The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls by Anton DiSclafani Page A

disappeared. “Her father is an oil speculator who made it big, her mother is royalty. She has her own horse, shipped by train. She’s trained by masters. The shipping costs were more than her room and board.” Leona had not said hello to Sissy. I wondered if Sissy meant that Leona’s mother was truly royalty, and decided she must not. I didn’t know very much about the world, but I didn’t think there were any princesses in Texas. “She ignores everyone, mostly.”
    Leona from Fort Worth, Thea from Emathla. Out of all the places in this world, I was at the Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls. It was half past one in the afternoon. I was one among dozens of girls on our way to our daily riding lesson. Sissy had threaded her arm through mine; her skin was soft, she smelled faintly of rosewater. At home, Mother would be out in the garden, a towel around her neck to soak up the sweat, a worn, floppy hat on her head to protect her fair skin. My father would be working. Thursday was one of his traveling days, so he would be at someone’s house, giving an injection, listening to an account of pain. And Sam.
    He would be feeding his squirrels. They had to be fed often, more often than a human baby—which was what Mother always said, that Sam tended to his animals more faithfully than most human parents did their children. And he was faithful, my brother, faithful and good. It was not the first time Sam had raised a litter of squirrels—raccoons got their mothers all the time. Their nests were always hidden in nooks that only Sam was patient enough to find.
    When I had said good-bye, after everything had happened, he was out back on the porch, holding one of them.
    “It has hair now,” I said, because I did not know what else to say. It was early in the morning, but still hot. The squirrel was less ugly than it had been a week ago. It looked so vulnerable; I could see why Sam loved it.
    He wore his clothes from yesterday. His hair was wild, stuck out in all directions from his head. It scared me a bit. I wanted to smooth it down, but knew not to touch him. The rims of his eyes were pink. In that moment, his hazel eyes were so dark they almost looked brown. I knew in full sunlight they would look light again, translucent. Our eyes were different. Mine were plain brown, like Father’s.
    “Did you sleep?” I asked, though I knew the answer. I had not slept, either; in fact, I had gone into Sam’s room, hoping to find him. Instead, in the dim room, I could faintly see the outlines of his made bed, which looked so perfect and untouched I started to cry, though I could not say why. The sight of his perfect bed, made first by Sam, then straightened later by Mother, disturbed me. His electric fan was trained at the space where he would have slept, and it droned on and on, cooling nothing.
    I switched it off and went to his window, which provided a view of our backyard. But to call it a backyard was false; it was the beginning of our thousand acres. There was no fence, no border. Mother’s gardens ran into the orange grove. These oranges weren’t for sale, but for my mother, who loved them, said she could not live without them.
    Sam sat in the grass, next to Mother’s rose garden, which was blooming. I could not smell it from here, but he could. I watched him for a long time; he didn’t move, sat still as a statue. He had always been able to sit still for longer than I; I was fidgety, restless.
    I could not see his face. Only his narrow back, his skinny arms. His voice was beginning to change. I knew what happened to boys’ voices; Georgie was two years older and his had changed a few years ago. I could hear Sam’s voice right now, a child’s voice, so pretty and light. I wished I could make a recording of it before it was gone.
    If Sam had turned to face me, I would have seen his bruised eye, the small cut above it. Minor injuries, healing quickly. Father called them superficial. This was the first time I could remember