Team Challenge (7 page)

“Go to town!” I told him.

When the grass looked like a flock of sheep had spent the night there, we took the ponies back to their stables, and I handed Epona to James when no one was looking.

“Your turn to have a word, find out Moth’s take on it all,” I told him. Five minutes later and James was back.

“We’re good,” he said. “Moth’s jumping faults were genuine, but I could be a bit more thankful, too, apparently. She said we have to remember we’re a team.”

I felt so utterly guilty. How awful to be reminded by our own ponies about how we were supposed to get the most out of them. In our excitement and nervousness about the Sublime Equine Challenge, we’d overlooked the fact that ponies, just like people, respond to praise and encouragement, not negativity. We so totally had to remember that and stop whining all the time.

Drummer and I practiced our routine again, and I made sure I was much more polite and asked his opinion on certain movements. He even had some good suggestions. Tiffany and Bean did some schooling (minus the noseband!) with Katy, and James offering useful advice from the fence and they made a real fuss over Tiff. Both ponies were cooperation personified. It was so great! In the afternoon, we all went for a fast, hard ride in the woods to let off some steam. The ponies loved it, and so did we!

“OK,” said James, pulling an overexcited Moth up after we’d raced one another to the lake, “we’re good to go allout at the next qualifier. Let’s go for it!”

We all gave a high five and whooped with delight. Bring it on! We were so going to do better the next time around. The ponies’ pep talk had definitely straightened us all out!

We rode back to the yard with Tiffany, now thoroughly excited, going sideways and setting Drum off. It took forever to settle them down, and as we walked through the woods, Katy brought up the subject of our team name, insisting it would help the team spirit.

“I don’t get Cat and Leanne’s team name,” said Bean. “I mean SLIC, what does that mean?”

“It’s their names—Scott, Leanne, India, and Catriona,” Katy explained.

I thought that was clever—and lucky that it worked.

“Well, we could do that. How about we’re Team BPKJ?” suggested Bean.

“That’s gibberish!” snorted Katy.

“That’s it, Team Gibberish!” yelled James.

“I think we need to come up with something snappy. Something that sums up what we’re about,” Katy said.

“So we’re back to Team Useless,” said James. Katy glared at him.

“Or we could be ironic,” James said. “How about the Fantastic Four?”

“That’s not ironic,” said Bean. “That’s just lying.”

“But maybe if we give ourselves something to live up to, it might not turn out ironic at all,” suggested Katy.

“As long as we don’t have T-shirts,” I said. “I don’t want to walk around with that on my back.”

“Can anyone think of anything better?” asked James.

No one said a word.

“That’s it then, the Fantastic Four it is!” said Katy, as we rode into the yard.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. It was Drummer and he wasn’t very happy. “There are eight of us in this team. I can see our little pep talk has had very little effect.”

“What’s your point?” I said confused. I could see Katy and Bean looking at me. James had ridden off to Moth’s stable and was out of earshot.

“Yes,” added Tiffany, “what about us?”

“You’re doing it again,” said Bluey, shaking his head.

“What’s wrong now?” Katy asked.

“We can’t be the Fantastic Four,” I told her. “There are eight of us.”

Bean’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, no, we’re in trouble again!” she cried.

“Oh, sorry, Bluey. You’re right!” exclaimed Katy.

“Can we be the Fantastic Eight, then?” I asked. It didn’t sound as catchy.

“Hardly,” said Drummer, in disgust.

“We can be the Great Eight,” suggested Bluey.

“Perfect!” I said, and told the others. They agreed, and Bean trotted Tiffany over to tell James there’d been a change of plan. Already!

As I took my feet out of my stirrups, my cell phone went off. Sliding to the ground, I saw it was Dad calling. We hadn’t spoken for a while.

“Hi, Dad!” I said.

“Hello, Pumpkin—how’s my best girl?” he boomed. I had to hold the phone at arm’s length, he was so loud.

“OK, thanks. How are you. And Lyn?” I remembered to add.

“Yes, we’re fine. Thanks, love. We’d love to come and see you—and hey, you’ll love this…”

I held my breath.

“Lyn’s taking up horse riding.”

There was a pause for dramatic effect. I said nothing— due to the fact that I was totally stunned, my mouth wide open like a landed fish.

“I said she might as well try it out on old Drummer before she gets all the gear in case she doesn’t like it,” Dad continued. “We’d love to come over tomorrow, and Lyn can have a ride on Drummer. What do you say?”

Skinny Lynny on Drummer? Don’t think so! But then, I could hardly say no, could I? I got my gaping mouth working again and went to say OK, but it came out as a sort of mouse squeak.

“Right, it’s a date!” said Dad. He never seems to understand that I might have plans. It’s as though I’d been moping around, with nothing to do, just waiting for him to call so I can let his horrible, skinny girlfriend ride MY pony. Then I remembered that I’d promised myself to make an effort with Skinny Lynny, and what had I just learned from the ponies?

“Er…” I said.

“We’ll meet you at Drummer’s at eleven o’clock tomorrow. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Pumpkin. We both are!”

He hung up.

“Did I hear right?” inquired a wide-eyed Drummer, his head up like an indignant llama. “Do I take it I’m giving pony rides tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I told him. “And before you get all huffy about it, remember that my dad pays for your keep so play ball or you could find yourself in one of the classified ads in the local paper.”

“No need for threats,” Drummer sniffed. “I knew your positivity wouldn’t last.”

Oh, pooh, I thought. It seemed no sooner had we fixed on one problem, another galloped up to fill its space.

Chapter 7

I
t was almost a quarter to twelve when they arrived. I’d had Drummer tacked up for over half an hour. You can imagine how he felt about that!

“Hi there, Pumpkin!” shouted Dad, once he’d parked the car next to Sophie’s luxury horse trailer. I’m probably getting a bit old to be called that. I mean, it had been OK when I was six. Would Dad still be calling me Pumpkin when I was sixteen, or eighteen, or really old, say twenty-one?

When Skinny Lynny got out of the car I couldn’t stop my mouth from becoming a black hole. She was wearing bronze-colored breeches and the latest Sublime Equine lime-green polo shirt. Long, leather riding boots made her walk as though she had no knees and her long, blond hair spilled out from under a top-of-the-range blue velvet riding hat. I thought this session on Drum was a tryout to decide whether she was going to take up riding? She looked fairly committed to me. At least four-hundred-dollars committed, and my dad would have paid for it. I heard a gulp behind me.

“Check her out!” Drummer exclaimed. “I thought you said she couldn’t ride?”

“She can’t!” I hissed back.

“Doesn’t Lyn look the part, eh?” said Dad, looking all pleased and proud with his trophy girlfriend in her over-the-top getup.

“I thought you’d look a bit nicer, Pia,” scolded Lyn, looking me up and down. Rude! I was dressed in jodhpurs and a polo shirt.

“I think I might enjoy this.” Drummer chuckled.

“Drummer…” I growled in a warning voice. Skinny Lynny tipped her head to one side and smiled.

“Dear Pia,” she said in the sort of voice you use to tell tiny children that their teddy bears will cry if they don’t eat up all their greens, “are the ponies talking to you again?”

Skinny Lynny had never really believed that I could hear what horses and ponies were saying. She’d always treated me as though I was making it up, or I was bonkers. I didn’t really care whether she believed me or not. Impressing Skinny Lynny wasn’t a priority of mine.

“Now,” said Dad, rubbing his hands together, “I can’t wait to see the future show jumper of the year onboard.”

I led Drummer to the outdoor school and over to the mounting block, showing Skinny Lynny how to mount, and after a few squeaks and squeals, and a shove from me, she was soon sitting in Drum’s saddle, looking scared stiff.

“It’s very high up,” she said.

“No, it isn’t,” I mumbled sulkily.

“You look fantastic in the saddle, darling,” shouted Dad from the other side of the fence.

“No, she doesn’t,” I argued. Skinny Lynny sat stiffly with her bottom jutting out and her heels clamped into Drummer’s sides.

“Now sit up and tuck your tail under you,” I told her.

“I haven’t got a tail,” said Skinny Lynny, breathless at the suggestion.

“I know, but make like you do. That’s better. Now breathe.”

“Oh, I was holding my breath!” gasped Skinny Lynny. “How did you know that?”

“All beginners do it. OK, don’t rest your hands on the saddle; carry them like this…Good. Now put all your weight down your legs and into your heels. Let them drop. Relax…” I wobbled her legs until they softened. “Now I’m going to lead Drum around and I want you to stay in that position.”

Drum took a step forward. Skinny Lynny squealed. I just spotted the wicked gleam in his eye as Drum shook his head, which had Skinny Lynny clutching his mane, squeaking like a guinea pig.

This wasn’t going well.

“Don’t squeal, you’ll scare Drummer,” I said. Skinny Lynny looked at me wide-eyed and terrified. “It’s OK, he’s not easily scared,” I reassured her. “But you need to be quiet.”

“Will he throw me off?” she whispered.

I so wanted to say yes. Instead, I said, “No, no, he’s a pussycat, honestly!” as Drummer—encouraged by the success of his head shaking—put in a hop and squealed himself. Skinny Lynny squeaked and yelled, “Make him stop or I’ll get off!”

“Oh, this is going to be such fun,” sniggered Drummer. Secretly, I agreed with him. Skinny was hopeless. I mean, we’d only taken three tiny steps and she was all for throwing in the towel.

“Just sit up and Drummer will be fine,” I told her. “Honestly, I won’t let go of him.”

Dad climbed through the fence and came over.

“Are you all right, darling?” he said, all concerned. He wasn’t talking to me.

“This horse is dangerous,” Skinny replied accusingly, “and Pia can’t control him.”

“Of course he isn’t, and of course I can,” I said.

“I could be!” threatened Drummer menacingly.

“Come on, Lyn, you’ve got all the gear now. You might at least walk around,” Dad encouraged.

“Well, I’ll try to be brave,” Skinny Lynny replied, smiling at Dad.

“That’s my girl!” beamed Dad. I thought I was going to throw up. I mean, it was hardly heroic, plodding around with me hanging on to Drummer’s reins.

So we walked around, and the squeaking died down— at least it did from the saddle. Drum had realized he was onto a good thing, however, and as soon as I took my eye off him, he put in a hop, or he threw his head down to scratch his knee, or he shook his head and squealed. Every time, Skinny Lynny clutched his mane and caught her breath or she squealed back. It was like the clash of the squeaky toys.

“Shall we try a trot?” I said wearily.

“Is that fast?” Skinny gasped.

“Fast-er,” I said.

“Oh, OK, second gear. All right,” she agreed. I explained what trotting would feel like and got her to hold the front of the saddle.

“Keep your heels down and sit up tall,” I said. “Here we go—nice and gently!” I growled at Drummer.

“Hee-hee!” Drum chuckled, and he bounded forward into trot. Skinny yelled for him to stop, stop,
stop!
And Drum obliged, very suddenly, snorting when Skinny landed on his neck.

“Trotting’s awful!” She gulped. “How can this be so difficult—it looks so easy!”

“Yeah, well, everyone thinks that, but it takes a long time to learn,” I said. “You want to try again, now you know what to expect?”

We did. We even managed half a circuit in trot. After that, I decided to stick to walking and got Skinny Lynny to steer instead. That went rather well, and Skinny Lynny managed a smile. Once she’d learned how to stop, she was much more confident.

“Come on, now,” Dad called, already bored. “We don’t want to be late for lunch, Lyn.” I remembered that he’d never been very interested in watching me ride either.

“Oh, hold on,” said Drummer, and he lifted his tail and dropped a large poop on the sand.

“Oh, that’s so awful!” whined drama queen Skinny, dropping one rein and wafting her hand in front of her face.

“It’s only pony poo,” I muttered.

I got Skinny Lynny to lead Drummer back to the yard. Of course, he grabbed hold of the bit and dragged her over to the feed room, and I had to rescue her. Then he rubbed his head on her, leaving brown hairs all over the lime-green Sublime Equine polo top, and concluded by scoring a direct hit on her foot with his near front hoof, offering Skinny Lynny yet another screaming opportunity.

“Oops!” exclaimed Drummer, all innocent.

“I don’t know that Drummer is a very safe pony for you, Pia,” mused Dad, nursing Skinny Lynny’s foot. “He seems a bit wild. I can get you a quieter pony, if you like.”

“Of course Drummer isn’t wild,” I told him. “Honestly, Dad, he’s just playing up because he knows Lyn isn’t very experienced. All ponies do it.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Dad continued.

“Stop it!” I hissed, looking Drummer in the eye. “I know what you’re doing, but it’ll backfire on you. She’s not an Xbox game.”

“I don’t know how you put up with the awful horsey smell around here,” said Skinny Lynny, screwing up her nose.

“Horses smell OK!” I said.

“But all that manure—from the muck heap. I mean, it’s steaming,” said Skinny. “It can’t be healthy.”

“It’s fine. No one notices it after a while,” I said firmly. Now she was going to get Drum sold on the grounds of health and safety. Honestly!

“If you think that’s bad…” began Drummer, lifting his tail and letting out a long, and very smelly, fart. Skinny put her hand over her nose and whimpered. I couldn’t understand it—I mean, she lives with my dad and he’s much worse than Drum when he’s had Mexican.