100 Days (15 page)

“Do it, Em!” Agnes is pleading now, bouncing a little on her tiptoes.

That's when I look away from both of them. “I'd break his back.”

Boone laughs—laughs!—like he has no idea how much he's risking his life by doing it. “You would not,” he says. Diablo has ambled over to where the three of us are standing. Boone reaches across the fence and scratches a spot at the top of the horse's shoulder. In response, Diablo stretches his neck out and lifts his lips away from his teeth.

Agnes squeals in delight. “He's smiling!”

“Plus,” Boone says, looking at the horse instead of at me, “this way, you can convince yourself that it's safe for Agnes to get up there.”

Which makes me want to kill him. It's like he knows that my desire to protect Agnes is rivaled only by my desire to give her what she wants. All the people closest to Agnes feel this way, but I'm pretty sure none of them feel the tension between those two warring forces as strongly as I do.

I look Boone right in the eye. “Okay,” I tell him. I say it in a quiet voice but with my chin raised, like I'm taking him up on a dare, showing how unafraid I am.

Ten minutes later, Boone has Diablo all groomed and ready to go. With the saddle on, the damn horse is even taller than he already was. I have to stretch my arm up as high as it will go to grab hold of his mane like Boone tells me to do. My leg shakes a little when I put one foot in the stirrup and start hoisting myself up, but there's no time to worry about that now. I need to focus on keeping my balance and my upward momentum. Once my other leg is up and over, I try to land as lightly as possible on the poor horse's back. Diablo makes an
Oof
sound anyway, his ears swiveling around toward me.

“Now see?” Boone says. “That wasn't so awful, was it?”

“Check you out,” Agnes adds from behind that blasted camera of hers as she points it at me and clicks away. I don't answer. I'm too busy ignoring both of them and blowing my bangs toward the sky like this is the most asinine thing I've ever had to do. Boone says he's going to lead the horse around a little with me up there. I don't like the idea of my fate being so entirely in somebody else's hands, and my legs instinctively clamp down on Diablo's sides at the thought. Apparently, that's the equivalent of stomping on an equine gas pedal, because the horse bolts forward. It's just a few steps, but it's enough to throw me off-balance. I end up leaning way back, bracing myself against the top of Diablo's rump. At that, his ears flatten and he gives a little hop with both hind legs. Something like lightning shoots down my spine as I jounce around up there.
So this is it,
I think.
This is how I die.

“Whoa,” Boone says, placing a hand on Diablo's neck. “Easy.” The horse settles down and lets out a long breath through his nostrils.

“Okay, I did it.” I straighten up, forcing myself to keep my legs loose. “I braved the pony ride. Are you happy?”

Boone smiles up at me now. “Thrilled,” he says.

I work my way out of the saddle and ease myself back down to the ground as gracefully as I can. I do my best to keep the dress from catching on the stirrup and bunching up around my waist. It isn't a pretty process, but at least I don't end up sprawled in the dirt. I'm still shaky, though.

Now that it's her turn to ride, Agnes is barely keeping it together.
For Pete's sake,
I want to tell her,
chill out.

“I'll help you get up there,” Boone says. He asks me to hold Diablo's lead rope, and then he fits an old, child-size riding helmet onto her head. After adjusting the strap, he turns Agnes around to face the side of the horse. “Reach your hands up and grab the saddle.”

“That's not how you do it,” I practically shout as he puts his hands under her armpits and lifts her into the air. Panic rises in my chest at the sight of Agnes trying to scramble into the saddle with her delicate joints. “Stop stretching her leg like that.”

“Em, it's fine,” Agnes says, her voice suddenly heavy with exertion.

“No, it's not,” I shoot back. “He's going to throw your hip out.”

Boone is clearly trying to keep a lid on something. “You actually think I'd hurt her?”

“Maybe not intentionally.”

“Oh, gee, thanks. But I might
accidentally
hurt her, since I'm such a big, violent clod, right?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

After that, we don't talk to each other. Agnes rides, and she's beaming the whole time, really getting into it. When I tell her it's time to go, she insists on giving Boone a hug from the saddle before he helps her back to the ground. “Thank you,” she tells him. “That was so much fun. You have no idea.”

 

41

BOONE

DAY 60: APRIL 26

I've never known anyone who can freeze people out the way Moira can. She reminds me of the arctic blasts that blew through Beacon Valley that first winter Mom and I were on our own.

When the pipes froze, I stayed up all night—or tried to, anyway. I kept nodding off on the couch and even on the wooden kitchen stool. I tried working one of Mom's unfinished jigsaw puzzles, but that just made me more tired. Eventually, I resorted to doing jumping jacks outside in the subzero air. My main concern was keeping the fire stoked and the cupboard doors under the kitchen and bathroom sinks open so warm air would keep the pipes from exploding. The pipes froze anyway, but at least they didn't burst. If they had, we would have been out of luck. I wouldn't have had the faintest clue how to fix them, and who was going to come over and do major plumbing work for free?

Diablo's trough was the next thing to freeze. I'd been so busy dealing with the pipes that I let his water level get too low. Instead of just an icy crust that could be easily smashed through with the maul, there was a solid, ten-inch-thick block of ice covering the water in the tank. I spent a few minutes bashing at it anyway and hissing the worst swear words I'd ever heard my father say when he was shoeing horses, but it was hopeless. In the process of nearly dislocating my shoulder, I made little more than an opaque white dent in the ice.

My only remaining option was to go back inside, fill the biggest stew pot I could find with packed snow, heat it to near boiling, and carry it out to the trough. I used pot holders to grip the handles, but the scalding water sloshed all over me anyway as I walked, first burning and then freezing my clothes wherever it soaked in. I hardly noticed. I was too busy thinking of the disaster that would unfold if Diablo didn't have anything to drink. The last thing we needed was a horse with impaction colic due to a dried-out gut. There was no way any vet in town would be willing to brave our snowed-in road, and I shuddered to think what it would mean if I had to put Diablo down myself. If the colic was bad enough, I wouldn't even be able to lead the horse out into the woods for the vultures and coyotes to take care of. I'd have to shoot him right there in the paddock where Mom would be forced to view his carcass from the kitchen window. The sight of her beloved horse with a hole in his head would probably finish her off, too.

Steam burst upward when I poured the hot water into the trough, but the ice didn't budge. It was only after I repeated the process several more times and my clothes were frozen solid that I heard the telltale crack I'd been waiting for. I pounded the ice with the maul, using every ounce of frustration in my body to bring the steel head down as hard as I could, until the block finally gave way in four big chunks. I pulled one of the chunks out and tossed it aside to keep the others from fusing back together, at which point Diablo was able to get a drink. I knew I'd have to keep the water thawed for the rest of the night, or I'd soon be right back where I started. Diablo lowered his head through the steam, and I watched the lump in his throat move back and forth as he sucked in, gulp after gulp. It was like a sped-up video of a hairy python swallowing a mouse over and over, and it was one of the first small victories of that winter.

 

42

AGNES

DAY 59: APRIL 27

It was the best thing in the world, sitting high up there on Diablo's back while Boone led him around the paddock. I've been missing out. It's no mystery whatsoever why some girls get obsessed with horses—drawing them, braiding their manes and tails, riding them any chance they get. What was Moira so grumpy about? She looked magnificent in the saddle, like some stout Viking warrior queen.

“I hate that you and Boone are being snippy with each other.” We're on our way to school Wednesday morning when I dare to say it.

“It's not like we were great pals to begin with.”

“You used to be.”

“That was a long time ago, Agnes.”

“So?” Sometimes she talks to me like she's my mother.

“So,” Moira repeats. “It's…” Her voice grows quieter. “Just whatever.”

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's when the people I care about aren't getting along. Thinking about whatever rift this is between Moira and Boone brings me right back to the last fight my parents had before Dad finally left for good. I was nine, and their raised voices through the wall separating their bedroom from mine woke me from sleep.

“I can't do this,” my father was saying.

“You can't do this? You can't
do
this?” Mom's voice was hoarse, which was a clue the fight had been going on for a while before I woke up.

“I love her so much, but I didn't know it was going to be this hard.”

“This is life, Tom. It's just … life.”

I tried plugging my ears, but their voices got through anyway.

“You're tough, Deb,” he answered. “You know how to keep moving forward despite the odds, day in and day out. I don't.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying I love her more than I can stand, but I can't do this anymore.”

There was a long silence before Mom said the next thing. The final thing. “Well, you can just go ahead and get the hell out, then.”

Moira and I ride the rest of the way to school in silence. She parks El-C in the usual spot and opens the door.

“Isn't he supposed to come out to your house again this week?” I ask her.

Moira pauses like she's considering something, but only for a second. “He won't show,” she says.

 

43

BOONE

DAY 58: APRIL 28

I show up at Moira's house on Thursday after school because that's what her dad and I agreed to the last time I was over there. And I'm not one to go back on my word. Sure, I could have called and told him I was sick or something. I could have lied.

I don't know why Moira hates my guts so much, but she clearly does. I'm not about to let it get to me, though, even if I have no idea what I did to deserve her wrath. It's the same old story, really. What have I ever done to deserve anyone's hatred? Okay, so there was the thing in sixth grade, and that wasn't cool of me. But, I mean, get
over
it already.

At least I got the truck working again, which means there will be no question of her offering me a ride. Not that she wants to drive me anywhere anyway. It was pretty obvious Agnes forced her to pick me up on the side of the road the other day after school. I wish they'd just driven right past.

As soon as I arrive at her house, Moira's parents invite me inside. “We're working from home today,” Moira's mom says.

I hesitate for a second, but I don't want to be rude. Moira passes through the living room as I stand there with my hands buried in the pockets of my coat. She takes one look at me and then goes straight to what I assume is her bedroom and slams the door. Her mom looks at me with an unspoken question on her face. I just shrug.

With all the cold, wet weather we had all winter and well into the spring, everyone's behind on tree maintenance. Moira's parents are no exception. Just by glancing at the big elm in their front yard, I can tell it needs about half a dozen branches cut off. A few of them are hanging over the roof, which could cause some expensive damage if those brittle limbs give way. Plus, judging by the amount of wilted, yellowish leaves I can already see this early in the season, I suspect the tree is diseased. I tell them as much.

“Do you think it's serious?” Mrs. Watkins asks when I point the leaves out to her.

“I've seen it quite a bit,” I tell her. “My dad knew how to save trees infected with Dutch elm disease. But you might want to talk to an expert. I'm pretty sure the whole tree might have to come down if it's not trimmed back now. Even that might not save it, but we could at least give it a shot.”

She looks like she might be about to cry. Moira's dad comes up and puts his arm around her. “I guess there's such a thing as being too much of a tree hugger,” he says. “But go ahead, Boone. We trust you. Do what you have to do. This elm's like a part of our family. We want to save it if possible.”

I just nod. How did these two have a daughter like Moira? They're so … well, gentle and … nice. Moira's dad hands me a smallish chainsaw he got from the garage, and I climb up into the highest crook of the elm I can get to. Before long, I'm looking down on the roof, focused on the work, which is a good thing. The last thing I need to do is cut my own arm off because I'm distracted by the bitchy attitude of some girl who clearly has issues that are beyond the scope of my ability to—

The chain hits a knot in the wood and snarls, bounces back toward my face. I manage to push back right before it slices through my nose, but that was close.
Focus, idiot,
I tell myself. I hope Moira didn't see that; not that she cares enough to be watching me or anything.

The rest of the work goes pretty smoothly. I manage to limb the worst of the high branches without dropping them on the roof or on my head. When I'm done, the tree looks a lot better. It might even survive. I don't know why this makes me feel so proud, but it does. I'm pretty sure Moira's parents will think it looks better, too. They went somewhere in the car when I was about halfway done. Before they left, Moira's dad waved up at me. “We put your cash in an envelope on the seat of your truck,” he called out.