Dark Horse (5 page)

Ten

Winnie Willis

Ashland, Ohio

Nothing in the world works on me like a ride on my horse, whether I’m riding alone or riding double with Catman, like I am now. I signal Nickers, and we lunge into a canter.

Catman has to hang on, his long arms wrapping around my waist. It’s been great having him back in town again. When he graduated last year, he decided to take a whole year off to make a “cat-umentary”—a documentary about the life of cats in rural America. He’s traveled all over the country filming felines. “Far out!” he shouts.

The wind blows my hair and cools my skin. Nickers’s hooves strike the fallen leaves with a
swish, crunch
. I feel the tension and worries blow away. I don’t think I’ve slept since we learned about the fire. I’ve been too worried about Cleo and Hank, Kat and her kitten, and everybody at Starlight Animal Rescue.

But it’s more than feeling helpless about the fire in Illinois. We’ve had our share of tension in Ohio, too. In the Willis household, money is always tight. But for the past year, we haven’t had any money to be tight with. Nobody wanted to buy Madeline’s last invention or Dad’s last two. My little sister, Lizzy, has had to use her babysitting money to buy groceries. And I’ve had to go back to mucking stalls at Spidells’ Stable-Mart just to keep Nickers in feed.

So far, being a senior in high school hasn’t been all that great either. Already, kids are talking about where they’re going after graduation, what they’re going to do with the rest of their lives.

And I’m not.

I always thought I was meant to be a veterinarian because I love horses so much. I never stopped to think how much it would cost. But when you’re a senior, suddenly it’s time to think about that kind of thing. It’s time to get real. I couldn’t even come up with the cash to apply to OSU, much less to get the equipment for their pre-vet courses. Dad would have borrowed the money, but what then? I’m not smart enough to get scholarship money. I’d never be able to afford veterinary school, even if I made it through the pre-vet program. Better to realize that now instead of later.

We canter up the long dirt drive to Catman’s house. I slow Nickers to a spirited walk. I think both of us, maybe all three of us, could have kept going all day. Maybe we should have. The tension that drained from me on the ride is already creeping back.

“Calvin! Winnie!” Mrs. Coolidge steps out of the house and waves us over.

For a second I freeze, remembering the way she yelled for us to hear the awful news about the fire.

But this time she’s all smiles, so I relax a little. Mrs. Coolidge motions us to the side yard, where Catman’s dad is wrestling with some kind of plastic lawn ornament. I don’t ask. The whole Coolidge place is pretty hard to explain. The three-story house with boarded-up windows reminds me of the spooky houses you see in scary movies. Strings of orange and red lights dangle from the roof, where they stay all year.

“What’s the skinny?” Catman asks, sliding off Nickers’s rump.

I dismount and unbridle Nickers so she can graze. The Coolidge yard is one of my horse’s favorite places to visit because the Coolidges almost never cut their grass.

“It wasn’t arson!” Mrs. Coolidge announces. “I am so very relieved. I just couldn’t imagine anyone doing something so cruel as to burn down the Rescue. Mr. Coolidge just got off the phone with his brother. Tell them, dear.”

We join Catman’s dad on the lawn, where he’s trying to get the life-size plastic Pilgrims to stand up without leaning against the Native Americans.

“The official determination according to my brother, Chester Coolidge, is that the fire is not believed to have been suspicious in origin.” Bart Coolidge pats the little plastic Pilgrim boy on the head, as if he’d been the bearer of this good news.

Mrs. Coolidge dashes to the garage, where I’ve never seen a parked car, only plastic lawn ornaments. She comes out with a giant plastic turkey, a
green
turkey.

“Need some help?” I volunteer.

“Thank you, Winnie.” She staggers slightly and shifts the turkey from under her arm to directly in front of her. Between her and us sits a row of plastic jack-o’-lanterns stretching the whole distance across the lawn, in spite of the fact that Halloween has been over for a couple of weeks now.

“Look out for the pumpkins!” I holler, hustling to the rescue.

She trips anyway, picks herself and the turkey up, and keeps on coming as if nothing happened. I take the turkey from her, and she brushes off her pea green velvet jogging suit. “Mr. Coolidge does love those pumpkins,” she says, smiling.

“That is true,” Mr. Coolidge agrees. “We can leave our pumpkins in the capable care of our Pilgrims and Indians until we get back from Illinois.”

“Back from Illinois?” Catman repeats. “We’re going to Nice? Crashing at Uncle Chester’s pad?”

“We are indeed,” Mr. Coolidge answers.

“I can dig it.” Catman high-fives me.

I’m glad they’re going to help out at the Rescue. “You’ll be back in time for Thanksgiving though, right? Lizzy’s already been working out the menu.” I don’t add that she’s taken on a third babysitting job to fund Thanksgiving dinner for everybody. It will be the first time Catman’s family and mine have gotten together for Thanksgiving.

Mrs. Coolidge turns to me and frowns. “Oh, dear. In all the hubbub, I forgot about our previous commitment. Oh my. We promised to give Bart’s brother and his family as much help as we can with that barn. And I volunteered to cook their Thanksgiving meal. I don’t mean to be unkind, but my sister-in-law has trouble heating frozen dinners in the microwave.”

“You’ll be gone on Thanksgiving Day?” I ask, hoping I’m getting it wrong.

“I told the girls at the beauty parlor we’d be gone all week. And Mr. Coolidge got Stanley to take over for him at the car lot. Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear . . . Do you think your family will mind so very much if we’re not there for Thanksgiving? I hope I haven’t hurt anyone’s feelings.”

A pang of disappointment shoots through me. You’d think I’d be used to disappointment by now, but this one still hurts. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Coolidge. No big deal.” I smile and try to sound like I mean it. “It’s great that you can help out like that.” I edge closer to Nickers and put my arm over her neck. She lifts her head, still munching the long grass that sticks out from her lips like green straws.

Mrs. Coolidge takes off her mittens, puts them on a young plastic Pilgrim girl, then wrings her hands. “Well, I do hope the new Mrs. Willis won’t be terribly upset with us.”

My dad and Madeline have been married for three years, but Mrs. Coolidge still calls Madeline the new Mrs. Willis. “She’ll understand. So will Lizzy. Lizzy’s the cook in our house.”

“Well,” Mr. Coolidge chimes in, “we felt it incumbent on ourselves at this time of year to offer assistance in the great task of rebuilding that shelter before winter sets in.”

“You’re absolutely right to go,” I agree. And I do mean it. “Those horses need stalls before winter sets in. I wish
I
could do something to help.”

“Right on!” Catman exclaims, those intense blue eyes of his locking on me. “Road trip for the whole Willis clan! Out of sight!”

I shake my head at him. “You, Catman Coolidge, are not the most practical person I know. There’s no way my family could take off on a trip like that. Dad’s lined up odd jobs with some of his old clients over the holidays. He’s booked all week. Lizzy’s doing extra babysitting duty. Besides, we could never afford a trip like that right now.”

“Sa-a-ay! Speaking of trips,” Mr. Coolidge begins, “why did the chicken cross the mean streets of Ohio?”

I laugh because sometimes it’s easier to laugh in the middle of his jokes than it is after he’s delivered the punch line.

Mr. Coolidge pats his toupee like he always does before the punch line. “So he could drive a Smart Bart’s used car to Nice! Get it?
Nice
, Illinois?
Mean
streets?”

Mr. Coolidge is the proud owner of Smart Bart’s, and most of his jokes are about his used-car business.

Mrs. Coolidge kisses her husband’s forehead. “I am a lucky woman, Mr. Coolidge.” She turns to me. “Winnie, did you get your college applications sent in?”

“Not yet,” I answer. I don’t look at Catman. He knows about my change in plans, but he still tells everybody that he and I are going to Ohio State. Apparently he hasn’t even told his parents that I’ll be taking classes at the local community college instead of going to OSU.

“Now don’t fret, my love,” Mr. Coolidge says. He takes off his Yosemite Sam necktie and wraps it around the Pilgrim father’s neck. “No veterinary school would dare turn down Winnie the Horse Gentler.”

Mrs. Coolidge laughs like she agrees that turning me down from vet school would be ridiculous. “Did Calvin tell you he got three acceptance letters last week?”

I frown at him, but he’s playing with Churchill, his flat-faced, giant gray cat. “Catman never said a word, Mrs. Coolidge.”

“Harvard pre-law, George Washington University pre-med, and UCLA psychology,” Mr. Coolidge reports. “That’s not counting that film school in New York City that heard about his cat documentary.”

“Wow!” I shouldn’t be surprised. Catman and his buddy M aced every college prep test they threw at us. M is going to Oxford in England. He graduated early and moved overseas already. “Catman, congratulations. You should have told me.”

He shrugs. “Not my bag. Still heading to Ohio State with you and Hawk. I should finish up the cat-umentary by late July.”

“Hawk would love that,” I counter, “especially since I’m backing out on her.” Hawk was my best girlfriend until she moved away. I’ve really missed her. It would have been great to be roommates at OSU.

“Backing out? What do you mean, Winnie?” Mrs. Coolidge asks.

“I’m going to Ashland Community College. Not OSU. Didn’t Catman tell you?” I know he didn’t. But it’s time he faced it. I’ve had to.

Nobody says anything.

“Do they have a veterinarian program?” Mrs. Coolidge asks, looking puzzled.

“No. I’m going into business,” I explain. “Somebody in our house has to learn to balance a checkbook.” I force a laugh. “I’ll always have horses. I know that. It’s just . . . well . . . going into business makes more sense right now. I can live at home and help out more.”

Catman won’t look at me. We’ve gone round and round about this, but it’s settled. And I’m okay with it. Really.

“But haven’t you always wanted to be a vet, dear?” Mrs. Coolidge presses.

I shrug. “Sometimes things don’t work out like you want them to. That’s all.”

“Say,” Mr. Coolidge begins. I think we might be in for another joke, but then he says, “If your whole family can’t get away to Nice, why don’t
you
come with us, Winnie?”

“Far out!” Catman exclaims.

“You are the smartest man I know, Mr. Coolidge,” his wife says.

For a second, I can see myself on a road trip with Catman. I’d get to meet everybody I’ve been e-mailing for so long. Then reality sets in again. And lately, reality equals money or the lack of it. I have zero money. I can’t just go along without paying my part.

“Cool,” Catman says, like I’ve agreed to go and it’s all settled.

“Catman, I can’t.”

“Not dinero again,” Catman says. “You’re sweating no bread, true?”

I know he’ll tell me that I don’t need money. That he’s got it covered. But I already owe him $43.10. I keep track.

Nickers stomps her hoof. Probably a fly.

“See?” I say, trying to make a joke of it. “Nickers doesn’t want me to go. She put her foot down. My horse can’t get along without me.”

“Burg, Nelson, and Churchill have had to wing it without me most of this year, and they’re cool to hang without
me
for a few more days, for a good cause,” Catman counters.

“Not the same thing,” I try.

“Because Nickers likes you more than Churchill and company like me?” Catman demands.

“No. I’m not saying that . . . not exactly.”

He walks over and stares at me. “So, why can’t you come with me? You know you want to.” Catman knows me better than anybody else on earth.

“Catman Coolidge, you’re the hardest person I know to say no to,” I complain.

He cocks his head to the side, and his long blond ponytail slides over his shoulder. “Deep.”

I elbow him in the chest, and he fake-falls backwards into the leaves and grass. The guy is twice as big as I am, but he acts like I hurt him. “Peace out, Willis,” he begs. His big foot catches the back of my knee, and I tumble to the ground after him.

“You did that on purpose!” I grab a handful of fall leaves and throw them in his face.

Nickers doesn’t like it. She tosses her head and whinnies at us.

“Children, children,” Mrs. Coolidge scolds.

I lie on my back and stare at the blue sky. Wisps of white clouds float by. Geese honk overhead. Even if I did let them pay my way, I don’t think Dad would go for it. He doesn’t give much thought to money, but he refuses to owe anybody.

I gaze at Nickers, at her refined Arabian head, the perfect slope of her withers, her sleek white coat. She’s so beautiful, inside and out. I wasn’t kidding about not liking to be away from my horse.