High Hurdles (5 page)

Chapter
•
6

“You will? We can! Oh yes, we’ll take the best care of Bandit in the whole world.” DJ could hardly keep her feet on the floor.

“But there’s one catch. We’d like you to do a party for our five-year-old son, Danny. Without charge, of course.”

“Of course.” DJ hoped she sounded like a businesswoman. “And what will you charge us for the use of Bandit?” She hoped Amy was impressed.

“Why nothing—the party, that’s it.”

DJ swallowed a shriek. “Th-thank you. We’ll be talking with you later, about the party I mean.” She hoped she got all the words in the right order, but she wasn’t sure.

“Kiddy parties, here we come!” The two danced around the kitchen, ducking and spinning like Indian braves.

Amy froze in the middle of the floor. “What are we gonna call our business?”

“Pony Parties, of course.” DJ danced on. “But will people think we’re bringing a bunch of ponies?”

“We’ll tell ’em up front. Besides, our flier will say . . .” DJ froze beside Amy. “We better get going on our flier.” The two headed for DJ’s bedroom, grabbing a sack of pretzels on the way.

DJ was nearly asleep that night when another good idea came creeping out of the mist and bit her. Long ago she’d adopted her grandmother’s habit of keeping a notebook and pencil by her bed to capture good ideas. She’d learned the best ideas came right before sleep and just before she opened her eyes in the morning. “Offer Western or English pony parties,” she muttered as she wrote. She studied the page. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. She flipped off the light and snuggled back under the covers.

But now her mind wouldn’t shut down. Instead, it traveled back to the session with her mother and Gran. Gran could always be counted on to pitch in with a new project, but not her mother. She’d never seen her mother in business action before. If she was this way at work, it was no wonder she usually made top salesperson for the company.

So how come she can never find time to be with me?
DJ let the thought peek out of the internal box where she kept things that hurt too much to think about.
Maybe if I wore dresses sometimes
 . . . The thought made her gag.
I do look pretty good when I’m dressed for a show
. She had to believe that. Bridget said as much, and she never gave out compliments just to give them out.

It’s just me. I know it is. I leave things around, and I can’t help the smart mouth. The words leap out before I can stop them. It’s probably even my fault my father left.
Images floated through her mind. There weren’t any of her father. Most of her memories were of her and Gran. She didn’t remember much about Grandpa, either. He died when she was four.

“Dear God, I’m sorry for all the stuff I do wrong. Thank you for Gran and for Mom. Help me to do my best. Amen.” She flipped over to her other side. Maybe
now
she could go to sleep. “Oh, and, God, please take care of Diablo—wherever he is.”

Each day the empty stall reminded her again of Diablo. Where was he? How was he? Was anyone exercising him? Did they give him carrots and brush his flanks carefully? He was so ticklish!

That afternoon when she finally got home, she fixed herself a sandwich and took it in to watch Gran paint.

“Hi, dear. Say, that looks good. Would you mind fixing one for me?”

“You haven’t eaten? It’s after three.” DJ bit her tongue before she said what she thought. Gran forgot all about eating or anything else when the “creative genius,” as she called it, took over.

Gran flinched. “I know, I know better. But I lost track of time.”

“I’ll fix yours. You want mayo or mustard?” DJ threw the questions over her shoulder on the way back to the kitchen.

“Mayo if it’s tuna; mustard with baloney.”

When DJ got back, Gran stood in front of the easel studying the forest scene she was painting. “That’s a new one. I like the trees.”

“Umm.” Gran took the plate DJ offered without taking her eyes from the easel. “It needs more depth. I want the reader to feel as if they can’t resist that path any more than Tara can.” She crossed the room to her wing chair and nestled into it. Tara was the name of the character in the book she was illustrating.

DJ still stood in front of the painting. “Makes me want to go there.”

“Darlin’, ‘go’ is your middle name. But thanks for the compliment. So how’d you do this morning?” She took a bite of her tuna. “Who taught you to make such good sandwiches?”

DJ grinned at her. “You did.”

“Really?” Gran studied the bread. “But then you do all kinds of things well. Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

“Thanks, Gran, I needed that.” She started on the second half of her sandwich, trying not to talk with her mouth full but wanting to catch Gran up on everything that had happened. When she told about James calling her “cat eyes,” Gran shook her head, sending the tendrils of hair around her face to swinging. “That poor boy. Mark my words, something tragic is going to happen there.”

“Yeah, I might pound him into the dust one of these days.”

“No you won’t. You’ll keep on praying for him like we said . . .”

“
You
said,” DJ muttered.

“Like we agreed.” Gran sent her one of those smiles that made it impossible to argue.

“But if I had a horse like his, I’d . . .”

“Now, child, a horse isn’t everything. We’ll keep on praying.” She leaned forward and tapped the end of DJ’s nose. “And I’ll pray especially that you can find it in your heart to be kind to James.”

DJ groaned. When her grandmother started to seriously pray about something—look out! DJ finished her sandwich and picked up the crumbs with a wet fingertip. “Gran, do you still miss Grandpa sometimes?”

“More than just sometimes, but nothing like I used to. There comes a day when you find yourself remembering something really good, maybe a fun time, with that person. Then it doesn’t hurt so much. It takes time, of course.”

“I wish it didn’t. I sure miss Diablo.”

By the end of the next week, with DJ’s birthday only three days away, Bridget had the rails up two more notches when DJ came for her lesson. She worked Megs around the edge of the ring, careful to warm the mare up even though she couldn’t wait to get going. Post to the trot, collected canter—the horse responded smoothly to DJ’s lower leg and hand signals. Megs knew the drill inside and out and seemed to be having as much fun as her rider. Ears pricked and with an occasional snort, she went through her paces.

“All right, take the two low ones on the outside first, then head up the middle for the others.” Bridget had taken her place in the center of the ring, the best place to watch for each flaw of DJ’s performance.

“No, do not let her rush it. You are signaling her to lift off too soon. A good rider is a calm rider. Now, again.”

DJ tried to keep her excitement under her hat, but it wasn’t easy. After the next round, Bridget signaled her over.

“Keep your hands like so, and your knees here.” With each command she put DJ in the proper position. “Now, again.”

By the end of the session, DJ didn’t want to hear “now, again” for a long time. One thing about Bridget, you had to have one skill down perfectly before you could go on to the next.

“Okay, work on those the next few days. Remember to picture the perfect jump in your head. See yourself doing it perfectly every time. It is not practice that makes perfect, but perfect practice that makes perfect.”

DJ said the same to her young students at the class she taught an hour later.
Perfect practice
—she’d remember that one.

“When are we going on our ride up into the park?” Sam asked at the end of the session.

“You promised,” Krissie chimed in.

DJ pretended to be deep in thought. “You really think you can handle your horses well enough to leave the arena?”

At their chorus of “yes-s-s,” she grinned. “Then bring your lunches on Tuesday—in saddlebags if you have them. You’ll need signed permission slips, and I recommend you pack your sandwiches and chips and such in plastic containers so they don’t get squished. My friend Amy will be coming along. Any questions?”

All three girls wore matching grins, the kind that wrapped nearly around their heads.

“Now, take care of your horses. I see at least one mother hanging over the fence. Krissie, aren’t you in a hurry today?”

“Hey, kitty-cat.” DJ heard the nasty voice after she’d just waved her last student off.

“James, I’m gonna . . .” She spun around but couldn’t see him anywhere.

“Meow, meow, meow.” Now he sounded just like a cat food commercial.

She looked down the aisle again in time to see him duck into Diablo’s stall. Why did he always pick on her? Or did he treat everyone this way? She thought about that, all the while letting his taunting set her on a slow burn.

“Kitty-cat, kitty-cat, where are you hiding at?” Now he’d rhymed it.

DJ started down the aisle, fists clenched at her side.

“Hey, DJ, I need some help over here,” Amy called from the other end of the barn.

DJ turned and stomped back the way she’d come. She’d have to take care of James later.

“Don’t let him bug you,” Amy said after one look at DJ’s face. “He’s not worth getting all mad over.”

“He doesn’t call
you
names.” Without being told to, DJ held the horse while Amy picked its hooves. Since this one had a habit of reaching back to nip once in a while, they took extra precautions.

“As your Gran says, ‘sticks and stones . . . ’ ”

“I know what she says, but words
do
hurt. I can’t help my green eyes. Nobody else has cat’s eyes. He’s right.”

“So that makes you special.”

“Ames, sometimes you sound just like Gran.” The two giggled together.

“So, what are you doing for your birthday?” The two were ready to head home.

“I thought maybe you could come over and we’d go out for pizza and then a movie. Maybe my mom and Gran will go, too.”

“You don’t want a party?”

DJ shook her head. “Not this year. I think we’re going to get enough of birthday parties as it is.”

“Hey, Mom and Dad might hire us for Danny’s party on August tenth.” Amy swung her leg over the seat of her bike. “Great, huh?”

DJ nodded. “Flier is almost done. You want to come eat at my house so we can work on it?”

“I’ll ask.” The two pedaled hard up and down Reliez Valley Road, coasting down the last hill to their houses.

Sure hope Gran doesn’t ask me about James
, DJ thought when she braked into her garage. She put her bike away and closed the garage door. She’d been extra careful lately. This was
not
a good time to get her mother mad. But then when was? The thought made her smile. Her mother was due back from another trip tonight. They’d talk about her birthday then.

What if her mother gave her a horse for her fourteenth? Wouldn’t that be unbelievable? The thought stopped her from getting a drink at the sink. She closed her eyes, imagining what having her own horse would be like. But when she opened them, reality took hold. The day Lindy Randall bought her daughter a horse would be the day the sky fell.