The Mare

Ginger

We walked through the milling horses and riders to her, our throats still vibrant with shouting. Horses blocked us from her view, then parted; Velvet stood at the back entrance to the arena with Pat, holding her horse and smiling triumphantly at the girl with purple hair. People blocked us, then parted; she saw Dante, and her smiling lips fell open, then stiffened. She saw her mother and her stiff lips quivered, then her chin. The quivering rose into her eyes, but it did not look weak; her emotion was triumph with its wings open, showing its heart. I felt a second of bitterness that Silvia must be the one to hold this heart, but then — she didn’t. She snapped at her daughter, two short lines, fast and cutting. Velvet’s soft eyes went shocked and hard; her triumph sank away. I said, “Velvet!” She didn’t react. She handed her reins to Pat and, with a stabbing look at her mother, turned and ran down a dirt path that curved behind a broken barn.

“Oh boy,” said Pat.

Silvia’s shoulders rose and fell with her heavy breath. I came beside her meaning to touch her, but I saw her rigid face and could not.

“Anybody speak Spanish?” said Pat.

“Yes,” whispered Dante.

But his mother grabbed his hand and quick-marched him after Velvet. I started to follow, but Pat stopped me. “Let them work it out,” she said. She looked down the path at their walking figures, then away. I followed her gaze; a blond girl was stamping her foot and yelling at a dark-haired woman who was trying to calm her.

“Well, at least she won,” I said.

“She did. Third place, then first. Blue ribbon.”

The blond girl threw her helmet on the ground and walked away. I looked down the path where Velvet had disappeared. I couldn’t see Silvia or Dante.

“I just hope it really was her mom that signed that permission form,” said Pat. “They’ll take away her ribbon if she didn’t.”