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Show Here he comes, she cried. I galloped faster, still holding my hooves in front of me, my head bobbing up and down, snarling through my nose, my eyes gone white while I looked from the side, waiting for Lori's next words. Because I knew little to nothing about horses, had never collected them or studied them, never poured over pages in a horse encyclopedia comparing the finer points on Arabians and Appaloosas, Belgians and Mustangs, I could only copy Lori's movements. When she stamped, I did. I posted, and galloped, cantered, and trotted when she told me. Get him\ she cried. Get him! And I turned, with black-coated Lori at my side, to face our attacker. Together we trampled the bad man, neighing the entire time, stomping our feet on his body, showing no mercy with every breaking bone. Of actual school, I remember nothing, only the maddening gallop of horseplay. One day I took my magic set down to the second grade and wowed them with my disappearing rabbit trick, and in music we learned a song about a cat named Del Gato. That is pretty much all I can say about Bellevue elementary. It was the same year the teacher hit my brother Scott for being messy, dumped his desk on the floor to make a point. Maybe there are reasons I don't remember the school. Home was where I was happiest, it was what would remain when the rest fell away, as it always did. My father used to tell Scott and me stories before we fell asleep. The three of us sat in my bed downstairs, my father in between us, sheets pulled up to our chins. He spun 105 |