The Mare

Velvet

“So you won. That’s great, Miss Big Shot!”

Those were her words to me. I came off Fiery Girl with my body hammering, Pat and Gare hugging me, my legs trembling and people smiling — except Lexy, who was having a fit, ha-ha — and there was my mother with her face like a wall I could throw myself against forever.

“Miss Big Shot!”

I wanted smart words, English words that she wouldn’t understand: Yes, I am a big shot and yes, I won, even with your ugly voice in my head. Then in Spanish: Oh, gracias por venir. But I had no words, and I ran knowing nothing, wanting nothing but air between me and her. I wished I was on Fiery Girl and could ride away like we did that time when everything was terrible and strange and no one was there but my mare. Now no one was there but my mom and she was THERE. I came to thick trees and thorny bushes; I tried to find a way in. I heard them coming, then Dante said, “There she is!”

“Get away from me!” I said, not turning around. “Go away!”

“You lied.” Her voice was crooked and breaking, like a witch, like the time she turned into a witch. “You disobeyed me, you—”

“I don’t care!” I shouted at the trees and thorns. “I don’t want you. I don’t want to hear you! I want my horse! I want my ribbon!” I waited for her to curse me, but instead I heard Dante going, “We came all this way for you and you—”

“Came all the way to tell me I’m stupid and ugly in front of people!”

“I came to stop you from being hurt, you stupid girl, I wanted— I came— I came—”

She didn’t finish. I heard her hard breath. I wanted to turn around, but I didn’t.

“We spent money!” yelled Dante. “We paid for the train!”

“Turn around!” yelled my mom. “Turn around!”

And Dante said in English: “She cheered for you to win.”

I turned around. I saw her with her high-heeled sandal to hit me. I saw her face like something crushed but still alive in its eyes. I reached out my hand to her — then she was on me, hitting me wild, shouting, “How dare you treat me this way?” Her blows were so weak, I didn’t even lift my arms. She went again, “How dare you?” but crying, not yelling, and the shoe flew from her hand and she raised her fist and I wished she would hit. But she just stood there, fist up, face twisted and crying.

“Mami?” I said. “Mami?” And then her arms were around me and she felt like her, strong and angry, and I didn’t try to stop my tears. “Little mama,” she said. “Sweetheart. You are so stupid and cruel,” and she stroked my hair. “You could’ve died, you can never do this again!”

“Mami, I’m sorry. I wanted you to be proud!”

“Ay, mi niña. Pride is for fools and rich people.” She stopped crying when she said that; she wiped her eyes and spoke calmly. “Because of your pride, you will never come here again.”

“All right, Mami,” I whispered. “Yes.”

Then there were no words, just our arms and our chests, beating and breathing into each other. The trees blew in the wind above us. My mami rocked me and said deep and rough: “Your ribbon. Your horse.” And I knew: She was proud.

Dante came and wrapped his arms around us.