Riding Invisible (4 page)

Finally, when I figured Will must be gone, Shy followed me back to his corral. A flake of hay was already waiting inside the feeder, left there by Frank. Then I headed home, feet rising over invisible cracks in the sidewalk, soaring high, but not in an elated way. I kept thinking about what I should do. Should I report what happened? Call 9-1-1? Tell them: “My brother cut my horse with a pair of scissors. The animal doesn't need medical attention, but maybe my brother does. Because I trampled the asshole when I made my horse run him down!” Or should I warn old Frank, the stable owner? His house is pretty far from Shy's corral, so how would he know if Will showed up? There's always Grandma and Gramps. Maybe Shy could live by their pool. And for sure, Mom and Dad are so predictable:

By the time I made it home, sweating, all out of breath, I'd already weighed the options. I knew Shy's jagged, shallow cut was an urgent message begging me to freakin' GET OUT!! So instead of telling my parents what happened, instead of doing homework that night, I made a quick list instead.

early morning—same location

Now, still stuck in the gully with everything so hopeless, this mechanical sound just vibrated the sky like an explosion of thunder:

WHAP-WHAP-WHAP
oh
crap-crap-crap!

A helicopter. JOAN probably made that call. They're HERE! And where is Shy? Maybe he's concealed behind trees or bushes. At least Shy's the color of what grows on these hills. Or he could be home, already back in Frank's barn. Or lost. Trotting around, snorting, not knowing which way to turn.

WHAP-WHAP-WHAP
the decision hangs over me
like a filthy umbrella

I have to make a choice
and I have to make it now

choice #1: remain invisible

choice #2: wave my arms and jump around

The helicopter just made one last pass, circling, whapping its blades, begging me to show myself. But no. I stayed hidden, invisible, clamping my arms against my sides, making myself small, praying I'd disappeared completely under the lonesome weeds.

about 10 a.m.—sitting on a ridge

Listening to that helicopter soar away made me happy
and sad all at once, with the sky all blue, so blue—colors
can cure injuries—I read that someplace. What if the sky
was the color of chocolate? Or raw meat? Or mustard?

The weather right now is humid, sweltering hot. REAL hot. And I'm safe. SORTA safe. And there's this lizard watching me write. I can tell that he used to be a dinosaur, because he's got tiny dinosaur eyes. And he must realize that I'm not dead. Not yet.

Oh, and hey, lizard, guess what? I got myself out of a huge mess. Yeah!

When I climbed out of that wash—for every bit of progress, I always slid down again. Over and over, rocks tumbling, all caving in, my feet barely able to get traction, fingers all bloody and scraped, and tons of prickly bushes on both sides. I decided to toss my backpack to the ledge. In case I didn't make it I figured that someone, like my buddy Mr. Hiker, might find it someday with the journal inside.

Then, the worst. While I balanced on the side of the hill, I grabbed a small bush and the whole freakin' thing came out by the roots, which sent me sliding down about five feet. I tried lunging toward a rock and managed to hang on and pull myself up inch by inch…tugging…pulling…screaming with the effort…until finally somehow I got to the top and swung my legs over. Barely.

Right away I heard the bushes crackle in the distance. Shy! Eating grass. Waiting. He whinnied, and the quaking horse-sound engulfed me. I hobbled over, crying and kissed his nose, a big smooch. Then I ran my hands up and down his body—no heat or scratches or swelling. And I walked him out—no limping. The canteen was still hanging off the saddle horn, so I poured what was left into the collapsible bucket. Shy licked the bottom while my tongue sat dry and fat and wanting.

So after I put the bucket away and tightened the cinch and swung my stiff leg over, yelling a little because it hurt so much, I realized that I was back home where I belonged. Back in the saddle.

Shy had to walk slow for me. We rested a lot. After an hour of dead ends, finally we found a decent trail and plodded along for two hours.

No water. Of course no water! Autumn in Southern California equals absolutely NO WATER.

When Shy sweats, the reins foam against his neck. Big drops of sweat fall off his belly. I feel the heat of his body. Our pace, incredibly slow. Our final destination? Freakin' fuzzy.

Did I once call this an
ADVENTURE
, like it would be some kind of fun…?

about 1:00 p.m.—inside a storage shed

The Five W's:

WHERE? On a small ranch with a peeling–paint yellow house and this wide, sparse yard with a few thorny trees and an old black dog snoozing under a pickup.

WHO? Well, it's me and Shy

WHY? Fuck if I know

WHEN? Today. Tomorrow. Forever!

WHAT ? Yeah. That's a good question. Let me ask it again. WHAAAAAAT ?

So today, more like about an hour ago, finally we reached
CIVILIZATION
, which means spread-out ranches where the houses are not built close together because they're standing on parcels about two or three acres in size. And the earth here is reddish brown and the plants are dry and the wind is hot and fast. And we're NOT picky. So the first ranch was fine. Just for a break, and maybe some decent horse feed. While a little donkey watched from the next yard over, two ribs-showing horses trotted down a hill like a welcoming committee. Their raspy whinnies made Shy prick up his ears. He called back and his body shook under my legs.

“You like this place, boy?” I asked my Best Friend the Horse. Then I climbed off the saddle slow and careful, with my calves aching like they'd been stabbed a few hundred times.

The corral was this sagging, rusty barbed-wire creation with dried manure spread around everywhere, and a bunch of gnats, those creepy tiny flies, started irritating Shy's belly. The short stub of a tail twitched, but that didn't help, so he tried kicking his stomach with his hind legs. Someday, to get even, I will tie my naked brother to a tree and smear something all over him, something gnats love…?

When the flimsy gate opened, Shy trotted to the water trough, the inside all green and slimy, murky to the bottom, but he was fine with that and drank deep and big. The two mares squealed and kicked out, and Shy ignored their silliness. And then I shoved my head under the cool rushing faucet with my cracked lips and dried-out skin, and the sores and scrapes burned. It made me realize that maybe I'm a mess. Horse and boy gulped water side by side, me with hands cupped under the faucet, him with whiskery lips sucking against the wet surface. Then I filled the canteen and loved the way it felt so heavy afterward.

With feet moving slow, bones aching, the two exhausted explorers discovered this large metal shed where the door was unlocked. It was full of junk and mouse poop, and I noticed a beat-up broom in the corner. I swept out enough space to sit my butt down and wanted to cry, but I had a horse to take care of. So I struggled to my feet and unsaddled Shy, and the sweat on his light brown coat looked filthy, and jeez, he smelled so bad, and all the flies loved the sweat. Behind the house I found a hose, so Shy got his first bath in four days. He even let me squirt his face, his least favorite place for water, but today he actually twisted his neck toward the gushing stream. And I took a shower too, clothes and all. After that I stole a horse snack, because six bales of grassy alfalfa were sitting on some pallets beside the corral. I broke off a nice big flake for Shy and spread the remaining hay from that bale on the pallets so it wouldn't be missed.

Finally, I settled my hip bone against the non-bouncy cement floor. And just for fun, I started up a short conversation.

“Hey, Mom! What's our snack today?”

“Well, sweetie, the cupboard is almost empty, but here are a few stale cookies. Enjoy!”

about 3 p.m.—school bus stop

Oops—we got evicted from the mouse-poop shed, and that shook me up and brought me here to this covered area beside a dirt road where I'm sitting on a bench in the shade. I got the shit scared outta me in that last place.

After eating the cookies, I curled up in the corner and dozed off. I awoke to a live nightmare because this huge dude with a long blond mustache and a humongous beer gut was all standing there and staring at me, like maybe he thought I was worthless, but at least he was Without Shotgun.

“You speak English, boy?” Mr. Huge Cowboy-Type barked like some kind of official border-patrol canine, like he hated me just for my ethnicity, even though he didn't know my ethnicity.

So I struggled to my feet while I was wishing my skin was lighter, like Mom's and Will's. “Yes, I definitely speak English.”

Mr. Cowboy-Type scratched his belly, and it seemed almost funny because I wondered if next he would start scratching his balls. “Well, you're on private property, mister. And that is
MY
hay your horse is inhaling. Not that you care.”

“I do care! We got lost and your shed door wasn't locked. I'm very sorry, sir. We're just taking a break from the sun. I'll give you money for the hay.”

“Yeah, well, just get the hell outta here, and I mean right now. Before I call the sheriff!”

It took forever to pick up my stuff and shove it in the saddlebags. I flung the gel pad and Western saddle over Shy's back, and tightened the cinch and breast collar and crupper, all that usual stuff, while that asshole-creep stared me down. When Shy galloped fast toward the gravel-covered driveway, it felt like we were escaping from a weirdo who kills Latino kids for a hobby. It's so wrong. And I wish I could go back home. Now. Tonight. To a place where I have parents.

My mom—English, German, Irish, whatever

• A mellow person but she panics around Will, erases him by meditating
  
• What keeps her going: herbal tea, soothing music, long walks in the hills
  
• What she loves: living the life of a strict vegetarian, driving a hybrid, reading self-help books
  

Mom's a butterfly