Prize Problems

by Janet Rising

  “I agree. But if she wants to live in a fantasy world, let her. I never know how to take her: one minute she’s all sneery and annoyingly stuck up, the next she’s all quiet like she’s somewhere else. It’s almost like she’s two different people—one of them can’t wait to impress us, the other doesn’t even want to talk to us.”

  “Amber and Zoe are totally crazy!” Bean giggled.

  “You can say that again. I like them, though,” I told her.

  “Oh yes, so do I. And Grace, I like Grace, too. Her riding isn’t as bad as she thinks, I wish she’d believe in herself a bit more.”

  “Would you, if you had her mom?” I said.

  “Good point! You can see that she just makes Grace nervous and sucks all her confidence away. Shadow’s perfect for her, isn’t he? He’s such a star!”

  I looked ahead to where Grace was leaning down and stroking the gray’s neck. “She loves him, it’s a shame her mom can’t buy Shadow.”

  “Why can’t she?” said Bean, her eyes flashing. “We have to get her to buy him!”

  “What?”

  “We have to make her mom see that Shadow is perfect for Grace!” said Bean.

  “I don’t think we can make her mom do anything,” I said doubtfully. I couldn’t imagine even asking her very nicely for something, let alone trying to force her to do something. The idea made me shudder.

  “Mmmm, I know what you mean,” Bean said, slumping in the saddle. Cherokee gave a loud groan, followed by a lot of muttering.

  “Besides, Shadow probably isn’t for sale,” I said. “And he’s ancient. He might not like moving stables.”

  “Oh, I suppose so. But Grace so needs a pony like him,” Bean said as we rode our ponies into the stable yard for more tack cleaning and another round of Annabelle’s over-zealous inspection, complete with obligatory clipboard.

  After lunch (tuna and ham rolls, salad and yogurt), Annabelle gave us all a lecture on feeding. Did you know that if you were to stretch out a pony’s intestines (so not a nice image!), they could be as long as sixty yards in length? Plus, a pony’s stomach is only about the size of a football and it can’t stretch, which is why we should give them small feeds more often, instead of fewer big meals? No, well, neither did I, but I do now.

  I talked to Sprout as I brushed out the dried sweat from his coat.

  “I’m not your enemy, honestly,” I told him. “I don’t want anyone else to know I can hear you, so I’m not going to mention it. I promise.”

  Sprout gave me a look—he seemed to be making up his mind. “OK,” he said, “I believe you—I have to—but you must admit it’s not normal.”

  “Oh, absolutely!” I agreed. “But like I say, I don’t want everyone to know either.”

  “OK then, truce,” offered Sprout. “Can you scratch the top of my tail, please? No, not there, higher, lower, that’s it, just there…ahhhhh! Mmmm, I can see this could have advantages!”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Can’t exactly stop you, can I?” Sprout replied.

  “Do you think you could cut out the jogging?” I asked him. My fingernails filled up with grease from his coat as I dug them into his tail.

  “Mmmm, that might be tricky,” he said, closing his eyes in bliss. “But I’ll make a note of it and see what I can do. It’s my nerves, you see.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, not seeing at all.

  Suddenly, I heard a commotion on the yard and we both stuck our heads out over Sprout’s door to see what was going on. Amber was yelling at Zoe, and Zoe was yelling back. Again.

  “You shouldn’t wear it all the time!” Zoe yelled. “You know it’s valuable!”

  “What’s the point of having it if I don’t wear it?” Amber shouted back. “It would be like having a Porsche and taking the bus everywhere!”

  “Well, you won’t be wearing it any more, will you?” Zoe sneered.

  “Whatever is the matter, girls?” asked Annabelle, giving them one of her specialty smiles-under-pressure.

  Zoe pointed to her sister and narrowed her eyes. “Ask her!” she said.

  Amber shrugged, “I’ve lost my silver pony charm,” she said. “And it’s worth a lot.”

  Chapter 8

  It must have fallen off when I was out riding this morning,” Amber told Annabelle. “I need to go and look for it, it’s valuable.”

  “Are you sure?” Annabelle asked her.

  “Oh yes, it’s antique, not some worthless piece of old junk,” nodded Amber.

  “No, I mean are you sure you lost it out riding?” asked Annabelle testily.

  “Mmmm, I’m pretty sure,” said Amber. “But I don’t mind missing this afternoon’s lesson and looking for it, honest.”

  “Sharon can go and look,” said Annabelle. Sharon looked less than delighted.

  As Sharon rather forcefully convinced Caramel that another ride was just what she needed, we all rode into the school for another lesson. I did a bit better this time—managing to get my half-halts half-right. Bean was getting on famously with Cherokee, she even got him thinking so much about his circles and his figure-eights, he forgot to whine about his ears/back/legs/mouth/you-name-it/pains/aches/terminal illness. My circles got better as my figure-eights improved, and Grace did some fantastic ones on Shadow. Ellie’s were more like spirals and her figure-eights were like two fat squares, and Zoe had trouble with Dot as she was really young and didn’t have much of a clue about what was expected of her, but Amber and Sorrel did perfect circles every time. But then, as Sorrel pointed out to the other ponies, she used to do circles and figure-eights for a living in the show ring.

  “I’m a professional!” she declared.

  “Yeah, professional has-been!” laughed Harry.

  “At least I wasn’t in trade,” snapped Sorrel.

  “It was hard work,” grumbled Harry. “You try pulling a cart around all day, six days a week. You’d never stand the pace.”

  “Neither did you!” mumbled Cherokee.

  “My owner retired,” explained Harry. “Nice old guy he was, very forthcoming with the carrots. Made an honest livin’ and owed nuthin’ to no one.”

  I couldn’t help wondering how such a mix of ponies came to be at High Grove Farm. Perhaps they’d been cheap, or a group sold together. I mean, what were the chances? On the other hand, how did I know all stables didn’t have such colorful characters?

  We’d turned the ponies out and tidied the stables by the time Sharon and Caramel returned. Sharon shook her head. “I’m sorry, Amber, but I couldn’t find it,” she said, her face downcast.

  “Oh no,” wailed Amber, “I can’t believe I’ve lost Silver. I won’t have any luck, now.”

  “Mom’s going to kill you!” declared Zoe. “She’s always telling you not to wear it when you go riding.”

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Zoe. You’re so bossy sometimes!” Amber shouted at her, and they had another fight which only stopped when Annabelle waded in.

  “Are you absolutely sure you had it on when you went riding this morning?” Annabelle asked Amber.

  Amber sighed. “I’m certain. I always put Silver on first thing in the morning.”

  “But you got up late this morning,” said Zoe. “Are you sure you didn’t forget ’cause you were in a hurry to go and get Sorrel saddled?”

  Amber looked thoughtful. “I’ll go and check my bedside table,” she said, running upstairs. Sharon looked less than pleased at the possibility of having spent all that time looking for something which was upstairs, but Amber soon returned, looking crestfallen. “No Silver. I must have put him on this morning!”

  Annabelle sighed. “In that case, we’ll keep looking when we’re out riding, but it doesn’t seem very promising, does it?” She turned to all of us. “If anyone else has anything
valuable with them, it might be a good idea to keep it safe upstairs, rather than risk losing it out riding.”

  My hand went immediately to Epona, safely stashed in my pocket, as always. There was no way I was storing her in my bag upstairs. My little stone statue of the Celtic goddess sitting sideways on her horse would go with me wherever I went.

  Amber was amazingly philosophical about her lost lucky charm—she was soon laughing and splashing about in the swimming pool. Zoe seemed more upset that her sister had been so careless. Amber just shrugged her shoulders when I quizzed her about it.

  “I’m really upset, actually,” she said, “but what can I do about it? If Silver turns up, fantastic. If not…well, I’ll have to find another lucky charm. He couldn’t have been that hot as a lucky charm if he’s managed to get himself lost, could he?”

  “But I thought you said he was valuable?” I said.

  “Yeah, he was. I’m not looking forward to telling my mom I’ve lost him—she bought him for me for my birthday. But then,” she said, grinning at me, “I probably won’t get a chance to—I bet Zoe’s dying to tell her!”

  That evening, Mom called me on my cell phone.

  “How’s it going,” she asked me. “Are you having a fabulous time?”

  I assured her I was and told her all about Sprout.

  “How did he react when you started talking to him?” she asked. I told her he was still getting used to it. Then I asked her how she was and whether she’d been out anywhere nice.

  “Oh, Pia, I’m very excited,” she said. “I think this could be The One!”

  “Which one, Leonard or Simon,” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to conjure up an image of either of Mom’s two suitors. Surely neither of them could be The One.

  “Who?” asked Mom. “Oh no, Pia, Leonard’s out of the running.”

  “Why?”

  “He turned up on a date wearing those ugly ’80s style shoes I hate.”

  I didn’t know what she was going on about. When it came to men, Mom seemed to have a language all her own. Assuming then that Simon, by default, was The One, I asked where they’d been together.

  “No, no, I’ve given Simon the old heave-ho, as well,” Mom said.

  “Why?” I asked, my brain getting more tangled by the second.

  “Nose hair,” came the reply. “No, I’m talking about Andy.”

  My mom is so superficial. Honestly, she’s always telling me I have to see beyond what people look like and seek the inner person, find out whether they are kind, or considerate or have hidden qualities, blah, blah, blah (apart from Dad’s girlfriend, Skinny Lynny—she can’t stop thinking up snide comments about her). Then, as soon as one of her boyfriends wears the wrong shoes or she notices a hair sprouting in the wrong place, she dumps them. What chance do I have of having any sort of quality relationship with any future boyfriends with such a bad role model?

  “Andy?” I asked faintly. There had been no mention of an Andy before I left. It was only two days ago, for heaven’s sake.

  “Yup! Andy is a lawyer,” Mom said reverently.

  “Is that good?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Good? It’s better than good. I’m telling you, Pia, Andy would have come in very handy when your father and I were going through our divorce.”

  Stable, door, bolted—all words which sprang to mind but instead of mentioning them out loud, I asked Mom about shoes, nasal sproutings, and other possible barriers to true love.

  “Nope, Andy wears very stylish shoes. No nasal hair. No ear hair either. In fact,” she paused, “Andy has no hair at all, head-wise.”

  “He’s bald?”

  “Yes, but it suits him and, as Carol says…”

  I groaned inwardly. Her friend Carol’s opinion is highly valued by my mom, highly dreaded by me.

  “…bald is very fashionable. Very now.”

  “Well as long as you’re having fun,” I said, giving up.

  I hung up and shared my concerns with Bean. She looked at me vacantly, unable to comprehend a parent with such an active social life. “At least your mom doesn’t appear from her studio at eight o’clock at night, after everyone else has cooked their own dinner, and ask what you’d like for lunch,” she said.

  “Why don’t you buy her a watch?” I asked.

  “We did. Several,” Bean replied. “They turned up fused together in a block of Plexiglas, titled Time: Frozen, and exhibited at the local museum. Some mental person actually bought it for a couple of thousand dollars. She uses everything in her sculptures. She stole some of my school pens for some piece she did about education. Honestly, you can’t leave anything lying around.”

  Obviously, when one is artistic, one loses track of time or how some things can be useful. My mom seems to lose track of how many boyfriends she has. Or had. Either way, moms seems prone to carelessness. I just hoped that, in my absence, my mom wouldn’t lose her head over this Andy lawyer person. But I couldn’t worry about that for very long because it was barbecue night, and we were all looking forward to it.

  Chapter 9

  Mrs. Reeve was wearing—according to her—a comedy barbecue apron. And she looked pretty ridiculous in it. The figure of a muscle-bound male in swimming trunks with Mrs. Reeve’s head sprouting out of the top wasn’t so much comic as gross, particularly as her two grayish blond braids dangled either side of a hairy male chest.

  “Grody!” Amber declared, stuffing shrimp in her mouth and washing them down with Coke as Mrs. Reeve shuffled off to the shed to get some more charcoal.

  “Have you spoken to Mom, yet?” Zoe asked her, the ends of her curly blond hair still wet from her swim.

  “Not yet,” said Amber, rolling her eyes at me.

  “Come ON, Amber, do it now!” Zoe yelled. “You can’t keep putting it off, you have to tell her you’ve lost Silver.”

  “Get lost yourself, Zoe!” exclaimed Amber, helping herself to another shrimp. “Anyone would think you were the elder sister instead of me. Just leave me alone, will you?”

  “Someone has to be responsible,” mumbled Zoe.

  “Just how valuable is your Silver horse?” asked Ellie. “My dad has a big bronze of a greyhound at home. It’s really valuable, worth thousands of dollars and almost a hundred years old. Is Silver worth as much as that?”

  “Probably,” said Amber, gloomily, twirling her red hair around her fingers, piling it up high on the top of her head and pushing one of the barbecue skewers through it to keep it in place. A few tendrils fell and bounced around her neck—she looked really glamorous and about seventeen. I wished I could do that with my hair—only it’s dark, reddish brown and really thick. If I tried to keep it on top of my head with a skewer, I’d have to hammer it into my skull. Which wouldn’t be such a good look, I’m thinking.

  “It’s not just that,” interrupted Zoe, “Amber’s always losing things. I always told her she couldn’t be trusted with something so valuable.”

  “You just love it, don’t you?” Amber exploded. “You always wanted Silver and said you’d look after him better than me, so now you’ve got your wish. Happy?”

  “What wish?”

  “You told everyone I’d lose Silver, and now I have. You were right. You must be happy!”

  “Er, my mom’s got a new boyfriend—Andy,” I said, hoping to distract the pair of them. “Apparently, Mom’s very excited, says he might be The One, whatever that means.”

  “New dad material?” asked Bean, eyeing up the sausages on the barbecue. She was keeping out of the Amber and Zoe argument and I didn’t blame her.

  “Hope not!” I replied, “he hasn’t a hair on his head, apparently. Totally bald!”

  “Our dad’s bald,” said Amber. “As a coot!”

  “What’s a coot?” I asked.

  “No idea!” laug
hed Amber. “But whatever it is, it must be bald.”

  “Hey, Grace, have you heard from your mom?” Bean asked.

  Grace screwed up her face and nodded. “Yup,” she said, “but she can’t bully me over the phone, so I don’t mind.” Grace had lightened up considerably without her mom breathing down her neck, especially after jumping. She’d even picked out all of Shadow’s hooves without any help. Yesterday, she’d been convinced he would kick her to pieces if she went anywhere near a hoof. Today, she was trainee farrier material.

  “How about you, Ellie?” asked Amber, eager to keep the conversation away from her dreaded phone call home.

  And that’s when things went all weird. Ellie, who until now had been rather quiet, suddenly turned and fled toward the house like a swarm of bees was after her. Just like that. One minute she was there with us, chewing on a hunk of French bread like a dog with a bone, the next we were treated to a view of her back as she disappeared through the farmhouse door, wailing.

  “What just happened?” asked Zoe.

  “No quite sure,” murmured Bean.

  “Do you think we ought to go after her?” Amber asked.

  “You can if you want,” her sister replied.

  “I don’t know, she’s so moody. One minute she’s bragging about stuff we all know isn’t true, the next she’s sulking and quiet. She gives me the creeps,” said Amber. “You go.”

  Mrs. Reeve returned, puffing, with a bag of charcoal. Of course, she asked where Ellie was. So we told her. And then it was Mrs. Reeve’s turn to go all weird.

  “What did you do?” she asked earnestly, like we’d attacked Ellie with a bread roll or something.

  “Nothing!” exclaimed Zoe. “One minute she was with us, the next she was gone.”

  “She’s weird!” said Amber.

  “What were you all talking about?” Mrs. Reeve asked, looking worried rather than angry.

  “Not much,” I said. “Grace’s mom, I think.”