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This is the longest conversation I’ve had with Bronwyn since she left the gallery yesterday.
“No, thanks!” I say again. And from the corner of my eye, I catch Erin looking at me, head tilted. She’s probably thinking I’m not being very friendly, but I don’t care. Waiters cut the cake and pass portions around on china plates, real china, not the cheap paper stuff I picked up from Target on University, on sale at six dollars fifty for a pack of twenty. Then Jack comes out with the bicycle—Happy Birthday, Charlie!—which to his credit, is perfect. Lime green, big wheels, tassels hanging from the dual handbrakes. Charlie’s face lights up with joy and I no longer care about the cake.
Until the van pulls up outside our house literally one minute later.
Bronwyn rushes to the front gate like she’s been waiting for this, and I close my eyes. When I open them again, all the kids are bouncing on their feet with anticipation, little fists in front of their mouths while their parents are craning their neck to see. Two women get out of the front and open the back of the van. A ramp slides out and connects the back of the van to the ground, then one of the women walks back in and comes out holding a pink glittery lead. She gently tugs at it as she walks down the ramp, small steps—there there, it’s all right, good girl, tug tug—and we all wait with bated breath for whatever is at the other end of the pretty pink lead.
It’s a fucking pony.
TWENTY
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
Charlie screams. With excitement, obviously. She shrieks so loudly I have to put my hands over my ears.
“Happy birthday, Charlotte!” Bronwyn says, pulling the pony behind her, her sharp heels sinking into the lawn.
I walk over to Jack, try to speak through lips so tight they feel like I’ve got rigor mortis. “What the hell is this?”
For some reason that I don’t understand, Jack is laughing. “It’s a pony, Laura!”
“Yes, I see it’s a pony. Why is it in our yard? Did you know about this?”
“No!” The children are surrounding the pony, patting it. Charlie has wrapped her arms around its neck.
“What do you want to call it?” Bronwyn asks.
Call it?
“Is it mine?” Charlie asks.
“Yes, Charlotte. What would you like to name your pony?”
“David Greybeard!” she shouts. If I wasn’t so angry, I would have laughed. David Greybeard was the name Jane Goodall gave to her favorite chimpanzee.
“David? No! That’s a boy’s name! Look at the pretty pony, she needs a girl’s name!”
“Greta Thunberg!”
“No! That’s a silly name, it’s too long!” says Bronwyn, who has no idea who Greta Thunberg is. “Let’s call her…Tallulah.”
“Tallulah!” Charlie shouts, wrapping her arms around the pony’s neck again,Ohmygodohmygod it’s my pony is it really Ohmygod Tallulah I love you Tallulah.
I, on the other hand, am shaking with rage. Not just because Jack and I have been outsmarted—outspent, outplayed—but because we discussed presents, and I asked her to contribute to the bike, (total: $380) and she said, no, that’s okay, she’d give Charlie a fifty-dollar voucher for Magic Mouse Toys, which I actually didn’t think was a bad idea.
I watch the children pat the pony, try to guide it down the path, which has steps. Needless to say, it’s dangerous, but nobody else seems to care. I’m trying to figure out how to deal with this but I’m so angry it’s making my head pound.
Bronwyn catches my eye and beams. “Come and meet the new addition to the family, Laura! Isn’t it the sweetest thing? Come on, Charlotte! Let’s put a saddle on Tallulah and give her a spin!”
I can’t breathe. My head hurts because it keeps jerking back and forth, like a broken toy. My hands are closed into fists by my side and I can feel the nails digging to the flesh.
Katie squeezes my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
I look at her, mouth gaping. “What’s wrong? She’s just given Charlie a pony, Katie! Where the hell am I supposed to put it?”
She frowns. “I don’t think—”
