Horse Dreams (3 page)

Dad drops his pen. “It stinks, right? It's hopeless and silly and pointless.
I'm
hopeless. I've been at it all day. Tomorrow I have to present the company's jingle for a new soap campaign and whatnot. And I'm going to have nothing. Nada. Zero.”

I take a seat across from my dad and brush aside the paper wads. “It's okay, Dad. You've still got
mope
,
rope
,
lope
. Personally, I love the word
lope
. It's a slow gallop, as smooth as a rocking horse.”

I imagine riding a black stallion bareback as he lopes across an open pasture. . . .

“Ellie!” Dad calls me back. “Focus, honey. And no more horses. My boss says I've overdone the horse jingles. Think!”

“Hmm. There's always
hope
, Dad.”

“Well, of course there's always hope,” he says. “But I need a soap ad by tomorrow. And I can't have one if I don't have a lead jingle, now can I?”

“No. Dad, I mean
hope
.”

“Right, right, right,” he says, still not getting it. He sighs, resting his head on the table. “Mustn't lose hope and whatnot. You're right. Maybe there's something in 
mope
?”

I reach across the table and put my hand on his. “Dad, how about this?

“There's always hope

With Riverfresh Soap!”

Dad's head boings up from the table. Lights flash through his eyeballs. “That's it! I can see it all now.” He stands and paces. “A beautiful woman by a flowing river. Watching her from afar is a shy geek of a guy or whatnot. Should he? Could he? Dare he speak to this charming woman? Dare he try to meet her? He glances at the soap in his hand. Yes! Of course he should! Indeed he can! And why?” Dad smiles at me, and we say it together:

“There's always hope

With Riverfresh Soap!”

My dad is so excited about his new jingle that it just wouldn't be right to make him read the note from my teacher. Not now. He has work to do.

My little brother, Ethan, chooses this exact moment to dash into the house. From somewhere upstairs, Munch senses his master is home. Oversized paws thunder above us. The dog plows down the stairs. Munch gets a silent greeting from my brother.

Ethan and Munch barge into the dining room. The dog skids on the hardwood floor. If I didn't know better, I'd think that dog has grown since this morning.

Ethan's hands fly in the air like birds gone wild as he signs to me,
Did you get in trouble for the note?

I snap my fingers against my thumb fast a couple of times. In sign language that means,
No! No! No!

Then behind me, I hear Dad. “What note?”

So much for hope. How am I going to dream my way out of this one?

4

Sorry

Ethan's fist goes to his heart and circles clockwise, the sign for
Sorry!

He doesn't need to sign. His face says it all. He looks like he's been hit in the stomach with a fastball. My brother would never hurt anybody on purpose.

Before I can say anything, Dad moves in beside me and picks up my backpack. “Ellie, is there something in here I should know about? Like a note from your teacher?”

“Um . . . oh yeah. With the soap jingle and all, I kind of forgot.” I unzip the pocket of my pack. “Maybe I should explain before—”

“No. That's quite all right. The note, please.” He stretches his arm out in jerks, like he's reaching for a snake. The last time my parents had to come in for a chat about my daydreaming, I overheard Dad tell Mom that he felt like
he
was the kid who had gotten into trouble.

I glance back at my brother. His fist is still circling his heart.

Quickly, I sign back,
Not your fault.
Then I hand Dad the note.

Ethan steps between Dad and me. If I'm the smallest kid in fourth grade, my brother is the biggest in second. People ask us if we're twins.

Ethan grins at our dad and signs,
What are you working on, Dad?

Dad sets down the envelope so he can talk and sign at the same time, which is what we all do when Ethan is around, and sometimes when he's not. “We
were
working on a soap jingle and whatnot, Son. But now Ellie and I are going to have a little talk.”

Now?
Ethan signs.
I was hoping I could get a little help with my pitching.

Ethan isn't making this up. Colt says Ethan has a great pitching arm, and Ethan is always looking for chances to practice.

Dad signs to Ethan, “I'd love to help you, Ethan. But I'm a little busy.” He picks up the envelope again and waves it at us.

That's all right, Dad. I didn't mean you,
Ethan signs.

“Ah. Right. Of course. But your mother's not home yet.”

Mom played softball and basketball in college. Dad's the first to admit he's a klutz when it comes to sports.

How about Ellie?
my loyal brother asks.
She can catch. And she's a good batter.

Ethan knows I'm not a super player. Not like Colt. But I'm good enough that Brooks and Dylan come get me when they need another person on their team.

“I'm certain that your sister would be happy to help you bat and pitch and whatnot,” Dad says and signs. “Unfortunately, Ellie and I need to—”

Dad's cell rings. He stares at it. Then he whispers to it, “Please don't be Ms. Warden.”

Ms. Warden is Dad's boss at Jingle Bells Ad Agency. It's one of the biggest ad agencies in Kansas City. Colt's mom works there too. Sometimes she and my dad drive in to work together. But most of the time Mrs. Stevens goes in too early and stays too late.

Dad flips open his phone. He frowns, then puts the phone to his ear. “Hello, Ms. Warden?”

Ms. Warden's voice is so loud Dad has to hold the phone away from his ear. Mom says Dad's boss is “sassy as sand and older than dirt.” But her lungs must be in good shape. Even I can hear her warning Dad to be prepared for the Riverfresh people.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Somebody's pounding on the sliding door behind us. I look out to the backyard and see Colt. His nose is pressed to the glass. He looks like a cross between a fish and a pig—a fig. I almost laugh.

Colt holds up his catcher's mitt and motions Ethan and me outside.

I raise my eyebrows at Dad and let my eyes do the begging.

This makes me think about my science experiment. One of my three ways of trying to get a horse is supposed to be begging. I used to beg for a horse night and day until even I got tired of it. It never got me anywhere. I suppose I could cross off begging already.

So that leaves crying and praying for a horse. Crying never worked. Plus, it made my eyes red. I gave up crying for a horse when I was about six.

So, God, that leaves You. I'll never stop praying for a horse.
Praying isn't like begging or crying. I don't end up mad or sad. It just feels like God and I talk about the idea of me getting a horse. Most of the time I feel better after I pray about it, even though I'm pretty sure God keeps saying,
Not yet, Ellie.

I begin imagining my dream black stallion. He prances up to take me away from all this trouble—from the dreaded note, from the conference with my parents, from Larissa the Fox Richland, who always finds the exact thing to say that will make me feel worse.

But Ethan interrupts.
Go!
He pushes me toward the door.

Dad is shooing us outside.

I can hear Dad's boss as the door shuts behind us.

“Thanks for the save, Colt,” I say when we are safely outside. “Dad was just about to open the note when the phone rang.”

Colt shrugs. “I'm just here because I promised to help Ethan with his pitching. That's all.” He grins and tosses the ball to my brother.

“Yeah. I get it,” I mutter.
Boys.

Ethan fires the ball back to Colt.

“Nice!” Colt yells. With his glove on, it's tough to sign.

I love our backyard. Most yards in Hamilton are big enough to hold big dogs or pet pigs or just swing sets and stuff. Colt and I are lucky enough to be half in the country and half in town. Our backyards are bigger than ballparks.

Colt fires the ball to my brother. Then he glances at me. “Who's your dad talking to? Miss Hernandez?”

I shake my head. “Ms. Warden.” Now that I'm not worried about Dad yelling at me—for the moment—I wonder why Ms. Warden was yelling at Dad.

“Figures,” Colt says. He and Ethan have a steady game of catch going. I like the regular
thwack, thwack
of the ball.

“What do you mean? Dad never gets calls from work when he's home.” Mom says Dad leaves the office at the office.

“My mom gets calls at all hours. Woke me up last night. I couldn't get back to sleep.” Colt holds the ball a few seconds too long, then turns to me. “Mom's pretty sure she's the one who's going to win the big promotion.”

“Promotion? What promotion?”

Colt stares at me like
I've
turned into a scroungy pinto. “You're kidding, right?
The
promotion.”

When I show no clue of understanding, he explains. “Jingle Bells Ad Agency needs a new vice president. Everybody who works there is trying to get that promotion. But your dad and my mom are next in line for it. I can't believe your dad hasn't told you about it.”

“Dad was pretty freaked out over some soap jingle thing. But he always gets that way when he can't think of the right rhyme.”

“Well, the promotion is all my mom talks about. She really wants this job.” Colt goes back to playing catch with Ethan.

I glance in the sliding door. Dad is still on the phone. Mostly he's listening.

Colt slips off his glove so he can sign to my brother. “Great fastball. Need work on your curve.”

Ethan nods.

There's a tap on the glass. Colt and I turn to look. Then Ethan follows our gaze. Dad crooks his finger at me to come in. Me. Just me.

I nod.

Ethan signs that he's praying for me. He means it. That kid prays about everything.

I touch my chin to sign,
Thanks
. I mean it too.

I leave Colt and Ethan and trudge in to face my dad.

“Hey, Dad. That was some phone call, huh? Everything okay at the office?” I grab a bottle of water and plop down at the table. I hope Dad will start telling me about the new promotion. I wouldn't mind at all if he forgot about my note.

“The office is fine,” Dad says. “I had two phone calls, Ellie.” He takes the chair next to mine. People say I look like my dad. I think they mean it as a good thing. He has big brown eyes and curly brown hair to match, like me. He's probably one of the shortest men at his work. Mom says he's “the best-lookin' dude this side of the Rockies.”

“Two phone calls?” I'm thinking that gives us twice the chance of getting off the subject.

“Yes. Would you care to know who the second call was from?”

There's something fake calm in his voice. I'm pretty sure the real answer to this question is no. But I answer, “Sure, Dad.”

“Principal Fishpaw.”

My stomach twists. “Principal Fishpaw?”

“And do you know what he wanted?”

I shake my head no. But my stomach knows the answer is yes.

“He'd like us
all
to come in and talk about your daydreaming—again.”

Most kids' dads would be shouting by now. Most dads would be angry if their kids got in trouble with the principal. But I know my dad is more scared than angry.

Fishpaw was Dad's principal when he went to school at Hamilton Elementary.

“Ellie,” Dad goes on, “I thought you and I had a talk about your daydreaming at school.”

“I know, Dad! But I wasn't daydreaming this time. Well, I was, but this was real. I mean, I wasn't daydreaming when I saw that horse out the window.”

The front door opens and closes. Munch barks. Squash meows. Then my mom rushes in. The dog and cat are lost in the swirl of colors at Mom's feet. Her pink, orange, red, and blue peasant skirt balloons over her purple sandals. My mom refuses to own a single white, gray, or black piece of clothing. She tries to mix as many colors as she can on a given day. “If it's good enough for rainbows,” she says when somebody claims her colors clash, “it's good enough for me.”

“I'm as tired as a two-pound hen with a three-pound egg. What a day!” Mom kisses Dad and me on the tops of our heads. She could do this even if we were standing. She's very tall. And we're very not. In Mom's own words, she's so tall that if she fell down anywhere, she'd be halfway home.

“Rough day, Bev?” Dad asks.

My mom is a professional volunteer. She helps out at a different place every day. I'm pretty sure today was cat farm day. Mom pets stray and half-wild cats so they get tame enough to be adopted.