Horse Feathers (7 page)

Now it was Max’s turn to look shocked. Veronica wasn’t typically one to show initiative. And certainly not when it required work. “Ah … sure,” he responded.

“Good,” said Veronica. She turned on her heel, making her way out of the arena.

After class, Stevie, Lisa, and Carole helped cool out
Clara, then checked on their own horses before getting ready to go home. They were hoping to walk together so that they could talk more about Veronica, but Carole’s father, Colonel Hanson, was waiting in the car when they came out of the barn.

“Hi, girls,” said Colonel Hanson.

“Hey, Colonel Hanson,” answered Lisa and Stevie in unison.

Carole said good-bye to Stevie and Lisa before settling into her dad’s car.

As the vehicle pulled down the drive, Lisa and Stevie followed at a leisurely walk. It took Stevie only a moment to get onto the hot topic of the day: Veronica.

“After all her talk about
not
wanting to stand on a horse’s back, I can’t believe she did so well,” said Stevie. “In fact, it’s sickening.”

“I can’t believe how much fun that was!” Lisa said, still thinking about her first experience with vaulting.

Stevie scowled at Lisa, who obviously didn’t understand the importance of the whole Veronica vaulting catastrophe. “Fun? Lisa, don’t you get it? If Veronica suddenly becomes interested in vaulting, she might actually do
well
at the competition at the end of the month.”

Lisa frowned. She hadn’t thought of that.

“We have to do better than she does,” Stevie stressed quite dramatically. “We can’t let her win. And you’re our only hope. You’re the only one who can beat Veronica.”

“I don’t know, Stevie,” Lisa responded skeptically. “Veronica did pretty well today.”

“So did you!” Stevie assured her. “Lisa, you’re a natural. All you have to do now is practice like crazy.”

Stevie had a point. Lisa did have the advantage of her ballet training. She just had to learn how to apply it to vaulting. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll beat Veronica,” declared Lisa.

Stevie smiled. “That’s the spirit. Now you go practice, while I check on my eggs.”

S
TEVIE ARRIVED HOME
, passing her mother as she came out of the kitchen.

“Stevie,” Mrs. Lake called out, “there are fresh brownies on the counter and milk in the—”

“Later, Mom,” Stevie said hurriedly as she turned the corner and took the stairs two at a time up to her bedroom. Never in her life had she passed on fresh brownies and milk, but she had more important things to do today.

Upstairs, Stevie burst into her room and ran straight to the incubator. True to her word, her mother had turned the eggs on schedule, as well as checked it off on Stevie’s “Egg-Turning Wall Chart”
that Lisa had made to keep Stevie organized. The chart was incredibly detailed, listing the required incubator temperatures, turning times, and routine egg checks. According to the chart, Stevie could stop turning her eggs on Wednesday, which was the next day. The eggs wouldn’t need to be turned for the last few days of their incubation period.

Satisfied that everything was in order, Stevie plunked herself down at her desk and opened her algebra book. She had an assignment due the next day that she’d kept putting off because of her distraction with the eggs. Now seemed like a good time to get it out of the way.

Stevie grabbed a pencil and carefully wrote out an algebra equation, her eyes straying periodically to the incubator before returning to the page. As she attempted to solve the problem, she caught herself staring at the zero she’d jotted. She’d outlined it several times, causing it to take on an oval shape—like a goose egg. She gave the algebra equation several more attempts, but it was no use. Algebra reminded her too much of her eggs.

Stevie figured that perhaps it was the type of homework she was doing. Maybe if she worked on something without zeros, it would be easier to concentrate.
And, unfortunately, she had plenty of other homework she could do. History, for instance. Their teacher had hinted at the possibility of a pop quiz on Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. But reading the text automatically triggered thoughts of how cold it must have been in Moscow, and Stevie wondered if Napoleon used a goose-down comforter.

Realizing it was happening again, Stevie closed the history book and pulled out her English assignment. Her class was reading
Animal Farm
. Stevie tried really, really hard to concentrate, but the mention of all the animals was very distracting. It was absolutely, positively hopeless.

Stevie didn’t understand how any teacher could expect her to do homework with something as exciting as impending motherhood. Plus, she hadn’t looked at the eggs for nearly five minutes and was starting to feel like she was neglecting them. Resigned to the fact that concentration wasn’t something that was going to happen anytime soon, she closed her book and returned to her new favorite spot: in front of the incubator.

Stevie was adjusting her pillow when, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught a movement
in the incubator. But when she looked again, all twelve eggs were resting comfortably, no sign of activity. She peered closely at the eggs, holding her breath, but nothing happened. Not even the slightest wiggle. But she was sure she’d seen
something
.

Without taking her eyes off the eggs for a second, Stevie reached for the phone, tugging on the cord to draw it toward her. She quickly dialed Lisa’s number and waited breathlessly while the phone rang.

“Hello?” answered Lisa.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Stevie said in a rush. “I think it moved!”

“An egg?” Lisa guessed.

“Of course an egg,” Stevie said excitedly. With the receiver cradled against one shoulder, she reached for the literature that had accompanied the eggs. She flipped through it, looking for some kind of pre-hatching symptoms.

“The little fellow was probably just getting comfortable in there,” Lisa suggested. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Not worry about it?
Stevie wasn’t sure what response she’d expected from Lisa, but it wasn’t that. She quickly ran her index finger down each page as she skimmed the text. There was information on absolutely everything
from breed types to suggested care instructions. But she couldn’t find anything on egg wiggling. Not that the egg did wiggle for sure. But what if it had?

Lisa, who obviously didn’t understand the possible significance of a wiggling egg, had already changed topics and was going on about her new favorite subject: vaulting.

“I’m completely psyched about the competition,” Lisa said excitedly. “I even stopped at the bookstore on the way home and picked up a book on vaulting. I’ve been practicing some of the moves and I want to try them on Clara. At the walk anyway. There’s the Basic Seat and the Stand, which we already kind of tried. But there’s also the Flag and the Mill. If we were entering a real competition, we’d also need to be able to perform the Vault-on, the Scissors, and the Flank.” She paused to catch her breath and suddenly realized that Stevie hadn’t made so much as a peep on the other end of the line. “Uh … Stevie?”

Stevie gasped.

Lisa frowned. “Stevie?” There was no response. “Stevie, what’s going on?”

Lisa heard another gasp at the other end of the line, this time louder.

“Stevie!” shouted Lisa, worried.

There was a dull thunk as the phone dropped from
Stevie’s hand and hit a hard surface. It was followed by a dial tone as the line went dead.

Lisa frantically jumped to her feet, running out of her bedroom. She rushed down the stairs, shoved her feet into a worn pair of sneakers, and grabbed a jacket as she raced out the front door.

L
ISA DIDN
’
T LIVE
far from Stevie’s house. She ran the entire way, panicked that something had happened to one of her best friends. It was just after eight-thirty, and she wasn’t usually allowed out this time of the evening on a school night, but she figured that if Stevie was in trouble, that was all the excuse she needed for a fast exit.

Lisa cut across the Lakes’ front lawn and banged on the front door. A moment later it was opened by Mrs. Lake. “Lisa, what on earth are you doing here at this hour—”

“Something’s happened to Stevie,” Lisa blurted out, trying to catch her breath. “We were on the phone and it suddenly went dead.”

Concerned, Mrs. Lake and Lisa ran up the stairs to Stevie’s bedroom. Without bothering to knock, they burst into the room.

“Shhh,” Stevie hushed them, and then waved her hand, inviting them to join her.

“Stevie, are you—” Mrs. Lake stopped short at the sight before them.

Stevie was hovering over the incubator, her expression full of awe. One of the eggs was definitely wiggling. Mrs. Lake and Lisa crept up beside Stevie, quietly taking a seat on the carpet beside the incubator to watch.

“How long has it been doing that?” Lisa whispered.

“At least five minutes,” Stevie answered quietly. “It started out with just a little wiggle, and now it won’t sit still.”

“Then it definitely takes after Stevie,” Mrs. Lake teased.

“Do you think it needs any help?” asked Lisa, concerned.

Stevie shook her head. “The instructions said not to touch it unless it gets stuck coming out of the shell.”

Lisa, Stevie, and Mrs. Lake all gasped as a small, thin crack made its way along the top of the shell.

Stevie squealed in delight. “It’s hatching! It’s hatching!”

A moment later Mr. Lake popped his head through
the bedroom doorway. “I heard the screaming,” he said. “What’s going on up here?”

“One of Stevie’s eggs is hatching,” Lisa answered excitedly.

Intrigued, Mr. Lake entered the room and peered over Mrs. Lake’s shoulder. “Well, look at that,” he said, smiling.

As if just realizing they were missing out on a big event, Stevie’s brothers came pounding up the stairs and burst into the bedroom.

“Are they hatching?” Alex asked loudly.

Stevie quickly put her finger to her lips. “Shushhh! You might scare them.”

Obediently, Alex made his way over to the incubator. He hunched down quietly on the carpet beside Stevie and Lisa. Chad and Michael followed, respectfully keeping silent, their mouths shaped in small o’s as they watched the hairline crack in the egg lengthen.

“Once they’re born,” Stevie explained, “I’ll transfer them to the brooder.” She indicated the brooder that had come in a kit with the eggs. It was a wooden box about two feet long and eighteen inches high. Stevie had carefully mounted two 40-watt lightbulbs to the top of the box at one end. “The heat from the lightbulbs will keep the goslings warm for the first few weeks until they’re able to take care of themselves,” she explained.

In the bottom of the box, Stevie had spread several layers of newspaper, covered with a couple of old bath towels that Mrs. Lake had kindly donated to the Mother Goose Project. The bath towels would provide traction for the newborn goslings so that they wouldn’t slip and hurt themselves. Stevie had read that the wrong type of footing could permanently damage the fragile legs of the newborns.

“How long is this going to ta—” Michael’s sentence was cut short as the eggshell suddenly cracked open at the top and a tiny yellow beak popped out.

“Eyes! I can see eyes,” Lisa whispered excitedly.

The egg wiggled again. The hole in the shell became larger. They could now see that the tiny yellow beak was attached to an equally tiny grayish yellow head. Stevie grasped Lisa’s hand and held on tightly, resisting the urge to reach into the incubator and help the little thing along.

Finally, just before ten o’clock, the first gosling emerged.

“You’re beautiful,” Stevie murmured to the gosling, awed.

“I don’t know if it’s
beautiful
,” Alex said skeptically. “It’s kind of wet and scrawny looking. And it’s gray.”

The gosling took a step, stumbled, then slowly regained its balance. It looked around at the other eggs,
a few of which were also now starting to wiggle. The little gosling glared at Stevie and honked.

“Okay, little one, I get the message. You want to come out.” Stevie carefully lifted the lid on the incubator. Ever so gently, she reached inside and picked up the gosling. It was warm and damp and felt odd in Stevie’s hand. It was so light that she could hardly believe it was real, until it honked again, this time louder and with more determination.