Buckskin Bandit (9 page)

“I will not model regularly,” Hawk explained. “Only for special jobs.”

“Special jobs, huh?” Grant repeated. “Sounds great, Victoria. Way to go!”

“Yeah, Hawk. Congratulations.” I tried to mean it. Hawk is probably my best friend. I wanted to be happy for her. I was, really. It's just that I knew nobody would ever pay money to take a picture of me. And I was the one who could have used that extra money. Hawk has two divorced parents who try to outdo each other by shoving money at her.

“I am really sorry,” Hawk said, getting up from the table. “Is the stable open in the evening? I should be finished by five o'clock. Mother could drop me off at Happy Trails.”

“They're open until eight on Mondays,” Kaylee said. “Let's do it!”

“Works for me,” I said. “Gives me a little time for Dad and the invention.”

“I'm in. Call me, though, and remind me,” Sal said, following Hawk back to Summer's table.

As soon as Hawk rejoined the popular group, she was showered with a million questions about modeling. I watched silent Summer and imagined steam coming out of her ears. If envy really is green, then Summer was a match for Ms. Brumby's color of the day.

“Well, we've got Sal and Hawk,” I said, throwing the rest of my lunch back into the sack.

“But where are we going to get four more riders by five o'clock?” Kaylee sounded desperate.

Without looking like I was praying, I asked God in my head,
Would you please find us four more riders?

M cleared his throat. He kept clearing it until we looked at him. He was holding up a half-eaten sandwich, nibbled in the shape of a perfect
U.
Next to him, Catman held up one of his sandwiches, nibbled into a less-than-perfect but clearly readable
S.

“U.S.?” Kaylee asked. “As in the United States?”

I stared at the sandwiches. If they'd wanted periods after the letters, I knew they would have nibbled them there. “It's
us,
right?”

Catman grinned. I think M's nose twitched.

“Us,
as in you?” I asked. “Would you guys go with us to Happy Trails?”

“Sounds groovy!” Catman answered. “We thought you'd never ask.”

“That's so nice of you!” Kaylee agreed. “But we still need two more riders.”

M and Catman each grabbed a different sandwich and held it up. They'd eaten the sandwiches, leaving only the outlines of the letters
C
 and
B.

“CB?”
Kaylee asked. “Like truckers use? Ask truckers, over a CB?”

But I was looking at the tiny bread dots next to each letter.
C.
and
B.
Initials. “Claire and Bart!” I shouted. Claire and Bart Coolidge are Catman's parents. He calls them by their first names when they're not around.

Catman and M grinned, finished their sandwiches in one bite, and rose from the table.

“Catman, are you sure your parents will want to ride with us?” I asked.

“It's cool,” Catman assured us. “My pad. Five o'clock.”

After school, I biked straight to my barn to say hey to Nickers, Buddy, Towaco, and Annie Goat. It would have been great to take Nickers for a long ride, but I knew better.

Dad was waiting for me when I stepped into the house. “Where have you been? We have work to do, Winnie! Two of the showerheads aren't working. We need more caulking. . . .” He kept up a steady stream of inventor talk as I followed him to the workshop.

“Off to invent?” Lizzy asked when we passed through the kitchen. She was dumping stuff from cans into a casserole dish.

I waved at her as we flew by, but I don't think Dad heard her.

“I should have dinner ready by four,” Lizzy called after us. In our house we eat when it's ready or when we're ready, anytime between three and nine.

For the next hour Dad and I sanded and caulked and talked. We just talked about the science fair, but it was still talk. In the past couple of days, Dad and I had said more words to each other than we had in the past couple of months.

Lizzy stuck her head into the shop to tell us dinner was ready.

“Thanks, Lizzy. I'll have to eat fast. I promised Catman I'd be at his house at five.” I started to go in.

“Just bring Winnie and me a plate out here, will you, Lizzy?” Dad asked from inside the shower stall. His voice sounded like a cartoon character. “We need to work right through dinner.”

Lizzy brought us plates of food, and I scarfed down the casserole without recognizing the taste. But it was crunchy and good and peanut buttery.

“Thanks, Lizzy,” I said, handing her my empty plate. “Dad, I have to go.”

Dad glanced at his pocket watch. “It won't take you twenty minutes to walk to Catman's. We can still fix that one showerhead.”

“But I have to muck stalls before I go.”

“Lizzy will do it. Won't you, honey?” Dad said it so it didn't really sound like a question.

“Really?” I turned to Lizzy. It would be great if she did it for me. It would only take me two minutes to grain the horses. I wouldn't even be late to Catman's.

Lizzy hesitated. “I was going to meet Geri at the creek.”

“You can still do that. We must all sacrifice for invention!” Dad dove to the ground and lifted the shower stall. “There! Winnie, grab that screw.”

And we were back at it.

I had to run down the stallway to dump grain in the horses' bins before racing to Catman's. Lizzy was dodging Annie Goat and throwing manure into the wheelbarrow. Her shovelfuls were so small, it would take her as long to muck one stall as it took me to do the whole barn.

Lizzy looked up from her shovel as I was dashing out of the barn. “Winnie, are you and Catman going out to get parts for your invention?”

“Nope,” I hollered back. “Trail riding!”

“What? But that's not—”

“Thanks for doing the stalls, Lizzy!” I shouted as I tore out of the barn.

I ran all the way to Coolidge Castle, my name for Catman's three-story house that looks haunted from the outside but like a 100-year-old palace inside.

Everybody was already loading into a long black limo that Mr. Coolidge must have driven home for the occasion. He owns Smart Bart's Used Cars and can drive any vehicle on the lot whenever he wants to.

About a dozen cats swarmed the car. I recognized Gorham, Griffin, Hancock, and Hanson, four cats from Wilhemina's litter. Catman had named them all after first presidents, guys in our country's history who had the job before the real presidency kicked in for George Washington.

Catman should be a history teacher when he grows up. All he'd have to do is take his cats to class and explain their names. Wilhemina, for example, the fat orange cat who tried to climb into the limo with me, was named after the author Charles Dickens' cat. Or Rice, the white cat named after David Rice Atchinson, who was a U.S. president for a day.

“Sorry I'm late!” I said, climbing into the seat between M and Sal. I couldn't believe Sal beat me here.

Two long seats, which could have doubled as couches, faced each other across thick gray carpet. Sal, M, and I fit easily into one seat, with Catman and his mom across from us. Behind me, the glass pane to the front seat rolled down, and Mr. Coolidge handed me a tall, frosty glass of limeade. Everyone in the car had one, complete with a slice of lemon, an umbrella, and a tiny leaf floating on top.

“Hey, Winnie!” Bart Coolidge greeted me from the driver's seat, with a tip of his 10-gallon hat. His hairpiece slid forward, but it went back in place when he put his hat back on. I don't know where he'd found it, but around his neck was a Tweety Bird tie. Not the Tweety tie he usually wore, but a new one. Each yellow bird wore a 10-gallon hat. “I'm rearing to ride!” he exclaimed.

“It is so good to see you!” Claire Coolidge declared. She leaned across to fluff up my hair. “Such gorgeous waves!” She's the only one who feels this way about my hair. It's funny, because she runs Claire's Beauty Salon on Main Street, so you'd think she'd have better taste in hair. Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge were wearing matching cowboy outfits, complete with boots, hats, black jeans, and white yoked shirts that snapped down the front.

“Don't you love Winnie's hair, Sal?” Mrs. Coolidge asked.

Sal eyed my hair, which was only halfway in the ponytail it had started out in. “I guess,” she said, not sounding convinced. “Get this, Winnie. Claire's been doing my hair for over a year, and I didn't even know she was Catman's mom.”

“Next time you're by the salon, Winnie, I'd love to stripe your hair the way I do Sal's!” Claire offered.

Note to self: Do not go near Claire's Beauty Salon.

“Summer used to get her hair done at Claire's too,” Sal commented, “until she started going to this stylist in Cleveland.”

Mrs. Coolidge frowned. “Summer. Summer. Ah yes. Now I remember. Long, rather wimpy, limp, blonde hair. Needed a lot of help with conditioner and gels, as I recall.”

I really like Mrs. Coolidge.

“Sa-a-ay!” Mr. Coolidge wrenched his short, round body around the steering wheel so he could face us. “I'll deny it if you pass this piece of information to anyone down at Smart Bart's Used Cars, but I miss the days of good, old-fashioned horseback riding.”

“So you've ridden before, Mr. Coolidge?” I asked, relieved.

“Have I ridden?” He looked offended. “Why, in my day they called me Cowboy Bart! I could make those ponies circle. Cameras flashed when I rode by.”

“That's great,” I said. “How about you, Mrs. Coolidge?”

“I did take a buggy ride in Central Park once. But I don't believe I have ever seen the world from the back of a horse. Mr. Coolidge says it's like driving a car, though.”

That made me nervous. Mrs. Coolidge had been trying to get her driver's license ever since I'd known her. I'd have to be sure she and Sal got the gentlest horses.