Unhappy Appy (4 page)

“What?” I swung my full attention to Dad.

“Tell Mason his worries are over!” Dad proclaimed to Madeline. “He's in good hands with Winnie the Horse Gentler! She'll get Mason over his fear in no time! Guaranteed.”

“It's sweet of you to offer, Winnie . . . ,” Madeline started, as if
I'd
offered, “. . . but I really couldn't impose—”

“Nonsense!” Dad broke in. “We
want
to help!” He smiled at me.

I'd rather have eaten worms than teach Madeline's brat to ride. But what could I say?

Madeline didn't say anything either.

“Good!” Dad exclaimed, as if we'd all agreed. “It's settled then.”

I watched Dad and Madeline drive away in the truck. The gears cranked as Dad turned off our street.

Note to self: Score=
Problem horse—1

Problem boy—1

Best friends—0

“Are you telling me there's nothing wrong with this horse?” Mrs. Hawkins spat the words in the vet's face.

I felt sorry for him.

I'd worked with Towaco all afternoon. It was getting dark when David Stutzman, the new vet, pulled in. Seconds later Hawk and her mom drove up behind him. The doc conducted a thorough exam of Towaco and pronounced that the Appy wasn't sick, which I knew all along.

“Temperature's normal. Blood count, CBC. Physically, the horse is fine.” Doc Stutzman's Adam's apple jerked. He wiped his forehead, although the evening had turned cold.

I figured Doc was probably younger than my dad. Short and stocky, he reminded me of a Manipur, a pony bred in India to carry heavy loads. His straight hair flopped across his forehead like a thick forelock. The doc looked ready to bolt from Mrs. Hawkins.

“What about his feet?” Mrs. Hawkins demanded.
Her
feet were encased in tall spike heels that kept sinking into the wet ground. “They're striped. And his nose! It's all splotchy, like measles or something.”

“All Appaloosas have mottled muzzles and striped hooves,” I explained, more to Hawk than her mom.

But truth was, I felt kind of betrayed by Hawk. She must have ridden with Summer and gone straight home to tell her parents how lousy Towaco had acted. I didn't get it. Hawk never talked that much to her mother in the first place. It didn't make sense that she'd tattle on her own horse.

Mrs. Hawkins had demanded that the vet examine Towaco immediately. And people do what she tells them to. She's a famous lawyer in our county, even more famous than Hawk's lawyer father.

I felt sorry for the Appy. Now, besides being unhappy, he'd been poked, jabbed, and examined to pieces.

Towaco let out a sigh that turned into a groan, saying,
Nothing matters. I don't care what you do or don't do to me.

“All right.” Mrs. Hawkins flipped a lock of the Appy's mane. “He's losing his hair! Just look how thin that mane is. And the tail too!”

I didn't want to say anything to her. But nobody else was standing up for Towaco. “Appaloosa horses were prized for their thin manes and tails by tribes like the Nez Perce. Made it easier to run through brush.”

“Well,
something's
wrong with him!” Mrs. Hawkins shook her finger at Towaco as she paced beside him.

I shut up for good. If Hawk's mom were a horse, I figured her for a spirited Hackney, the high-stepping horses driven in showrings. When they're coming at you, you better dive out of the way.

“He acts like an old nag. And I paid a pretty penny for that Appaloosa!” Mrs. Hawkins doesn't look much like her daughter, not at all Native American. Her brown hair was cut short, in layers that didn't move even when she shook her head.

Doc Stutzman backed toward his pickup. “There's one lab report I'll have to get in, but I don't expect—”

“Call me right away if anything shows up,” she interrupted. “I'm leaving town Monday, early. I won't be back until after Thanksgiving. You can leave a message with my service.”

Doc nodded and made his getaway.

I turned to Hawk. “You didn't tell me you were going away for Thanksgiving.”

“I am not going,” Hawk informed me. “Why would I want to go to some desert in Nevada with my parents? I will be staying with Summer.”

“Oh.” Hawk's mother stopped pacing. “That's the thing, Victoria. Summer's mother called my cell this morning. I've been meaning to talk to you. The Spidells are having company—her mother, the Boston Spidells, and the Oregon branch, too. They're all staying for Thanksgiving. It's just not a good time for you to stay with Summer.”

“But Summer said—,” Hawk started.

“Summer hadn't checked with her mother, Victoria. I'm sorry, darling.”

Hawk tugged on a strand of her long, black hair. I don't think I'd ever seen her do that. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“You can stay here!” I blurted out. It was perfect. Hawk and I could ride together, go to school together, eat Thanksgiving dinner together!

Mrs. Hawkins glanced across the yard at my dad, who had a mouthful of nails and a handful of horse clippers. “It's all taken care of. There's a house-sitting service in Mansfield, highly recommended. They'll stay in our home and—”

“And
house-sit
me?” Hawk demanded. “No!”

“Well then . . .” Mrs. Hawkins looked cautiously around, across the junky yard and up to our house. “. . . maybe it isn't such a bad idea for you to stay here . . . if it's all right with Mr. Willis.” She smiled at Dad, her eyebrows making question marks.

Dad, long nails sticking out of his closed lips, nodded.

“I'll be happy to pay you the going rate,” Mrs. Hawkins hollered over to Dad.

Dad spit out the nails and coughed. “Nonsense! We'd love to have Hawk.”

Yes! Lizzy can have Geri. And I'll have Hawk.
Thanksgiving might actually be fun.

“See, Hawk? It's fine with Dad.” I moved closer and scratched Towaco under his mane. “We'll have so much time to ride!”

Hawk smiled at me, her lips twitching. “That is really nice of you.”

She leaned into her mom and whispered so I couldn't hear, but I did hear. “I don't want to stay here!” Then she smiled at me again.

Something rose in my throat, and I had to swallow it. I studied a Texas-shaped spot on Towaco's hip and wished I hadn't inherited my mom's great sense of hearing.

Mrs. Hawkins whispered back, louder than Hawk had, “You have two choices, Victoria: here or the house sitters.”

Hawk didn't speak for what seemed like minutes while I ran my finger around Towaco's Texas spot. Finally she said to me, “I would love to stay. Thank you for inviting me.”

If I hadn't heard the whispers, I actually would have believed her. One more thing Victoria Hawkins was good at—acting.

“Wonderful!” declared Mrs. Hawkins. “It's settled then. We'll call every day, darling.”

Dad joined us. He was wearing a one-piece, orange work suit, with pencils, rulers, wires, and something green sticking out of the front pocket. “Want us to pick up your things now, Hawk?”

“No thanks,” Hawk answered, too quickly.

“Why don't you settle in tomorrow?” Mrs. Hawkins suggested. “I'm sure you girls will have a lovely Thanksgiving!”

A lovely Thanksgiving?

Note to self: Don't count your turkeys before they hatch.

Dad walked Hawk and her mom to the car, but I stayed with Towaco. After they drove off, I hung out in the barn for another hour. I rigged a hay net from the ceiling of Towaco's stall, trying to make eating more fun for him. Then I dangled two plastic balls from the rafters and tacked up a bright red stable blanket on the wall.

All the while I tried not to think about what I'd heard Hawk tell her mother. But the words dangled in the air like the plastic balls:
“I don't want to stay here!”
She'd been so upset, she'd used a contraction.

“So what?” I reasoned with Nickers as I scattered fresh straw in her stall. “Could be a dozen reasons Hawk said that. She's used to her own room, for one thing. She knows she'll have to bunk with Lizzy and me here. Maybe she doesn't like Lizzy's cooking. I'll bet she's worried about putting us out. She knows we're not exactly rich.”

Nickers rested her head on top of mine. I reached up and scratched her cheek until she sighed.

Note to self: You can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. But you can't fool a horse.

Sunday morning I hauled myself out of bed too late to eat breakfast. Lizzy had created green, frog-shaped pancakes. I don't know what she'd used to turn the batter green, but they smelled good, and my dad ate six of them.

Usually the Barkers swing by for us on their way to church. But since they were all in Texas, Dad drove the cattle truck and took up two spots in the church lot.

Lizzy ran off to sit with Geri and their friends, and Dad and I sat in the empty Barker pew.