The Mare

Velvet

On the weekend before the competition, Pat talked to me about what it would be like, the busy parking lot, the horse traffic, the trailers. I didn’t tell her I already knew what it would be like, and that I was sending pictures of parking lots and people on carts to my horse every time I put her away for the night.

“You’ve got an advantage because this mare does know how to compete, and she’s probably got a taste for it. But you’ve got a disadvantage too, because her form of competition was racing, not show jumping. You have to keep hold of her, keep her steady and following your instruction so she doesn’t just decide to start racing. Use her impulse for speed, but control it. And remember, she’s sensitive. Loud noises, unexpected movement, anything unexpected could spook her — keep on top of it, keep her steady, take care of her. You’re also sensitive, and this will be new to you. You can’t spook. You’ve got to be in charge, and give her confidence and comfort, all the way.”

Confidence and comfort; she said those words like they were deep, and for me they were. All weekend, when I groomed my mare and tacked her, I would think those words, through my hands to her. And when we were done and I would wash her, I would also think the words that Gaby said to me: He respected your precious body. She had said that about Dominic, but I didn’t think about him. I thought your precious body through my hands to the mare. For confidence and comfort.

I thought those words too when I lay on my couch the night before I went upstate for the competition, but they only helped me fall half asleep; all this other mind-noise kept coming up underneath the words and then real noise from outside. I wanted confidence and comfort and I could not find it. How would I give it to my mare? I tried to talk to my grandfather, but he didn’t answer. I listened to the noise from outside: music, cars, and voices — and all of a sudden I remembered something Cookie said forever ago. He said, “I ain’t havin’ a good time. But I am havin’ a time!” That made me smile, and for some reason I finally got calm.

But I only slept two hours, then got up crazy awake, still thinking about Cookie. I went and got my horseshoe from a long time ago; I took it outside and put it under where Cookie’s name was written. I put it where nobody would see it and take it, behind the bars of this boarded-up window. I don’t know why but it seemed like good luck to do that. When I came back inside my mom looked at me like she knew something was going on, but she didn’t know what. I never told her what day the event was and she never saw the paper come because I got it from the box and signed her name and sent it back. But I usually never ask for a doobie wrap to go upstate and I don’t usually pack my best silky top with gold rings holding the sides together. She knew something and so she picked a fight — like I come out of the bathroom wearing my silky top and she’s, “You want to flash your body even up in that sleepy little town? I think those girls there hate you too.” All during breakfast and then while I packed my bag she was looking and knowing but not knowing what was up, and going, “How does somebody so scrawny also have a muffin top?” or “You know, I’m going to let you wear that so you’ll see for yourself how they laugh at you.”

I held back and didn’t even look mad at her because she might say I couldn’t go, even though she said she was glad I was going because at least I wouldn’t be fighting or running down the street to flirt with gangbangers, except why was I wearing that top? Was I looking for boys up there too? And finally it came out of me: “You are crazy, why do you hate me so much? Why did you even birth me? Why don’t you call Ginger and ask if I ever even talk to a boy there?” I went into the bathroom with a sweatshirt and came back with it on and threw my good shirt on the couch, which made her yell at me to pick it up.

“Do you even know me?” I said. “I don’t care about boys. I go to ride. I’m the best one there, and if I would ride in the competition, I would win!”

My mom’s eyes went like prey bird eyes; no feeling, all sight. The TV noise went way up. “Why talk about that, stupid? You told me you didn’t want to do that.”

“You didn’t want me to so I didn’t because—” Because I felt broken.

“Because I don’t want to see you crippled doing something you can’t do! Now pick up that—”

“I could do it if you let me. Everybody else says I could win!” And then I realized I am not.

She did not go for her belt; she was in too big a hurry. She just took off her shoe and turned her arm into a belt.