“A friend?” If I heard that word one more time, I’d scream.
Towaco tried to walk on. Mason squirmed in the saddle.
My throat ached, and my head throbbed. How could he do this? And on Thanksgiving? Didn’t he care about Lizzy and me? about Mom?
“We can talk about this later,” Dad said. “Mason wants to keep riding.”
“Is everything all right?” Madeline shouted from the fence.
Everything wasn’t all right. It was all wrong. How could he have gotten over my mother that fast?
I turned Towaco back toward the barn. “We’re done.”
Catman took over, helping Mason down and unsaddling Towaco.
Without a word to anyone, I slipped the hackamore on Nickers and rode out of the barn and down the road. We followed a dirt path, galloping farther and farther from town. I tried to call up every mind photo of my mother. Usually I can’t control which picture will flash back when, but one image flooded my mind.
It was the year Mom planned to cook our turkey overnight. Her friend said the meat would turn out extra juicy. Mom stuffed and basted a huge turkey and stuck it in the oven about midnight. When she woke up the next morning, she couldn’t smell anything. That’s when she realized she’d forgotten to turn on the oven.
I woke that morning to a loud noise coming from the kitchen. My mind picture had captured the scene as I walked into the kitchen. Mom had laughed so hard she’d dropped the turkey, then slipped on the greasy floor. When I saw her, she was sitting on the kitchen floor, a giant, raw turkey in her lap. And she was laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks. That was the year we’d eaten Thanksgiving macaroni. It was the best Thanksgiving of my life.
Thursday morning I tried to sleep in, but Hawk’s lovebirds were singing, Peter Lory was squawking, and the gerbils wouldn’t stop spinning their exerciser wheels.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Winnie!” Lizzy shouted. She was peeking into the oven. The scent of roast turkey floated out. I was grateful that Lizzy loved to cook. She says it brings out her creative side.
“Ditto,” Geri said, stirring something in a big bowl.
“Thanks. You too.” The last thing I felt like doing was celebrating Thanksgiving. But my sister was going to so much trouble, I didn’t want to ruin the day for her. “Smells great, Lizzy.”
“We’re eating at three,” she announced. “Dad’s outside.”
“Where’s Hawk?” I asked.
“She went somewhere with Summer,” Geri answered. “And her parents called twice to wish her Happy Thanksgiving.”
Lizzy shut the oven and got out a bag of potatoes. “Dad said Madeline’s bringing Mason over for another lesson this morning.”
I cringed at the mention of her name. And with Hawk gone, Dad would have to help again.
Lizzy kept chattering. “Did you know they’re coming for dinner? Geri can’t stay because her parents won’t let her. Her parents don’t have to work. The whole cookie factory closes for Thanksgiving. Do you think Mason will like apple stuffing?”
I bundled up for chores and scurried out to the barn. Catman was sitting on a stack of hay bales, surrounded by cats. “Happy Turkey Day!” he called down.
“Glad you’re here, Catman. I need you to spot for Mason again this morning.”
“Right-on!” He leaped to the floor, got a brush, and moved into Towaco’s stall. While I finished chores, Catman groomed and saddled Towaco.
I heard the van drive up. Then Dad and Madeline strolled into the barn side by side. I felt like hurling.
Mason walked straight to Towaco. As lousy as I felt, I couldn’t help smiling at him as he hugged the Appy’s neck and blew into his nostrils. Towaco returned the greeting. At least one thing was working out right.
Dad and I hadn’t said a word to each other since Mason’s ride yesterday. He greeted Catman and took his spot on the other side of Towaco.
Ignoring Madeline’s “Happy Thanksgiving” greeting, I led Towaco out to the paddock.
Around and around the paddock we walked. Mason squealed, sometimes tilting his head back to laugh. He didn’t need to be held to the saddle. Dad and Catman just tagged alongside.
Towaco nickered. His ears flicked back to listen to Mason, then forward to stay in touch with his surroundings. He hadn’t been this alert in weeks. He and Mason had actually become partners, just like I’d read about in the horse therapy pages.
I tried to put Thanksgiving dinner out of my head. This ride was for Mason’s sake, not Madeline’s. “Can you say ‘Go, Towaco!’?” I asked Mason. “Go Towaco.”
We passed Madeline again. Dad waved at her over Towaco’s back. My stomach turned. She waved back. I imagined both of them falling into a pile of manure.
Friends? What did he need with a woman friend? It should have been my mom there, waving, watching. My mom should have been eating Thanksgiving dinner with us. Not Madeline Edison.
From somewhere came the sound of girls laughing. Then Summer and Hawk appeared, running on the other side of the fence. I couldn’t stop staring at them. In my head I could still hear them making fun of me: parasite . . . parasite.
They kept laughing, ignoring us.
All at once, Mason shouted, “Go, Towaco!”
Towaco broke into a trot. The rope slid through my fingers.
And I watched, stunned and helpless, as the Appaloosa ran off, out of the paddock, into the pasture, with Mason on his back.
I ran as fast as I could after Towaco. But the Appy trotted deeper into the pasture. Madeline screamed. Dad shouted. He tripped over something and fell.
I heard footsteps behind me, and Catman breezed past. He raced beside Towaco and grabbed the reins. “Whoa, cats!” he called.
Towaco stopped.
I caught up to them. “Mason, are you okay?”
Mason sat in the saddle laughing, one hand on the horn, the other hand petting the Appy. “Go, Towaco! Go, Towaco!” he shouted.
Catman and I stared at each other, then burst out laughing too. Relief rushed through me. Mason was fine, better than fine.
Thanks, God! I prayed, feeling it inside.
Dad limped over. “Is he okay?” He looked up and saw for himself. “Well, aren’t you the cowboy, Mason!”
Madeline came trudging through the brush. Her long, gray coat was covered in burrs. Tears streaked her cheeks. She pushed past Dad and me and pulled Mason down from the saddle.
Mason started screaming.
“It’s okay, honey,” she said. “You’re all right now.”
Mason kicked, but Madeline held on. She glared at Dad. “You were laughing! He could have been killed, and you thought that was funny?”
“Mason was laughing,” I explained. “I was trying to get him to say, ‘Go, Towaco—’ ”
She wheeled on me, Mason still squirming in her arms. “Winnie, I expected more from you. He’s just a little boy. Don’t you understand? It could take him weeks, months, to get over this! How could you let this happen?”
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. She was right. Mason could have been hurt, and all because I hadn’t been paying attention. My mind had been on Hawk and Summer. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t enough, Winnie, not when you’re around Mason.”
“Madeline,” Dad said, “take it easy.” Dad was sticking up for me?
She turned to Dad. “Take it easy? Is that all you have to say? Were you taking it easy? Is that why you weren’t around when that horse ran off?”
“Come on, Madeline,” Dad urged. “Be fair.”
“All’s cool that ends cool?” Catman suggested, keeping his distance.
Madeline glared at him. He held up the peace sign.
Mason squirted through his mother’s arms, hit the ground, still crying, and tried to run back to Towaco. Madeline reached out long arms and grabbed him back.
“He just wants to pat the horse, Madeline,” Dad reasoned. “He needs to—”
“He’s seven years old!
” she cried. “He doesn’t know what he needs.”
Dad shook his head. “You’re too protective. Mason’s getting a kick out of riding. You should be thankful—”
“Thankful?” she snapped.
“Yes, thankful! Winnie gave up her time to try to help. I think thankful is exactly the word I was looking for.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Catman offered.
Madeline hugged Mason even harder. “We’re going home, Mason.”
“Maybe that’s a good idea,” Dad agreed, his voice prickly.
Madeline winced, just a little, but I saw it. “Fine,” she said.
“Fine,” Dad said.
She took off in one direction, and Dad in the other. Poor Mason, tears flooding his eyes, looked back at Towaco.
I should have felt happy to see Madeline Edison leave. It’s what I’d wanted. But my hands were trembling, and the last thing I felt was happy.
Catman and I turned Towaco loose and walked back to the barn.
Hawk was waiting for us. “Was that your dad’s friend I saw leaving? I thought they were staying for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“What do you care?” I asked. I glanced around for Summer. If they hadn’t walked by right when they did, if they hadn’t been laughing, if they hadn’t made fun of me in school . . . none of this would have happened.
“Did I miss something?” Hawk asked.
“Ha!” It was all I could say. I walked past her to the tack room.
“Bad scene, man,” Catman explained. “Towaco split with Mason on his back.”
“How?” Hawk asked. “Winnie, you were leading Towaco, right? What happened?”
“You happened!” I screamed, storming up the stallway at her. “You and Summer.”
Hawk’s face went blank. “What are you talking about?”
I knew I should stop right there, but I couldn’t. “You ran by, laughing, making fun of who-knows-what, but probably me! I glanced over at you and let go of Towaco!”
“So it is my fault?” Hawk asked, her voice as cold as the north wind.
“If you’d been here helping me instead of running off with Summer, none of this would have happened! And if you had to be gone, then you should have just stayed away!”
Hawk took a step backward. “That is not a problem!” She turned and stalked off, shouting back words chipped from ice: “If my parents call, I will be at Summer’s, for good!”
By noon the smell of turkey filled our house. I figured Dad hadn’t told my sister about his fight with Madeline, since Lizzy made me set places for everybody at the table. I hadn’t said anything about Hawk. So I set six places for three people.
Dad stuck his head in. “Any calls for me?” It was the fifth time he’d asked.
“Nope. Who are you expecting?” Lizzy asked. “What’s up?” She glanced at me. I set out forks.
“Nothing,” Dad said. “I just thought I heard the phone ring.” The way he hung his head reminded me of Towaco when the Appy was so depressed.
I thought about how much Towaco had changed and wondered if Mason would ever get to ride him again.
I needed Nickers. “Back in a while, Lizzy.” All I wanted to do was feel my horse . . . and soak up her warmth.
Nickers greeted me as if I’d been gone a week. I slipped into her stall and wrapped my arms around her neck, inhaling her, letting her winter fuzz tickle my cheek.
I sensed Catman before I glimpsed him in Towaco’s stall. “Catman? I thought you’d be halfway through the Coolidge turkey by now.”
He’d changed into his camouflage army coat and combat boots. “Big Thanksgiving sale at Smart Bart’s Used Cars. We’ll scarf turkey tonight.” His piercing blue eyes could have been lasers. “You cool?”
“Me?” I ran my fingers through Nickers’ mane. I’m lousy at faking things, and Catman is great at seeing through me anyway. “Catman, the last thing I wanted was for Madeline Edison to come to Thanksgiving dinner. It’s still about the last thing I want. But I hate seeing my dad mope around like he lost his best friend.”
Catman didn’t say anything, so I went on. “Then there’s Hawk. I don’t even know if we’re friends or not.”
He sighed. “Bummer.”
“I shouldn’t have blown up at her, but it wasn’t just because she and Summer ran by, Catman. Hawk’s been rotten to me all week. It’s almost like she’s trying to push me away.”
“I dig,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “You think she is? Why would she try to drive me away?” Too many things were messed up. I couldn’t think straight. I picked up Nickers’ hoof, checked it, and set it down again. “I feel like I’ve single-handedly wrecked Thanksgiving.”
“Fix it,” Catman said.
“Oh sure! How? Call Madeline and beg her to come to dinner? Ride out after Hawk and drag her home?”
“Okay.” He picked up a brush and started grooming Towaco. “I’ll bridle. You call.”
I watched him for a minute, his long arms sliding the brush down Towaco’s neck, over his withers and back. “Thanks, Catman,” I muttered.
I got the number from Loudonville information and dialed. God, I prayed, wishing I’d remembered to pray about all this stuff while it was happening, please make this phone call work.
Madeline answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
“This is Winnie.” My voice sounded more hoarse than usual.
“Winnie? Oh, Winnie, I’m so glad you called. I owe you an apology.”
“You do?” I’d half expected her to hang up on me.
“I never should have yelled at you like that. I’m so embarrassed. I just get crazy when I’m scared for Mason. You and that horse were great for him.”
“I liked giving Mason rides on Towaco. So did Towaco. I’m just sorry I wasn’t paying attention when the Appy took off. Is Mason okay?”
She sighed. “The only thing wrong with Mason is that he’s angry with his mother for pulling him off that horse.”
“You should bring him back,” I said. “Today. And eat.”
Note to self: In the history of Thanksgiving dinner invitations, there has never been a stupider one than this.
She didn’t say anything.
I didn’t want to like her. I still didn’t want her to be part of our Thanksgiving. But she was Dad’s friend. “Lizzy’s fixed a ton of food. And Lizzy and Dad and I can’t eat it all by ourselves.”
“Does . . . does your father still want us to come?” She asked it so softly I could barely hear over Peter’s chattering and the gerbil wheel and the lovebirds’ cooing.
“Yeah, he wants you to come.”
“Thanks, Winnie. We’ll be there.”
One down. But the hardest one was still to go.
By the time I got back to the barn, Catman had Towaco bridled. I slipped Nickers’ hackamore over her ears, and we led the horses outside. I jumped on my Arabian’s back, and Catman handed me Towaco’s reins.
I didn’t know what to say to him. Catman had managed to show up every time I’d needed him. “Happy Thanksgiving, Catman.”
“Right-on.”
Leading Towaco behind me, I trotted Nickers toward Spidells’. As we got closer, I prayed, God, I’m asking you for one of those detail things again. I need you to help me figure out what’s going on with Hawk. Help me see through her the way Catman sees through me. I know you’ve got a lot going on today, so thanks for caring about this.
I brought the horses down to a walk when we got to Spidells’ long driveway. We passed Volvos, a Mercedes, a yellow BMW, two long black limos—fancy cars lining both sides of the drive.
A live band played, and well-dressed people clustered in groups across the lawn, under the warmth of big, open tents and flaming torches. At the edge of the yard, I spotted Hawk with Summer and Richard Spidell, Summer’s big brother.
Summer was the first to turn around when I rode up. “What are you doing? Get those horses off the lawn! Can’t you see we’re having a party? For
people?”
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Summer!” I said it just like Lizzy would have, only she would have meant it.
Richard’s gray eyes narrowed, thin as his pencil-line lips. He’s a junior in high school, almost six feet tall, but he still looks like an overgrown kid. “Winifred. Why aren’t I surprised?”
“Because you knew I’d want to ride over and wish you Happy Thanksgiving in person?” I suggested.
“I’ll be going now,” Richard said, “in search of more suitable, mature company.” He strutted off.
“Don’t tell me,” Summer said. “You want Victoria to ride with you. How parasitic of you. She’s selling that problem horse anyway.”
I turned to Hawk. “You’re not, are you, Hawk? Not Towaco.”
She shrugged, not looking at me.
“But you can’t! Towaco’s not just a horse! He’s your friend! He’s—!”
“No!” Hawk shouted so loud, heads turned. “Towaco and I aren’t friends! We’re not like you and Nickers. Maybe I wish we were, Winnie. But Towaco is not Nickers, and I am not you. It is not the same. Towaco and I . . . we . . . oh, I don’t know what we are!”
“Hawk, you and Towaco are what you are. Can’t you just enjoy your horse? Enjoy your friendship, even if it’s not everything you think it should be?”
I stopped, hearing my words as if someone else were talking to me . . . about me. I’d been down on Hawk because our friendship wasn’t like Lizzy and Geri’s, or Catman and Barker’s, or even Hawk and Summer’s. I’d been so hung up on what a best friend was supposed to be like that I hadn’t enjoyed the bits of friendship we did have—the little things, the details.
“Hawk, come and ride Towaco. You don’t have to go home with me if you don’t want to. Just enjoy your horse right now.”
Towaco had been munching grass. He picked up his head and ambled over to Hawk.
“My mother will be waiting for us,” Summer said, moving toward the house.
Towaco nuzzled Hawk. She scratched his chin, then looked from Summer to me . . . to Towaco. “Summer, tell your mother I have gone for a quick ride, please.” She swung up on her horse.
Unhappy Appy Page 8
