Shamrock Stable, Washington
Tuesday, January 14th, 10:15 pm
I looked up from my history book when Mom walked into my room. I didn’t see the ring on her finger and tried to ignore the relief that swept through me. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me.” Mom sat on the edge of my double bed. “I haven’t seen you since this morning when you blew in from the barn, ran for the shower and hit the road for school. How was your practice?”
“Other than the fact that my new coach is trying to turn me into Basketball Barbie, it’s fine.” I carefully turned in my chair so I could focus on her. Charlie was asleep under my desk and I didn’t want to disturb the puppy in his cave. “The at-risk meeting was good tonight. Ingrid got us going on stereotypes. She gave us an assignment this week instead of asking for our goals.”
“Really? What is it?”
“The girls are supposed to act like guys and the boys are going to try being sensitive and sweet. Then we list the labels we’re called, who uses them and bring the names back to group.” I laughed. “It’s going to be fun. We only do it for a couple hours, because Tom wimped out when Ingrid suggested we do it for the whole week.”
“How does that help you learn to deal with others?” Confusion filled Mom’s face and she tilted her head to one side. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s all about prejudices.” I glanced back at my book, then looked at her again. Perched on my bed, in blue jeans and a green Shamrock Stable sweatshirt, red hair foaming down her back, Mom reminded me of a fairy from one of the cartoons that my little sister loved. “My coach has preconceived notions about what girls can and can’t do. That’s on him, not me. All I need to do is my best.”
“That ties into the 4-H motto of making the best, better, something we’ll need to teach in our new club,” Mom said. “I’m glad this school is working out for you.”
“It’s good,” I said. “Anything else? I should get back to the first battles of the Civil War.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” Mom hesitated, then added. “Dave wants to go out on Friday night. Will you be here to take care of Autumn?”
“No worries,” I said. “You can count on me.”
“I always do. Don’t stay up too late. We have to hit the barns early.”
“I’ll be there.” I didn’t wait for her to leave before I started in on the Cornell notes again.
* * * *
Marysville, Washington
Wednesday, January 15th, 8:05 am
We’d finished our entry task, a long descriptive write about our favorite Christmas present. We had to tell what the gift looked like, sounded like, smelled like, tasted like, felt like if we touched it and the emotions it created in us. I wrote all about Charlie who was definitely the best puppy in the world. He was learning how to be a stock dog. He thought helping me water and feed the horses in the morning was meant to be doggie time.
Once we finished our writes, we’d moved onto our grammar packet and diagrammed three pages of sentences. After that, the next item on the list was to read our non-fiction book so it would inspire us to write a brilliant memoir. Since Mrs. Weaver didn’t know I’d read, The Man Who Listens to Horses at least a dozen times, I’d chosen it again. I could always learn something new from Monty Roberts, my favorite horse whisperer.
I glanced up when Vicky stopped next to me. She leaned down and whispered that it was my turn to conference with the teacher. I nodded, grabbed my comp book and went up to the front corner of the room and Mrs. Weaver’s desk. She waved to the other chair and I sat down. Obviously, this was going to take a while.
“Have you had a chance to study the syllabus so you know what the requirements are for this class, Sierra?”
“No.” Heat swept into my face and I knew my cheeks must be as red as my hair. “I’m sorry. I completely forgot about it.”
She sat and stared at me, a gray-haired troll in her gray suit. “Are you a real kid?”
“Sure. What else would I be?”
“Because I’m not hearing any excuses. You’re not telling me that you just got here last week, that the classes are harder than any you’ve ever done before, and that you have basketball practice almost every day.”
“I don’t think excuses are very effective or efficient,” I said. “Then, we have to do this stupid dance where you lecture me about taking responsibility. I’d lie, deny and waste time that I don’t have. Let’s just skip all those steps and cut to the chase. What do I need to know to pass your class and keep my four-point?”
“Definitely not a real kid.” Mrs. Weaver leaned forward and picked up a piece of paper. “I think I like you. Vicky said I would, but Robin told me that you were tough. I thought that meant you’d challenge my authority.”
“Why would I? It’d waste time I don’t have. You have a job to do here. You need to teach me English. I have a job in this room. I need to learn it.”
“Can I clone you?”
Before I answered, she gathered up more papers and handed them over. I glanced down at the top sheet. It read “Requirements for your Sophomore Project.” “What’s this?”
“To sum it up, you need to put together a research project about your future job. What do you plan to do with your life?”
“Run Shamrock Stable. It’s been in my family forever and I’m the next generation.”
“Is that what you’ve always wanted to do, Sierra? When you were a little girl, did you decide I’m going to grow up and be an entrepreneur?”
“Not really. I was going to be an actress.” I laughed. “I loved Julie Andrews. She was my hero. She could sing, dance, star in roles that ran the gamut from an innocent governess to a racy cross-dresser. Not very realistic, is it? So, what do I do? Get my mom to sign off on the hours that I spend teaching what Robin calls, Pee-Pee Camp and shoveling horsy stuff?”
“No.” Mrs. Weaver smiled at me. “You talk to Mr. Haller and find out how to get involved in the community theater he runs with the drama teacher at Centennial Mid-High.”
“What?” I gaped at her, feeling like my jaw was about to hit the floor. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to spend my life mucking stalls, training horses, teaching obnoxious brats who think I should groom and saddle for them while they stand and watch. Not to mention dealing with their arrogant parents who pitch fits when I won’t let their brats be bitten or kicked by animals that outweigh them by hundreds of pounds.”
“If it was your dream job, I could see it. Vicky loves each and every minute she’s in the barn. However, you’re not her. This project is about you finding your passion, Sierra. Life is too short to be miserable for the hours, days, weeks, years you spend on this planet.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “You bet. I can just hear my mom now. She’ll go off and tell me how many actresses never make it. The barn is a sure thing. Are you going to tell me that teaching snarky teens is what you love to do?”
“Yes, I am. It’s why I get up in the morning. Like the song says, “Some people get their kicks stomping on a dream.” I have the responsibility of encouraging youngsters to go after theirs. I change the world, one kid at a time. This is my passion, Sierra. It doesn’t sound like you share it so you will be a fabulous actress. You already are.”
“Me? How do you figure that?”
“You’ve already signed up for what you thought would be the role of your lifetime. I’m sure it will surprise your entire family when you opt for personal happiness instead. They’ve programmed you for a “life of quiet desperation” from the time you started elementary school. Since I’ve changed your whole life assignment, I’ll contact your mom and let her know.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“That nobody should give up their dreams especially not a girl like you.” Mrs. Weaver glanced past me to the clock over the door. “I’ve got time for one more conference. Send up Steve.”
I did on the long trip back to my desk. It felt like I was on the giant roller-coaster up at the fairgrounds. My head spun and my stomach bounced up and down. I didn’t know what to think. Acting? Community Theater? Mom would lose it. She hadn’t asked about all my different classes here and I hadn’t told her that I spent two periods a day singing and a third onstage in drama. Okay, so she wanted me in the teen choir at church, but that was part of the plan to turn me into Saint Sierra who was totally patient and tolerant.
Robin caught up with me in the hall. “You had a major conference with Weaver. What was that about?”
“My sophomore project. I thought I could skate through it by just doing barn stuff, but it has to be what she calls, my passion.”
“Wow, I didn’t know you had one. You’re always working at Shamrock.”
“Yeah, my life is nothing but horses. Only now, I’m supposed to sign up for Community Theater with Mr. Haller. My mom is going to freak.”
“Well, if she totally screams at Mrs. Weaver, it won’t work. She’s the reason I go with Dr. Larry and help with emergency large-animal calls on Sunday. My parents thought I was going to be a princess forever. They didn’t have a clue that I dreamed about being a veterinarian.”
Before I could answer, Dani hustled up to me, grabbed my arm. “Come on, Sierra. Move it, or we’ll be late.”
I nodded and we hurried down the hall. It didn’t surprise me that Robin wanted to work with animals. She’d been saving kittens, puppies, cats, dogs, birds and even snakes as long as I’d known her. When her folks decided she ought to have a horse for her sixteenth birthday, I wasn’t shocked that she brought home Twaziem, a starved, abused two-year-old Morab. Was there any other choice? Not for her.
Mr. Haller hung up the phone as we raced in the door. He smiled at us. “Breathe, ladies. Mrs. Weaver told me that she kept you late and didn’t want me to mark you tardy. Sierra, I hear you’re interested in helping with our spring production.”
“It depends on rehearsals,” I said. “I have basketball practice almost every day.”
“We meet Monday nights and Saturday afternoons.” Mr. Haller shuffled through a stack of scores on the piano. “By the time we get serious, basketball will be over.”
That actually made sense. I looked at the large songbook he handed me. “Victor, Victoria? No way. You can’t possibly intend to stage this.”
Comments erupted around me and Mr. Haller waved for silence. “Why not?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s majorly politically incorrect.” I didn’t have to look at the blurb on the cover to know the story. “A starving actress pretends to be a guy that pretends to be a woman in Paris during the 1930s. He or is it she becomes a singing sensation and it creates a major ruckus when people learn the truth.”
“It’s more topical now than it ever was before.” Mr. Haller gave me an approving look. “You’re familiar with the story. That’s good. Auditions this Saturday. Practice the “Le Jazz Hot,” number. You’ll sing it a capella, no musical accompaniment.”
“I’d be happy to just be in the chorus or help put on the show,” I said.
“Everybody helps anyway.” Dani opened her music folder. “We still all try out just for the fun of it and the experience.”
“All right. This is all new to me. I’ve never been in a show before.”
“You’ll love it.”
* * * *
That afternoon I changed for practice and stayed in the locker room until most of the other girls were ready to head into the gym. I would have loved to work on my dunks, but I didn’t dare. Coach Norris would decide I was showing off and then he’d want to bench me so I couldn’t play in tomorrow’s game.
Gretchen hurried in and waved at me. “I didn’t learn anything today, but I’m going to keep working on it. Okay?”
“Hey, you’re my favorite spy,” I told her. “I appreciate it.”
I hung out and waited for her. I didn’t say the coach might have issues with me because I was too serious an athlete for him. I figured if she thought that, she would stop looking for the truth.
After stretches, we started with lay-up drills, then ran lines and finally finished with scrimmages. Coach Norris continued subbing players and I kept passing to them. I didn’t shoot a single basket even when I was the closest. I sent the ball to someone else and let her take the shot. From there, we went onto our cool down routine of jogging laps around the gym. Finally, the whistle sounded and we circled around the coach.
He reminded us to bring our blue and gold uniforms for the away game tomorrow. We’d be leaving from school. We had to ride the bus to Monroe and back. Nobody could leave with their parents after the game and that meant they needed to remember the rules too. When he dismissed us, most of the squad started for the locker room.
Coach Norris flagged me down and I turned to face him. “Yes, sir?”
“Did you want to ask me about moving to first string?”
“No, sir. I don’t expect that.” I met his gaze and waited. “I understand that I have to pay my dues at Lincoln High. I’m sure I won’t make first string this season and I’ll never be point guard at this school.”
Utter silence while we looked at each other. He ran a hand over his thinning hair. “If you keep trying to be a team player, you’ll be surprised how quickly you can advance, Sierra.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I glanced at the clock on the far wall, trying not to let my emotions show. He totally infuriated me. “I need to go. I have twenty horses waiting for me to clean their stalls, water and feed them. I still have to pick up my tiara.”
“What?”
“Don’t all princesses wear their crowns when they shovel horse manure?” I shrugged, tired of him. I turned and walked away, not bothering to wait for him to end the conversation. He might be the world’s biggest chauvinist, but I didn’t have “Welcome” tattooed on my forehead and I was done for today.
When I arrived home, Charlie raced to greet me. Unconditional doggie love made my world so much better. Carrying him, I walked in the kitchen from the mud-porch. As soon as she saw me, Mom topped off her cup, then filled a second with coffee for me.
I put down Charlie and found treats for him and Queenie. “What a day. How was yours?”
“Pretty good, but I just had a weird call from your basketball coach.” Mom opened the cupboard and found a package of peanut-butter cookies. She put them in the center of the table and sat down across from me. “He called and wanted to know if you really mucked stalls.”
“What did you tell him?” I tore open the cellophane and snagged a cookie, dunking it in my coffee. “He’s pretty sure I’m a major diva.”
“Where does he get that impression?” Mom sipped her own coffee. “I laid out all your responsibilities for him. I gave him the website address and told him that you maintained it. You feed twenty horses before school every day and take care of them as soon as you get home each and every afternoon. You teach lessons on Sundays after church. You train horses, deworm, hold for the shoer, design most of our riding programs and I have plenty more work for you to do.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I took a second bite of my cookie. “Is he calling Child Protective Services on you or getting me a ticket on the Underground Railroad?”
“No, but I told him that if he has trouble with you playing basketball, then he can send you home and I’ll come up with the money for your tuition. It creates a hardship for me when you’re not here immediately after school each day.”
“Really?”
“No, but he was acting like an idiot and I ran out of patience with him.” Mom ate the last of her cookie and reached for a second. “As your grandpa says, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Sierra. I don’t like putting up with stupid people either, but if I rant and rave about it, I can’t feed the horses.”
“I love you, Mom. You’re the best.”
She smiled and reached over to cover my hand with both of hers. “Good. I’m glad you think so. Now, tell me about this sophomore project and the Community Theater.”