

  “But he doesn’t like equitation; he likes dressage.”

  Joe shook his head. “Not my rule, Lizzie. His dad is in charge of all that.”

  “Is he in trouble?”

  “With me? No. With Michael? Maybe. He wasn’t too happy when I called to tell him why Bryce couldn’t go.”

  My stomach felt like someone had planted a heel right in the center of it.

  It was after eleven o’clock before I crawled into bed. I tossed and turned and tried to sleep but finally got up, took Mom’s phone into the bathroom, and sent Bryce a text.

  Joe said you can’t go to show hope ur ok Mom’s phone don’t reply.

  I deleted the text and set the phone back on the windowsill. It was three thirty. I had to be up in less than an hour.

  Eight horses and ponies were loaded into two trailers by 5:35 on the dot. We pulled out of the driveway in the dark only ten minutes later than Joe had planned.

  “Not bad timing,” Kennedy said, sipping a cup of coffee and expertly maneuvering the trailer up the icy driveway. “Not bad at all.”

  The ride to the show was going to be the last bit of quiet for the day. Kennedy kept her eyes on the road, and I scribbled words in a fresh spiral notebook. Working as a groom wasn’t exactly how I had imagined my first horse show would go, but no matter how I got there, or that I’d be working instead of riding, it was my first. The day deserved at least the start of a poem to celebrate.

  An hour later, our trailers were parked in a frozen field at the show grounds. Joe and I tacked up the horses while Kennedy went to register the riders for their classes.

  “Keep your eye on Bluebell,” Joe said before the start. The pony laid her ears back when he tightened the girth and swung her head around. Joe’s elbow met her teeth before they could sink into his arm. “Bluebell is a perfect example of my ‘ponies are reincarnated ax murderers’ theory. Stay ringside when she’s in a class, just in case.”

  “What will she do?”

  “Hopefully nothing, but if she decides she’s done for the day, she’ll take the bit in her teeth and make a run for the gate.”

  A little red-haired girl called Georgia was Bluebell’s first victim. During a Walk-Trot class, Bluebell took off from the far side of the ring and ran diagonally through the middle toward the exit. Georgia clung to the pommel of the saddle and screamed the whole way, until the pony skidded to a halt at the gate. Georgia leaned forward and threw up. Her dad grabbed her, and I whisked the pony away to clean her up before the next class. That was my job. Cleaning throw-up out of wicked ponies’ manes.

  Apparently, I was also the official Birchwood cell phone photographer. I took dozens of pictures of happy riders proudly holding up the colorful ribbons they’d won, surrounded by moms and dads and brothers and sisters. Even little Georgia smiled after her embarrassing finale.

  “Thanks a lot, Lizzie,” her dad said when I handed him back his phone. “Come find us after you show and we’ll take your picture. That way your mom and dad can be in it, too.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I mumbled, “Thanks,” and steered Bluebell toward a quiet spot away from the crowds. We both needed a little alone time to regroup. A few minutes later, Joe rushed over and felt Bluebell’s chest.

  “She’s cool enough; get her a drink of water,” he said. “She’s got another class in fifteen minutes. God save the kid who rides her next.”

  He hurried off, and I led Bluebell to the closest trough. A girl brought a tall bay pony with crooked braids up beside us.

  “Do you mind if we share?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Both ponies dunked their muzzles in the water and drank.

  “I always like coming to this show because they have these troughs everywhere,” the girl said. “Our trailer is parked on the far side of the field. I’d be out in the freezing cold hauling water buckets all day without this.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pretending I already knew this. “Me too.”

  “I’m Ashley. We’re from Riding Ridge in Poughkeepsie.”

  “Wow, that’s far,” I said.

  “Yeah, but this is the best show in winter, and they give good prizes. Have you seen the trophies?”
r />   “Yeah. Crazy.”

  “You’re from Birchwood?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Lizzie.”

  “I saw your jacket. Nice place. Are you showing today?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not this time.”

  Ashley nodded sympathetically. “We take turns at being a groom, too, so the newer riders have a chance to ride.”

  I let her assume that’s why I wasn’t showing. It sounded more noble than the truth, which was that no one asked me if I wanted to show. I was already cantering and going over small jumps. Seems like I could have at least qualified for a Walk-Trot class.

  A big fat lie spilled from my mouth. “I outgrew my show coat,” I said. “Haven’t gotten a new one yet.”

  “You’re lucky,” Ashley said. “My older sister showed all over the East Coast before she went to college, so my parents make me wear her hand-me-downs.”

  “What’s your pony’s name?” I asked.

  “Benjamin Bunny. Ben for short.”

  “Cute.”

  “What about yours?”

  “Bluebell, for the one blue eye, but she’s a reincarnated ax murderer, if you know what I mean,” I said.

  Ashley laughed, and I laughed, and for a second I felt like I wasn’t pretending to fit in. But then, Ben lifted his face from the trough. A thick stream of yellow mucus ran from his nose, right into the water. My stomach lurched, and I yanked Bluebell’s lead rope to pull her head away.

  “Looks like Ben needs a tissue,” Ashley said. “Well, see ya. Good luck to your riders today. We’ll be in Vermont this summer, so if you guys go, come find me and we can hang out.”

  “Sure,” I said, although I had no idea where in Vermont she would be, and I already knew I wouldn’t be there. too.

  Twenty-Five

  A little after one o’clock, Kennedy told me to take a break. “Hey, time to eat lunch. Come with me.”

  Lunch. I hadn’t even thought to bring anything to eat. My stomach growled.

  “You look like a deer in headlights. Don’t worry: Joe always buys for us on show days. This place has the best Frito pies ever. I’m starving.”

  “What’s a Frito pie?”

  “You’ll see. Come on.”

  We sat together in a heated clubhouse, each with a bowl of Fritos layered with a mound of chili, shredded cheddar cheese, and a big dollop of sour cream on top. A little pile of spicy jalapeños on the side of Kennedy’s plate burned my nose.

  “So, the horse show. What do you think so far?” she asked.

  My mouth was full of chili and cheese. I nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Man, I remember my first show. Holy smokes, it was culture shock.” She pointed her spoon at me. “Believe it or not, there was a time in my life when I was shy. And quiet. I bet that surprises you. Anyway, my first show was a winter one, like this, only I didn’t have warm-enough clothes. At least you have warm clothes. Did you bring ChapStick?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. Your lips are already getting raw. It’s the wind with the cold air. Use it when we’re finished. Anyway, I got frostbite. See?”

  She held out her left hand and showed me the tips of her fingers. The skin on two of them was slightly darker than the others and wrinkled.

  “Yikes! How’d that happen?”

  “Horse show, no mittens, ten degrees. I had water bucket duty. That’s why we don’t make anyone go back to the trailer for water at winter shows anymore and why we don’t let anyone be a groom until they’re at least twelve. I was really little.”

  “Why didn’t you wear mittens?”

  “They fell in the water. Only pair I had.”

  “Was your mom mad?”

  She shook her head, and her eyes clouded. “My mom was actively dying from cancer at the time. I don’t even think she knew.”

  “Oh, I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It happens.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “My dad? If he’d been around, he probably would have used mitten money to buy whiskey.”

  “What?”

  She looked at the shock on my face and shook her head. “Oh, I mean my biological father. Jamie adopted me after my mom died.”

  “Where’s your real dad?”

  “Jamie is my real dad. If you mean my biological father, I have no idea. Jail, maybe? He signed me over and disappeared as soon as he got my mom’s life insurance check.”

  “What does that mean, ‘signed you over’?”

  “It means he discarded me. Guess he wanted to keep all that insurance money to himself.” She spooned a big mound of jalapeños onto her chili and smiled at me before scooping it into her mouth. “Yum.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you that he did that?”

  “Life is full of challenges and opportunities, Lizzie. Sometimes they come in the same package. I mean, think about it. I got Jamie out of the deal. All my biological father got was money.”

  For the rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about Kennedy’s words. On the drive home, she and I both were quiet, until I saw the barn lights of Birchwood shining like a beacon at the end of the long road.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How did Jamie adopt you? I mean, how’d you know him?”

  She turned the radio off. “From the fire. He used to be a social worker before he started the pub.”

  “What fire?”

  “The one at Good Hope, when Mom and I lived there.”

  “You lived at Good Hope?”

  “Of course I did. You knew that. I told you.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure I’d remember that if you ever told me.”

  “Well, anyway, I did, for about six months. That’s how I found Birchwood. I actually made that path you walk through those woods. Then there was the fire. Jamie came to see me in the hospital, and when I got out, I was going into foster care because my mom was at the very end. That’s when he decided to be my dad.”

  “So, you and your mom lived there because you were homeless?”

  She smiled, her eyes staring straight ahead. “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  She snorted. “Why does anybody become homeless? Why do you live there?”

  I turned my face to the window. I still wasn’t ready to talk about what my dad had done.

  “Well, then. Let me ask you a different question. Why does it surprise you that I lived there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, you’re so normal.”

  She glanced sideways. “What exactly does normal mean to you?”

  “Like, you go to college, and you ride, and have a job, and you’re going to be a photographer.”

  “Well, you ride. You’ll go to college and have a job, too. And one of these days you’ll wake up and realize you’re living a new kind of normal, and it really isn’t all that bad. I promise.”

  She flipped on the blinker to turn into the Birchwood driveway.

  “I’m not so sure how much I trust promises,” I said.

  “Probably with good reason,” she said. “But someday you’ll understand which promises are trustworthy and which ones are empty.”

  “How old were you when you figured it out?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure I know all the time even now. But have some faith in yourself. You’re really doing A-OK.”

  I made one hundred and seventy dollars that day. It would have been less, but just before I left for home, Rikki surprised me.

  “My grandma told me to give this to you,” she said.

  She held out a ten-dollar bill, twisting her mouth to the side. We were standing outside under the floodlights on the icy driveway. Almost everyone else had gone home. A light snow started to fall, and a single flake dampened the end of Alexander Hamilton’s nose. I looked back at Rikki’s car, an ancient hippie van with flowers painted on the sides, where her grandmother was waiting with Rikki’s dad.

  The grandmother knew I needed
money because she was the lady from the thrift store. The bald man, it turned out, was Rikki’s dad. I pulled the hood of my jacket closer around my face.

  “She already paid me,” I said.

  “I know. This is extra.” She took my hand and closed my fingers around the bill. “You earned this, Lizzie. You worked hard today. See you Monday at school.”

  It was true. I’d worked hard for that money. Holding that extra ten dollars in my hand made something swell in me that felt good, and right. I was proud of my work and what I had honestly earned. If only Dad could have been satisfied with the same.

  “See you Monday,” I said.

  Mom and Mrs. Ivanov were crocheting in the common room when I got home. I waved and made a mad dash past them to our room, in desperate need of a hot shower. Along with other unsavory aromas, I could still smell Georgia’s throw-up on me. I stood under the stream and prayed there was enough hot water to get me through an entire shower. Once I was Ivory-soap clean and in my pajamas, I climbed the ladder to my bunk, eager to pull up the covers and daydream about the horse show, and Kennedy, and my new semi-friendly feelings about Rikki. So many things were different after just one day.

  The blue envelope with Dad’s card was propped against my pillow. I hadn’t thought of it once since my birthday. Laying my head back, I held the envelope up and studied the way he’d written my name on the front. When it had first arrived, his funny half-script had taken me back to our life before, and I’d felt sorry for myself. But now, looking at how carefully he’d written my name, I just felt sorry for him. And maybe a tiny bit nostalgic for the girl who’d once thought he was absolutely everything.

  Mom came in a little later and tucked her crochet work into the basket sitting on the makeshift desk we’d put together with two boxes and a piece of particleboard left over from a project at her office.

  “Mom?”

  “Hi, sweetie. I wasn’t sure if you were awake. How was the horse show?”

  I turned on one elbow and looked at her from my bunk. “It was fun. I mean, it was a lot of work. My feet are killing me. But it was really good. My lips are chapped. Kennedy made me put ChapStick all over them, but they’re really raw.”