Prize Problems

by Janet Rising

“Major’s cool! He’s a Breyer, isn’t he?” asked Bean.

  Grace nodded.

  “Toy ponies?” retorted Ellie. “I grew out of them years ago.”

  “Some of them are collectable—adults collect them, actually, so that’s all you know, Miss Know-it-all.” Amber pulled a face at Ellie and Ellie turned bright pink. “Our grandma collects figurines—they go for hundreds of dollars at auction.”

  “Our mom keeps saying they’re her inheritance,” Zoe laughed. “I hope they’re worth millions ’cause they’ll be our inheritance, too!”

  “My mom says we’re going to inherit a place in Spain from Granddad,” said Grace.

  “Your mom’s very forceful, isn’t she?” said Zoe. “It’s like she wants a pony more than you do. Why doesn’t she just get herself a horse?”

  “I don’t know,” sniffed Grace. “But I wouldn’t mind a pony if it was like Shadow. What’s your mom like, Bean?”

  “She’s a sculptor,” said Bean.

  “Wow, how exciting!” Amber exclaimed, bouncing up and down. “Is she famous?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately,” said Bean in a bored voice.

  “My mom’s dating,” I said. “Which, I have to tell you, is a nightmare!”

  “I wish my mom would date someone,” said Grace. “Since she and Dad split up, she’s gone back to horses in a big way. If she had a boyfriend, it might get her off my case.”

  I wondered what sort of boyfriend Grace’s mom would attract. It wasn’t a pretty picture, imagining her mom on a date. She’d probably tell the poor man what he was going to eat and drink, and straighten his tie. If his hair was long enough, he’d start sucking on it within the first twenty minutes.

  Looking round at everyone I noticed that Ellie had gone uncharacteristically quiet and was biting her nails. Amber suddenly seemed to notice, too.

  “OK, Ellie, we’ve dished the dirt on our moms, tell us what yours is like,” she said.

  Suddenly, there was a bang on the door and Mrs. Reeve’s voice called out. “Girls, come on now, go to sleep. It’s late and you’ve got a full day tomorrow!”

  Everyone went quiet. Then, hearing Mrs. Reeve’s footsteps recede, we started giggling. From then on, we spoke in whispers until gradually, one by one, the whispers stopped as everyone around me fell asleep. Someone snored—I think it was Zoe.

  I was tired and could feel my eyes closing. I wondered what we would do tomorrow, and how Sprout was going to react after my revelation today. And then, just as I was dropping off, I thought I could hear the faint sound of someone crying. It had to be Grace, I thought, worrying about the pony her mom threatened to buy her. When I got Drummer I remember it being the best day of my life ever, EVER. Poor Grace ought to be excited, not scared, I thought. But then I remembered—the chosen pony would have to satisfy the mother, not Grace. No wonder she was scared.

  Chapter 7

  When are you going to talk to Cherokee and tell me what he’s like?” asked Bean.

  “I’ve told you what he’s like,” I replied. “He’s a total hypochondriac and keeps whining about his legs. He also says his bridle’s too tight and complains that it squeezes his ears.”

  “You’re exaggerating!” exclaimed Bean. “He’s so cute!”

  I sighed. My pony-whispering had got me into trouble before when I’d told owners what their ponies had said, things they hadn’t wanted to hear. I didn’t want to go down that road with Bean.

  “Well, check out his bridle, then,” I told her, shrugging my shoulders.

  She did. It fit fine, she replied.

  “See?” I said, vindicated. “Hypochondriac—he loves imagining he’s ill!”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “I don’t make these things up, you know,” I told her. “Oh, and we have to be nice to poor Grace, I heard her crying last night.”

  “Crying?” said Bean, looking over at Grace. “I am nice to her.”

  “Yes, you are, really nice, actually,” I conceded. “I think she’s really worried about the sort of pony her mom might buy her.”

  “Poor Grace,” said Bean. “How awful it must be to be scared of what you most love doing. I suppose we forget what that’s like because we’re lucky enough to have our own ponies. If we only rode once a week at a riding school we’d have a whole week to forget what we’d learned last week, and worry about what we were going to do the next week. I mean, in a lesson, you have to do what the instructor tells you, but we can do what we like.”

  Bean was right, we were incredibly lucky. I felt another homesick pang for Drummer. What would he be doing now—grazing with his beloved Bambi? Chatting with his friend Bluey? Trying to get away from Dolly’s incessant chatter?

  Sprout had looked at me suspiciously as I’d led him in from the field. I’d ruffled his mad mane and told him I knew he didn’t believe I could hear him, but assured him that it was true. He’d said nothing. Either he was in denial (I knew how that felt!), or he wasn’t chancing it. The other ponies weren’t so restrained.

  “Will you go easy with the dandy brush!” I heard Sorrel exclaim. “Some of us have sensitive, thoroughbred skin!”

  “I think I’m getting a cough” mumbled Cherokee as Bean tightened up his girth.

  “This morning, girls, we are going for a ride,” declared Annabelle, looking particularly fruit-like in a strawberry-colored top and green jodhpurs. A cheer went up. We were all dying to explore the countryside.

  With Annabelle mounted on a big iron gray Warmblood called Tailor, and Sharon on her own cheeky-looking liver chestnut Arab mare with a white blaze, called Caramel, we all trooped out of the yard and along a sandy track before turning into a pine forest, with Amber and Zoe arguing about which of them should be in front of the other. The countryside was totally different than where I ride Drum. Our forests are mostly deciduous trees, which lose their leaves in winter, and the ground is mostly clay so it gets all boggy in winter, and bakes hard in summer. The soil around High Grove Farm was soft sand that the ponies kicked up in clouds, and we were soon covered in a fine film of yellow dust. Now and again, the ponies sneezed to clear their noses of it and it wasn’t long before I found myself sneezing, too. Between clumps of pine trees we rode out across a field dotted with yellow gorse bushes. The sky was clear and there was only a slight breeze—it was totally perfect riding weather.

  Away from the confines of the school Sprout jogged sideways, his mane wafting in the breeze as he bobbed along, swinging his bottom into Cherokee.

  “Careful Sprout, you almost stepped on me—that’s all my legs need!” complained Bean’s tricolored pony. “I don’t know why the management doesn’t fit me with overreach boots, it knows I’m a slave to my bad legs.”

  “What’s he saying?” asked Bean. “Come on, Pia, don’t be mean.”

  “He’s whining about his legs,” I told her, feeling a bit sick due to Sprout’s persistent jogging. It was like riding a pony on a boat in high seas.

  “He must be saying more than just that!” Bean exclaimed.

  I shook my head. “He isn’t, he just rattles on all the time about his legs, his back, the cough he thinks he’s getting,” I told her in a loud whisper. I couldn’t risk anyone else hearing me. I thought Drum complained a lot, but Cherokee was like a squeaky door in a high wind by comparison.

  Bean didn’t believe me. Pulling a face, she dropped back to ride with Amber who was once again riding like a cowboy, much to Sorrel’s disgust.

  “Lazy riding,” I heard her mutter. “Disgraceful!”

  “I told you Sprout was a nut-case, didn’t I?” Sharon said, urging Caramel up beside me. “Just go all floppy on him, like a rag doll,” she advised, her hair poking out under her riding hat like it was trying to make a getaway. Her clothes were still grubby. It was Sharon who tidied up the yard and made sure the
tack room was in order, filled the water trough in the field, dished out feeds and humped hay and straw around. Annabelle sort of swanned about, making sure we did everything correctly while Sharon worked. I suppose overseeing six young riders with ponies was work, but it wasn’t work that got you dirty, that was for sure.

  I did as Sharon suggested and as I went into rag doll mode Sprout broke into a walk, accompanied by a sigh of relief.

  “He’ll teach you loads, that pony will,” said Sharon, giving me a wink. “You’re going to get along fine.”

  I couldn’t help thinking she was right. I was learning a lot on Sprout.

  We had a great ride. The sandy paths were perfect for long canters, and the ponies seemed to enjoy it much more than they had yesterday’s lesson. Cherokee complained about sand going up his nose and Sorrel whined when she had to walk at the back—she seemed to think she ought to lead—but apart from that, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. Even Grace had a huge smile on her face as Shadow chugged along at whatever pace she wanted him to—which was about a mile a week. He really was perfect for her. I noticed that Bean steered Cherokee over to ride next to her for a while, talking to her and helping her out when Sharon, who had been doing the same thing, was distracted by questions from other riders.

  Sprout kept annoyingly quiet. I patted his neck and chatted away to him but he wasn’t having any of it. Until we all stopped for a break. Dismounting, we loosened our girths and munched on fruit and granola bars Sharon produced from her backpack. Sprout kept giving me sly, sideways glances.

  “I’m bored. I vote we liven things up on the way home,” said Harry, pulling a protesting Ellie across the clearing and tugging at a tasty branch.

  “Oh yes, let’s do something,” agreed Sorrel. “We can start a mock fight, that always gets them going. I bet Shadow’s rider is a squealer.”

  “As long as she doesn’t do it too loudly,” said Cherokee. “My ears won’t stand it.”

  “What’s a squealer?” asked Dot, lifting her nose and crossing her eyes to look at a fly on her noseband.

  “Shhhh,” said Sprout.

  “What’s your problem?” asked Harry, stopping in mid-munch. “It’s not like they can hear us.”

  “She can,” said Sprout, jerking his head toward me.

  “She can what?” asked Dot.

  “You’ve lost it, man,” laughed Harry. “They’ll be carting you off to a retirement farm if you don’t pull yourself together!”

  “No, I haven’t, she can hear us. I don’t know how, but she can. Ask her to repeat something you’ve said. Go on, find out for yourself,” said Sprout, stamping his near fore, annoyed that none of his friends believed him.

  “OK then, if she can hear us, perhaps she’ll be good enough to let us know what she thinks of our mock fight plans, ha, ha!” laughed Harry, returning his attention to the leafy twig.

  “I don’t think a mock fight is a good idea,” I said quietly. All the ponies turned to stare at me—even Shadow opened his eyes for that. Harry paused in mid-munch.

  “Who said anything about a fight?” said Amber, frowning.

  “What are you on about?” asked Ellie.

  Harry spat out a half-eaten leaf and gulped. “Wow, Sprout, you were right! She can hear us. How does she do that?”

  “No idea,” snapped Sprout.

  “Nightmare!” exclaimed Sorrel. “I mean, imagine that happening in the show ring. Dis-aaaaa-ster!”

  “What’s the problem?” asked Dot. “I think it’s sweet.”

  “Oh, Empty, get up to speed!” sighed Cherokee.

  “Pia, sweetie,” said Annabelle, over-brightly, “what’s this about a fight?”

  I turned my attention from the ponies to Annabelle. Another tricky little situation to get myself out of. Engage brain, Pia, if you can locate it!

  “Er, well, Bean and I are part of a re-enactment group at school. We don’t really fight. We were just talking about it.” I could see Bean’s puzzled expression, but she didn’t say anything. She’s used to my pathetic attempts to worm my way out of situations my pony-whispering shoves me into.

  Satisfied, Annabelle went back to trying to prevent Tailor from grazing. As he was at least 16.2 hands and built like a multi-story parking garage, it took all her attention.

  “Tell Cherokee I think he’s really cool,” said Bean, offering the tricolored pony a mint. So I did, even though he could hear Bean perfectly well. Cherokee didn’t return the compliment. Instead, he muttered something about preferring apples as they were better for his teeth. He then went into one about a friend of his who had choked on a mint and had spent the night in the veterinary hospital yadda yadda yadda. I switched off after the first few minutes.

  Mounting up, we went for another ride around the forest. On the way home, Annabelle told us we were going over some teeny-weeny jumps, which caused Grace to go apoplectic until Sharon said she would stay at the back with her and take it really slowly, assuring her that she could go around the jumps if she really wanted to. The rest of us were up for it.

  “Race you!” challenged Amber, revving up Sorrel with her legs and holding her with the reins. Sorrel started doing half-rears on the spot.

  “No racing!” Annabelle said firmly. “Single file, in an orderly fashion, please. I don’t want to take back a group of broken riders and ponies.”

  “Buzz kill!” whispered Amber.

  “And remember, Amber,” added Annabelle, looking around, “Sorrel may try to duck out or refuse again, so leg on.”

  “I’ll be fine!” Amber said breezily. “I’ve got the measure of her now!”

  The jumps were only tiny, but the ponies charged toward them in excitement—especially Sorrel who had been thoroughly wound up by Amber by the time we reached them. Amber thought it was hilarious but Zoe went all sister-ish and started saying she was acting immaturely—probably because Dot, who was really young, started to plunge about in excitement. Except that Dot cleared each jump and shot off after Tailor whereas Sorrel, who was in front of me and Sprout, put in a spectacular stop at the first, tiny log—barely a twig. Amber slid down her neck and landed in the dust with a thud. I heard Sprout snort with disgust, muttering, “Oh no, not again! Every single time!” with a sigh.

  “What did I tell you, Amber?” asked Annabelle, cantering back. “Are you all right?”

  Amber leapt up, grinned, dusted herself off and mounted the chestnut mare again. “I’ll learn—eventually!” she laughed.

  “Can’t you stay in the saddle for five minutes?” yelled Zoe.

  “For gawd’s sake, Sorrel,” I heard Harry shout from the back, “are you still messin’ about with them jumps?”

  “I don’t do jumps, I’m a show pony!” said Sorrel indignantly.

  “WAS,” shouted Cherokee. “Now you’re a riding vacation pony, and you need to get over it!”

  “That’s really funny coming from you, with all your fake illnesses!” huffed Sorrel. “Anyway, it’s good for my riders, it teaches them to keep their knees in and ride me forward!” she added, defensively.

  After cheerfully telling Zoe to put a sock in it, Amber put Sorrel at the log again and this time, she legged on like mad. Sorrel had nowhere to go but over it ( “See, at least I teach my riders something,” she shouted indignantly), and we were off again.

  Ellie, despite her boastings about wanting to be a show jumper, almost fell off over the last jump and was only saved by Harry lifting his head and shoving her back in the saddle. Sprout just stuck his head in the air, cantered sideways and then charged at each jump, leaping far higher than he needed to—the jumps were only tiny, after all. There seemed to be a lot going on underneath me—Sprout lifted his knees up high and jiggled about, but because he didn’t have the same weight as Drum, and was a more slender build, he was easy to keep seated on. I fel
t like my knees would meet in the middle, he was so narrow.

  We all pulled up breathlessly at the end of the jumps and waited for Sharon and Grace to catch up with us.

  “I bet Grace is wetting herself,” sneered Ellie.

  “No she’s not, look!” I said.

  Grace had the biggest grin on her face as Shadow carefully bounced over each jump. It was almost as though the gray pony was making it as comfortable as he could for his nervous rider. What a star, I thought. Sharon had Caramel matching him, stride for stride, and was encouraging Grace as she rode alongside.

  Standing up in her stirrups, Amber circled the air with one hand and yelled, “Yea, Grace! Wow, she’s better than me!”

  “Oh, that was fantastic!” enthused Grace as Shadow came to a halt, his sides heaving, and she threw her arms around his neck. Shadow was already catching up on his zzzzzs.

  “Well done Grace!” enthused Annabelle, with a smile.

  We walked home. At least, everyone else did, Sprout jogged sideways, shaking his head and muttering to himself. I could barely make out what he was saying but he was obviously over-excited. I tried going rag dollish, but it didn’t make any difference.

  “I told you—lunatic!” said Sharon, shaking her head, which didn’t seem terribly helpful but everyone likes to be proved right, I suppose.

  Bean steered Cherokee up beside us and looked at Sprout. “He’s got energy to spare,” she remarked.

  “You could say that,” I replied. Then Sprout suddenly decided to walk and he fell in step with Cherokee, enthusiastically sneezing dust out of his nose.

  “Not too close!” the tricolored said. “Consider the possible germ-transference!”

  “Give it a rest,” Sprout sighed.

  “What do you think of Ellie?” Bean asked me in a hushed tone.

  “Er, well, she doesn’t really endear herself to anyone, does she?” I replied.

  “She’s been telling me all about how she’s going to get a pony—again—and how it’s going to be a top show jumper, but she’s not much of a rider,” remarked Bean. “I mean, I’d have thought she’d be better off with a quieter pony. She can’t even ride as well as Grace.”