Pony Rebellion (6 page)

“Don't be stupid!” I muttered under my breath, aware that Tiffany was starting to jog and bounce around behind us, causing Moth to step farther into the road. Then there was silence as the motorcycle rider shut off his engine completely.

“Thank goodness!” I heard Bean sigh, and she talked encouragingly to Tiffany, who was muttering to herself and shaking poor Moth around like a pinball machine. But I couldn't worry about Bean. I had my own problems—Henry, taking advantage of the situation, pulled back farther and farther, dragging me back with him. To keep hold of the stirrup leather I had to lean right back over Drummer's quarters.

“What are you doing up there?” Drummer asked me. “This is hardly the time to lie down.”

“Tell me something I don't know!” I muttered under my breath. “James!” I yelled. “You're slacking back there!”

“Sorry, got my hands full here!” James shouted back, unable to help me.

“You guys are spineless,” I heard Henry continue, between orchestrating the whole situation. “You're basically puppets.”

The motorcycle passenger rider was getting off the bike. My arm felt like it was being pulled out of its socket as Henry made a medieval torture rack seem like a fairground ride.

“We are
not
puppets,
actually
!” I heard Tiffany say indignantly. “If you paid attention, you would know that we're even now planning a reb—”

“Shut
up
, Tiffany!” I heard Drummer shout. “
Someone
can hear you!”

Henry stopped altogether. I considered letting go but decided I really couldn't let Mrs. Bradley's pride and joy loose on the road (however tempting that was), so I gave a desperate tug instead. Sensing victory, ever-helpful Henry jerked back and I went with him. For once, my brain actually kicked in and, blessing the newfound confidence I had discovered doing backward roll dismounts and hanging on to one side of Drummer over jumps, I hastily quit my stirrups, dropped my reins, and threw my right leg over Drummer's neck, grabbing the reins again as I slipped off over his left-hand side to land on the pavement on my feet, reins in one hand, the stirrup leather attached to Henry in the other.

“Where are you going?” I heard Drummer ask me, looking around in bewilderment as I yanked testily on Henry's head collar.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the passenger rider walking toward me, unfastening his helmet, and lifting it upward. My heart sank. I'd known car drivers to hurl abuse at horse riders, telling them to get off the road—like they own it. They didn't seem to understand that sometimes it's the only way to get from one bridle path to another, and we were only on it today because of Henry's impromptu adventure on the baseball field. I hoped there wasn't going to be shouting. I took a deep breath, intending to thank the bike rider for switching off his engine before his enraged passenger rider could get a word in edgewise.

But as the passenger rider came menacingly toward me and as his head was finally released from the helmet, a cascade of blond curls tumbled down. My mouth fell open in amazement—and stayed there.

The passenger rider, dressed head to toe in black leather, was my mom.

Pia, are you all right? Did we make you fall off?” Mom asked anxiously, staring at my face for signs, presumably, of pain.

“No, no, I'm fine,” I assured her. “Look, I landed on my feet.” I wasn't fine. I was a mess—what was my mom doing on the back of a motorcycle.
Motor
cycle! I had so got the wrong end of the stick, as usual. And leather, whatever next? I mean, I'd been right about the package—what had been in it was almost kinky.

“Hello, Mrs. Edwards,” chanted Bean and James behind me. I was sure I could detect an undercurrent of smirking. No wonder—my mom was a
biker chick
. I'd never live it down. Henry, oblivious to my murderous mood, stuck his head down to eat the grass on the shoulder of the road. I hauled it up again. He was starting to get on my nerves. Correction: I had one nerve left, and he was
on it
!

“I asked Mike to stop when I saw the horses and then, when I saw it was you—hello, Drummer—I couldn't believe it. And then when I saw you fall off…” my mom began.

“I didn't fall off!” I insisted. “I was pulled off! There's a difference!”

A car pulled up behind us all, and Moth's anxiety level rose.

“Look, we'd better go,” said James.

“Yes, yes—we'll follow you,” said Mom.

“No, Mom, we'll be fine—the gate to Laurel Farm is only around the corner. Just let this car past, and we'll be there in two shakes. Go on with your…your ride.”

But she didn't. She waited until we'd turned into the drive, and then I heard the motorcycle slowly following us. I couldn't believe it—my mom in leather,
at the yard
. I could imagine Cat's reaction. Would my mom ever tire of finding ways to embarrass me?

Cat wasn't at the yard, thank goodness. I shoved Henry into his stable, glad to see the back of his black tail and wishing we'd left him at the baseball field for someone else—or not—to find, then I put Drummer away.

“Your mom's still experimenting, I see,” he said as I took off his bridle.

“I'm not in the mood,” I told him sharply.

“Still trying to find herself, is she?”

“Leave it!”

“She's entitled to her hobbies, isn't she? Just like you are?”

“Don't side with her. You're
my
pony, remember?”

“Oh, and there I was thinking you were
my
human.”

“Always have an answer for everything, don't you?!”

“You noticed!”

The motorcycle was parked on the gravel. It was big and red, and it had writing all over it. The rider was beside it. He wore red leather and a black and red helmet, which he was unfastening. I held my breath. What was it going to reveal? A hairy biker? Bearded with flowing locks tied back in a ponytail? Earrings? Tattoos? What had my mom attracted now?

The helmet gave way to an ordinary looking male face, about the same age as my mom. Short, brown hair, blue eyes, no visible holes in ears—or anywhere else. He nodded to me and arranged his features into a smile. Weren't all bikers shady-looking with skull-and-crossbones jewelry? Didn't they have lots of chrome on their bikes and leather tassels and bandanas with skulls? And tattoos? No chrome—except the exhaust pipe. No tassels. No bandana. No skulls. The tattoos could still materialize, once the leather was off, I guessed. Better not go there. I was surprised by how normal my mom's new boyfriend seemed. I'd been a victim of my own prejudice. Again.

“Are you sure you're all right?” Mom asked me again.

“Absolutely!” I said. “But let's talk about you. You're a surprise—a biker chick!”

Mom blushed. “I didn't know how to tell you. I've been riding passenger on the bike for a couple of weeks now, and you have to have the right gear. Um, I was going to mention it, but I didn't think you'd approve. I did tell you Mike rode a bike.”

“Er, well, like I said, it's a surprise,” I mumbled, guilty as charged. I thought of what Drummer had said about Mom being entitled to her hobbies. I thought of it because he was nudging Mom for the treats she always brings him.

“Sorry, Drummer, I didn't know I'd be seeing you,” Mom apologized to him, stroking his forelock. “Pia, find something for Drummer. He's starving!”

“He's not starving, he's too fat, but I've got some carrots in the barn,” I said. “I'll get them. You stay here.”

“You were keeping those quiet!” remarked Drum. “And who are you calling fat? And for your information, I am starving!”

I galloped to the barn—James and Bean were there with Katy, and when they saw me, eyebrows were raised.

“What?” I said, the shock of seeing my mom making me defensive. I was not in the mood for them to be sarcastic.

“Your mom's awesome!” said Katy.

“What?” I said again, only differently this time.

“Yeah—good for her, riding a bike,” agreed James. “It's a beauty too, a Ducati. I'd love one of those when I'm older. It's a great bike!”

“I know you're saying something because your mouth is moving,” I told him, annoyed that James was gaga about the bike, “but all I'm hearing is blah, blah, blah!”

“The leather gear is really cool,” said Bean. “I'd love to ride passenger. Do you think your mom's boyfriend would take me for a spin?”

“You are kidding, aren't you?” I asked her. “You are riling me up, right?”

“No, I'd love to go for a ride. I bet it's great!”

“Yeah. I wish my old man was a biker instead of being into those model airplanes he flies every Sunday,” complained James. “Boooring!”

I grabbed the carrots and ran. Either they were crazy, or—and this wasn't altogether impossible—I was. I gave it some thought as I ran back to Drummer's stable. Mike was stroking Drummer. Drummer was being the perfect pony, like he always is when Mom's around.

“Hi!” said Mike, grinning and giving me a wave.

He looked normal. He even sounded normal, but he couldn't be normal because he was seeing my mom, and none of mom's boyfriends have ever been normal. Fact. But I smiled at him anyway, and I felt Mom relax a bit. So I smiled some more because I really wanted her to enjoy herself and not be uptight because of me.

“Nice pony,” said Mike, peering over Drummer's half door and giving him the once-over. “Part Arab, right?”

“Er, yes,” I said, almost falling over. Had my mom told him?

“My sister had a pony when she was younger,” he explained. “A gray Arab called Mabel. I rode her a couple of times—she was great. Very fast.”

“Mabel doesn't sound like a name you'd give an Arab,” I said doubtfully. This day was turning into surreal central.

“Oh well, Mabel wasn't her real name—but no one could pronounce that, so Bernie just called her Mabel.”

Bernie didn't sound like a name for a sister either. My mom questioned it too.

“Her real name's Bernice, but everyone calls her Bernie,” Mike explained.

“Does she still ride?” I asked, interested.

“Yep, she lives in Australia with her husband and six children. The kids ride too.”

“Six?” asked Mom, aghast.

“Yep, six. She's basically a production line.”

We all stood and thought about that. Definitely not a pretty picture.

“Well, babe, shall we be on our way?” asked Mike, looking lovingly at the Ducati. I wondered whether he looked at my mom that way. Decided I wouldn't mind too much if he did.

“OK, Mike—Pia, I'll see you later. You are not to ride on the roads again. You always promised me you wouldn't. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I told you it was an emergency. We never go on the road usually—no need with all the bridle paths around here,” I assured her. “Besides, Mom, if you're allowed on the road on the back of a motorcycle, I don't see how you've got a leg to stand on. Motorcycles are so much more dangerous than ponies.”

“Well, I'm a grown-up,” Mom said, going slightly pink, “and don't push it.”

Then I watched as she crammed her head back into the silver helmet, clambered somewhat ungracefully aboard the back of Mike's Ducati, and disappeared down the drive in a cloud of dust, perched precariously on the back of the red and silver machine. It didn't look very comfortable. I mean, there were only two wheels and a tiny little seat—not like cuddly Drummer with a leg at each corner and a nice long neck in front of you (when it wasn't down between his front legs due to him bucking).

“What next?” I said to myself.

Drummer kicked his door. “Got any more carrots?” he asked me.

“Did you see that?” I asked him, not quite believing what I'd seen.

“It's all horsepower,” said Drum nonchalantly, waggling his ears as he gazed after the bike.

I supposed it was.

Hey, Pia, what do you think you're doing?” Catriona yelled at me, her face screwed up in fury. And for once, I didn't blame her for being so rude. Sophie had arranged for jumps to be formed into a diamond shape to allow us to jump in and out of a box diagonally across the school, and half of us were jumping from left to right, the other half right to left, crossing in front and behind one another as we jumped. Drummer had suddenly sped up as we landed over the first jump, almost jumping on top of poor Bambi, causing her to swerve. To make matters worse, the jumps were no longer the poles but white broom handles, clutched at each end by our four helpers. Sophie had roped in Nicky, owner of the ancient pony Pippin and Bethany's mom, to join Mrs. Bradley and Leanne. The trouble was, broom handles were much shorter than jump poles and required not inconsiderable courage on the part of the helpers doing the holding. It also meant we had to steer as though our lives (or, more correctly, someone else's) depended on it. When Mrs. Bradley had asked in a trembling voice whether it wouldn't be better to use the jump poles, or even just the jumps, Sophie had waved her hand in the air as if to push away the idea.

“Oh no, the broom handles are light and easy to hold—and of course, they make much more of a spectacle for the audience. There's much more an element of danger,” she'd assured her.

“Yes, dear, that's what I mean,” Mrs. Bradley had said. But Sophie had decided, so that had been that. Even grown-ups didn't argue with Sophie.

James had been all for it.

“Wow, what a great idea!” he'd said enthusiastically.

“It does sound perfect!” agreed Katy.

“I'm glad all the people with ponies who are excellent jumpers and don't freak out agree,” Bean had grumbled, looking doubtfully at the short broom handles.

“Tiff will get used to it,” Katy had soothed her. And Tiffany had. She'd hardly looked at the handles, which was a surprise. “She's more likely to freak out at Declan's clothes,” Katy had whispered.

Our fourth helper, Declan, did have a very unique style. He was as tall as James, although not as skinny, and his hair was black and blond. He was, I had to admit, sort of cute. He'd only been to two practices, but both times he'd worn baggy, checkered pants and a huge sweatshirt riddled with holes. He and Cat shared the same, neat features, only Declan's hair was longer than his sister's. He didn't scowl so much either.

Cat was scowling now, furious that I'd collided with her.

“Sorry!” I yelled into the air, unable to address my apologies directly to Cat—that would be too much—but unable to defend myself and inwardly murdering Drummer. What was he playing at? I poked one side of his withers, just to let him know I wasn't happy, but he stayed silent, which wasn't like him.

The trouble was we weren't the only ones messing up. Just as we all thought we were getting the hang of the activity ride, everything had started to go wrong—the ponies seemed to lose all sense of direction. When Cat and Bambi turned right and Drummer and I were supposed to go left, Drummer, infatuated with Bambi, suddenly ignored all my aids and followed her brown and white backside like his nose was glued to her tail. Wrong! Just as I had been congratulating myself on remembering where I had to go, and at what speed, it was now going very, very badly.

Sophie was not sympathetic. “Get it figured out, Pia!” she instructed me as Drummer shadowed Bambi for the third time in our practice after school. “If you can't get it right as a leader, your ride has no one to follow.”

“Sorry!” I said, grimacing. Then I had a word with Drummer. “What are you doing?” I asked him.

“What?” he asked, all wide-eyed. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“You know you are!”

And then Tiffany, who we thought had gotten the hang of jumping the row of five jumps, suffered a relapse and kept running out.

“Sorry, my fault!” Bean yelled, cantering around for another, abortive attempt. “We'll get it right if it kills us!” she added cheerfully.

“If you don't,” threatened Cat, “we might kill you!”

“Steady now, Cat!” Sophie scolded her.

“Bean's trying her best,” said Dec, earning himself a scowl from his sister. “And besides,” he added, scowling back, “you and Bam-Bam aren't exactly perfect—she and that brown pony act like they're glued together!”

“Shut up, Declan, you know I hate when you call Bambi that!” screamed Cat. “And you can't talk, you're acting like a love-struck wimp yourself!”

Drummer wasn't the only one in love. It was obvious to everyone that Declan was absolutely head over heels for one of the activity riders. Obvious to everyone, that was, except the object of his desire—Bean. His eyes followed her around the school like a lovesick puppy. Katy thought it was cute. Cat thought it was sickening. James thought it was hilarious. No one was telling Bean. “Let her work it out for herself,” James had grinned. Of course, with Bean, that could take some time.

Even Dolly managed to mess up using the broom handles, knocking them out of Mrs. Bradley's hand every time with an exaggerated, “Whoops, clumsy me!” When Bambi put in a couple of refusals, which caused a massive pileup, Sophie waved her arms in the air and brought everyone to a halt. “What is up with you all this evening?” she asked, shaking her head.

We hung our heads in shame.

“You'd think the ponies would get better, knowing what was expected,” said Katy, twirling a lock of Bluey's black mane around her finger.

“Well, thank goodness he and Moth are up to scratch!” said James. “The rest of you are awful!”

“Thanks for that, James,” Cat scowled. “Maybe you should try being leading file—it's easy when you've got someone to follow.”

“Don't think I couldn't!” James replied cockily. “I'd rather be leading than stuck back here behind Pia who doesn't seem to know her right from her left.”

“Excuse me for not being perfect!” I replied, hurt, annoyed, and a bit guilty. I did sometimes get my right and left mixed up. It was only one of the worries I had about being a leader in the activity ride. I couldn't always remember what I should be doing and where I ought to be doing it. It was nerve-racking.

Somebody snickered. I looked around but couldn't see anyone who wasn't looking either thunderous or miserable, so I decided I must have imagined it.

“Maybe you all need a nice break,” suggested Mrs. Bradley, eager to keep everyone friendly. She had taken it upon herself to be Mrs. Positive.

“Or a talking-to!” growled James, who had adopted the role of Mr. Negative.

“Give it up, James. We're all trying our best!” Katy told him angrily.

“OK, that's enough arguments. We can't keep having breaks. We don't have time for that. Let's do it once more,” said Sophie. “We'll try the broom handles again. Everyone get into position.”

“Try to get it right. I keep seeing my life flashing before my eyes,” Leanne begged us, wearily picking up the handles with a dramatic sigh. I think she took theater a bit too seriously at school and was clearly born for soap operas. When she wasn't looking bored, she was flicking back her hair or examining her nails.

Off we went, and we were doing quite well—if you didn't count Tiffany going too fast and Bambi hesitating at every jump—when Moth suddenly veered to the side and missed out a broom handle altogether, pushing James over to the school gate and standing there all wide-eyed as though she couldn't quite believe what she'd done. It was totally out of character for James's chestnut mare.

“Now who needs a talking-to!” yelled Katy, glaring at James. “You're just as bad as everyone else!”

James went scarlet. “OK, so I got it wrong,” he mumbled. “I don't know what got into Moth. She's never done that before.”

There it was again—that snicker. Who was doing it? I looked around again, but everyone was deadly serious, annoyed at how badly things were going. Who could possibly think it was funny?

“Who is that snickering?” I asked.

Everyone looked blank.

“It's not exactly a laughing matter,” said Cat, scowling at me.

“I know that—but I heard someone giggling,” I insisted. “Who was it?”

“I didn't hear anything,” said James, and everyone else murmured in agreement.

Things didn't get any better: Cat was suddenly unable to keep Bambi at a steady pace, which meant that one minute we were all squished behind her, the next, all strung out like laundry on a line. Moth missed another two broom handles, Drummer jumped one broom handle then stopped altogether, putting his head down to scratch his knee with his teeth so that I practically dive-bombed over his head, and Dolly landed badly and actually dropped to her knees, giving Sophie cause to clutch her heart in dismay as she ran over to check that she was all right. She was.

We were, as James had said, awful.

“Right, that's enough for tonight,” said Sophie, shaking her head again. She was doing a lot of that lately. “We'll try again tomorrow—just for a short ten-minute session to run through the whole ride. Let's hope we can all do better than tonight. Thanks, everyone! Oh, there's my phone. Hello. Hello.”

Everyone was despondent, and we hung around miserably after Sophie, Mrs. Bradley, Leanne, and Nicky disappeared back to the yard.

“I don't know what's happening!” declared Cat, scowling. “We should be getting better, not worse.”

“I hope Moth's not coming down with something,” said James, rubbing his hands up and down Moth's mane. “She's never, ever behaved like that before.”

“Oh, let's go in and think of something else,” suggested Dee. “I eat, sleep, and dream activity ride. I'm so frightened of going the wrong way or falling off when I go over onto one stirrup over the jumps.”

“I know what you mean,” I agreed. Something wasn't right, but I couldn't help thinking it went further than just us being bad. Something else wasn't right. Something else was out of place. What was it?

“Let's just hope we're better tomorrow,” said Katy, dismounting and running up her stirrups.

“You don't have anything to worry about, Katy. Bluey was great, as he always is,” remarked Bean.

Mmmm
, I thought. Bluey was always good. Bluey always tried his hardest. I couldn't help thinking that was significant. What was it that was wrong? I had a lingering feeling that there was something else, something I was missing. We put the ponies away in an atmosphere of gloom. As I put on his green stable rug, Drummer stood angelically, waiting for me to fasten all the straps before he attacked his hay net.

“Are you all right?” I asked him. He never waits—food is his passion. I'm lucky to get his bridle off before he's stuffing his face.

“What? Oh yes, thank you, just fine.”

I frowned and chewed the inside of my mouth. Something was amiss—and not just with Drummer. The ponies had been very quiet this evening during practice. Usually, I heard them arguing and grumbling, but I hadn't this evening. Was it that that was bothering me?

Thoughtfully, I hung up Drummer's tack in the tack room, jostling around Bean and James and avoiding Twiddles Scissor-Paws, Mrs. C.'s killer cat, asleep on the one decent chair. James was still complaining, and Cat joined in when she arrived with Bambi's tack. Bluey had been good, I remembered, and that seemed significant. Why had it? I knew it was important. I just didn't know why.

I bumped into Dec as I went out. He was hanging around under the pretense of waiting for Cat or James, but everyone knew he couldn't take his eyes off Bean. Everyone but Bean, that was.

As I road my bike along the drive toward home I thought I could hear someone snickering again. I couldn't imagine what anyone found to laugh about because it was getting too close to the date of the extravaganza for us to be struggling. We needed to be better at practice tomorrow. Frankly, we just had to be!