Initiation (18 page)

What do I want him to know about me? What makes me Lauren Towers? Why am I at Canterwood?

An idea rushed into my brain. No way. No. I was not writing about
that
. I'd just write about moving or something. There was no way I was ready to write that story. I couldn't.

My palms sweated. No one else was going to see this paper. Thinking about it—my accident—was something I'd been avoiding since I'd arrived on campus. At least, I thought I'd been avoiding it, but it never went away. The always-looming secret had been there when I'd met Khloe, had a tea party in the common room, and gone on a trail ride with Lexa.

If I took this chance to write it, it could bring me one step closer to being able to tell my new friends. Lexa and Khloe deserved to know the real me, and they wouldn't until I shared my past with them. I still wasn't ready to
talk
about it, but could I be ready to write about it?

I typed my name, the date, and the class on the page. I hadn't even started to type the title when the memories of that day began to assault me, to flood me and force me to go back to that cold November day.

I'd been competing at the Red Oak Horse Trial in Washington, D.C. I was points away from being overall champion and clinching a win for my stable, Double Aces. All year I'd shown every chance I had. I rode even when I shouldn't have—hiding the flu from my parents and instructor, pushing through a nasty cold, and competing with a bruised shoulder from a fall during practice.

My mount, Skyblue, was one of the best stable horses I'd ever ridden. We had a tight bond and I adored him. The dapple gray gelding never questioned any of my commands, and he worked hard to please me.

At Red Oak it had been our turn for cross-country. We'd blasted out of the starting box at a gallop and had covered the course fast. I'd known how good our time was and that we could take it easy over the final jumps, but Skyblue wasn't tired and adrenaline pumped through me. I'd kept him moving as fast as possible, barely slowing when necessary, and we raced toward the final vertical before the finish line.

The crowd cheered when they saw us, and it added to my excitement. I started counting strides—ready to lift out of the saddle for the jump—but I never got the chance. Without warning, Skyblue had slammed to a halt. I remember feeling confused that I was flying through the air without my horse.

My body crashed into the cold, hard ground. Screams filled my ears, and my eyes fluttered open to see Mom and Dad bent over me, expressions on their faces I'd never seen before. Mom's skin was gray. I tried to open my mouth to ask what was wrong, but I couldn't.

Darkness swallowed me. I woke up later, in the hospital, with machines beeping in my ears and an IV in my arm.

I pulled myself out of the memory and looked down. My hands had balled into fists. I uncurled them, flexing my fingers. My nails had left half-moon shapes on my palms.

I'd remembered having been in and out as paramedics eased me onto a stretcher and into an ambulance. I asked about Skyblue—worried that he'd been hurt. My old instructor, Mr. Wells, told me Skyblue was fine. I spent a night in the hospital and was released the next day with permission to ride when my soreness went away.

Skyblue and I had escaped without any serious injuries, but I'd been hurt in a way I couldn't understand. That had been my first serious fall. I never found out what happened. I didn't know why Skyblue had halted—if I'd done something to cause it or if he'd been spooked. Regardless, I couldn't stop blaming myself for putting Skyblue
in jeopardy. Mom and Dad, figuring I was resilient and as eager as ever to ride, had offered to take me to the stable a few days after my fall. I experienced a feeling then that I'd never felt around horses before: fear.

After that I became a master of excuses. I made up excuse after excuse about why I couldn't ride.

I never rode Skyblue again.

I took a long break from riding, period, before finally deciding to try again when we moved to Union. Kim knew all about my past, and she'd been the one to help me learn to manage my fear and finally even jump again.

I'd never be
that
Lauren again—the Lauren who forgot what was important and pushed herself and her horse unnecessarily. I learned how to have a life with horses
and
friends—something I didn't have when I was showing so often. Ana and Brielle had gotten me involved at school, and I realized how much I liked having something other than riding in my life.

I started typing and the words spilled onto the pages. Everything from that day—from the confidence I'd had, the exhilaration of what seemed like a sure win, the sensation of flying through the air and crashing into the ground, the screams of the crowd, the blurry faces, and the smell of alcohol and the prick of the needle when a
nurse gave me an IV—went onto the page. Seven pages later, I was done. I saved the document. It felt as if I'd just purged a big part of the secret that had been haunting me for so long.

“You were
really
into your essay,” Khloe said. “It must be good!” I noticed that all her books were packed and her desk was clear. “What's it about?”

I turned back to close my laptop, trying to think of what to say. I was the worst liar!

“It's about . . .” I paused. “Looking for the right horse and finally finding Whisper.”

“Aw, that's great,” Khloe said. “You're so passionate— I'm sure you'll get an A.”

“Thanks.” I smiled, but didn't feel happy. This was the worst way to start a friendship. Maybe there wouldn't even
be
a friendship if she ever found out that I'd just lied to her.

“I'm going to shower,” Khloe said. “Then do you want to grab dinner?”

“Sounds great.”

While Khloe showered, I printed my essay, put it in my homework file, and shoved it deep into my bag.

I THOUGHT YESTERDAY HAD GONE BY FAST?
Not even
close
to today. Math and history had been a blur—both of my teachers had acted as if school had been in session for weeks. Mr. Spellman had told us to take notes—all of which he'd collect at the end of every week that he would then grade and count toward our participation grade.

I'd always taken detailed notes, but he talked
so
fast, I'd had to scribble and abbreviate most of my sentences— sometimes in French! My handwriting was illegible in some places. I'd have to recopy the notes tonight.

In English, I'd kept my essay tucked away in my homework folder until the last possible second. Khloe sat next to me, with Clare beside her, and I only took out my
paper when Mr. Davidson started collecting them. When the papers left my hands, it felt as though something I'd watched over and kept quiet about and protected from everything real in the world had snuck out in the middle of the night and now was gone.

By the time I got to lunch, my arms were full of books and papers. I hadn't even had time to put everything away into my bag.

“Tomato soup and oyster crackers, please,” I said to the lunch lady. She filled a big bowl with steaming soup and gave me a few packets of crackers. I picked up the tray, barely able to hold it and my school stuff. I shifted my books, trying to rest them on my hip and my tray jiggled, soup sloshing over the bowl's side.

“Need some help?” I heard someone ask.

I looked up from my tray and stared into a sea of stormy deep blue eyes.

“I'm Drew,” the guy said. “I can take your tray . . . unless you were trying to paint your white sweater with red balloons?”

“I want to laugh,” I said. “But if I do, I'm afraid I'll drop something. So yes. And thank you.”

Drew took my tray and I readjusted my books—some in my bag, with two left to carry. “I'm Lauren Towers,” I said.

Drew smiled, showing off straight white teeth. His skin, as pale as my own, made his black hair look even darker.

“So I can't help but noticed you still have one bag and two books. So, I mean, I sort of have to carry your soup to your table. Unless”—he gestured to the lunch tray—“you want to risk it?”

“That seems . . . unnecessarily risky.” I laughed.

We left the lunch line and stepped into the caf together.

“You're new, right?” Drew asked. “I think I've seen you around the stable.”

“I am new,” I said. “
And
I'm a rider, so you probably
have
seen me at the stable.”

“Did you try out for a riding team?” Drew asked. “I'm an intermediate rider.”

“I did—yesterday. And intermediate is just what I'm hoping to be. I find out this afternoon.”

I'd been so into our conversation that I hadn't even realized we'd been ambling through the caf. I looked over, and Khloe and Lexa, sitting where we'd been yesterday, were staring with wide eyes and grins on their faces.

“I'm sitting over there,” I said, tilting my head in their direction. Drew followed me to my table.

Once there, he put my tray next to Khloe's.

“Hey, guys,” he said to them.

“Hey,” both girls said. They stared at me. Then at Drew. Then me. Then Drew. Back and forth. I shot them a
Stop it!
glare.

“Thank you so much for helping me,” I sad.

“Oh, well, you know—I
had
to. I mean, I know how much you hate red balloons.”

I laughed. “Well, my white sweater thanks you.”

“See you around, Lauren,” Drew said. “I hope you make the intermediate team.”

“Thanks, Drew. I hope so, too.”

I slid into my seat, staring after him as he walked away.

My eyes stopped on a face as red as my tomato soup. Riley, seated a few tables away with Clare, stared daggers at me. I looked away, shaking my head.

“Riley looks as if she wants to kill me,” I said to Lexa and Khloe. “What's her problem?”

The girls looked at each other, then at me.

“Oh, I don't know,” Khloe said. “Maybe because you're a boy magnet!”

Lexa nodded, her curls bouncing. “That's Riley's ‘thing.' Riley always got attention from all the guys in our grade.”

“Not anymore,” Khloe singsonged, pointing at me.

“You're both crazy,” I said. I ripped open a packet of crackers and put them into my soup. “I almost dropped my tray of soup and Drew happened to be there. He doesn't
like
me—he was just being polite.”

“Let's do a count, shall we?” Khloe asked. “Monday: Zack. Garret. Tuesday: Drew. Three guys in two days have talked to you and all of them have made the
I'm going to ask you out soon
face.”

I swallowed a sip of soup. “You're ridiculous. I'm not interested in going out with anyone right now. Okay, three boys talked to me. It was like that at all my old schools. I always talked to the boys as much as I spoke to the girls. I just feel comfortable around them.”

“I so wish I were you,” Lexa said. She brushed a French bread crumb from her silver satin three-quarters-sleeve shirt. “Whenever I try to even talk to a boy, I get all sweaty and mess up everything I want to say. It's so embarrassing.”

“The more you talk to boys,” I said, “the more you realize there's nothing to be nervous about. I think they're actually more scared to talk to you.”

“And by ‘you,' ” Khloe said, “you mean
us
?”

“No—I mean
most
girls, but especially girly ones,” I said.

“You're supergirly!” Lexa said. “You
scream
girly!”

“Yes,” I said, pointing an oyster cracker at her. “But I'm also into sports and camping and dares . . . and other such boy-type things.”

“Why do we have to change for them, though?” Khloe asked. “I mean, a guy could get to know me by watching
Sin City Celebrities
with me.”

Khloe and Lex both tilted their heads at me.

“True,” I said. “But they're the ones who ask us out. It's probably a lot of pressure. They have to worry about us saying yes or no.”

“Huh,” Lexa said finally. “So if they do girly things with us, that's still scary.”

“I never thought about it like that,” Khloe said. “We
should
make them nervous!”

We laughed and ate the rest of our lunch. I fielded more questions about boys. The easy chatter kept me laughing—
and
from obsessing about the results of yesterday's testing.

Riding was
far
from my brain when I walked up to the art building for my first fashion class. The glass-and-steel building stood out among all of Canterwood's other brick structures. My black flats were silent on the swirls of the gray-and-white-marble floor.

This felt like a dream. I always thought I'd have to wait until college to study fashion! When I reached my classroom and peered inside, other students were chatting in groups.