The Mare

Ginger

Velvet of course needed her mother’s permission to enter the competition; there was a form to sign. If I forged the signature and Velvet fell off or something, it would be a legal disaster, not just for me but for Paul, and even he didn’t deserve that.

“Be openhearted,” said Kayla. “Talk to the woman from your heart. She’s accepted so much so far—”

“She beats her daughter, Kayla.”

“Do it for the girl’s sake.” She said it like she didn’t even hear me. “Give the mom a chance. Let her know you’d love her to come up and watch her daughter shine.”

“She doesn’t want her daughter to shine.”

“Give her a chance. Make her feel respected.”

But how could I make her feel respected? I’d lied from the beginning — really, why stop now?

I picked up a pen and held it poised over the paper that declared that I, as her parent or legal guardian, understood and accepted that there was a chance of serious bodily injury or even death. Because Velvet was not going to die, she was going to win. Even if something did happen, and she broke her arm or her leg or something, her mother might not even realize she could sue us.

Judas. I put down the pen, then picked it up. I tried to open my heart. I prayed; I begged the air. I put down the pen. I got on a conference call with the churchy-voiced translator and told her to invite Mrs. Vargas up to see her daughter shine. The ignorant woman sailed forward under the bright banner of her voice, and was cut to pieces before she even got three full sentences out.

“She says no,” said the translator. “She says her daughter doesn’t want to do it. She’s going to put her on so she can tell you herself.”