Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 06 - Cozy Camping (22 page)

It quickly became apparent it was Brandi heading toward me. I was almost relieved to see it was Cassie’s young daughter coming to rescue me, because surely the young girl would not be as judgmental about my situation as an adult rescuer might have been. However, I soon discovered the child, who read books about quantum physics for entertainment, was not the bundle of joy I’d hoped for.

“Hey, lady,” Brandi said as she brought her horse to a halt in front of me. “Your horse showed up back at the barn by herself. What happened to you?”

“First of all, my name’s Lexie. And second of all, I stopped here to relieve myself, and Buttercup got spooked when a branch snapped and ran off. I knew when she showed up alone, someone would come back for me.”

“Yeah, I volunteered, because the adults were all sitting around talking and drinking beer. The barn is right down from the hill I just rode over. You really should have pulled yourself together and taken a little initiative. If you’d started walking in the direction your horse ran off in, you’d already be back in the barn by now, drinking beer with the rest of them.” The precocious young girl spoke with the air of a Master Sergeant commanding a new batch of recruits at boot camp. I half expected her to insult my mother, just to try to raise my ire so she could then reprimand me for losing my cool. Instead, she said, “You should have used the restroom when we stopped for lunch, as Justin suggested.”

“Well, I did, Brandi, but—” I stopped in mid-sentence. I didn’t have to explain myself to this little brat. Besides, my justification sounded idiotic even to me. “Let’s just head back to the barn. Okay? I’d like to put some Neosporin on the palm of my hand where I got pricked by a thorn on this scrub tree here.”

“You didn’t see those humongous thorns before you reached for the branch? The tree’s called a Crataegus, by the way. It’s commonly known as a hawthorn, which is a tree in the rose family. In a month or so, it will produce apple-like fruit, which helps provide food for a variety of wildlife species.” Brandi spat this detailed information out as if she were an automated robot.

“How nice for the wildlife! How old did you say you were?”

“I’ll be eleven on August 18th.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. That’s my daughter’s birthday,” I said. “She’ll be thirty that same day. You are very mature for your age, aren’t you, Brandi?”

“I’m gifted.” The young girl said this as if saying she was cold. It was obvious she’d been told she was gifted from a very early age. She looked me straight in the eye and continued. “I’m a member of Mensa. Do you know what Mensa is? You have to have an I.Q. at, or above, the ninety-eighth percentile.”

“Yes, I know what Mensa is, Brandi. Personally, I don’t have an I.Q. in the Mensa range, but I haven’t suffered an incident involving the absence of oxygen for an extended period, either. I still possess an adequate amount of brain cells to get by. In fact, I earned an Associate of Arts degree at a community college.”

“A community college? Seriously, lady?” Brandi made it abundantly clear she felt a degree from a community college was akin to being held back a year in kindergarten for not being able to draw within the lines. “I’ve skipped several grades already. I’m on track to attend Harvard Medical School in five years or less—on a full-ride scholarship, of course.”

“But of course.” I turned away as I said this because I knew I’d be unable to keep from rolling my eyes as I did so. This girl might be brilliant, a genius even, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t extremely annoying. She was entirely too full of herself for my taste. Can you inherit that trait from a stepmother? I wondered, because Fanny had been pretty impressed with herself, too. “Aren’t you a little young to be in Mensa?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “There are over 2,600 members under the age of eighteen, with the youngest being less than three years old. My I.Q. was 162 on the Stanford-Binet scale the last time I was formally tested.”

“Congratulations, that’s very impressive. Is your brother, Chace, as bright as you are?”

“Chace is what gifted people like me refer to as an under-achiever. He used to have better focus, but he lost it when Daddy left, and now he makes no effort at all to maintain perfect grades. He and Daddy were practically inseparable before our parents’ divorce, but now my brother just mopes around, showing little interest in much of anything. Chace actually received a ‘needs improvement’ mark on his last report card.”

“Well, that’s not so bad,” I said in the boy’s defense.

“I speak several languages fluently,” Brandi continued as if I hadn’t even spoke. “I am currently learning Italian, but Chace has yet to even master Spanish, and he’s almost nine. I spoke fluent Spanish and Mandarin Chinese before I was seven. But Chace seems to have no ambition whatsoever.”

“Slacker!” I meant this as a joke, but Brandi nodded her head in an exasperated manner. With a serious expression on her face, she replied, “Exactly! There’s no excuse for it. It’s just pure laziness on his part. He occasionally comes up with a spark of a good idea, but they’re few and far between.”

“Perfect grades may not be as important to him as they are to you. He’s obviously no dummy, but perhaps he’s content with not being perfect—scholastically at least. He may excel more in social interaction, athletics, or the arts, for example. We can’t all be members of Mensa, you know, or the distinction would have no significance. Perhaps he doesn’t need perfect grades, or to have the ability to speak multiple languages, to be happy in his own skin.”

Brandi, with her mouth agape, stared at me as if I’d just told her that perhaps her younger brother didn’t need oxygen to be content with his life. She shook her head in disbelief, so I’m sure she thought she was wasting her breath talking to someone who didn’t have the sense God gave a grape, not to mention a sub-standard AA degree from a lame, almost comical excuse of a college.

“Let’s just go. Get up on Titan, lady, right behind me, and hold on. I’d already removed the saddle so you’ll have plenty of room,” Brandi instructed me.

I stood up on the boulder, and tried to raise my leg up over Titan’s back, to no avail. With my leg lifted as high as I could possibly lift it, it was still a foot shy of reaching the top of Titan’s back. Little Miss Einstein shook her head again and asked with great impatience in her voice, “Don’t you own a pair of jeans that would’ve been more appropriate for horseback riding? Those look like they’ve been applied to your legs with a paintbrush.”

“Your smart-aleck remarks are not necessary or appreciated,” I said. “You told me the ranch is just over the hill, so why don’t you go on now and I’ll walk back by myself.”

“I’ll walk with you, or my mommy will be upset with me for leaving you behind.” She sounded as excited about walking back with me as I felt about walking back with her. “I don’t like it when Mommy is unhappy.”

“Swell.”

She nonchalantly hopped off Titan and we began walking south toward the barn. Although the saddle had been removed, there was still a bit in Titan’s mouth, so Brandi held the reins in her hand and the solid black horse followed us. Like Riptide, Titan was a spirited and muscular stallion, and Brandi, with her amazing equestrian skills, had no difficulty in commanding his compliance and obedience. There was a mutual respect between the two that was impressive to me, considering my lack of experience with horses.

Brandi and I walked side-by-side in total silence for several minutes. When we came across a fresh pile of excrement that had been deposited in the middle of the dirt trail, Brandi said, “There’s a mountain lion in the area.”

“Mountain lion?” I asked, swallowing hard. Had I been aware of that fact earlier, I’d have been a nervous wreck. Peeing my pants would have been inevitable, brought about by unimaginable fear, but it would have been the very least of my concerns. The potential of becoming a mountain lion turd myself would have been moved right to the top of my priority list.

“Should we be concerned?” I asked, shaking my head to clear my mind of the disturbing vision. For the first time, I welcomed any knowledge she might have to share with me about our chances of being eaten alive by a nearby flesh-eating creature.

“No, it won’t bother us,” she assured me. “Besides, we’re not far from our destination. Did you know that you can identify nearly any animal by its scat? Scat is another term for poop, by the way.”

“Yes, I know. Seriously, young lady, I am not down to my very last brain cell.” I was pretty sure I really
was
down to my very last nerve, however, and she was trampling all over it.

Brandi continued expounding on animal scat, as if she felt it was necessary to flaunt her intelligence. “Most can be identified by observation alone, such as the size, shape, color, and consistency of the scat. For example, this scat is about five inches long, with a blunt end, and has hair and bone fragments in it. The fact that there are scratch marks around it, which is evidence the animal tried to cover its excrement, is also indicative of a mountain lion. Did you know the science of scat is called scatology?”

“No, I didn’t, because, I’m happy to say, I’ve never been obsessed with poop, as you appear to be. You read a lot, don’t you, child?” I asked in amazement.

“Yes, almost constantly,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everyone says that I have an insatiable curiosity, and an incredible thirst for knowledge.”

“Do you have plans of becoming a scatologist when you grow up?” I was teasing when I asked the child this but, apparently her brain was so crammed with facts, figures, and intricate details about an untold number of subjects, that there was no room left in it for a sense of humor.

“Of course not,” she replied, with a huff. “I’m going to be a scientist in the medical field. I intend to find a cure for cancer one day.”

“Personally, I’d like to find a way to create world peace. But I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed in accomplishing your goal before I do,” I replied. My comment about creating world peace was in jest, because we all know war and terrorism wasn’t going away anytime soon. I knew the teasing aspect of it would never register with this serious, no-nonsense child. Besides, even though her desire to cure cancer was a lofty goal, I couldn’t deny it was possible. With Brandi’s intelligence and fierce determination, if a cure was ever found, it would most likely be an individual like her who’d be responsible for discovering it.

“And then again, I might be a world champion barrel-racer instead.”

I had to laugh. It was the first evidence I’d seen that even though Brandi was intelligent way beyond her years, she was still a child. “I’ve no doubt you could be both if you set your mind to it.”

“That’s true,” she replied. An overabundance of modesty was not an issue for the child, either, I noticed.

As we walked, I occasionally reached down to massage the inside of my thighs, which felt as if they’d been rubbed raw. I was massaging, trying to alleviate the soreness, when, without even turning to look at me, Brandi said, “That wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t too fat for those jeans you have on.”

“Excuse me?” I responded, appalled at her rudeness. Obviously, this young brainiac was missing a sensitivity chip.

“I noticed you had a large piece of strawberry pie at lunch, with whipped cream on top of it, no less. That dessert probably elevated your caloric intake to more than you should be consuming in an entire day, particularly considering you really need to lose a few pounds. You won’t find a grain of sugar in our home. Eating healthy is a priority in our household, and not just because my mom is a model and staying slim is critical to her career.”

Good for Miss Twiggy
, I said to myself. Yes, it was true that Cassie had a face that would stop traffic. However, healthy diet or not, I didn’t find anything attractive about bony shoulders, arms and legs that looked like broomsticks with blue veins protruding from them, or a ribcage that could be used as a washboard if the Maytag shot craps. Veronica was the only person I knew who made Cassie look bloated in comparison. At least Cassie wasn’t scary-thin like Veronica, but she didn’t need to lose any weight, or be overly obsessive about digesting a grain of sugar on occasion either.

And, yes, I knew I could stand to lose a few pounds. As I’ve said numerous times before, I had every intention of working toward that goal after we returned home from our vacation. I didn’t need some pint-sized freak of nature bringing it to my attention, or lecturing me on what I should or shouldn’t be eating, or wearing, for that matter. To be honest, I felt perfectly comfortable in my own skin, with or without those ten extra pounds.

I was too flustered to respond, but Brandi only seemed to be warming up. She continued, in her droning, monotonic manner. “Sugar is also detrimental to your teeth. Sugar can cause decay, and decay can cause infection, which, in turn, can adversely affect your entire system. Do you still have your own teeth?”

I nodded woodenly, my mouth hanging open in astonishment. If I’d had dentures, they’d have probably fallen out already.

“Well, then, don’t get too attached to them, because you probably won’t have them much longer if you keep eating things like that strawberry pie they served at lunch.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you can draw more flies with honey?” I asked, finding it hard to believe I was having such a mature—and, I might add, depressing—conversation with someone not yet eleven years old,
gifted
though she might be. I would have been happier discussing Lalaloopsy dolls and how annoying boys could be with the youngster.