Lisa (3 page)

“I’ll take care of that,” I told my friends. “I got an A in French—”

“So what else is new?” Stevie teased.

I was a little embarrassed. I don’t usually brag about my grades, but at that moment they actually seemed kind of relevant. “Well, this time it looks like it may do me some good. Anyway, I need some practice with my French. I’ll go for a trail ride with the French ambassador.”

“Merci beaucoup,”
Stevie said in her best French accent, which is actually pretty good. Then she turned to Carole. “And since Lisa is solving that problem, you get to cope with the fact that somebody named Jarvis is coming Thursday at one
P.M.
and wants his ‘favorite horse.’ That’s what Mrs. Reg wrote.”

I was glad that was going to be Carole’s problem. After we talked about it a bit, we returned to
my
biggest problem—namely, the missing pin. We decided to search the tack room in case one of the cats had batted it in there.

It wasn’t an easy job. By the time we’d examined every square inch of the room, cleaning it up as we went along, we were dirty and dusty and sweaty. We were also dejected, since there was no sign of the pin anywhere. The only good things about the task were that Max noticed what we were doing and seemed
impressed, and Veronica noticed and seemed annoyed.

The next day—yesterday—was truly exhausting. One kind of funny thing did happen, though I could never tell Carole I thought so since she didn’t see much humor in it. See, she had volunteered to tack up the horses for that beginner class. So naturally, she brought out four of the stable ponies. But it turned out that the “beginners” were actually four professional basketball players! Each of them was about twice as tall as the pony Carole had chosen for him! The basketball players thought it was hysterical, but Carole was really embarrassed. Stevie and I arrived at the stable just in time to help saddle up some tall horses.

“Thank you,” Carole whispered as the four men rode off, still chuckling about the mix-up.

“No problem,” Stevie said with a grin. “I got the feeling this was the funniest thing that had happened to those guys in a long time. They
loved
it.”

Judging by the look Carole gave Stevie in reply, it was obvious that
she
hadn’t loved it at all. I could understand her being a little embarrassed, but I didn’t think it was that big a deal. After all, it was an honest mistake.

Not like my big blooper. I have no excuse for what happened today.

I guess I was kind of tired and cranky when I got to the stable this morning. The three of us had spent yesterday afternoon painting the front of the stable, and
we ended up accidentally dumping paint all over Diablo in the process. Luckily those basketball players returned from their ride in time to help us finish, but it still took an awfully long time. Plus I stayed up late last night boning up on my French vocabulary, and when I finally went to sleep I kept waking up from dreams of riding a horse straight up the side of the Eiffel Tower.

So I wasn’t in the best mood on Thursday morning. For one thing, volunteering to ride with the French ambassador meant I would have to skip our jump class, and I really love jumping. But I knew it was the least I could do, considering that I’d lost Mrs. Reg’s pin, so I tried to look on the bright side. At least I would get to practice my French, as I’d told my friends, and that would be fun. Not as much fun as jumping, maybe, but …

Anyway, while Carole was busy assigning horses to riders for the day and Stevie was figuring out how to order the feed, I was reviewing the French I’d studied the night before and feeling nervous. Even though Madame Smith always praised my work in her class, I wasn’t sure that a real French person would be so impressed. I didn’t think I’d have any problem with the basics—
Bonjour, je m’appelle Lisa Atwood
—but after that things could get tricky. What would a French ambassador want to talk about during a trail ride? Horses? International relations? Escargot? I had no idea. The only topic I’d really prepared for was the first one. For instance, I had memorized the French
word for saddle,
selle
, and horse,
cheval
, along with some other useful words and phrases. But my stomach was in knots by the time a car pulled up to the stable at ten-fifteen and a distinguished-looking middle-aged man stepped out.

Still, I had promised my friends I would handle this. So I took a deep breath and stepped forward to greet the man.
“Bonjour,”
I began.
“Je m’appelle Lisa Atwood.”

The man looked surprised. Then he smiled and replied, “
Bonjour
, Lisa.”

I was proud of myself, guessing that he was impressed that someone my age was talking to him in his native tongue. That made it easier for me to go on speaking as we got ready to head out on Barq and Delilah. Before long I’d lost a lot of my self-consciousness, and as we rode across the fields and entered a wooded trail, we chatted easily about this and that.

The man was so nice that I wanted to tell him a little about The Saddle Club. “
Moi et mes amies
,” I began. “
Nous avons un
, uh,
une
—oh, drat—
une
 …” This time my brain was failing me. “I just can’t remember the word for
club
in French,” I explained helplessly, shrugging sheepishly to convey my confusion.

“I can’t remember it, either,” the man replied in perfect English. “But I suspect it’s something like
club
or
association.
Anyway, why don’t we try English for a while?”

It took me about eight very long seconds to realize what was going on. The man’s English was not only perfect, it was completely free of any trace of a French accent. In fact, the only accent he had was a slight, pleasant Virginia drawl.

I didn’t know what to say. “You’re not the French ambassador,” I stammered. “You’re not even French!”

“Of course I am,” the man replied with a smile. “I’m Michael French. I thought you knew.”

I felt like protesting. Mrs. Reg’s list had said it was the French ambassador who was coming!

Then I realized it wasn’t Mrs. Reg’s mistake. It was mine—ours. Mrs. Reg had written, “Thursday, 11, Am. French.” She hadn’t meant anything about a French ambassador—The Saddle Club had assumed that. She had just written eleven
A.M.
in a slightly unusual manner.

“Oh no,” I groaned, wishing the earth would open right then and there and swallow me and Barq. “I’m—” I’d been trying to think in French for so long that for a second I couldn’t come up with the proper words in English. “I can’t—I mean, it’s so—”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. French said cheerfully. “I’m really very flattered. See, I work for the State Department. I would like nothing more than to be an ambassador. The fact that you thought I was one already—well, you can imagine. I’ve loved every minute of it. Besides, French is the language of diplomacy, and mine’s been getting rusty. You gave me a chance to
speak in French, which was terrific. I only expected to learn something about horseback riding. I got twice the value for my money!”

“You’re being awfully nice about this,” I said, his kind words making me feel a tiny bit better. “In fact, I think you’re giving
me
a lesson in diplomacy.”

I meant it, too. If Mr. French hadn’t been so wonderful about the whole thing, I really don’t know if I could have survived it. As it was, I managed to forget the whole episode—mostly, anyway—as we continued our ride. But believe me, after the misunderstandings we’ve come up with so far—first Carole and the basketball players, then me and Mr. French, the “ambassador”—I’m really hoping nothing else like that happens before Mrs. Reg gets back tomorrow evening. I don’t think I could stand it!

Hotel Zentrum

Vienna, Austria

Dear Lisa,

Greetings from Austria! I’ve been thinking of my favorite little sister a lot these past few days, because I’ve been visiting the Spanish Riding School here in Vienna. Mom keeps telling me how much you enjoy your riding lessons with your friends. You would really like the horses here. The riders and trainers are very interesting people, and the horses are really something—probably
a lot different from the ponies you ride there at Pine Tree Stable! They’re all big and white, and they do lots of fancy tricks, sort of like circus horses. Sometimes they look like they’re actually dancing! By the way, even though they call it the Spanish Riding School, it was started right here in Austria way back in the 1500s. They named it after the Lipizzaner horses they use, which originally came from Spain.

You’re probably wondering why I’m spending so much of my summer vacation looking at dancing horses. I’m sure Mom and Dad told you I’m spending the summer traveling around Europe and seeing the sights. Since next year will be my last year of college, I want to start figuring out what I want to do after I graduate. I’ve been thinking about some kind of career in writing, so I’ve volunteered to write articles for a student-run paper at my school in London. I’m working on one about the Lipizzaners this week. Just imagine it—your brother, the famous journalist!

Anyway, I’d better go. I’m on a deadline!

Love,
Peter

Dear Diary
,

Boy, am I sorry I ever complained about my life being boring! I have so much to write that I hardly know where to begin. I guess I’d better just start where I left off in my last entry, since everything happened pretty fast after that.

I had a big knot in my stomach when I got to Pine Hollow on Friday morning. It was the big day. The day Mrs. Reg returned.

I jogged all the way to the stable, and when I arrived I saw a huge eighteen-wheeler parked in the driveway. On the side were the words
Connor Hay & Grain.

The driver was sitting in his seat looking at a piece of paper, so I figured he must have just arrived. I walked over. “Hello,” I said. “You must be dropping off our feed order, right?”

“That’s right.” The driver scratched his chin and glanced at the paper again, looking perplexed. “But I’m wondering if there’s some mistake. I deliver here all the time, and I can’t figure out why there’s so much more than usual this time.”

I felt the knot in my stomach tighten a little more. The last thing The Saddle Club needed right then was another problem. “What do you mean?” I asked carefully.

The driver shrugged. “Take a look in the back. Tell me if you think what’s inside will fit in your feed shed.”

I did as he said, walking around to the big rear doors of the truck. They were propped open, and the bright morning sunshine lit up what was inside. Feed. A lot of feed. “This can’t all be for us!” I exclaimed.

The driver had hopped out and followed me around to the back. “Sure is, young lady,” he said, holding up the piece of paper. “I’ve checked and triple-checked the invoice. This is the order I was given.” He scratched his chin again. “I can’t figure it out. Mrs. Reg is always so careful about her orders.”

I had no idea what to tell him. “Uh, Mrs. Reg didn’t
place the order this time,” I said. “Um, the person who did should be inside somewhere. I’ll go get her.”

“Thanks.” The driver nodded pleasantly at me, then headed back to the cab of the truck.

I raced inside, wondering how this could have happened. Stevie had proudly explained to Carole and me how she’d found an old invoice and ordered the exact same rations. But judging by my quick peek into that truck, there looked to be three or four times what we needed. “Stevie!” I hollered as soon as I entered the stable building. I didn’t know where she was most likely to be at that moment, and I didn’t want to waste time searching. “Stevie!”

“Hold your horses!” Stevie’s familiar voice called back. “I’m coming.”

A second later she was hurrying toward me with a big smile on her face. I didn’t bother to wonder what she was looking so pleased about—there would be time for that later. “Outside,” I told her briskly. “Quick.”

Stevie shot me a curious glance, but shrugged and did as I said. As soon as she stepped outside and saw the feed truck, her smile grew broader. “Oh, good, the order’s here,” she said, hurrying toward the cab.

The driver was inside again. He leaned out the window as Stevie approached. “Where does Mrs. Reg want me to put all this stuff?”

“In the feed shed, like usual,” Stevie replied with an expression that said she thought the man must be a little slow.

“This won’t fit in the feed shed like usual,” the driver replied patiently. “This is a big order.”

For once, Stevie was speechless. I could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she tried to figure out what was going on. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her pocket and glanced at it.

“Girls, why don’t you go get Mrs. Reg so she can tell us what to do?” the driver suggested. He sounded less patient this time, and I gulped, guessing he was starting to get annoyed with the delay.

“Uh-oh,” Stevie murmured, but she wasn’t looking at the driver. I wasn’t sure she’d even heard him. She was still staring at that paper. Looking over her shoulder, I saw that it was an invoice from the feed company. Finally she glanced up at the driver and smiled weakly. “This whole truckload isn’t for us, right?”

“Every bit of it,” the driver answered. “Just like you ordered. Now would you please go get Mrs. Reg?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Stevie grabbed me by the sleeve and dragged me after her into the stable.

“What’s going on?” I asked, hoping that Stevie had more of a clue than I did.

She did. She proceeded to explain it to me as we entered the office. It turned out that the invoice she had used as a guide had been placed exactly one week before the last big horse show at Pine Hollow. That was why the truck held enough grain, hay, and straw to feed and bed more than a hundred horses.

As soon as I understood what she was saying, I let
out a groan and sank down into the guest chair in front of Mrs. Reg’s desk. “Oh no.”

“Oh, yes,” Stevie replied grimly.

“Why don’t you just tell them we don’t need it?” I suggested, figuring that was the only sensible solution.