The Mare

Ginger

I finally got her on the phone. I told her how proud I was that she turned in her essay. I asked her what the teacher said to her about it. She said, “Nothin’.” I said, “What do you mean? How could she tell me it was great and tell you nothing?” She said, “Ahh dunno” and then, abruptly, asked me if I could get her into a better school. How could I do that? I asked. What kind of school? She said, This girl Marisol is going to Catholic school next year. “What kind of grades does Marisol get?” I asked, and she snapped at me. “If you can get your grades up, I’ll talk to Paul about it,” I said without hope. “And then we can talk to your mother.”

She didn’t even mention her horse.