Riding Class (3 page)

Carole was still patting the palomino. “This is a super horse,” she declared. “He’s amazing.”

Emily looked at him fondly. “He’s the best horse ever.”

“How long have you had him?” Lisa asked. She wished that she had a horse of her own.

“I got him for Christmas last year,” Emily replied. “I sort of knew I was going to get him, because we had to look so long to find him. But he was still the best present ever. His name’s P.C.” She bent over slowly, holding on to P.C.’s leg, to retrieve the rubber currycomb she’d dropped when she’d fallen. The rest of her grooming gear sat on a waist-high shelf on the side of the aisle. She began to curry P.C.

“Can’t we help?” Carole asked. “We’d like to … it’s been four hours since we touched a horse!”

“Sure,” said Emily. She handed them brushes and they got to work on P.C. He had rolled hard, and his coat was thick with dried mud. Dust flew as the girls worked the dirt loose.

“What’s P.C. stand for?” asked Stevie. She sneezed.

“Personal Computer. Just kidding,” Emily added quickly. “It stands for Palomino Cow pony.”

“Oh, wow, do you ride Western?” Stevie exclaimed. “I know a great pinto cow pony out West. His name is Stewball, and he’s a cutting horse at a ranch our friend Kate owns—I mean her family owns the ranch—and he’s a fantastic horse, too. I almost bought him once, but it turned out he was happier on the ranch. My horse, Belle, is better for the kind of riding I like best.”

Lisa and Carole laughed. Usually Carole was the one who got carried away when talking about horses.

“I ride English, not Western,” Emily said. “I think jumping looks fun, but they don’t teach it at Free Rein, so I’ve never tried it. What I really like is dressage.”

Stevie’s jaw dropped. “Me too. That’s my absolute favorite kind of riding.”

“Neat,” said Emily. “Most people don’t even know what ‘dressage’ means.”

“The word ‘dressage’ just means training,” Carole said.
“I like dressage, too, but Starlight, my horse, is better at jumping.”

Carole had ridden simple dressage tests with Starlight before. The tests were precise patterns ridden one at a time in a flat arena. It often amused Lisa and Carole that Stevie, who was boisterous and somewhat disorganized, was so good at a controlled, highly organized sport like dressage. Belle was becoming good, too.

“What does your horse like?” Emily asked, turning to Lisa.

“Prancer doesn’t know yet,” Lisa said. “She isn’t my horse, either, but she’s the one I usually ride.” Lisa described the Pine Hollow lesson horse to Emily.

Emily bent over slowly, and carefully tugged at P.C.’s leg. P.C. lifted his foot immediately, and Emily cleaned the mud out of his hoof with a pick. “I guess P.C. doesn’t know what he likes best, either,” she said, her voice somewhat muffled from leaning against P.C.’s flank. “He does everything I ask, but he doesn’t exactly look like a dressage horse, does he? His neck is three feet wide.”

“He looks like a great horse,” Carole said, although she could see that P.C. did have a very thick neck.

“He’s perfect and he’s beautiful and he’s tremendously ugly,” Emily said, straightening up and beginning to slowly make her way down P.C.’s side. “Facts are facts.”

“There you go not making sense again,” Stevie said.
“You thanked us for what we didn’t do, and now you say your ugly horse is beautiful. Or your beautiful horse is ugly.” Stevie grimaced; she hadn’t meant to call P.C. ugly. Most of the lesson horses at Pine Hollow wouldn’t win any beauty contests either, but they were good horses and Stevie loved them all.

“Whichever,” Emily said agreeably. “Facts are facts.” She lifted and cleaned P.C.’s rear hoof, then held on to his tail for balance while she moved behind him to his other side.

Carole began to brush P.C.’s mane. It was soft and nearly tangle-free, which Carole knew meant that Emily probably combed it out almost every day. “You must spend a lot of time here,” she said to Emily.

“I do,” Emily replied. “I love it. I can’t remember when I didn’t love horses. I’ve been riding since I was four years old.”

“You started even earlier than I did,” Carole said.

“You started earlier than any of us,” Lisa added.

Emily finished picking out P.C.’s hooves, then collected the grooming tools from them and put them in her bucket. “I started as soon as the center opened,” she said. “My pediatrician rides, and she knew it would be good for me, so she signed me up right away.

“I have cerebral palsy,” she continued. “That means my
brain was injured somehow before I was born. Cerebral palsy affects people different ways, but in my case it means my muscles, especially in my legs, don’t work right. They’re too tight, sort of. I can’t move my legs easily, and I don’t have very good balance. That’s why I fall down.”

“Does it get worse?” Lisa asked. She wasn’t sure if it was a polite question, but she wanted to know.

“No,” Emily said. “Muscular dystrophy can get worse, but C.P.—cerebral palsy—doesn’t. I’m a lot more mobile now than I used to be. Riding has really helped me a lot.”

“ ‘P.C.’ is the opposite of ‘C.P.’,” Carole realized.

“Yeah, but that’s not why I call him that. I call him P.C. because he’s my Prince Charming.” Emily gave P.C. a hug.

“So is that why they call it therapeutic riding?” asked Stevie. “Because riding is your therapy?”

“Sure,” said Emily. “It makes me stronger the same way that it makes you stronger. Only maybe it’s better for me, because—well, you could ride a bike, right? And that would make you stronger, too. I can’t ride a bike or—what else do you do? I can’t do aerobics—”

“I suppose I could, but I wouldn’t want to,” Stevie cut in. “All that jumpy-dancey and spandex—ugh!”

Emily laughed but continued her explanation. “I do regular physical therapy—I call that P.T.—at home every
morning. It helps me, but it’s boring. Riding’s different. It’s … I don’t know …”

“It’s riding,” Carole said.

“Exactly.”

Lisa and Stevie nodded. They all understood.

Emily picked up a second crutch that had been leaning against the grooming shelf and fitted it to her arm. She pulled a blue lead rope off the shelf and snapped it to P.C.’s halter. Then she unfastened the two cross-tie snaps, which took her even longer. The Saddle Club didn’t move.

“Thanks,” Emily said softly, looking up at them. “I really do like to do things myself.”

She began to lead P.C. down the aisle. As Emily walked, she swung her left crutch tip forward at the same time as her right leg. Then she paused and moved her right crutch forward along with her left leg. It was slow and halting, but P.C. matched her speed, keeping his nose exactly at Emily’s shoulder. The Saddle Club watched them in admiration.

“You know,” Lisa said, “we’d really like to learn more about therapeutic riding. Helping out today has been fun, but you’re the only rider we’ve met, and we haven’t gotten to see anyone ride. We like to learn everything about horses.”

Emily put P.C. into his stall and slid the door closed. “If
you want to learn, you can,” she said. “Free Rein always needs more volunteers to help with the riding lessons.”

“Emily!” called a voice outside the stable.

“In here, Mom!” Emily called back.

A woman’s head poked around the edge of the door. “Finished?” she asked. “We need to hurry—your brother’s got a soccer game.”

“Okay.” Emily hung P.C.’s lead rope outside his stall. “It was fun talking to you,” she said to The Saddle Club.

“Maybe we’ll see you later,” Stevie offered.

“That’d be nice.” Emily smiled, but she looked a little doubtful. She waved to The Saddle Club and left with her mother.

“I mean it,” Lisa said to Carole and Stevie. “I would like to learn more about therapeutic riding. I’d like to volunteer. Do you think we could make it a Saddle Club project?”

“I’d like to,” Carole said.

“Me too,” agreed Stevie.

They went in search of Ms. Payne. The director beamed when she heard that they wanted to volunteer. “We always need leaders and side-walkers,” she said, “and the fact that you three already know how to take care of horses will be a big plus. When would you like to come?”

“How about Monday?” Stevie suggested. “After school?”

“That would be super. We’ve got a group lesson at four-thirty that isn’t very advanced, so we need a lot of volunteers for that one,” Ms. Payne said.

“Thank you,” said Carole. She was pleased at the thought of learning something new.

“No, thank
you
,” Ms. Payne corrected her. “Programs like Free Rein couldn’t exist without volunteers.”

O
N
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
The Saddle Club met at Pine Hollow. It was a bright, sunny day, warm for early spring, and they decided to act on Max’s advice—“Shake the wind out of our sails, whatever that means,” Stevie said—and go on a trail ride. While they were gathering their tack and grooming buckets from the tack room, a thin, frail-looking, gray-haired woman wandered in.

“I wonder if you girls would know where I could find”—the woman consulted a scrap of paper—“a Mrs. Regnery? I’m supposed to have a lesson with her.”

The girls exchanged glances. Max’s wife, Deborah, was a Mrs. Regnery, but she was just learning to ride herself.
Max’s mother, called Mrs. Reg for short, was also a Mrs. Regnery. She rode well but rarely gave lessons.

Lisa looked closely at the old woman and decided that Mrs. Reg must have offered to teach her so that the woman wouldn’t be embarrassed about learning from someone young. The woman didn’t look like a rider. She looked as if a puff of wind would knock her over. She wasn’t dressed right, either. She had on crisp, new jeans; a fancy embroidered white blouse; and a very old pair of cowboy boots. Stevie often rode in jeans and cowboy boots, but on this woman they didn’t look authentic: The jeans were too clean. Still, Lisa was impressed by the woman’s bravery. It couldn’t be easy for a person that old to start riding.

“Mrs. Reg’s gone up to her house for a moment,” Carole said. “She told us she’d be right back. Can we help you get started?” The sympathetic tone in Carole’s voice told Lisa that her friend had drawn the same conclusions.

“Are you new here?” Stevie inquired solicitously. She’d never seen this woman at Pine Hollow before.

“I’m Dr. Marian Dinmore,” the woman replied. “I live in Arizona, but I’m conducting a symposium at Georgetown medical school in Washington for the next several weeks, and I thought I’d take advantage of being on the East Coast. I always wanted to learn English riding.”

“Did someone in Washington tell you about Pine Hollow?” Lisa asked. The capital wasn’t far away, and they
often had members of Congress and other government officials at the stables. Once Lisa had taken a trail ride with an ambassador.

“No, I picked it out of the phone book,” Dr. Dinmore replied. “Tell me, did I pick well?”

“Don’t worry,” Carole reassured her, “you picked very well. Pine Hollow is an excellent barn, the horses are very safe, and Mrs. Reg is a very nice person.”

“They’re very big on safety here,” Lisa said. She took Dr. Dinmore’s arm gently and guided her over to the good-luck horseshoe mounted on the wall. “You should touch this,” she said, “it’s one of our traditions. Everyone touches it before they ride, and no one has ever been seriously injured riding here.”

“Not that you’re going to be injured,” Stevie said hastily. She couldn’t believe Lisa, giving this poor woman a reason to be nervous! “The horses are terrific. They won’t do anything to make you fall off, so you don’t have to worry about that. But you should wear a riding helmet, just in case—” She pulled Dr. Dinmore into the locker room, where a pegboard covered with helmets took up a whole wall.

“I left my hat at home,” Dr. Dinmore said. “It took up too much room in my suitcase.”

“You need a special hat for riding,” Stevie said. “It’s not like a cowboy hat; it’s more like a bike helmet. It’s light-weight,
but it’s very protective.” She pulled one of the helmets down and put it on Dr. Dinmore’s head. The brim covered the woman’s eyes. “Whoops—too big!”

Lisa handed Stevie a smaller hard hat. This one fit, and Carole reached out and buckled it beneath Dr. Dinmore’s chin. “How does that feel?” Carole asked.

“Fine.” Dr. Dinmore looked slightly amused.
She’s probably not used to having people make this much of a fuss over her
, Carole thought. She was proud of herself and of The Saddle Club. They knew how to treat visitors at Pine Hollow. “Let’s go find you a good horse,” she suggested.

“Mrs. Reg’s probably assigned her one already,” Lisa said.

“Yes, but”—Carole shot Lisa a significant look—“we’ve met Dr. Dinmore, and we can probably do a better job finding her the right horse than Mrs. Reg. Mrs. Reg only talked to her on the phone.”

Lisa understood. Mrs. Reg probably wouldn’t have guessed how thin and frail and old Dr. Dinmore was. “That’s right. We’ll find you a horse that won’t be too strong for you.”

Dr. Dinmore laughed. “Girls, don’t put me on an old plug!”

“Oh, no, we wouldn’t do that,” Carole said. “We don’t have any bad horses at Pine Hollow. All of our horses will
do what you tell them to do—at least, most of the time. But it’s very important that you ride a quiet horse when you’re just starting out.” Carole patiently explained how a too-spirited horse could make learning to ride both difficult and scary.