The After Party (32 page)

“It's unexpected, isn't it?” a voice asked, and I spun around to find a tall man standing at my left. A horse, already saddled and bridled, stood at his side.

“You startled me,” I said, my hand clapped over my heart, as was my habit when surprised. I hoped my red eyes didn't give me away.

The man laughed. He had a German accent; I'd met a German man before, Mr. Buch, who used to come visit my father every year or so for business about the oranges.

“You're German?”

“Yes. I'm Mr. Albrecht.”

“I'm Thea Atwell, pleased to meet you.” I curtsied slightly, to compensate for my rudeness. I recognized Mr. Albrecht from the photographs hanging on the wall. He was the man who presented the awards. He was extremely thin, with a flat chin, which surprised me. I thought Germans came with square jaws. But his skin was smooth, for a man, and his teeth straight. He was, if not handsome, passable. He seemed as old as my father.

“And this,” he said, “is Luther.” He stroked the ridge of Luther's neck, and Luther lowered his head and watched me. Luther was a homely horse, dull brown with a too-large head and small ears. But he had kind eyes.

“He's the first horse everyone here rides. Your father said you were an experienced rider?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn't have any trouble with Luther. Tap him on over the jumps, keep him steady through the doubles. He'll jump anything, but sometimes he balks if you're shy.”

Mr. Albrecht gave me a leg up, and I settled into the saddle while he adjusted my stirrups. My heart raced, from some mixture of the shock I'd just experienced at the hand of Mrs. Holmes and the anticipation of riding in front of a stranger. Luther was huge, over sixteen hands, maybe even seventeen, the largest horse I'd been on. That doesn't matter, I told myself. Control is control. Mr. Albrecht mapped out the course, and I followed him to the farthest ring. He gave me ten minutes to warm up, and I trotted around the ring, testing Luther. I tugged on my left rein and he tugged back; I gave him a sharp jerk. Mr. Albrecht stood by the gate and watched. He had a simultaneously formal and relaxed air about him; he stood with his hands in his pockets, his head cocked, his white shirt spotless, his breeches neatly ironed and creased.

I tried to ignore the figure of Mr. Albrecht watching me ride. When he told me it was time, I halted Luther from a trot and then asked him to canter from a walk; I wanted his reflexes sharp. Another man had joined Mr. Albrecht by the gate; I squinted—Mr. Holmes. He waved, and I bowed my head in response. I wasn't wearing a helmet, no one in those days did, and though other people wore gloves, they dulled the feeling in my hands. The jumps I was to clear were over three feet tall; we weren't afraid of anything, in those days. We didn't know there was anything to be afraid of.

I completed the course in a blur. I could never remember my courses after I'd finished them, someone would have to tell me if I'd knocked down a rail, or made a wrong turn. After I jumped the last combination, I cantered Luther around the perimeter of the ring until the tension in both our bodies eased. I walked over to where Mr. Albrecht stood; Mr. Holmes was gone.

Mr. Albrecht nodded, and slapped Luther's neck.

“Cool him out. You did well.”

I could still see Mr. Holmes; he hadn't reached the trail yet, where the woods would swallow him. I wondered how long it would be until Sam was as tall as Mr. Holmes. Right now he was still a child, or half child, half adult, like me.

I held on to the reins by the buckle at their end and let Luther hang his head. We walked leisurely around the ring. That Yonahlossee was not a place picked at random disturbed me, but also confirmed that my parents' plan was beyond my understanding. Mother had chosen a place a little like paradise, as far as horses were concerned; at least there was that. That my mother could have been friends with a person like Mrs. Holmes was almost unbelievable; yet I had to believe it. My mother had been cruel to me in the past few weeks in a way that I knew I deserved but was nonetheless hard to bear. My parents had not sent me into the arms of strangers; instead they had sent me into the arms of a woman who knew at least part of my terrible secret. But what part had my mother told her? Surely not everything.

Mr. Albrecht had disappeared into the barn. I stopped Luther and dismounted; then I did a childish thing. I wept into his hot shoulder, salty with sweat, and for the first time in weeks I felt comfort.

Anton DiSclafani
is the author of the nationally bestselling novel
The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls
. She was raised in northern Florida and now lives in Alabama with her husband and son, where she teaches at Auburn University.

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