two tears leave Amy’s almond eyes and spill down her cheeks.
DJ bit her lip. “And now even my best friend hates me. But that’s no problem, because I don’t like me, either.” She dashed away a piece of dirt that was making her eye water. “Come on, Megs. Someone around here should get what she wants. And you want to be outside.”
What a creep you are! DJ couldn’t think of any names black enough to call herself. When she returned, Amy was nowhere in sight.
Since she and Amy didn’t have any pony parties on Saturday due to the chicken pox, DJ spent the early afternoon cleaning tack for the show on Sunday.
“Cat eyes,” James hissed when he rode by her on the way out to the arena to practice.
While DJ heard him, ignoring him was easy. She had too far up to reach to answer. Once, she’d heard the saying lower than a slug’s belly . It fit her now.
Amy came, did her chores, and left without saying a word to DJ. Round and round DJ moved the rag, dipping it back in the saddle soap, then round and round some more. One thing was sure, there was always plenty of leather to clean.
“Need some help?” Hilary sat down on the bale beside DJ.
“Sure.” DJ nodded to the waiting pile of tack. “I hang ’em up when I’m done.”
“I know the drill.” They rubbed in silence. They could hear observers commenting on those still practicing in the rings for the show. A horse snorted. Another whinnied.
“How’s Megs?”
“Seems okay now.” Rub, dip, and rub some more.
“You helping tomorrow?”
“Yep.” DJ flexed her shoulders and sat up straight.
“I had a summer like yours once.”
That caught DJ’s attention. How does she know everything that’s going on? “Sure you did.”
“I broke my arm, my horse went lame, and my mom and dad separated.” Hilary stopped rubbing. “I was thirteen; it was a rough time anyway.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So what happened?”
“My arm healed, my horse recovered, and my parents got back together. We were lucky. Or as my mom says, ‘God took good care of us.’ ”
“You believe that?” Rub, dip, and rub. DJ wanted to watch Hilary’s face, but she couldn’t.
“Sure do. But it hurt as if I were dying at the time.”
Hilary stood to hang up a bridle. She reached down and took the one DJ had just finished. “When you thank God for what’s going on—no matter how bad it seems—it gets easier.”
“Thanks?” DJ’s voice sounded like that of a cornered mouse.
Hilary nodded. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but it works. Try it and let me know what happens.” She patted DJ on the shoulder. “Gotta run. See you tomorrow.”
DJ checked her watch. Today was not a good day to be getting home late. And she still had to take a shower.
Gran looked as if she’d swallowed the sun—she couldn’t quit shining. “You better bring a jacket; it could be foggy in San Francisco.”
DJ already had hers lying by the door. Thanks to direct orders from her mother, she wore a long-sleeved green cotton shirt and tan dress pants. It was the nicest outfit she owned. When she’d suggested clean jeans and a new T-shirt, the look she got from her mother quickly changed her mind.
Everyone else would probably be in jeans. Everyone but her mother and Gran, that is.
DJ put on her earphones and plugged them into her portable cassette player as soon as she got in the car. This way she wouldn’t have to talk—or listen. Or think, for that matter. One foot bobbed in time with the music. When they parked in front of a two-story house with big bay windows like many San Francisco houses, she shut off her recorder and stared. There was no yard on either side of the house—in fact, there was no place to walk between them, the walls butted right up against each other.
“Nice place,” she muttered in as sarcastic a tone as she could dig up.
Her mother pinched DJ’s underarm and hissed in her ear. “Shape up!”
DJ clapped her mouth shut. How could she smile
DJ bit her lip. “And now even my best friend hates me. But that’s no problem, because I don’t like me, either.” She dashed away a piece of dirt that was making her eye water. “Come on, Megs. Someone around here should get what she wants. And you want to be outside.”
What a creep you are! DJ couldn’t think of any names black enough to call herself. When she returned, Amy was nowhere in sight.
Since she and Amy didn’t have any pony parties on Saturday due to the chicken pox, DJ spent the early afternoon cleaning tack for the show on Sunday.
“Cat eyes,” James hissed when he rode by her on the way out to the arena to practice.
While DJ heard him, ignoring him was easy. She had too far up to reach to answer. Once, she’d heard the saying lower than a slug’s belly . It fit her now.
Amy came, did her chores, and left without saying a word to DJ. Round and round DJ moved the rag, dipping it back in the saddle soap, then round and round some more. One thing was sure, there was always plenty of leather to clean.
“Need some help?” Hilary sat down on the bale beside DJ.
“Sure.” DJ nodded to the waiting pile of tack. “I hang ’em up when I’m done.”
“I know the drill.” They rubbed in silence. They could hear observers commenting on those still practicing in the rings for the show. A horse snorted. Another whinnied.
“How’s Megs?”
“Seems okay now.” Rub, dip, and rub some more.
“You helping tomorrow?”
“Yep.” DJ flexed her shoulders and sat up straight.
“I had a summer like yours once.”
That caught DJ’s attention. How does she know everything that’s going on? “Sure you did.”
“I broke my arm, my horse went lame, and my mom and dad separated.” Hilary stopped rubbing. “I was thirteen; it was a rough time anyway.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“So what happened?”
“My arm healed, my horse recovered, and my parents got back together. We were lucky. Or as my mom says, ‘God took good care of us.’ ”
“You believe that?” Rub, dip, and rub. DJ wanted to watch Hilary’s face, but she couldn’t.
“Sure do. But it hurt as if I were dying at the time.”
Hilary stood to hang up a bridle. She reached down and took the one DJ had just finished. “When you thank God for what’s going on—no matter how bad it seems—it gets easier.”
“Thanks?” DJ’s voice sounded like that of a cornered mouse.
Hilary nodded. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but it works. Try it and let me know what happens.” She patted DJ on the shoulder. “Gotta run. See you tomorrow.”
DJ checked her watch. Today was not a good day to be getting home late. And she still had to take a shower.
Gran looked as if she’d swallowed the sun—she couldn’t quit shining. “You better bring a jacket; it could be foggy in San Francisco.”
DJ already had hers lying by the door. Thanks to direct orders from her mother, she wore a long-sleeved green cotton shirt and tan dress pants. It was the nicest outfit she owned. When she’d suggested clean jeans and a new T-shirt, the look she got from her mother quickly changed her mind.
Everyone else would probably be in jeans. Everyone but her mother and Gran, that is.
DJ put on her earphones and plugged them into her portable cassette player as soon as she got in the car. This way she wouldn’t have to talk—or listen. Or think, for that matter. One foot bobbed in time with the music. When they parked in front of a two-story house with big bay windows like many San Francisco houses, she shut off her recorder and stared. There was no yard on either side of the house—in fact, there was no place to walk between them, the walls butted right up against each other.
“Nice place,” she muttered in as sarcastic a tone as she could dig up.
Her mother pinched DJ’s underarm and hissed in her ear. “Shape up!”
DJ clapped her mouth shut. How could she smile
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