Initiation

by Jessica Burkhart

  I typed my name, the date, and the class on the page. I hadn’t even started to type the title when the memories of that day began to assault me, to flood me and force me to go back to that cold November day.

  I’d been competing at the Red Oak Horse Trial in Washington, D.C. I was points away from being overall champion and clinching a win for my stable, Double Aces. All year I’d shown every chance I had. I rode even when I shouldn’t have—hiding the flu from my parents and instructor, pushing through a nasty cold, and competing with a bruised shoulder from a fall during practice.

  My mount, Skyblue, was one of the best stable horses I’d ever ridden. We had a tight bond and I adored him. The dapple gray gelding never questioned any of my commands, and he worked hard to please me.

  At Red Oak it had been our turn for cross-country. We’d blasted out of the starting box at a gallop and had covered the course fast. I’d known how good our time was and that we could take it easy over the final jumps, but Skyblue wasn’t tired and adrenaline pumped through me. I’d kept him moving as fast as possible, barely slowing when necessary, and we raced toward the final vertical before the finish line.

  The crowd cheered when they saw us, and it added to my excitement. I started counting strides—ready to lift out of the saddle for the jump—but I never got the chance. Without warning, Skyblue had slammed to a halt. I remember feeling confused that I was flying through the air without my horse.

  My body crashed into the cold, hard ground. Screams filled my ears, and my eyes fluttered open to see Mom and Dad bent over me, expressions on their faces I’d never seen before. Mom’s skin was gray. I tried to open my mouth to ask what was wrong, but I couldn’t.

  Darkness swallowed me. I woke up later, in the hospital, with machines beeping in my ears and an IV in my arm.

  I pulled myself out of the memory and looked down. My hands had balled into fists. I uncurled them, flexing my fingers. My nails had left half-moon shapes on my palms.

  I’d remembered having been in and out as paramedics eased me onto a stretcher and into an ambulance. I asked about Skyblue—worried that he’d been hurt. My old instructor, Mr. Wells, told me Skyblue was fine. I spent a night in the hospital and was released the next day with permission to ride when my soreness went away.

  Skyblue and I had escaped without any serious injuries, but I’d been hurt in a way I couldn’t understand. That had been my first serious fall. I never found out what happened. I didn’t know why Skyblue had halted—if I’d done something to cause it or if he’d been spooked. Regardless, I couldn’t stop blaming myself for putting Skyblue in jeopardy. Mom and Dad, figuring I was resilient and as eager as ever to ride, had offered to take me to the stable a few days after my fall. I experienced a feeling then that I’d never felt around horses before: fear.

  After that I became a master of excuses. I made up excuse after excuse about why I couldn’t ride.

  I never rode Skyblue again.

  I took a long break from riding, period, before finally deciding to try again when we moved to Union. Kim knew all about my past, and she’d been the one to help me learn to manage my fear and finally even jump again.

  I’d never be that Lauren again—the Lauren who forgot what was important and pushed herself and her horse unnecessarily. I learned how to have a life with horses and friends—something I didn’t have when I was showing so often. Ana and Brielle had gotten me involved at school, and I realized how much I liked having something other than riding in my life.

  I started typing and the words spilled onto the pages. Everything from that day—from the confidence I’d had, the exhilaration of what seemed like a sure win, the sensation of flying through the air and crashing into the ground, the screams of the crowd, the blurry faces, and the smell of alcohol and the prick of the needle when a nurse gave me an IV—went onto the page. Seven pages later, I was done. I saved the document. It felt as if I’d just purged a big part of the secret that had been haunting me for so long.

  “You were really into your essay,” Khloe said. “It must be good!” I noticed that all her books were packed and her desk was clear. “What’s it about?”

  I turned back to close my laptop, trying to think of what to say. I was the worst liar!

  “It’s about . . .” I paused. “Looking for the right horse and finally finding Whisper.”

  “Aw, that’s great,” Khloe said. “You’re so passionate— I’m sure you’ll get an A.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled, but didn’t feel happy. This was the worst way to start a friendship. Maybe there wouldn’t even be a friendship if she ever found out that I’d just lied to her.

  “I’m going to shower,” Khloe said. “Then do you want to grab dinner?”

  “Sounds great.”

  While Khloe showered, I printed my essay, put it in my homework file, and shoved it deep into my bag.

  MY REASON TO LIVE!

  I THOUGHT YESTERDAY HAD GONE BY FAST? Not even close to today. Math and history had been a blur—both of my teachers had acted as if school had been in session for weeks. Mr. Spellman had told us to take notes—all of which he’d collect at the end of every week that he would then grade and count toward our participation grade.

  I’d always taken detailed notes, but he talked so fast, I’d had to scribble and abbreviate most of my sentences— sometimes in French! My handwriting was illegible in some places. I’d have to recopy the notes tonight.

  In English, I’d kept my essay tucked away in my homework folder until the last possible second. Khloe sat next to me, with Clare beside her, and I only took out my paper when Mr. Davidson started collecting them. When the papers left my hands, it felt as though something I’d watched over and kept quiet about and protected from everything real in the world had snuck out in the middle of the night and now was gone.

  By the time I got to lunch, my arms were full of books and papers. I hadn’t even had time to put everything away into my bag.

  “Tomato soup and oyster crackers, please,” I said to the lunch lady. She filled a big bowl with steaming soup and gave me a few packets of crackers. I picked up the tray, barely able to hold it and my school stuff. I shifted my books, trying to rest them on my hip and my tray jiggled, soup sloshing over the bowl’s side.

  “Need some help?” I heard someone ask.

  I looked up from my tray and stared into a sea of stormy deep blue eyes.

  “I’m Drew,” the guy said. “I can take your tray . . . unless you were trying to paint your white sweater with red balloons?”

  “I want to laugh,” I said. “But if I do, I’m afraid I’ll drop something. So yes. And thank you.”

  Drew took my tray and I readjusted my books—some in my bag, with two left to carry. “I’m Lauren Towers,” I said.

  Drew smiled, showing off straight white teeth. His skin, as pale as my own, made his black hair look even darker.

  “So I can’t help but noticed you still have one bag and two books. So, I mean, I sort of have to carry your soup to your table. Unless”—he gestured to the lunch tray—“you want to risk it?”

  “That seems . . . unnecessarily risky.” I laughed.

  We left the lunch line and stepped into the caf together.

  “You’re new, right?” Drew asked. “I think I’ve seen you around the stable.”

  “I am new,” I said. “And I’m a rider, so you probably have seen me at the stable.”

  “Did you try out for a riding team?” Drew asked. “I’m an intermediate rider.”

  “I did—yesterday. And intermediate is just what I’m hoping to be. I find out this afternoon.”

  I’d been so into our conversation that I hadn’t even realized we’d been ambling through the caf. I looked over, and Khloe and Lexa, sitting where we’d been yesterday, were staring with wide eyes and grins on their faces.

  “I’m sitting over there,” I said, tilting my head in their direction. Drew followed me to my table.

  Once there, he put my tray n
ext to Khloe’s.

  “Hey, guys,” he said to them.

  “Hey,” both girls said. They stared at me. Then at Drew. Then me. Then Drew. Back and forth. I shot them a Stop it! glare.

  “Thank you so much for helping me,” I sad.

  “Oh, well, you know—I had to. I mean, I know how much you hate red balloons.”

  I laughed. “Well, my white sweater thanks you.”

  “See you around, Lauren,” Drew said. “I hope you make the intermediate team.”

  “Thanks, Drew. I hope so, too.”

  I slid into my seat, staring after him as he walked away.

  My eyes stopped on a face as red as my tomato soup. Riley, seated a few tables away with Clare, stared daggers at me. I looked away, shaking my head.

  “Riley looks as if she wants to kill me,” I said to Lexa and Khloe. “What’s her problem?”

  The girls looked at each other, then at me.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Khloe said. “Maybe because you’re a boy magnet!”

  Lexa nodded, her curls bouncing. “That’s Riley’s ‘thing.’ Riley always got attention from all the guys in our grade.”

  “Not anymore,” Khloe singsonged, pointing at me.

  “You’re both crazy,” I said. I ripped open a packet of crackers and put them into my soup. “I almost dropped my tray of soup and Drew happened to be there. He doesn’t like me—he was just being polite.”

  “Let’s do a count, shall we?” Khloe asked. “Monday: Zack. Garret. Tuesday: Drew. Three guys in two days have talked to you and all of them have made the I’m going to ask you out soon face.”

  I swallowed a sip of soup. “You’re ridiculous. I’m not interested in going out with anyone right now. Okay, three boys talked to me. It was like that at all my old schools. I always talked to the boys as much as I spoke to the girls. I just feel comfortable around them.”

  “I so wish I were you,” Lexa said. She brushed a French bread crumb from her silver satin three-quarters-sleeve shirt. “Whenever I try to even talk to a boy, I get all sweaty and mess up everything I want to say. It’s so embarrassing.”

  “The more you talk to boys,” I said, “the more you realize there’s nothing to be nervous about. I think they’re actually more scared to talk to you.”

  “And by ‘you,’ ” Khloe said, “you mean us?”

  “No—I mean most girls, but especially girly ones,” I said.

  “You’re supergirly!” Lexa said. “You scream girly!”

  “Yes,” I said, pointing an oyster cracker at her. “But I’m also into sports and camping and dares . . . and other such boy-type things.”

  “Why do we have to change for them, though?” Khloe asked. “I mean, a guy could get to know me by watching Sin City Celebrities with me.”

  Khloe and Lex both tilted their heads at me.

  “True,” I said. “But they’re the ones who ask us out. It’s probably a lot of pressure. They have to worry about us saying yes or no.”

  “Huh,” Lexa said finally. “So if they do girly things with us, that’s still scary.”

  “I never thought about it like that,” Khloe said. “We should make them nervous!”

  We laughed and ate the rest of our lunch. I fielded more questions about boys. The easy chatter kept me laughing—and from obsessing about the results of yesterday’s testing.

  Riding was far from my brain when I walked up to the art building for my first fashion class. The glass-and-steel building stood out among all of Canterwood’s other brick structures. My black flats were silent on the swirls of the gray-and-white-marble floor.

  This felt like a dream. I always thought I’d have to wait until college to study fashion! When I reached my classroom and peered inside, other students were chatting in groups.

  In one corner, mannequins stood as if beckoning to be draped in beautiful fabric.

  I posted a fast Chatter update:LaurBell: The fashion bldg—c’est mon raison d être!

  I couldn’t believe Ms. Utz, the math teacher-slash-guidance-counselor, almost hadn’t let me take this course. She’d been concerned that I was taking on too many activities. But once I sent her an impassioned e-mail explaining my love of fashion and that I thrived on a heavy workload, she’d allowed it. Besides, fashion didn’t even count as a class—it would be fun!

  I took a seat near the front row and plucked a new notebook—a yellow one with a sketch of a cocktail dress—from my bag, along with my textbook and a pencil.

  “Lauren?”

  “Oh, hey,” I said, looking up. “Cole?”

  I hadn’t noticed before, but Cole was a fab dresser. Today his attire was casual-slash-dressy: A hunter-green Ralph Lauren polo (bonus points for the large logo). Jeans: vintage-washed whiskered slim fit. Shoes: black leather Ferragamos?!

  “Cool if I sit by you?” he asked.

  “Of course.” I gestured to the seat next to mine.

  He slipped his messenger bag over the back of his chair and sat down. As he looked around his green eyes were probably as wide as mine had been seconds ago.

  “Fashion at Canterwood,” Cole said. “It’s like they tried to make a course for me.”

  I laughed. “Really? I feel the same way. Too bad it’s only twice a week.”

  “No kidding,” Cole said. He smoothed his shirt and ran a hand through his light brown hair.

  I couldn’t help but stare at his shoes. When I realized drool was practically coming out of my mouth, I saw he was laughing.

  “Sorry, but are those . . .”

  “Custom-made black Italian leather—”

  “Ferragamos!” We said in unison.

  “Never go shopping without me,” I said.

  “Deal,” he promised, laughing.

  A woman walked into the room and stood in front of the desk. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of Vogue. She’d paired a white ruffled V-neck shirt with a black skirt and ankle boots. Her dark brown hair, with caramel-colored highlights, was flatironed and hung just below her shoulders.

  “Hello, class,” she said. “I’m Ms. Snow, your teacher for this class.”

  Beside me, Cole straightened. I was so happy to have a fashion soul mate at Canterwood.

  “Today’s going to be very brief.” Ms. Snow smiled. “I don’t believe in overloading my students right away. You’re free to use the end of the period to read or do homework.”

  Oui! Even though I already loved this class, I had so much work to do that I was grateful.

  Ms. Snow handed a syllabus to all of us and went through each point. Required reading covered fashion through the ages, fashion icon biographies from past to present, designers and their most famous creations, and exciting other topics! Not even one sounded boring.

  “Along with the reading,” Ms. Snow said, “we’ll also have a big project due each semester. The first assignment will require a partner of your choice.”

  Cole and I looked at each other at the same time, grinning. “Yay!” he mouthed.

  “I know!” I mouthed back.

  “Let’s do quick introductions,” Ms. Snow said. She pointed to the first desk on the left.

  “I’m Raquel, and I picked fashion because I love to sketch clothes,” she said.

  Ms. Snow gestured to me.

  “Hi, I’m Lauren,” I said. “I’ve read about style icons and the history of fashion since I was little, and this class was the first one I picked from the catalog.”

  “Great,” Ms. Snow said. After a few more people, Ms. Snow reached Cole.

  “I’m Cole. I chose fashion because I want to be a designer someday,” he said.

  Wow—I was impressed!

  We were going to make a fabulous team—especially since Cole said he’d been sketching for years. He’d be able to teach me a lot.

  When we’d finished, Ms. Snow smiled. “I want to take a moment to tell you why I’m teaching this course. It won’t be too long and boring, I promise. I’ll open the floor to questions before allo
wing you to study or do your homework.”

  Ms. Snow walked to her desk, perching on the edge and tucking her hair behind her ear. “I was a total tomboy growing up,” she said. “I didn’t know anything about fashion, nor did I ever want to. I thought wearing my brother’s oversized sweatshirt and jeans with holes in the knees was ‘in.’” We all laughed with her.

  “I didn’t develop an interest in fashion through middle school or high school like you. But in college, I was an art history major. In one of my classes, we covered a few chapters about the evolution of clothes through history. We had to write an essay about our favorite piece of clothing from the times we’d studied and discuss how it was ‘art.’”

  Ms. Snow looked at us. “You know what I did?”

  We shook our heads.

  “I didn’t write the paper.”

  Cole and I turned to each other, trading surprised glances. I’d never had a teacher like Ms. Snow. She was so honest and relatable.

  “Did you fail the class?” a girl asked.

  “Yeah, did you have to make up the paper?” questioned someone else.

  Ms. Snow smiled and walked to the center of the room.

  “My professor called me to his office and asked why I’d missed the assignment,” she said. “I’d always turned in every piece of homework and he didn’t understand why I hadn’t asked for an extension or talked to him about it. I told him I didn’t see fashion as art and asked if I could write something—anything—else.”

  I rested my hand on my chin, curious.

  “Of course he said no . And in addition, he told me my paper had to be five pages longer. He reminded me the paper was worth twenty percent of my grade and was not something I wanted to fail.”

  “Ugh,” someone said. The rest of the class groaned in agreement.

  “He gave me one week. I spent one entire weekend paging through my art history book, looking at clothes. Something kept drawing me back to the progression of women’s clothing and finally I settled on the 1940s. Pinup models and actresses like Bette Davis and Ava Gardner. They wore clothes that were quite different from anything women prior to that time had worn.”