AT THE END OF THE DAY I WAS AT MY DESK making my way through the pile of first-day homework. Khloe paged through her history textbook in front of her own desk.
Testing had been much earlier, but my brain felt as though I’d finished minutes ago. As promised, Khloe had been waiting by Whisper’s stall after I’d cooled down. She clasped her hands together, bouncing on her toes, when I told her an edited version (i.e., no talk of Old Lauren) of my test. Khloe seemed so sure I’d make the intermediate team, but I truly had no idea where I’d wind up.
Khloe swiveled her desk chair to face me. “What do you have left?” she asked, lifting her leg and pointing a toe at my carefully organized assignments.
“Just that paper for English,” I said.
“I don’t know how you did it,” Khloe said.
I took a sip of tea—green with pomegranate. “Did what?” I asked.
“All of that homework so fast after testing.” Khloe spun her desk chair in a lazy circle. “I couldn’t focus on anything the night after I tested. It took me until three or four in the morning to get everything done. I had the attention span of a fruit fly.”
“It’s easy for me to lose myself in homework,” I said. “The assignments weren’t as bad as I thought, but there were a lot. I always feel better staying busy. If I have nothing to do, I’ll just obsess about testing.”
“Understood,” Khloe said. “After we finish, want to grab a late dinner in the caf?”
“Sounds great. Hopefully, we’ll be going at a weird enough time that Riley won’t be there.”
Khloe made a gagging-slash-grumbling sound in her throat. “Don’t even say her name to me. I can’t believe she was in the skybox during your test. Well, I take that back. I do believe it. That gross little . . .”
I knew what was coming.
“Lurker!”
I’d shared my own nicker for Riley the Reiler, and ever since, Khloe had been trying it out in different ways every ten to fifteen minutes.
“I know she was trying to make me nervous,” I said. “And it worked, but only for, like, a second.”
“I bet she’s worried now after she saw you ride. She’s lucky you’re more mature than she is. If you’d told Mr. Conner what she did, she’d be in huge trouble.”
“She’s not even worth it, Khlo,” I said. “For now I’ll even refrain from immature nicknames until she does something nuts.”
Khloe pouted. “Nooo—more nicknames! You’re good at them!”
I laughed at her pitiful expression and we went back to our computers.
Homework had definitely kept my mind off testing. After I’d completed each assignment, I’d put it in the pale pink turn in folder in my binder. Each assignment got checked off when I finished. There was only one left with no check mark—write English paper.
I stared at the blank Word document. The cursor blinked, taunting me. Mr. Davidson had asked us to write three to five pages about ourselves—something we wanted him to know about us. I’d been brainstorming while making cup after cup of tea and hadn’t come up with a single interesting idea. Writing the “I have two sisters, live in Union, love horses” seemed generic-slash-boring. It felt like a “what I did this summer” essay.
What do I want him to know about me? What makes me Lauren Towers? Why am I at Canterwood?
An idea rushed into my brain. No way. No. I was not writing about that. I’d just write about moving or something. There was no way I was ready to write that story. I couldn’t.
My palms sweated. No one else was going to see this paper. Thinking about it—my accident—was something I’d been avoiding since I’d arrived on campus. At least, I thought I’d been avoiding it, but it never went away. The always-looming secret had been there when I’d met Khloe, had a tea party in the common room, and gone on a trail ride with Lexa.
If I took this chance to write it, it could bring me one step closer to being able to tell my new friends. Lexa and Khloe deserved to know the real me, and they wouldn’t until I shared my past with them. I still wasn’t ready to talk about it, but could I be ready to write about it?
I typed my name, the date, and the class on the page. I hadn’t even started to type the title when the memories of that day began to assault me, to flood me and force me to go back to that cold November day.
I’d been competing at the Red Oak Horse Trial in Washington, D.C. I was points away from being overall champion and clinching a win for my stable, Double Aces. All year I’d shown every chance I had. I rode even when I shouldn’t have—hiding the flu from my parents and instructor, pushing through a nasty cold, and competing with a bruised shoulder from a fall during practice.
My mount, Skyblue, was one of the best stable horses I’d ever ridden. We had a tight bond and I adored him. The dapple gray gelding never questioned any of my commands, and he worked hard to please me.
At Red Oak it had been our turn for cross-country. We’d blasted out of the starting box at a gallop and had covered the course fast. I’d known how good our time was and that we could take it easy over the final jumps, but Skyblue wasn’t tired and adrenaline pumped through me. I’d kept him moving as fast as possible, barely slowing when necessary, and we raced toward the final vertical before the finish line.
The crowd cheered when they saw us, and it added to my excitement. I started counting strides—ready to lift out of the saddle for the jump—but I never got the chance. Without warning, Skyblue had slammed to a halt. I remember feeling confused that I was flying through the air without my horse.
My body crashed into the cold, hard ground. Screams filled my ears, and my eyes fluttered open to see Mom and Dad bent over me, expressions on their faces I’d never seen before. Mom’s skin was gray. I tried to open my mouth to ask what was wrong, but I couldn’t.
Darkness swallowed me. I woke up later, in the hospital, with machines beeping in my ears and an IV in my arm.
I pulled myself out of the memory and looked down. My hands had balled into fists. I uncurled them, flexing my fingers. My nails had left half-moon shapes on my palms.
I’d remembered having been in and out as paramedics eased me onto a stretcher and into an ambulance. I asked about Skyblue—worried that he’d been hurt. My old instructor, Mr. Wells, told me Skyblue was fine. I spent a night in the hospital and was released the next day with permission to ride when my soreness went away.
Skyblue and I had escaped without any serious injuries, but I’d been hurt in a way I couldn’t understand. That had been my first serious fall. I never found out what happened. I didn’t know why Skyblue had halted—if I’d done something to cause it or if he’d been spooked. Regardless, I couldn’t stop blaming myself for putting Skyblue in jeopardy. Mom and Dad, figuring I was resilient and as eager as ever to ride, had offered to take me to the stable a few days after my fall. I experienced a feeling then that I’d never felt around horses before: fear.
After that I became a master of excuses. I made up excuse after excuse about why I couldn’t ride.
I never rode Skyblue again.
I took a long break from riding, period, before finally deciding to try again when we moved to Union. Kim knew all about my past, and she’d been the one to help me learn to manage my fear and finally even jump again.
I’d never be that Lauren again—the Lauren who forgot what was important and pushed herself and her horse unnecessarily. I learned how to have a life with horses and friends—something I didn’t have when I was showing so often. Ana and Brielle had gotten me involved at school, and I realized how much I liked having something other than riding in my life.
I started typing and the words spilled onto the pages. Everything from that day—from the confidence I’d had, the exhilaration of what seemed like a sure win, the sensation of flying through the air and crashing into the ground, the screams of the crowd, the blurry faces, and the smell of alcohol and the prick of the needle when a nurse gave me an IV—went onto the page. Seven pages later, I was done. I saved the document. It felt as if I’d just purged a big part of the secret that had been haunting me for so long.
“You were really into your essay,” Khloe said. “It must be good!” I noticed that all her books were packed and her desk was clear. “What’s it about?”
I turned back to close my laptop, trying to think of what to say. I was the worst liar!
“It’s about . . .” I paused. “Looking for the right horse and finally finding Whisper.”
“Aw, that’s great,” Khloe said. “You’re so passionate— I’m sure you’ll get an A.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, but didn’t feel happy. This was the worst way to start a friendship. Maybe there wouldn’t even be a friendship if she ever found out that I’d just lied to her.
“I’m going to shower,” Khloe said. “Then do you want to grab dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
While Khloe showered, I printed my essay, put it in my homework file, and shoved it deep into my bag.