I shook his hand. My tiny hand worked to hold its own in his sincere and very firm welcoming grip. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Conner,” I said, the strength in my voice surprising me.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. This was it. He would judge me before I even got to ride.
“Lauren,” Mr. Conner’s voice was gentle, “today you’re entering my arena as a brand-new rider. I want to be honest—I’ve watched you compete and am aware of your past titles in dressage. You’re young, but you’ve already made huge strides in the equestrian world.”
“Thank you,” I said, still unsure where this conversation would take us.
“But none of that will be considered today,” Mr. Conner said.
I still wasn’t sure if this was good news or bad. I nodded, despite my confusion.
He seemed to sense my confusion because, after a short pause, he continued. “No performance but this one will count when you test,” Mr. Conner clarified. “A few rules have changed recently, so I want to be sure everything about this test ride will be clear. So please, feel free to ask me questions at any point.” He put his clipboard in his other hand. “Sound good?” he asked me, smiling.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”
He nodded and continued with what sounded like a much-practiced speech. “A student must remain on a team for an entire school year before he or she may test for a higher level. Tests are held each fall and the following spring. Spring is a chance for students to begin on a new team the coming fall.”
I nodded.
“No incoming students are placed on the advanced team no matter what his or her background,” Mr. Conner continued. “The riding program has added several new instructors to teach various classes. We are not solely focused on showing. Instead, the goal is to build a strong team of horse and rider. Each grade will have to complete a course centered on horse care and equine knowledge. This is a new component required of this semester.”
I loved this—riding wasn’t just for me. I wanted Whisper healthy, too.
“Each student will be quizzed periodically on materials covered,” Mr. Conner added. He reached out and stroked Whisper’s neck. She swished her tail, content. “I understand that you and Whisper are relatively new partners.”
I nodded, beaming. “She’s the first horse I’ve ever owned. I searched a long time to find her, but I’m so glad I did.”
Mr. Conner looked at us both as if searching to see if he felt our bond.
“I knew right away when I saw her.”
Mr. Conner smiled, nodding silently. As quickly as that faraway looked appeared in his face, it was gone and we were back to business. “I’d be remiss not to speak more with you about your history before the test, as your case is a special one. As I expect you’ve been told, I’ve spoken with Kim and your parents.” I nodded for him to continue. “I do not want you to feel that you’re going to be pressured to begin competing before you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate that very much. Kim did tell me that it wasn’t something I had to worry about. One the other hand, I do want you to know that I came here because I have hope of showing again—when you think I’m ready.”
“Excellent, Lauren. I’m glad to know what your thoughts are about going forward,” he said. “No one will be showing for a while, and riders, unless they are on the Youth Equestrian National Team, are allowed to decide their own show schedule.”
“Do I have to decide today?” I asked.
“No,” Mr. Conner said. “The only thing you have to do today is go through a few exercises while I take notes.”
I nodded. “Okay!” I looked down at my horse. My horse! Would I ever get used to saying that? “I’m ready when you are.”
FEAR MONSTERS AND LURKING LOSERS
“ALL RIGHT. NOW, I’D LIKE FOR YOU TO follow some commands as I give them. Know I’m not judging you,” Mr. Conner said. “I’m merely deciding where you skills fit in among the other Canterwood riders in your grade. So . . . let’s get started!”
I nodded. I’d showed hundreds of times, but this test really mattered to me.
“Please take Whisper along the wall, clockwise, and trot,” Mr. Conner said.
I turned Whisper away from him and asked her to trot. I posted while we kept an even distance away from the wall as we made our way around the arena.
“Sitting trot,” Mr. Conner commanded.
I sat deep in the saddle. We passed the large window facing the outdoor arena and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of brilliant red hair as a girl on a chestnut took a jump. Whisper strained against the reins to look out the window, both ears pointed forward. I tapped my heels against her sides and urged her forward. You threw Whisper off, I told myself.
We lapped the arena again and, this time, Whisper didn’t even try to glance outside.
“Reverse directions and canter,” Mr. Conner called.
I turned Whisper toward the center of the arena, making a half loop, and realigned her along the wall as we trotted in the opposite direction. I shifted my weight in the saddle, gave her more rein, and squeezed my legs. Whisper’s bloodlines made her canter smooth.
“Canter another half a lap,” Mr. Conner called. “Then cross the center and do a flying lead change.” He walked out of the center to give us space.
Flying lead changes were one of my favorite things to do on horseback. There was a rush when, for a fraction of a second, all four of the horse’s legs were midair. A thousand-plus-pound horse and I were airborne because of a command I gave.
Whisper’s hooves pounded the arena surface rhythmically. Her canter needed to stay strong and collected. We reached the halfway point of the arena, and, gently, I pulled the rein guiding her to the center. I made sure she kept up momentum as we neared the arena’s center. I kept my inside leg against the girth and my outside leg just behind it.
When we hit the middle of the arena, I swapped the positions of my legs. My hands stayed soft to give Whisper enough room to stretch her body—especially her neck. Whisper, responding to my leg aids, bent through her entire body, and we suspended in the air. She struck out with the opposite leg, completing the move. I kept her canter controlled as we moved on the new lead.
Mr. Conner walked back to the center of the arena. “Slow to a trot and a walk, then come to the center,” he directed.
Within strides, we were at a walk and halting in front of Mr. Conner. I patted Whisper’s shoulder. I couldn’t have asked her for more. She was doing amazingly—it felt as though we were especially in sync today, like we’d been a team for years rather than a mere couple of months.
“Really great job, Lauren,” Mr. Conner said.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. I tried not to look the way I felt: happy, joyful, moved to tears, and more than anything, validated. Mr. Conner was not known for doling out compliment after compliment. Nor was he known for going easy on his students. When he paid you a compliment, it meant something.
Whisper’s ears pointed to Mr. Conner. The mare recognized praise. I ran my hand along her neck. She wasn’t even a bit sweaty or out of breath.
“Take a few moments to regroup while Mike and I set up dressage markers,” Mr. Conner said. “I’ll call out instructions for a simple test. Then we’ll go to the outdoor jump course.”
Jump course. My mouth felt full of sawdust. I’d been jumping at Kim’s all summer. She’d even worked extensively with me on cross-country and stadium jumping. But there was more than a tiny lingering fear that hadn’t gone away. The Monster of Fear inside me had dissipated with each jump I conquered. Still, in stressful situations the monster fear was strong. Sometimes stronger than I.
Mr. Conner walked out of the arena, returning seconds later with Mike. I kicked my feet out of the stirrups and let Whisper amble at a walk on a loose rein.
Old Lauren, the one with national dressage titles, wouldn’t have blinked at the thought of jumping. She would have been excited and ready to tac
kle any obstacle Mr. Conner would dare put in her way.
New Lauren, though, had invisible scars. Scars that fed the monster and made every jump terrifying—even though it had been almost two years since the New Lauren was born.
Focus on one thing at a time, I told myself. Dressage was my first love. This was my chance to show Mr. Conner my passion.
Mike and Mr. Conner put down the last white marker. Finally, Mike, who gave me a thumbs-up, left the arena. Mr. Conner walked to the arena entrance and stopped. “Please ride to the entrance, and I’ll give you commands from there.”
I walked Whisper to the entrance. Something moved in the skybox. I looked up, and Riley, peering through the glass, waved at me. Did she not understand the meaning of a closed test? But maybe she knew me better than I thought—because no way would I tell Mr. Conner that some gossipy spoiled brat with way too much free time had come to sabotage my placement test.
Riley would never mean more to me than my ride.
I focused on turning Whisper to face Mr. Conner and the markers. I straightened my shoulders and never looked Riley’s way again. I’d ridden in front of hundreds of people. And if Whisper and I could perform for Mr. Conner, we could take on one skybox-lurking loser.
“I’ll be looking for a few things during your ride,” Mr. Conner said, looking up at me. “Suppleness, regularity of gaits, balance, activity in the transitions, and lightness of aids, among other things. Please begin at a working trot and halt at X.”
We trotted into the arena, stopped, and I saluted.
“Track right to C at a working trot,” Mr. Conner said. “At B, circle right fifteen diameters.”
Whisper moved with ease to C and completed an even circle at B.
“Working canter from B to K , then trot to E,” Mr. Conner said.
Whisper was on her game. And so was I. Riley and my Monster of Fear had vanished.
Whisper’s movements were active. She made a balanced transition to a working canter. She slowed the moment I asked for a trot, and her hindquarters remained engaged.
“Complete a ten-diameter circle at E and free walk to M,” Mr. Conner called out.
Whisper’s balance was a touch off when we started our circle at E, but she collected herself. When we completed the circle, I slowed her to a walk, giving her lots of rein to stretch.
“Return to X at a trot and halt,” Mr. Conner said.
Going back to X meant we were finished. I asked Whisper for a trot, and she took an extra stride at a walk before she listened to my cue to trot. Strides before X , I prepared myself to bring her to a halt on the mark. Just before X, I closed my fingers around the reins while releasing the pressure on her sides. Whisper stopped and didn’t move—not even a swish of her tail—while I saluted. Relief surged through me. Two parts of the test down!
“Thank you, Lauren,” Mr. Conner said. “Please follow me to the outdoor arena.”
He opened a large side door, and I rode Whisper through after him. At the arena entrance, a taped-up sign read: Closed for testing. Inside, two verticals, an oxer, a double oxer, a higher vertical, and a double combination awaited us.
No riders were near this arena. I didn’t expect Riley to follow me outside. The arena was too open, and Mr. Conner would send her away for sure.
“There are six jumps that you’ll take in order,” Mr. Conner said. “It’s pretty straightforward.” I nodded as he explained the course to me. Then he stepped away for me to start.
My heartbeat sounded as loud to me as Whisper’s hooves when she cantered. No way had I come this far to choke. Whatever I thought about Laurens Old and New was gone. All I knew was this: Lauren always gave it a shot.
“Begin when you’re ready,” Mr. Conner said. “And remember—don’t rush, and trust your horse.”
I didn’t give myself a second more to think. I led Whisper into a trot, then a canter. Her rhythmic strides got us to the first jump in seconds. I lifted out of the saddle and pushed my hands a few inches up along her neck. We cleared the red-and-white-striped rails. My head was up—gaze on the next jump. Wind whooshed in my ears. One jump down.
Whisper’s canter remained collected as we reached the second vertical. The three-foot-high jump had rails that resembled wood. Whisper didn’t blink. She tucked her forelegs under her and propelled off the ground. Whisper snorted, tossing her head as we landed. I couldn’t help but smile—seeing Whisper have fun made me feel happy and more confident.
Whisper took the oxer without pause and we made a half circle to change directions. Whisper’s body stretched over the double oxer, clearing the spread. We cantered toward the vertical—the highest—and scariest jump of the course.
It wouldn’t help Whisper if she sensed my nerves. Six strides later, I rose out of the saddle again and gave Whisper rein. I knew I’d made a mistake. Whisper took off a millisecond too late. Her knees knocked the top rail. Whisper’s ears flicked back in displeasure.
I squeezed my knees against her, urging her toward the double combo. The tricky part was timing. Something I did not feel confident about after our last jump. But I had to shake this one mistake or we’d definitely make more. Whisper could only take one stride between the jumps. I slowed Whisper just before the rails, and this time we were in the air at the perfect time.
She landed clean on the other side and took one stride, and then I asked her to jump again. Whisper collected herself and thrust her gray body into the air, clearing the other half of the combo.
I didn’t know whether to smile or cry. I couldn’t have been more proud of Whisper—she hadn’t faltered once. I felt like we’d done our best, even if our best had meant a knocked rail. Would the pole on the ground take away any chance at the intermediate team? Mr. Conner’s face gave away nothing. Our fate was out of my hands and into his.
“Nice work, Lauren,” he said. “Thank you for allowing me to evaluate your riding. I’ll review my notes tonight. Come to my office after school tomorrow and we’ll discuss my decision. Then you’ll join your team for a lesson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Conner,” I said. “For everything.”
FINALLY FINDING . . . WHISPER
AT THE END OF THE DAY I WAS AT MY DESK making my way through the pile of first-day homework. Khloe paged through her history textbook in front of her own desk.
Testing had been much earlier, but my brain felt as though I’d finished minutes ago. As promised, Khloe had been waiting by Whisper’s stall after I’d cooled down. She clasped her hands together, bouncing on her toes, when I told her an edited version (i.e., no talk of Old Lauren) of my test. Khloe seemed so sure I’d make the intermediate team, but I truly had no idea where I’d wind up.
Khloe swiveled her desk chair to face me. “What do you have left?” she asked, lifting her leg and pointing a toe at my carefully organized assignments.
“Just that paper for English,” I said.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Khloe said.
I took a sip of tea—green with pomegranate. “Did what?” I asked.
“All of that homework so fast after testing.” Khloe spun her desk chair in a lazy circle. “I couldn’t focus on anything the night after I tested. It took me until three or four in the morning to get everything done. I had the attention span of a fruit fly.”
“It’s easy for me to lose myself in homework,” I said. “The assignments weren’t as bad as I thought, but there were a lot. I always feel better staying busy. If I have nothing to do, I’ll just obsess about testing.”
“Understood,” Khloe said. “After we finish, want to grab a late dinner in the caf?”
“Sounds great. Hopefully, we’ll be going at a weird enough time that Riley won’t be there.”
Khloe made a gagging-slash-grumbling sound in her throat. “Don’t even say her name to me. I can’t believe she was in the skybox during your test. Well, I take that back. I do believe it. That gross little . . .”
I knew what was coming.
“Lurker!”
/>
I’d shared my own nicker for Riley the Reiler, and ever since, Khloe had been trying it out in different ways every ten to fifteen minutes.
“I know she was trying to make me nervous,” I said. “And it worked, but only for, like, a second.”
“I bet she’s worried now after she saw you ride. She’s lucky you’re more mature than she is. If you’d told Mr. Conner what she did, she’d be in huge trouble.”
“She’s not even worth it, Khlo,” I said. “For now I’ll even refrain from immature nicknames until she does something nuts.”
Khloe pouted. “Nooo—more nicknames! You’re good at them!”
I laughed at her pitiful expression and we went back to our computers.
Homework had definitely kept my mind off testing. After I’d completed each assignment, I’d put it in the pale pink turn in folder in my binder. Each assignment got checked off when I finished. There was only one left with no check mark—write English paper.
I stared at the blank Word document. The cursor blinked, taunting me. Mr. Davidson had asked us to write three to five pages about ourselves—something we wanted him to know about us. I’d been brainstorming while making cup after cup of tea and hadn’t come up with a single interesting idea. Writing the “I have two sisters, live in Union, love horses” seemed generic-slash-boring. It felt like a “what I did this summer” essay.
What do I want him to know about me? What makes me Lauren Towers? Why am I at Canterwood?
An idea rushed into my brain. No way. No. I was not writing about that. I’d just write about moving or something. There was no way I was ready to write that story. I couldn’t.
My palms sweated. No one else was going to see this paper. Thinking about it—my accident—was something I’d been avoiding since I’d arrived on campus. At least, I thought I’d been avoiding it, but it never went away. The always-looming secret had been there when I’d met Khloe, had a tea party in the common room, and gone on a trail ride with Lexa.
If I took this chance to write it, it could bring me one step closer to being able to tell my new friends. Lexa and Khloe deserved to know the real me, and they wouldn’t until I shared my past with them. I still wasn’t ready to talk about it, but could I be ready to write about it?
Initiation Page 11
