What’s up?”
“Annemarie, come back to the house. I need to speak to you right away.”
“I can’t. I’m in the middle of a lesson.”
“Annemarie, please. This is important.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I will tell you when you get here.”
“Mutti, for God’s sake—just tell me. Did something happen? Is Eva all right?”
A heavy sigh, followed by a pause. “Yes and no. They caught her smoking marijuana at school. The police are there now. You need to go right away.”
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.
Jenna does a double take as she passes at a trot.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, my voice and hands shaking. I snap the phone shut and stand staring at the spiffy new Surefoot rubber granule footing that covers the floor of the arena. Black-and-white checks invade my peripheral vision. Eventually my eyes flutter shut.
“Annemarie? Are you okay?”
Jenna’s voice snaps me out of my stupor. I open my eyes and find myself looking at Tazz’s dapple gray chest. Jenna stares down at me, the edges of her eyes creased with concern.
My response is to burst into tears.
After Jenna assures me that she is perfectly capable of removing Tazz’s tack and putting him back in his stall, I rush to the house to change. I have no idea whether my appearance is likely to influence the police and their ultimate decisions, but I would rather not show up at the school in muck boots and breeches smeared with green saliva.
I stumble down the stairs in my unfamiliar high heels, dragging a brush through my hair. It’s full of Flicka’s long black tail hair—damn it, Eva! There are how many grooming kits in the stable and you had to use my hairbrush? I make a mental note to check myself in the rearview mirror once I get in the car, to make sure I haven’t given myself black extensions.
As I flee through the kitchen, struggling to tuck my pressed white blouse into my tweed skirt, Mutti and I exchange rushed words, the gist of which is that while I’m at the school trying to beg, wheedle, or otherwise persuade the police not to press charges against Eva, Mutti will try to scare up Joan to take over the rest of the day’s lessons; or, failing that, she’ll stay at the stable herself and come up with any excuse other than the truth to explain my absence as students arrive.
The school is one of those uninspired designs from the sixties; functional and plain, with little else to distinguish itself. But at least it doesn’t have a slew oftrailers out back, as so many do. It does, however, have three police cruisers parked in front. When I see them lined up against the curb, I feel physically ill.
The hollow tap-tap-tap of my heels on the linoleum floor sounds almost otherworldly, and it’s not just the misplaced sound of authority—I’m trying to remember the last time I wore heels. I have an uneasy feeling it was at Pappa’s funeral, and for some reason I can’t quite fathom, this makes me miss Dan so fiercely that tears spring to my eyes.
Classes are in session. Each of the wooden doors has a single eye-level window, and as I pass, I see teachers gesticulating, expounding, pontificating. They are fresh and enthusiastic, and surprisingly young. It reminds me of just how much depends on perspective.
My heart quickens as I approach the office. The secretary’s area is exposed to the hallway by windows, and each of the wooden chairs is filled by either a dour, blank-faced teenager or pale, grim-faced parent. Three uniformed officers lean against the walls.
Eva is sitting at the end of a row of chairs. When I enter, she looks up and then immediately away, her face drained of blood.
“Eric! Get up and give the lady a seat!” snaps a man with a crimson face. His eyes are bloodshot. A vein pulses so violently at his temple it looks like he’s about to keel over from an aneurysm.
His son, a bone-thin teenager with short dark hair and a ring through his eyebrow, is sitting beside Eva. He shoots
“Annemarie, come back to the house. I need to speak to you right away.”
“I can’t. I’m in the middle of a lesson.”
“Annemarie, please. This is important.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I will tell you when you get here.”
“Mutti, for God’s sake—just tell me. Did something happen? Is Eva all right?”
A heavy sigh, followed by a pause. “Yes and no. They caught her smoking marijuana at school. The police are there now. You need to go right away.”
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.
Jenna does a double take as she passes at a trot.
“I’ll be right there,” I say, my voice and hands shaking. I snap the phone shut and stand staring at the spiffy new Surefoot rubber granule footing that covers the floor of the arena. Black-and-white checks invade my peripheral vision. Eventually my eyes flutter shut.
“Annemarie? Are you okay?”
Jenna’s voice snaps me out of my stupor. I open my eyes and find myself looking at Tazz’s dapple gray chest. Jenna stares down at me, the edges of her eyes creased with concern.
My response is to burst into tears.
After Jenna assures me that she is perfectly capable of removing Tazz’s tack and putting him back in his stall, I rush to the house to change. I have no idea whether my appearance is likely to influence the police and their ultimate decisions, but I would rather not show up at the school in muck boots and breeches smeared with green saliva.
I stumble down the stairs in my unfamiliar high heels, dragging a brush through my hair. It’s full of Flicka’s long black tail hair—damn it, Eva! There are how many grooming kits in the stable and you had to use my hairbrush? I make a mental note to check myself in the rearview mirror once I get in the car, to make sure I haven’t given myself black extensions.
As I flee through the kitchen, struggling to tuck my pressed white blouse into my tweed skirt, Mutti and I exchange rushed words, the gist of which is that while I’m at the school trying to beg, wheedle, or otherwise persuade the police not to press charges against Eva, Mutti will try to scare up Joan to take over the rest of the day’s lessons; or, failing that, she’ll stay at the stable herself and come up with any excuse other than the truth to explain my absence as students arrive.
The school is one of those uninspired designs from the sixties; functional and plain, with little else to distinguish itself. But at least it doesn’t have a slew oftrailers out back, as so many do. It does, however, have three police cruisers parked in front. When I see them lined up against the curb, I feel physically ill.
The hollow tap-tap-tap of my heels on the linoleum floor sounds almost otherworldly, and it’s not just the misplaced sound of authority—I’m trying to remember the last time I wore heels. I have an uneasy feeling it was at Pappa’s funeral, and for some reason I can’t quite fathom, this makes me miss Dan so fiercely that tears spring to my eyes.
Classes are in session. Each of the wooden doors has a single eye-level window, and as I pass, I see teachers gesticulating, expounding, pontificating. They are fresh and enthusiastic, and surprisingly young. It reminds me of just how much depends on perspective.
My heart quickens as I approach the office. The secretary’s area is exposed to the hallway by windows, and each of the wooden chairs is filled by either a dour, blank-faced teenager or pale, grim-faced parent. Three uniformed officers lean against the walls.
Eva is sitting at the end of a row of chairs. When I enter, she looks up and then immediately away, her face drained of blood.
“Eric! Get up and give the lady a seat!” snaps a man with a crimson face. His eyes are bloodshot. A vein pulses so violently at his temple it looks like he’s about to keel over from an aneurysm.
His son, a bone-thin teenager with short dark hair and a ring through his eyebrow, is sitting beside Eva. He shoots
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