Born That Way (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The unicorn is limping beside me. He throws his weight off his right front foot any time it hits the ground.

“Can't you get that fixed?” I ask.

“As you know, not everything is fixable.”

We walk some more. I look at his horn out of the corner of my eye. I'm pretty sure it's even shorter than last time but I'm not about to say anything.

“What?” he says.

I don't want to ask. He already seems more unhappy than usual. I decide on a diversion. Something else has been on my mind anyway. “My parents aren't very happy. I think it's my fault.”

“It's not your fault. They just feel guilty—it's an essential ingredient of parenting.”

“It's because of me.”

“It's not your responsibility. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Really?”

He grunts.

“That's what Dad said about his problem with Grandpa, that it had nothing to do with me, but it seems to me it has everything to do with me. I don't understand why Dad isn't happy about Grandpa buying me a horse. I know Dad's really careful with his money, so why should he be upset if Grandpa wants to buy me something?”

“Your dad works very hard.”

“I know that.”

“And he pays for a lot of things that aren't very exciting. Like the mortgage. Like the dentist. Then Grandpa comes along and buys the fun stuff, and everyone loves him for it.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way. I guess it makes sense. But why didn't he tell me?”

“He doesn't know.”

I'm pondering this when the unicorn says, “So they think you have Turner Syndrome, do they?”

“They say I have only one X chromosome instead of two, like women are supposed to have.”

“So you're not bisexual. You're semi-sexual.” He snorts loudly at his own joke.

“Well at least they can fix some of it—they can help me grow taller. But I probably won't be able to have children.”

“Oh well.” He sounds sad, which surprises me.

“Who wants children? Especially if children make you feel guilty all the time. I want a horse.”

He snorts again. “As if a hornless one will solve all your problems.”

I tell him, “You're just grumpy because your foot is sore.”

“You're just happy because your heart and kidneys are normal.”

“Some people with Turner Syndrome aren't as lucky as me.”

“So all of a sudden you think you're lucky?”

“Yeah. I do.”

And I wake up, and I'm still feeling lucky, which is pretty strange. After all, I have a medical problem that went undiagnosed too long so I may always be short and I'll always look unusual and my ovaries will probably shrivel up. But my heart is fine and my kidneys are fine and my bones are strong and I don't have two competing sets of sexual organs which could make me accidentally pregnant if I jumped around too much. Things could be much worse.

But the main reason I'm feeling lucky is that today is my first riding lesson.

Dad insists on driving me. He says he wants to be sure everything's on the up and up. Mostly I think he wants to be sure to get a receipt for the cheque he's writing for the weekly lesson package. He has said something about writing it off as a medical expense.

Mom says she has some errands to do and she'll come later, which is strange, but since the first half of the first lesson is going to be about grooming and tacking up she doesn't need to be there anyway.

Dad stays in the car when we get there. Of course he has some calls to make.

I'm so excited I think I might throw up.

Kansas inspects me. She checks the fit of my helmet and adjusts the straps so it sits level on my head. Then she sees my feet. “Nice boots,” she says.

Electra is already in the cross-ties in the alleyway in the barn. She doesn't look like she needs brushing, but I do it anyway. Kansas shows me the right brushes to use and I already know their names because of studying the Pony Club manual, but I've never actually had my hands on all of them before. Then she gives me a hoof pick and shows me how to ask Electra to pick up her feet so I can clean out the dirt, of which there isn't any. And I know that Kansas is so proud of Electra she's got her looking perfect for me, and she's proud of me too, and she's pleased with herself that her business is starting and I'm just about vibrating with pleasure and nervous anticipation and that's when she stops.

“Sylvia, the most important thing is to be focused on your horse. I know you're excited, but you have to put that aside and think about Electra and how she's doing.”

We stand back and look at her. Electra examines us calmly in response.

“She's standing square on all four feet,” says Kansas. “She's not keeping her weight off anything that might be sore. Her ears are perked, she's paying attention, she looks bright and healthy and happy.”

“Like me,” I say.

Kansas reaches down and puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “Let's tack her up.”

And she shows me how to put on the bridle and the saddle. I know the names of all the parts, but getting everything on straight is another matter. I have to stand on a stool to make sure the saddle is centered on Electra's back, and it's hard work for my fingers to get the girth as tight as Kansas wants it, but I do it, and then I lead Electra out to the riding ring.

Kansas tells me to use the mounting block and points me to a set of wooden stairs going nowhere that are just inside the entry gate.

I don't want to be treated special just because I'm short so I say, “I don't need to use a mounting block. I can get on from the ground.”

“Everyone uses a mounting block,” says Kansas. “I use one. It's a kindness to the horse. You don't want to be pulling on her spine every time you haul yourself up into the saddle. You can learn to get on from the ground later—you'll need to know how for trail riding. But when you're in the ring, I want you to use the mounting block.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“It's okay, I understand.”

Using the mounting block is kind of like getting on from the fence, like I used to do with Hambone, only easier. And I've never ridden in a saddle before. Kansas adjusts the stirrups to the right length, then attaches a lunge line to Electra's bridle and leads us to the middle of the arena. I feel Electra move underneath me. I'm not sliding around like I did bareback, but still, it's not steady, like riding a bike. I am way off the ground and completely out of control. It's not anything like my dreams either, but it's real.

That's when I notice Mom's car parked beside Dad's at the rail of the riding ring. I'd been concentrating so much on Electra that I hadn't heard it pull up, which has to be a major miracle. There's no one in either car so I look around and see three people leaning against the fence watching us. Dad is trying to take some photos of me using his cell phone but it doesn't seem to be going very well. Mom gives me a wave and I can't wave back because I'm holding the reins. And then I see that the third person is Grandpa. Mom must have picked him up at the airport. I didn't think he was coming until next week sometime. He waves at me too and shouts, “Hi there, Pipsqueak! You look great!”

Electra gives her head a toss and the movement ripples right back through me and I grab the front of the saddle.

“Okay, Sylvia, take a deep breath, pay attention, here we go,” says Kansas.

After my lesson Grandpa says he wants to take us out for lunch to celebrate and Mom says they should take me home to clean up and change first and Grandpa says Don't be silly, Evie, and Dad says he has some work to do and Mom says, Tony it's a special occasion and I say McDonald's and they all say
No
at once so we go to this fancy place with white table cloths overlooking the ocean not far from where I found the barnacles, which seems fitting somehow.

I'm still so excited I can hardly eat, and I can't stop talking because I have to be sure they noticed everything, like how I stretched my legs down and how I held my hands steady and how I let my back move with the motion of the horse and how I almost fell off but didn't, when Electra stumbled.

The most wonderful thing is that they all look happy and there's not the slightest whiff of guilt in the air and the only talk about money is when Dad and Grandpa argue about who's going to pay the lunch bill and Grandpa wins as usual.

I go home with Dad. Grandpa wants Mom to take him shopping, so they don't get back until later.

I'm showing Dad the video on YouTube of Blue Hors Matine doing her freestyle dressage test at the World Equestrian Games, which is hard because every time I watch it I cry so I can't explain to him exactly what she's doing. But at the end Dad sits there and doesn't say anything for a minute and then he says, “Wow.”

Grandpa takes his suitcase to the guest room. He says he's going to unpack, then have a nap. Dad says he needs to review one of the equity funds. Mom has some work to do in the kitchen because Auntie Sally, Taylor and Erika are coming over later for dinner.

I go to the garage to clean and polish my paddock boots, which takes quite a while because to do it properly I have to take out the laces completely and then put them back in again after the polish has dried. I've almost finished when Mom calls me into the house and we go down to my bedroom. Dad and Grandpa are sitting beside each other on my bed.

“I bought you an early birthday present,” says Grandpa. He points to a Sears bag leaning against my bedside table.

I open the bag, expecting a wrapped present inside. Instead there's a small plastic footstool.

I hold it in both hands and try to smile. “Thanks, Grandpa.” I'm thinking he's so old he really has no idea any more what's an appropriate gift for teenagers. But I don't want to be rude. At least he's trying.

“You're very welcome,” says Grandpa. He and Dad sit there on the bed smiling at me and I think maybe I've missed something. I look over at Mom who is smiling too. I smile back at them all.

Grandpa clears his throat. “It's a mounting block.”

And my brain freezes up. I'm holding the little stool in front of me, staring at it like it's a live thing, and I know what it's for and I know what I should be doing with it, but I can't move. It's almost like when I was in that dream where Kansas was sitting on my bed holding my foot, I'm that paralyzed. Here I am, about to get exactly what I want in life and I can't take a single step.

Mom pries the footstool out of my fingers and places it at the base of the open door. She takes me by the elbow and guides me over, and somehow I figure out how to put one foot beside the other and stand with my back against the door edge.

“Use a book on her head, Evie,” says Grandpa.

“Dad, I know,” says Mom. She grabs my Pony Club manual and a pencil from my desk, balances the book on my head and draws a line. I hear the soft snicking sound of the pencil lead on the paint above my ear. I'm afraid to turn around and look. I can see the disappointment on Grandpa's face. Mom sits down beside him.

“Maybe I should have bought a taller stool,” he says.

I can't believe it. I take a peek at the door—I'm about a hand short. But that's not the unbelievable part. What I can't believe is how relieved I feel.

“I'm not ready,” I tell them.

Mom says, “Sure you are, Honey.”

Dad says, “You're a very responsible kid.”

Grandpa says, “I've already cashed in the bonds, they matured last month, now the money's sitting in my account waiting to be used.”

I stand on the stool and look down on them, perched together on my bed, all trying to look upbeat, all trying to do the right thing. The trouble is, they don't know what the right thing is, and for once I do.

“Kansas says I'm not ready. She says I need to take lessons for a while so that when I do buy my own horse I'll be able to ride it properly. She says any horse that is quiet enough for me to learn on now might not suit me in a year.”

Now they all look disappointed.

I look back to the purple mark on the door. “I probably need a year to grow that much anyway. It's perfect, really.”

And it is perfect. In a year I'll be good enough at riding to handle a great horse. Grandpa can buy one for me then, as well as a taller footstool, if that's what I need to reach the purple mark. In the meantime, I have a lot to learn. And Mom needs a new car. I know better than to suggest that Grandpa buy her one—I know how Dad will react, whether he understands why or not. But I think I can probably help them work something out. Somehow. It will be an interesting campaign, and marketing is something I am skilled at now. Plus there's something else I plan on learning from Electra, the little boss mare: how to move the herd with the flick of an ear. My next campaign will be so subtle no one will notice a thing.