Wild Cat (5 page)

Eight

I stay doubled over outside, leaning against the house until my heart quits racing. The sun is already shining brightly in a clear blue sky. A light breeze rustles the leaves on the trees and cools the morning. Geese fly in a crooked V. A mourning dove’s soulful cry comes from behind the barn. It’s a perfect, glorious day for my first day of junior high.

Only I won’t be there.

I feel Dad’s arm slide around my shoulder. “We’ll get ’em tomorrow, Tiger Kat.”

I let him walk me back to bed. The second I shut my eyes, I’m out.

When I open my eyes, Gram Coolidge is standing over me. She’s taller than Dad, with a long face and stylish blonde hair that would look great on somebody my age.

“Good! It’s about time.” Gram sits on my bed, shoving Kitten off. “Now, I’ve been working on your birthday party, Kat.”

“Gram, I already had my birthday. Remember?” I pull myself up to a sitting position. Nobody should face Gram Coolidge lying down.

“Ah, but this is your Coolidge birthday. We must celebrate your official adoption. I think the best time will be right after you leave the courthouse.”

“What courthouse?” I ask. Then I remember what the social worker said about going before a judge to say, “I do.” I just didn’t picture it all happening in a courthouse.

“The Nice Courthouse, of course,” Gram answers. “We can have the party at my house. I’ll invite the bridge club. You’re welcome to bring any of your little friends, of course.”

“Gram, wait.” My head is too foggy to keep up with her. My stomach is knotting.

“Too much? Your mother thought you’d say that. Oh, all right. We’ll go to the Made-Rite in town, just like we did for your birthday. Will that do?”

Mom sticks her head into the bedroom. “There you are, George.” She’s the only person who can call Georgette Coolidge “George.” She walks over and takes my pulse. “Need anything before I head to the hospital, Kat?”

“No thanks. I think I’m still sleepy,” I admit.

I rest most of the morning, but I can’t sleep. I keep imagining what’s going on at school without me.

In the afternoon, I make myself eat crackers and drink ginger ale, and I start feeling better again. While I wait for everybody to get home from school, I watch Mustard and Ketchup play with their ball of yarn. They don’t play together, just side by side. It reminds me of the way it is at school, where I always seem to be more side by side than
with
anybody. It’s not that Nice kids aren’t “nice.” But sometimes it feels like they’re afraid they’ll catch cancer from me if they get too close.

By about three o’clock I can’t wait any longer, and I go out to the barn to see Chestnut. Rex tags along. I know he misses Wes.

“Good to see you up, Kat,” Dad calls. He’s digging a garden on the west side of the house, and he puts down his little shovel.

“Hi, Dad. I’m going to check on Chestnut.”

He nods and acts like he’s going back to digging. But I can see him peeking at me. He’s a terrible pretender, but I appreciate the effort.

Kitten prances toward me when I walk into the barn. Her tail is high, waving slowly. “What are you up to, Kitten?” I ask her. She eyes Rex, who knows enough to keep his distance.

I head for the tack room and pound up two bute tablets, dump them into the coffee can, and mix it with molasses and oats. When I deliver the mix to Chestnut, Kitten is sitting on the pony’s back. She’s curled up, with her paws under her. I wish I had a camera.

“Hey, Chestnut.” I pour the molasses mixture into the feed trough. “Looks like you got yourself a new friend.”

Chestnut dives in and cleans his trough.

“Did you see that, Rex?” I bend down to pet the dog’s soft head. “I did good.” It’s crazy to feel this proud about feeding the pony, but I do.

I’m about to go inside when the van drives up. Mom stops under the oak tree, and Wes and Dakota get out. I don’t see Hank. And anyway, I thought he took the pickup.

I walk toward the van. “Where’s Hank?”

Wes stomps by me. “You’d have to ask Hank. He’s too popular to be bothered with us. And I’m not riding with Annie again. I’ll tell you that. I’ll walk first. Or take the stupid bus.” He storms into the house, hollering, “You think I need people seeing me get picked up by my mommy?”

Dakota shrugs. She and Mom and I walk inside together.

Wes has already gone upstairs. Mom pours two glasses of lemonade and heads up after him. Dakota pours herself a big glass of lemonade and collapses onto the couch. I take the other corner of the couch and start pumping her about her day.

“Did you get to know anybody in your classes?” I ask. “Do you have any classes with Alicia?” Alicia and Dakota know each other from church.

“I didn’t see her,” Dakota answers.

“What about lunch?” I ask. “Who did you eat with?”

“I thought this girl, Charlotte something, was being really cool asking me to sit with her and her friend at their table. She introduced me to everybody. Then she started asking me questions.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Wrong,” Dakota says.

Outside I hear the crunch of gravel. It’s probably Hank, but I don’t want to get up and look. I think Dakota needs to talk. “What kind of questions did she ask you?”

“Let’s see,” Dakota begins, and I know this isn’t going to be good. “‘Are you really Hank’s foster sister?’ And ‘What’s Hank really like? What kind of music does he like? Is Hank going out for football? Is he dating anyone?’”

“Ah,” I say, understanding why she’s so mad. “Sorry, Dakota.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” She gets up from the couch and starts for the stairs. “Anyway, thanks for listening, Kat. Glad you’re feeling better. You were white as a ghost this morning.”

Mom comes down the stairs as Dakota goes up. She kicks off her shoes and collapses in the big chair.

“Did Hank and Wes have a fight?” I ask her.

“No. Not really. Hank was going out with some friends after school, so I said I’d pick up Wes and Dakota. I didn’t think about how Wes would feel.”

I pull back the curtain and see Hank’s truck parked by the barn. But there’s no sign of Hank.

Then I get a horrible feeling. What if he’s doing chores? What if he feeds Chestnut . . . again?

I dash to the door.

“Kat? What’s the matter?” Mom calls.

“Nothing! Be right back.” Chestnut’s had all the medicine he can have today. Hank can’t give him any more. I don’t stop running until I’m in the barn, even though my chest heaves and I feel like hurling. “Hank!” I stumble, pick myself up, and stagger to the stallway.

“Kat?” Hank’s in front of Chestnut’s stall, inches from the feed trough. He’s holding the coffee can.

Nine

“Stop, Hank!” I scream. “Don’t feed Chestnut!” I’m panting so hard I have to bend over to catch my breath.

“Kat? What’s wrong with you? Should I get Mom?”

I shake my head. I still can’t breathe right, and my voice comes in puffs. “I just . . . had to stop you. You can’t feed Chestnut.”

“Look,” Hank says, “I don’t mind. Honest.” He shakes the coffee can.

“No!” I cry. I lunge for him and grab for the can. Only I miss. The can sails out of Hank’s hands and smashes into his chest, sending oats, bute, and molasses all over the new shirt Gram gave him.

“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts. He tries to brush off the sticky mixture, but it smears all over him.

“You can’t feed Chestnut . . . because I already did.” Tears are coming now, and I can’t stop them.

I watch his face as it sinks in. “I almost gave him two more pills,” Hank says. “I would have overdosed that pony.”

“I know,” I whisper. I’m shaking all over.

Hank starts to say something, then stops. He takes a deep breath. I have the feeling he’s praying, even though his eyes are wide-open. “Listen, Kat. This could have been bad.”

I nod. I know it could have been bad. I can’t even think what might have happened if Chestnut had gotten four pills so close together.

Hank is staring into the empty coffee can. I think we’re both imagining what could have happened, what almost did happen.

“It’s supposed to be my job,” I snap.

“I had no way of knowing you already fed Chestnut.” His voice is steady—kind even.

And it makes me feel worse. He’s right. I’m not mad at Hank. I’m mad at me. What was I thinking? That Hank could read my mind and know when I’ve fed the horse and when I haven’t?

“Maybe we better rethink this.”

“No!” I protest. “I can do it!”

“I know. And you did a great job. I’ve been using your molasses trick. Works like a charm.” He’s quiet a few seconds, then goes on. “But it’s too risky to leave it like this. I don’t know how else to handle it. I’m just saying that until you’re sure you’re better, maybe we shouldn’t both be feeding Chestnut the bute. We could get mixed up again.”

I start to argue. But he’s right. I can’t guarantee that I won’t be too sick to help. Then what?

Chestnut has to come first.

* * *

Tuesday I don’t even bother getting dressed until noon. I spend the first hour of daylight hurling into the toilet. Each round feels like I’m being pushed further and further away from becoming a Coolidge, from doing anything that would make me worth being a Coolidge.

Mom goes to the hospital, and Dad stays home with me. Nobody’s in the house when I finally come downstairs. I check my e-mail and find one from Winnie.

Hi, Kat!

Good to hear the molasses worked for you and Chestnut. And I’m sorry about the problem with the feeding schedules. I’ve been thinking of another way you could help Hank with the horses, though.

The best thing you can do with horses is watch them. Sounds simple, right? But it’s how I learned about horses. My mom and I used to observe mustangs in the wild a long time ago, before she died and Dad moved Lizzy and me to Ohio. Most of what I know about horses I’ve learned from watching them. Why don’t you watch the new horses, Kat? Take notes. Run them by me if you want to. You’ll end up helping Dakota and Hank more than you can imagine. How about it? Up for a Kat Horse Clinic?

Love, Winnie

I write her back and thank her. I don’t know if I can help the way Winnie thinks I can, but I’m definitely up for trying.

I figure I have at least an hour before everybody gets home from school. Outside, Dad’s crouched over the riding lawn mower. Pieces of metal and mower lie scattered in the long grass. “Dad, I’m going to hang out with the horses for a while,” I tell him.

His head jerks up. Grease smudges cover his face. “The horses? Is your mother all right with that, Kat?”

“I promise I won’t get into the stalls or the pasture. I’m just going to watch.”

“That’s nice,” Dad says, fiddling with the mower again. He pulls out a thin black belt from the overturned engine and acts like he’s just delivered a baby. “Ta-da! It’s a belt!”

“Congratulations, Dad. I’m off.” I head toward the pasture because Hank turned out all the horses except Chestnut this morning.

“Wait! Kat!” Dad calls after me. “Come back!”

I trudge back, ready to do battle if he’s changed his mind about letting me hang out with the horses. “What?”

“Why do you always find your cat in the last place you look for him?”

A joke? That’s why Dad called me back? I’m so relieved that I feel like laughing. But I’ll wait for the punch line. “I don’t know, Dad.”

“Why do you always find your cat in the last place you look for him? Because after you find him, you stop looking!” Dad and I both laugh so loud that Rex and Lion trot over to see if we’re okay.

I leave the dogs and Dad with the lawn mower and head toward the pasture again, hoping that Winnie’s right and I can help these horses simply by observing them.

For almost an hour, I observe and take notes. At first, I feel pretty silly.

The gray mare takes two steps. The buckskin’s ears go back. The sorrel lifts her head.

But after a while, I see more and start to pick up on interactions. All the buckskin has to do is turn her head, and the others stop grazing. There’s a pecking order going on too. I think the Pinto is at the bottom rung. She takes the bits of pasture the others leave behind.

But what if I’m wrong? I’m afraid Hank and Dakota are going to come home any minute and ask me what I’m doing. I don’t know enough about what I’ve observed to tell them. I need to run everything past Winnie.

It’s Tuesday, and I’m pretty sure Winnie mans the Pet Helpline after school. So, armed with pages of notes, I retreat to the house and log on.

KoolKat: Winnie, I don’t know if I noticed what I should have, but here goes. The gray mare and the Paint greeted each other by rubbing noses. Maybe they didn’t rub, but they did something with their noses. What’s that about?

WinnieTheHorseGentler: Great observation, Kat! They probably blew into each other’s nostrils. It’s a friendly greeting. You should try it sometime. Not with people, but with that pony, Chestnut. If he blows back, you’ve got yourself a friend.

KoolKat: Wow! I’ll try it. Maybe I should try it on the gray mare. I thought she was warming up to me. She seemed to be waiting for me, sticking her head over the fence. But when I walked up to her and reached for her, she backed off fast like she was afraid I’d hit her. I felt horrible.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: She may have been hit at some time. If that’s the case, it will take time for her to warm up to you. But it might help to think like she does. Horses have the biggest eyes of any land mammal. They can see all around themselves except right in front and right in back. So when you stand in front of her, she can’t see you, and she gets nervous. Try standing to the side of her.

KoolKat: Okay. Sounds good. I observed the bay and the sorrel together. They’re so cute. It’s a case of I’ll-scratch-your-back-and-you-scratch-mine. They used their teeth, but it seemed like they loved it. Not sure what to take away from that, but there you have it.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: Terrific! Horses love to be scratched by people, too. They’d much rather be scratched than patted.

KoolKat: Makes sense. And this is really helping me. But I was kind of hoping I’d come up with something that would help Dakota and Hank get through to these horses. I’m the most worried about the buckskin. She grazes, but she’s always watching. When the others get close, her ears go back. If she lifts her head, the other horses keep their distance.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: That’s great info. The buckskin is probably your dominant mare. You guys can use that in training!

“Kat? Are you writing Catman?” Hank asks.

He and Dakota are standing behind me at the computer. I can’t believe I didn’t hear them come in. “You guys scared me half to death.” I don’t usually use that expression, “half to death,” and I can tell by Dakota’s face she doesn’t like it.

“You’re writing Winnie?” Dakota asks.

“About
our
horses?” Hank moves in closer. “Good idea.”

“Yeah, really,” Dakota agrees.

They’re both hunched in front of the screen, one on each side of me. I want to exit from the helpline or cover the screen with my hands or tell them that this is
my
conversation,
my
horse clinic.

“Winnie’s right!” Hank says. “That buckskin must be the dominant mare. I was thinking it was the gray.”

“So she’s the boss?” Dakota asks.

“Yeah,” Hank says, still reading. “That’s why the others watch her all the time. She’s the key, Dakota.”

“So we should get her on our side, you mean?” Dakota asks.

They’re talking over my head, literally.

“She’ll be the one they’ll all follow when they’re in a pack,” Hank explains. “They’ll try to please
her
.”

“Ah,” Dakota says, “kind of like Guinevere in the pack of girls I tried to eat with today?”

Hank laughs. “Ask Winnie how she thinks we should use the buckskin to get the others on our side. Tell her I’ve ridden the buckskin, and I think she’s pretty teachable.”

I start typing, using my two-finger method. I’m slower than usual because my hands are shaky. I’m not nervous. I just haven’t eaten much today.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: Kat? Are you still there? Where’d you go?

KoolKat: Sorry about that. Hank and Dakota walked in. They’re pretty excited about your advice.

“Go on and ask her about using the dominant mare thing,” Dakota says. She pulls over a stool and settles in.

“And tell her what I said about riding the buckskin,” Hank adds.

I start to. Then I can’t exactly remember the questions. A throbbing starts in my left temple and moves across the top of my head.

“Kat?” Hank sounds impatient.

“Want me to type?” Dakota asks.

I don’t. But I don’t think I can keep up. I scoot my chair back and stand. “Go for it, Dakota.”

“You sure?” She takes the desk chair.

“Thanks, Kat,” Hank says. He’s staring at the screen. “Huh. Ride the sorrel with the buckskin. We could do that this afternoon.”

As I walk away, I hear the computer keys whizzing, Hank’s and Dakota’s voices, and the buzzing that means I’m in for a king-size headache.