Riding Invisible (15 page)

Wednesday—10:25 p.m.—our den

Art club was another Christi laugh-a-thon, because this time Jordhan and Christi were talking about bath bombs, something I had never heard of, but their conversation interested me and I felt glad I'd assigned myself a seat next to Christi. Look at the fascinating shit I got to learn about—putting a bomb in your bath! They described how bath bombs actually explode with fizzing and bursting and sending forth of bubbles and scents and confetti. My imagination was going wild, crazy out of control with pink Fourth of July eruptions that covered the wall and ceiling and Christi's reddish-orange hair and white skin, and all the freckles sparkling with sexy bath bomb contents.

Christi interrupted my oh-so-pleasant thoughts when she stretched her arm over and stuck it under my nose. “Smell this,” she ordered.

“Huh?”

“Just do it.”

So I took a sniff and it reminded me of the flower scent I'd noticed at the last art club meeting, and getting so close to her little freckles and the tiny hairs on her arm was just too much to handle. Almost.

“Well?” Christi asked.

Jordhan, the echo: “Well?”

“Hmmmm,” I started, and then I was kind of scratching my chin like a scent guru or something. “You smell like flowers, Christi. And hearts?”

That got her giggling, and it made me glad I'm dark in my complexion, because if I was blushing it wouldn't show all that much. When Christi adjusted her peach-colored T-shirt, I glanced away and noticed the ANGST on my brown skin, which was starting to fade. So I got right on it with the markers, and it was bright and glorious and exciting. This time I added a few flames around the edges with gold and silver. Christi noticed what I was doing, of course, and she frowned for just a second, and something invaded her face. I sensed the angst of her life in that frown. She touched my shoulder and told me it's beautiful, my Arm Art, and asked me to make her a tattoo, too. But first she needed a word, and she thought for a while with her chin in her hands. Then she sighed.

“Just do ANGST like yours, but with more goth to it,” she said. “With bold edges, okay? And instead of that yucky yellowy orange color, do the darkest of greens.”

Sliding, oozing, sex-crazed pens went into motion while I mapped out Christi's gothic angst, resting my left hand on her forearm to steady it, wanting to understand her feelings, whatever horrible shit she'd lived through for twelve years with her violent father.
TELL ME ABOUT YOUR ANGST
, I wanted to say.

“Do me tomorrow at lunch,” Jordhan said, sending jealousy vibes in Christi's direction through narrowed eyes.

After the meeting, Christi pulled me to the side. “How are things at home?”

“Not good. I'm gonna find a room to rent close by. Something with horse corrals so I can keep Shy with me. Only problem is, Will lives in this neighborhood. Not too safe. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do. After what you told me, you need to be careful.” Christi wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek while I stroked her soft hair.

And then tonight, one more thing to contemplate, a package Mom left on my bed. Inside I found this beautiful hand-embroidered, colorful tablecloth. Awesome. And a postcard of a 1920s vintage reproduction from old Veracruz with a sepia street scene of a Mexican cowboy sitting on a proud-looking horse. After dinner, Dad translated the postcard message for me while he sat on my bed.

“Tavo says not to worry, that he's back home in Veracruz. They're constructing a new factory near his house. He flew down there and got a job as a laborer. His wife and kids are very happy, and they would love to have you visit. He asks about Shy and wonders if you ride every day. And he says Violeta got your money, and she wanted you to have the tablecloth. She embroidered it by hand.” Dad picked up the cloth and gently touched the intricate stitches. “So, tell me, Yance. Who's Violeta?”

“Oh. Well, Violeta. She's a lady who lives down there in Tavo's
PUEBLO
and she has to take care of her grown daughter, a low-functioning adult.”

“And you sent money to her, son?”

“Yeah.”

“That was a kind thing to do. You're a very special person, Yancy. I hope you know that.”

I walked toward my window, visualizing Tavo's good-natured features, his light brown skin and gentle eyes, his careful, quiet movements around horses, the peaceful rhythm he creates in a barn when he walks about.

“I wonder if the score is even yet,” I said.

Dad wanted to know, what score?

So I told him about that private thing Tavo has going where he's trying to wash away the bad in the world from when he came here illegally and got dumped off in the desert and almost died.

And then I said, “But it's weird how he doesn't hold grudges and how he tries to get over stuff by being good. I think that's why he helped me, Dad, to be good and to erase some of that horrible experience from his mind. Does that make any sense?”

Dad stood and moved beside me, staring out the window, speaking kind of to himself. “Yeah, it makes a lot of sense. If a person goes through life feeling angry and bitter, that person is just not going to have a good life. Do you understand that, son?”

I studied the street below and spoke softly, kind of to myself, too. “Yeah. I think I understand. That's why I want to be just like Tavo.”

But now I'm writing about it and I realize how saying those words was just me spouting off some wishful thinking. I mean, maybe I'll never make it to that place, that Tavo-place-of-perfect-existence. My house is like the desert where Tavo was left to die. The difference is, he got away. Tavo escaped, and then he forgave the bad dudes. Me? I'm still stuck in the desert.

Thursday—7 p.m.—in the garage

So I've been searching online, scanning craigslist,
buying the
Recycler
and the
Daily News
, trying to
find a room for rent that also has a horse corral. It's
a rare discovery in Chatsworth. I decided to NOT tell
Mom and Dad about my quest, at least not until I find
something. At least they've backed off on their idea to
make me live with relatives.

Today everything seemed okay at the stables when I arrived after school. Frank moved Shy to the barn where the stall has bars across the front. He added a chain and padlock to the heavy, sliding door. Frank is definitely staying on Will Alert. Me, too.

But once I got home there was something on my bed, a white paper folded neatly, all sitting on my pillow. I figured maybe Mom or Dad left a message or something.

But no. Nooooooo! A note scrawled at the top:

YOU HAVE NOT SUFFERED FOR MY LOSS OF HOMEGROWN INCOME

RAT POISON IS TOO COMPLICATED, YOU RATFACED JERKOFF. THIS IS GONNA WORK BETTER!

Below the words—all real and gory and in full color—printed off the Internet—a horse being slaughtered.

So I ran back to Frank's, feet pounding, thudding and rhythmic, but solid
—GET ME TO MY HORSE—GET ME THERE—PLEASE GOD, KEEP HIM SAFE.
I sped up Frank's driveway, into the barn, running to Shy's stall, relief pouring through my body when he poked his velvet nose against the bars. The lock seemed secure. All was fine. But was it?

Maybe not, because my hands were shaking so bad I could barely get the key in the padlock, and when the chain fell to the ground, the noise was metallic, final, like the chains I wear in Will Prison. And I rushed inside, pressing against Shy's neck until my face was buried in his mane and the coarse hair fell over my forehead, and I breathed in the scent of Horse and a thought came to me, then:
IF PEACEFULNESS HAS AN ODOR, THIS IS IT.

My horse stood so still, not moving to finish his hay, not chewing, not snorting or stomping his hooves. He waited patiently while I got it out. In sobs.

When I walked home, my feet moved slow. I could not loosen up. I could not smell the possibility of rain even though the sky was dark and crowded with boiling, black clouds. Me and my thoughts, hiking through sludge. How impossible would it be for Will to cut that heavy chain on Shy's stall? How impossible? Would he do it? Could he do it?

Inside our house it was darker than the skies and empty. I plopped myself in the first chair I came to in the kitchen and that's when I noticed my word:
ANGST
glaring, shouting, screaming at the top of my worrisome, apprehensive, distressed, and anxious mind. It needed blood, art blood, pen blood, drops of red ink dripping off the bottom.

And maybe I was concentrating too hard while I drew the bloody teardrops, and that's why I didn't hear Will come in, and of course he had to observe what was going on.

“Cool!” he said, like he was way impressed. “Yeah, dude, love that blood. But what's angst? Does it have something to do with oral sex?”

Dad came in next, on his way to the bathroom. Completely missed the art show.

Will grinned at me. “Did you get the informative little photo I downloaded?”

I pushed past him, my shoulder shoving hard against his, lunging through the door to my room, retrieving the printout from my bed. As soon as Dad headed out of the bathroom I handed it to him and he saw it, and when he digested the evidence, the raw truth of abuse, I knew he realized the depth of what it meant and everything that photo explained in full color, like the answer to their big question:

WHY DID OUR YANCY RUN AWAY?

And he escorted Will through the front door, and they had a loud heart-to-heart out there, standing beside Dad's classic Chevy, Will shaking his head from side to side, the innocent victim, always innocent, and Dad looking like he was falling over the edge.

But I'm not counting on Dad to resolve ANYTHING. I just spent another forty minutes online searching for a local place…any place…where a fifteen-year-old boy and his horse can hide. I found one possibility in Granada Hills. If Gomez loans me his motor scooter I can make it to school from there. The ad didn't have a phone number, so I replied by e-mail. They haven't responded.

It started raining about thirty minutes ago.

Friday—9 p.m.—my bedroom

I just checked again and no one has answered my
e-mail about the Granada Hills horse property with a
room for rent. At least Frank is looking for a different
stable for Shy. Plus, with all the recent Will threats,
The Parents decided that our family should visit a
professional counselor for “a little chat.” The horse-
slaughter photo happened yesterday, and already
the Aparicio family has seen their counselor, so
maybe the mental health center felt it was urgent? A
sixteen-year-old threatening to kill a horse? Yikes! But
regarding this therapy thing, Will said exactly what I
was thinking: “AGAIN?” (For once we're on the same
page…. )

The therapist they assigned is named Angelica (the last one maybe moved or retired or maybe she died), and Angelica is heavyset with short, curly blond hair, wearing a long red sweater and also this bright wool skirt all filled with geometric patterns that made me dizzy. Her voice made me dizzy too, especially when she told us how we were in a safe environment and to please share our innermost feelings in her office.

“You mean like wanting to kill a horse?” Will asked.

Angelica coughed and blinked her eyes.

REACT!
I told her silently.
REACT, HONEY!

Dad wanted to react, for sure. I could tell. But Will knows how Dad usually keeps quiet in therapy sessions—my father doesn't like getting in the therapist's territory. The whole situation made Will smile, his hair fastened in a ponytail, his T-shirt fitting tight on his chest. Will's grin looked way confident because he can size up any adversary in a matter of seconds. Everyone sat there waiting…and waiting…but Angelica didn't challenge Will's question.

JEEZ, LADY
, I wanted to say.
WHAT ONLINE PROGRAM DID YOU USE FOR YOUR DEGREE?
But I just pulled up my sleeve, stared at my forearm, and started wishing that I had my pens—how cool would that be—to darken and brighten a few letters on the ol' ANGST declaration. Maybe I could include Angelica's skirt designs. Her outfit was enough to make anyone anxious.

Finally Angelica asked each of us to please share A Positive Family Story.
A WHAT? A POSITIVE STORY? IN OUR FAMILY? GET REAL, LADY.
But this is what my family came up with:

Dad: “I remember last year when Will was the hero at a softball game. He treated our family to ice-cream cones on the way home.”

Mom: “Once when Will was six and Yancy was five, they used pancake mix to bake a birthday cake for me. Well, it turned out very flat and mushy. But we popped three candles in the middle and lit them, and then the boys sang ‘Happy Birthday.' They served the cake on my nice dishes, and we ate every bite.”

Will: “Last Christmas I got lots of cool stuff like fifty bucks from my grandparents and five new video games, and then I sold two of the video games for twenty bucks each.”

Me: “Sorry, but I can't think of a thing.”

After my statement Angelica did look way concerned, and she leaned against the back of her chair, which made a strange type of squeak. “Shall we come back to you later, hon?”

I was sitting there, lost in her skirt, wondering about my life. I told her no. Really! I did not have A Positive Family Story. Well, unless she meant that time when Will was in boarding school or when he went to a camp for special kids one summer or perhaps the time I ran away on my horse? Is that the kind of stuff she wanted us to share? Or how about a story that takes place in the future? A futuristic tale? Like when I find a place for me and Shy in Alaska and we move there? That's the positive story I could talk about. My life without Will.

Angelica leaned forward. “Yancy, what I hear is that your life is more positive when Will's not around.”