Grows That Way (14 page)

chapter
twenty-six

After dinner my parents call from Tofino where they're renting a cabin. They have to use the pay phone by the office because they left their cell phones at home. Intentionally, so they say. They want to stay a week, if it's okay with me and Grandpa and Isobel, which it is of course. After we hang up, I check Mom and Dad's bedroom and find Mom's phone recharging on their dresser but there's no sign of Dad's BlackBerry or his recharger. I guess it's not so important for people in the financial industry to model good self-care, but I hope Mom doesn't find out before they come home.

Then Mr. Losino phones. He wants to speak to my mom or dad, but settles for Grandpa, who passes the phone back to me, saying whatever I decide is fine, he's sure I'm old enough to make decisions for myself.

Mr. Losino wants to include my account of my sighting in a book he is writing about sasquatches! I ask him if anecdotal evidence is okay in a scientific book, because my mom isn't impressed with it, but he says he prefers to think of it as testimonial evidence, which takes the value of sightings like mine to a higher level altogether. So wow! I'm going to testify for a book! He also wants my help with illustrations, so when my parents have returned from their vacation he'd like me to come over and he'll make a few drawings according to my instructions, just like when police sketch artists draw likenesses of crime suspects. He suggests I make some rough drawings myself in the mean time, to keep my memory fresh, and also to make some written notes of what I saw. Plus I can make up a pseudonym for myself! Mr. Losino wants my true identity to be protected, because people who report sasquatch sightings are often not treated with respect, and he can handle it himself because he's used to it, but he wouldn't want me to have to go through what he's gone through. He says he's very grateful for my participation.

I feel like a person in a witness protection program, which in a way I am. Picking a pseudonym is easy-peasy. I want to be “Lucy D,” short for Lucid Dreamer, because that's what I am.

Though I decide that until I meet with Mr. Losino, I don't want to have any lucid dreams about sasquatches, because I don't want to mix up any of the images from my dreams with the images from my memory. So that night I make myself dream about Brooklyn, which isn't difficult at all. We gallop cross-country and leap bigger fences than I've seen in my life.

It's great to have a night free of sasquatches, unicorns, and body hair.

I wake up feeling refreshed and in charge of my life.

Grandpa and Isobel are already in the kitchen when I get there. Isobel is trying to read the ingredients listed on the margarine container and Grandpa is hanging up the phone.

“Why do they make the print so small?” says Isobel. Her head is tilted back so she can look through the bottom part of her glasses.

“It's non-hydrogenated,” I tell her. “Mom won't buy any other kind.”

“That was Sally on the phone,” says Grandpa. “Taylor still has a migraine and is staying home from school again. Sally wants us to check in on her today. We should go right after breakfast. We can drop you at school on our way, Pipsqueak.”

“Okay,” I say without enthusiasm. This won't be a good idea. It will mean I can't walk with Logan. Even more importantly, Taylor needs some time alone. If the test kit arrived yesterday, she'll want to courier the samples to the lab today. I'm fumbling for an excuse when Isobel comes to my rescue.

“They're not babies, Henry. If Taylor has a migraine, she needs peace and quiet more than she needs company. We could check on her later in the day. Unless Sylvia
wants
a ride to school?”

Isobel is amazing.

“No, thanks anyway,” I say. “I could use the fresh air and exercise.” I know this is lame. Isobel looks at me as though she knows it too, but Grandpa just nods his head.

“Fine,” he says. “That'll give me some time to organize Tony's workbench. It's a disaster.”

This is not a good idea either. Dad is very particular about his workbench. Isobel looks from Grandpa to me and back to Grandpa again. I know how Mom would handle a situation like this. There would be a massive lecture about respecting personal space and boundaries.

Isobel says, “I was hoping we could go for a walk around the harbour this morning, Henry.”

“That's an excellent idea,” I say. “And maybe after your walk, you could have lunch out.”

“Fish and chips!” says Grandpa.

Isobel glances at the margarine container and I'm all ready with information about the health risks of eating deep-fried foods, which I've heard a million times from Mom, but Isobel raises a finger and stops me.

“If you like, Henry,” she says.

Interesting. Very interesting.

After breakfast I ride Pinky to Logan's house. I'd been looking forward to our walk to school, and sharing research results with Logan and Franco. As I pedal along, I grow more uneasy. When it comes down to it, I'm not sure I can trust Franco to do the right thing for Taylor. He might not be the kind of guy who likes women who are covered with man hair.

If only I could be more like Isobel. She understands all sorts of people and then carries out complex plans that cover all the bases. It's as though she knows what she wants to have happen and then sets out to make it so. She doesn't just react emotionally like everyone else does in my family. And she moves so subtly that most people don't even notice. Take this morning for example. She knew my dad would be upset if Grandpa reorganized his workbench, and she knew Grandpa wouldn't take kindly to being told so. The best way to solve the problem was to find something else for Grandpa to do, even if it meant compromising on their low-fat diet.

Maybe I can be crafty and flexible when I'm old like Isobel. But right now even though I know what I want to happen, a plan for how to get there is beyond me.

What I want is for Taylor to go back to being normal, and I can't do anything about that. She's either contaminated with testosterone or she isn't. If she is, only time will tell if the effects disappear or whether she's stuck with them for life.

The outcome is totally out of my hands.

It's weird, because only an hour ago I woke up from my dreams and felt strong and in charge of my life, and already I am smacked up against my limitations. I'm happy that I've stopped feeling like a helpless kid, but it seems to me that even as a crafty planner there's only so much you can do. Life is very strange.

Logan is waiting for me when I get to his house, but he's on his own.

“Where's Franco?” I say.

“He said his coach told him he had to go in early for practice,” says Logan.

“You don't believe him?”

“He didn't say anything about it yesterday,” says Logan.

“At least he's showing some responsibility for his team,” I say.

“You're taking his side?”

I guess Logan is still feeling sensitive about catching me holding Franco's hand yesterday. I can't tell him why I did it. Instead I take his hand. “It's better with just you and me anyway,” I say. “There's probably nothing we can do, other than support each other.”

“And Taylor,” says Logan.

“Right. Taylor's the one with the major personal crisis. She's going to need lots of support.”

“We can do that,” says Logan. For once he doesn't finish up with a joke. As much as I've always appreciated how Logan is a jokester, I'm surprised to realize I can like him even more when he isn't.

chapter
twenty-seven

After an uninspiring day at school, I bike to the barn. Kansas isn't there, but I'm hoping she'll show up by the time I've changed and tacked up Brooklyn, because I really really want a lesson today. I need to take my mind off life for a while. I hope Kansas is okay. I wonder if she's happy about being pregnant. I don't think it was in her plans, though she has been showing signs of being broody lately, adopting Bernadette and even talking about getting a cat next, of all things. I don't know any cats personally. I was scratched by one once, when I was five. I was trying to rescue a kitten from where Bunga had chased it under some bushes. The cat didn't make a good impression on me, given that I was trying to help and it attacked me. I'm not sure that cats are trustworthy. So based on my experience, given a choice between a cat and a baby, it's better that Kansas is pregnant. Unless she delivers a baby like Erika. Or twins. Twins would be really bad.

I'm unlatching Brooklyn's stall door when I hear a truck drive into the yard. I'm all excited about seeing Kansas, but when I reach the door at the end of the alleyway, I see that it's Declan.

He notices the disappointment on my face. “What's up?” he says.

I sigh. “I wanted a jumping lesson. But Kansas isn't here.”

“I could teach you,” says Declan.

“You? I didn't know you rode.”

“I used to ride. It's still all up here,” he says, tapping his forehead with a finger. “I'll set up a grid for you. How high have you been jumping?”

Well, that's an interesting question. Kansas is so cautious that we've hardly been jumping more than a foot high. But in my dreams, that's another matter. I turn to Brooklyn beside me, my trusty trusting steed. What would he like to do? “Three feet,” I say.

Declan hesitates. “You don't say.” He strokes Brooklyn's neck. “How about we start you two with something smaller, then see how you deal with more height.”

All right. This is going to be fantastic.

Out at the ring, I buckle on my helmet, lead Brooklyn to the mounting block, and climb aboard. While Declan sets up the jumps, I have to warm up our muscles.

Brooklyn is in a very good mood, I can tell by how he starts right away with a long swinging walk, and I can feel he wants to trot. I'm not ready yet though. First I have to go through the checklist Kansas taught me: feet equally weighted in stirrups of equal length; equal weight on seat bones; shoulders open and relaxed; arms and elbows relaxed; neck tall and collarbones lifted. Check check check.

“What are you thinking about?” says Declan.

“I'm making sure I'm straight and in balance,” I say.

“I see,” says Declan.

“Because if I'm not straight and balanced, the horse can't be straight and balanced,” I say, quoting Kansas. Though why I should have to explain this to Declan, I don't understand. Maybe he doesn't know as much about riding as he thinks he does. I hope this doesn't turn into a mess.

“What's your favourite song?” says Declan.

I am picking up my reins, making sure they are firmly and evenly held between fingers, thumbs and palms. I have to remind myself to relax my arm and lower my shoulders again. I'm too busy concentrating on riding correctly so even if I wanted to I couldn't answer Declan's silly question.

“I don't sing,” I say.

“Everyone sings,” says Declan. “It makes whatever you're doing more fun, and gets you out of your head.”

“You need to talk to my mom,” I say, laughing.

“There, that's better,” says Declan. “Your horse is more relaxed now, he likes it when you laugh. Twice around the arena now at the trot, and you better be singing.”

So I sing that silly
Hills-are-alive
song, which makes me wonder if the sasquatch is watching us from the woods, and how ridiculous we would look in his eyes, running around in circles, which makes me laugh again.

Brooklyn is going like a little steam train.

“Great,” says Declan. “Now come up the quarter line and trot through the grid.”

“Ground poles?” I say. “I thought we were going to jump.”

“Quarter line,” says Declan. So I see he is going to be no pushover.

Still, it's exciting. We're starting our jumping lesson! I aim Brooklyn toward the trotting poles and he charges through them.

Declan calls me into the center of the ring. He strokes Brooklyn's neck. “There is a difference,” he says, “between riding a horse and being a passenger. Your job is to guide Brooklyn until he knows what to do. You set the speed as well as direction. It's not just point and shoot, no matter how perfect your position may be.”

I nod. I think I get it.

“Try the grid again, set the pace before you get there, and then maintain it. You may not have to do much more than think it, your horse can pick it up from you.”

“You mean psychically?” I say.

“Not exactly,” says Declan. “Try it anyway.”

I trot a couple of circles at the end of the arena, fixing our rhythm in my mind, then turn my head in the direction of the poles. Brooklyn trots through them as though they aren't even there.

“Brilliant,” says Declan.

He sets up two jumps on the other long side of the arena. They're maybe a foot high. “Four strides between them,” says Declan.

“What?” I say.

“Has Kansas not told you this? You need to help Brooklyn approach the jumps properly and take off at the right point, so you have to be able to lengthen and shorten his stride.”

“Right. I must have forgotten.” I don't want him to see how much of a beginner I am, or he'll keep the jumps down at baby height.

We do the jumps perfectly, first time, four strides.

“Hmmm,” says Declan. “Now do it again, three strides this time.”

I circle at the end of the arena, visualizing three strides. I'll need more push, but not too much, or Brooklyn will flatten. He won't be able to stand off too much from the first fence, we'll have to hit that one just right. I turn my head to the jump and Brooklyn turns too. He takes the first fence perfectly, then I sit and push him for the second.

“Amazing,” says Declan.

I don't dare tell him that I practice at night in my dreams. I don't know that Declan will understand. I hardly understand myself, but this must be the only explanation, because I haven't been practicing this sort of thing with Kansas.

Declan sets up another jump on the diagonal. Two poles, one above the other.

“Now, when you're lining up for this one, I want you to pick your take-off spot when you come out of the corner, and count aloud your strides into the jump. Like this.” Declan demonstrates, walking around the corner, taking long exaggerated strides, counting four-three-two-one, and ending up at the perfect spot before the jump.

My first time around the corner, I start counting at ten, and am at the take-off spot when I say six.

“Good work,” says Declan. “Try again.” He's standing beside the jump. When I canter down the long side, in my peripheral vision, I can see he raises the top pole. I don't have time to see how much it's raised, because I have to pick my line, and my take-off spot, and count the strides.

It takes two more tries before I get it right and then Declan tells me to give Brooklyn a rest.

“You two are naturals,” he says.

Brooklyn and I are both breathing hard. It's more work than in my dreams, but I don't care. I was born for this. It's the most exciting thing I've done in my whole life. It's like flying, only better.

“Of course, you've jumped three feet before,” says Declan.

I look at the jump. I was so busy concentrating on other things that I hadn't noticed. It's huge. “That's three feet?”

“We won't tell Kansas though, will we?” Declan removes the top pole and lays it on the ground. “No sense exciting the woman unnecessarily.”

I jumped three feet! And I'm not dreaming!

“Thank you, Declan,” I say.

“It was my pleasure. You and that pony are remarkably attuned to one another.”

I consider this. I thought everyone was attuned to their horse like I was to Brooklyn. But maybe not. “I can make him lie down,” I say. I'm not sure this is a good thing, and probably Kansas wouldn't approve, she'd think it was dangerous, but Declan has a different attitude.

“As a trick?” says Declan.

“I don't think so,” I say. “It's more a matter of communication.”

Declan raises his eyebrows. “Show me,” he says.

So I give Brooklyn a teensy squeeze with my legs and guide him to the middle of the ring, all the while relaxing and relaxing and stilling my mind. Brooklyn slows, and stops, and folds gently to the ground.

“Now I've seen everything,” says Declan.