a plane, all the way from England. One day we are sitting up in the hayloft, sucking through a bag of peppermints and discussing all the horses we will own someday when we hear an animalâs scream from below. The horse, left tied and standing in the aisle, has spooked and broken its halter, gashed its head open on a beam. Blood drips off its eyelashes to a pool by its hooves and it sways like a suspension bridge. We grab saddle pads from the tack room, the ladiesâ expensive fleece ones, and press them to the wound. They grow hot and heavy with blood.It runs down our arms, into our hair. The horse shakes its head, gnashes its teeth at us. We look over at the little house, all the blinds drawn tight. Who will knock on the door? Who will go? We flip a coin. I donât remember if you won or lost, but you are the one who cuts through the flower bed, who stands on the step and knocks and knocks, and after a long time Curt comes out in jeans and bare feet, no shirt. I hide in the bushes and watch. What? he says, frowning. You point at his crotch and say, XYZ! Without looking down he zips his fly in one motion, like flipping on a light switch. And then in the shadow of the doorway is the lady who the horse belongs to, scowling, her blond hair undone, looking at you like she is having a hard time understanding why you are covered in blood. After the vet comes and stitches up the wound she looks at us suspiciously and whispers to Curt. Later, he makes sure she is within earshot before scolding us. When the vet has left and they have gone back into the house, we knock down a paper waspsâ nest and toss it through the back window of her car.
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There is a pond in the back pasture where the horses go to drink, half hidden by willows and giant honeysuckle bushes that shade it from the noonday sun. On the hottest days we swim the ponies out to the middle, and when their hooves leave the silty bottom, it feels like we are flying. The water is brown and rafts of manure float past us as we swim, but we donât care. We pretend the ponies are Pegasus. And asthey swim, we grow quiet thinking about the same thing. We think about Curtâhis arms, the curve of his hat brim, the way he smells when he gets off the tractor in the afternoon. You trail your hand in the water and say, What are you thinking about? And I say, Nothing. When we come out of the water the insides of our thighs are streaked with wet horsehair, as if we are turning into centaurs or wild beasts. The ponies shake themselves violently and we jump off as they drop to their knees to roll in the dust. Other days it is too hot to even swim, to move at all. We lie on the poniesâ necks as they graze in the pasture, our arms hanging straight down. The heat drapes across our shoulders and thighs. School is as incomprehensible as snow.
Rodeo is our favorite game, because it is the fastest and most reckless, involving many feats of speed and bravery, quick turns, trick riding. One day late in July, out in the back field, we decide to elect a rodeo clown and a rodeo queen. The ponies stamp out their impatience while we argue over who will be what. Finally the games begin. There is barrel racing and bucking broncos and the rodeo parade. We discover that we can make the ponies rear on command by pushing them forward with our heels while we hold the reins in tight. Yee haw! we say, throwing one arm up in the air. The ponies chew the bit nervously as we do it over and over again. We must lean far forward on their necks, or we will slip off. Then the pinto pony goes up and you start to lose your balance. I am doubled over laughing until I see you grope for the reins as the pony goes high, and you grab them with too much effort, and yankhis head back too far. He hangs suspended for a moment before falling backward like a tree on his spine. You disappear as he rolls to his side, and reappear when he scrambles to his feet, the reins dangling from the bit. I jump off my
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There is a pond in the back pasture where the horses go to drink, half hidden by willows and giant honeysuckle bushes that shade it from the noonday sun. On the hottest days we swim the ponies out to the middle, and when their hooves leave the silty bottom, it feels like we are flying. The water is brown and rafts of manure float past us as we swim, but we donât care. We pretend the ponies are Pegasus. And asthey swim, we grow quiet thinking about the same thing. We think about Curtâhis arms, the curve of his hat brim, the way he smells when he gets off the tractor in the afternoon. You trail your hand in the water and say, What are you thinking about? And I say, Nothing. When we come out of the water the insides of our thighs are streaked with wet horsehair, as if we are turning into centaurs or wild beasts. The ponies shake themselves violently and we jump off as they drop to their knees to roll in the dust. Other days it is too hot to even swim, to move at all. We lie on the poniesâ necks as they graze in the pasture, our arms hanging straight down. The heat drapes across our shoulders and thighs. School is as incomprehensible as snow.
Rodeo is our favorite game, because it is the fastest and most reckless, involving many feats of speed and bravery, quick turns, trick riding. One day late in July, out in the back field, we decide to elect a rodeo clown and a rodeo queen. The ponies stamp out their impatience while we argue over who will be what. Finally the games begin. There is barrel racing and bucking broncos and the rodeo parade. We discover that we can make the ponies rear on command by pushing them forward with our heels while we hold the reins in tight. Yee haw! we say, throwing one arm up in the air. The ponies chew the bit nervously as we do it over and over again. We must lean far forward on their necks, or we will slip off. Then the pinto pony goes up and you start to lose your balance. I am doubled over laughing until I see you grope for the reins as the pony goes high, and you grab them with too much effort, and yankhis head back too far. He hangs suspended for a moment before falling backward like a tree on his spine. You disappear as he rolls to his side, and reappear when he scrambles to his feet, the reins dangling from the bit. I jump off my
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