The Mare

Ginger

She made good on our deal: She filled up her math notebooks and wrote her essays with a minimum of groaning. And she’d improved, no question. It was still hard for her to read and write, harder than it should’ve been, given her intelligence. The one book review she did — on Black Beauty—was stilted and showed her boredom. The essay she did on what it was like to come and visit the country was better. The one she called “My Horse” was wonderful.

I knew she still wasn’t turning her homework in. We still did it almost every week during the school year, but whenever I could actually get through to a teacher, he or she would say — with rare exceptions — that they never saw it. I stopped saying anything about it because it didn’t help and at least she was learning.

Then I talked to Edie. Velvet and Edie spent time together nearly every weekend. I was very pleased by it, even if I didn’t think they were true friends. The age difference was too big for that, and Velvet was subtly guarded around Edie; I almost had the impression that she was somehow “acting” for the older girl.

I was right. When Edie came by the house to pick Velvet up one day, she had to wait a bit for Velvet to change out of her horse clothes, and while Edie was waiting, she and I talked out on the porch. She said, “You must be so proud.”

I said, “I am.”

“For her to go from failing to the top of her grade? That’s extraordinary, and it’s because of you and my dad.”

She must’ve thought I turned my head out of modesty.

“And on top of that, she’s even competing at the county fair? I wish I could see her, but I’ll be up at school by then.”