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Show my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Aikamine, without any trouble-I do remember playing horses with Lori Lasher. Every day at recess, on the far side of the playground in a thicket of pine tress, the two of us gathered, atop a hill, and ran. You 're name is Firey Chestnut, she said, because your coat is red. You are reddish-brown with white around your hooves and on your face. I nodded, already brushing the white cuff on my coat, happy my mother had bought me a horse-possible coat rather than a green one, already standing like a quarter horse, solid and lean. I'm Black Beauty because my coat is black. All black. You follow me because I am the leader. And with a toss of her equally dark hair, Lori headed for the next grove of trees on the other side of the playground. Neigh, neigh, I whinnied in pursuit, my hands bent hoof-like in front of me, stamping the air. We neighed around the trees, galloping between the wide-girthed pines that dropped enough needles year round to make cozy beds and piles of hay. Beneath the pine needles, beetles scurried, seeking shelter with our every sweep. A bad man is whipping us, she continued, now hiding behind a tree in our grove, far from the girls who never played pretend but spent recess cherry dropping from the high bar. We have to run. With Lori a bad man was always whipping us, always hurting us in some way, and our response was to run. We were horses after all. What other options were there. We didn't talk. We neighed. And Lori narrated our every move. 104 |