Unhappy Appy (11 page)

Tuesday morning in Ms. Brumby's class, Summer made prune faces while I tried to define
friendship
for our report. “I think a friend is somebody who, like, rides horses with you and—”

“Right!” Summer rolled her eyes. “And what if the horse bites the friend? And the
friend
can't fix the horse's problem?”

“Towaco didn't bite Hawk!” I protested.

Summer ignored me and turned to Hawk. “If you
don't
sell that horse, you need a bigger bit and a martingale to hold his head down. And my brother knows how you can tie a horse's mouth shut so he can't bite.”

“Has he tried it on you?” I asked.

“Could we just do the report,” Hawk pleaded. “Winnie has a good start. Friends do things together.”

Summer leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. She wore six ankle bracelets. “Well, a
best
friend is someone who's
like
you.” She sneered at me, making it clear I didn't qualify. To Summer Spidell, I'd always be the Mustang who didn't belong in her American Saddlebred herd.

By the time I got to life science, I couldn't wait to get going on my horse therapy paper. I pulled out the pages I'd printed at Pat's Pets. One story had a picture of a little kid, his legs in braces, smiling from the back of an Icelandic mare. Something about his smile reminded me of something . . . somebody . . .
Mason!

Why hadn't I thought of it before? Horse therapy might work on Mason Edison. Dad said it was a doctor who'd suggested horse riding for Mason in the first place.

I read through all the horse therapy material again, this time with Mason in mind. Horses had helped thousands of people. A 13-year-old girl spoke for the first time after three weeks of riding lessons; she spoke to the horse! An eight-year-old boy had never responded to his mom. She'd tell him to brush his hair or get his shoes, and he'd keep staring out the window as if he hadn't heard her. After one month of horse therapy, the boy formed a partnership with a stable horse. The horse therapist could ask him to get a certain brush or even to saddle the horse, and the boy would do it. Pages and pages told how cerebral palsy kids improved their balance.

I have to tell Hawk about this!

I carried my notebook to the back row and plopped down next to Hawk.

Summer groaned. “What were we saying about
parasites
?”

Hawk laughed. Her lips tightened, and she seemed to try not to, but her eyes watered.

Parasites. One-sided friendships.

I didn't feel like telling Hawk about horse therapy anymore. I walked back to my own seat and waited for class to end.

I could smell the cafeteria before I walked in—a mixture of cabbage, cold cuts, and sweat. I took my place at Catman's table.

Across from me, M, one of Catman's friends and a guy of very few words, was dressed totally in black as usual. As far as I know, nobody's sure what the
M
stands for. He and Catman were nibbling sandwiches, which was odd because they can both down a whole sandwich in two bites.

A cackle came from Summer's table. Brian stood up and banged his fork on his plate, then sat down again.

“M wants to know how Towaco's doing,” Catman said between nibbles. He'd eaten the crust off and kept turning the sandwich as he ate.

I hadn't heard M say a word, but I turned to him. He was nibbling like Catman.

“Thanks for asking, M. That Appy still isn't himself. But I have an idea.” I told Catman and M about Mason and horse therapy. “So Mason and Towaco could end up partners. Might be what both of them need.”

“Groovy.” Catman held up what was left of his sandwich. He'd eaten it into a circle, with the insides gone, except for a line of sandwich down the middle and two small branches, the universal sign for peace.

M held up his sandwich, chewed to a perfect letter
M.

“Talented,” I said, wondering what it would feel like to have a friendship like those two.

“We're cutting out.” Catman stood up, and so did M. “Later.” And they were gone, leaving me at an empty table.

I still had Lizzy's cookies left, but I didn't feel like eating alone. Stuffing my garbage into my lunch bag, I headed for the trash can, which meant I had to pass Summer's table.

Nobody looked up until I got close. Then Summer, her eyes fixed on mine, leaned sideways and whispered something to Hawk. I heard the word
parasite,
and then Hawk burst out laughing.

I kept walking, past the trash can, past tables of noise and laughter, out of the cafeteria.

Who needs people friends, anyway?
I told myself as I walked faster, my shoes echoing in the empty hall.
Not Winnie the Horse Gentler. She doesn't need anybody.

I biked straight to Pat's Pets after school. I didn't want to give Hawk the chance to make up excuses for not coming with me.

As I logged onto the Pet Help Line, Pat came over to the computer. “Winnie, is Hawk with you?”

“No.” I said it too quickly.

Pat raised her eyebrows. “You two gals not getting along?”

“Hawk's just staying with me because she doesn't have anyplace else to go. No big deal.” I typed in my name and password and watched messages fill the screen.

“I reckon it's not easy on her, what with her folks away for the holidays,” Pat suggested. “Did I tell you I'm chowing down with my sister's family in Cleveland for Thanksgiving? Hawk won't let on, but she might be a bit homesick.”

Hawk's parents were gone half the time anyway. And I knew for a fact she didn't get along with them very well when they
were
around. I wasn't about to let Pat make excuses for her.

Pat seemed to be waiting for me to say more. When I didn't, she left to help a customer.

I answered the four horse e-mails, taking extra time on the last one:

Winnie,

I think my horse loves our goat more than she loves me! They share the same pasture and can't stand being apart. But I want to be my horse's best friend. What can I do?

—Jealous

Dear Jealous,

I understand. But you should be happy your horse has a good companion. As far as friendship goes, though, you're asking the wrong person.

—Winnie

When I got home, Lizzy and Geri were in the kitchen. Geri reached into the fridge and tossed me a whole tomato, Lizzy's current favorite after-school snack. She'd picked up the habit from the Coolidges.

“Look what came for Hawk!” Lizzy held up a box with a leather coat in it. It smelled like a new saddle.

“That's from her mom,” Geri said. “And this is from her dad!” Geri held up beaded leather moccasins.

Victoria Hawkins had it all.

Hawk walked out of the bedroom. “Hi, Winnie.”

“Hi.” I didn't even want to look at her. I could still hear Summer saying,
“Parasite,”
still hear Hawk's laugh. “I need to go get Towaco ready for Mason.”

“Need any help?” she asked.

I started to say no, but I really did need help. All the horse therapy articles said you need three people to start out—one to lead, and two to walk beside the rider. I'd lead Towaco. Dad could be one of the walkers, but I sure didn't want Madeline to be the other one. I'd have asked Lizzy; but even though she loves spiders and lizards and bugs, she's scared of horses.

“I guess I could use another person to walk with Mason when they get here,” I admitted.

Hawk followed me to the barn and helped me brush Towaco. We stayed on opposite sides of the cross-tied Appy, neither of us talking. I think we were both relieved when Dad drove up, with Madeline and Mason following in their van.

“We're out here, Dad!” I hollered.

Hawk stayed with Towaco while I walked out to meet them. Mason, in little cowboy boots and a riding helmet, came clomping toward me.

“Could I take Mason by himself for a while?” I asked. I shot up a prayer that Madeline would understand. “Hawk's helping, and we won't let him ride or anything until you guys come out. I just think he'll be less scared by himself.”

“Without me freaking him out, right?” Madeline said it smiling. “Probably a good idea. I didn't think I was afraid of horses until I saw Mason with one.”

She squatted Mason-level and fastened the helmet strap under his chin. “Honey, I want you to go with Winnie and see the spotted horse. Okay? I'll be there in a little bit.” Her voice shook.

I took Mason's hand, and he walked with me, without even glancing back at his mother.

Hawk had Towaco saddled and the stirrups shortened already. I wanted to let Mason ride bareback, but I knew his mother couldn't handle it, not yet at least.

The minute Mason saw Towaco, he slipped his hand out of mine and walked straight to the Appy. He reached up to a spot on Towaco's shoulder, a white spot that looks like a tiny saddle.

“You like Towaco, don't you?” Hawk said, grinning, as if Mason's joy had rubbed off on her.

“It's okay to pet the Appy,” I said.

Mason glanced at me over one shoulder, then turned back to Towaco and moved his little hand across the Appy's shoulder. The night before, I hadn't known if Mason understood us or not. Now I knew he did.

He touched another spot and stroked it. Then another and another, all across Towaco's belly.

Towaco's ears flicked. He craned his head around, the first real show of interest I'd seen in the Appy for days.

Mason moved up toward Towaco's head. Towaco pulled away and faced the wall.

“That's okay, Mason,” I said. “Towaco's been in a bad mood lately.”

But Mason wasn't about to give up. He stepped around to Towaco's other side and reached for the Appy's cheek. Towaco turned away again. Mason followed him, crossing back to the left side of the horse. Back and forth they went.

“I am sorry, Mason,” Hawk said. “I do not know what is wrong with Towaco.”