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“It was fine,” I reply. It’s my standard answer.
“You left awfully early this morning,” Gramps remarks.
“I had to work on something for the paper,” I tell him. “I’m heading back out to the barn to finish things up now.”
“Don’t worry about the feed bags. They were already moved.”
I shoot Gramps a hard look. “You didn’t.” Disapproval is heavy in my tone.
“No,” he responds, sounding disgruntled. “Tom stopped by earlier for a visit. He moved them.”
“Good.” I let out a sigh of relief. “Did he happen to say anything about those articles I sent him?”
Tom Stradwell owns theLandry Gazette, along with a host of other local papers, and is one of my grandfather’s oldest friends. He’s also my best chance at having something to do besides muck out stalls and clean tack in the fall.
“He liked them,” Gramps tells me, still sounding disgruntled. And disapproving. “Said to come see him in May if you’re still interested in some work.”
“Of course I’ll still be interested,” I stress. “I hope you made that clear.”
“Schools are still taking applications, Lennie.”
“Gramps, we’re not going through this again. You can’t take care of the farm yourself.”
“Then we need to sel—”
“We’re not selling the farm,” I state firmly. “This is your home. My home.”
“I just wish…” He lets his voice trail off.
“I know,” I mumble. Sometimes, I really hate my parents for the respective messes they left behind. “Look, lots of people take gap years. I’ll have more time to do things around the farm when I’m not in school. I can make some repairs, market the stallions better. We’ll have Stormy’s foal to sell. Maybe that’ll be enough for me to take some online classes, at least.”
Gramps opens his mouth with what I can already tell will be an argument, so I take evasive action. “I really need to get started on the chores. I’m headed to a party after dinner,” I inform him.
Sure enough, that tidbit derails him completely. “What?” Gramps looks stunned. Saying I don’t get out much is akin to suggesting Landry’s residents have a mild interest in horse racing.
“I’m going to a party tonight,” I repeat. “I mean, as long as that’s okay?”
“I—yeah, of course,” Gramps fumbles. In addition to the surprising flicker of activity in my sad social life, he’s also thrown by me asking permission. Our relationship is usually defined by me taking care of him.
“All right, then.” I take advantage of his lingering shock to slip inside the empty house.
Rather than dump my backpack in the kitchen like usual, I carry it upstairs with me so I can change out of my jeans and sweatshirt into rattier jeans and a dirty sweatshirt. I typically don’t bother changing on Fridays, since Saturday is the designated laundry day, but I don’t really want to show up to the party smelling like manure and covered with horsehair.
By the time I finish all the barn chores and exercise Gallie, it’s pitch black out and I’m starving. I finish brushing down the massive black stallion and head inside, happy to see dinner is already waiting on the table.
Whispers of steam rise from the freshly cooked burgers. I eagerly lather plenty of ketchup and mustard onto the warm bun before delving into my food. Some of Gramps’s culinary creations are questionable, but his burgers are always good.
Gramps surveys me curiously as I eat. “You’re hungry tonight.”
“It was Gallie’s day,” I explain. The youngest of our remaining seven horses, Sir Galahad is feisty on a good day. Like all of them, he should really be ridden more than twice a week, but my schedule is already stretched trying to accommodate two rides a day. Exercising Gallie is like trying to stay aboard a rocket ship. He was born when I was in fifth grade, and won every race he entered, just before my dad died and everything really fell apart. Gallie’s stud fees are our main source of income these days.
Gramps shoos me away from doing the dishes after supper, so I head upstairs to change back into what I wore to school. I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror attached to the back of my door, trying to see myself the way a stranger would.
My hair is my best feature. It’s thick and straight, and thanks to a lack of any recent haircut, hangs almost to my mid-back. Ordinarily it’s a mundane shade of light brown, but in the sun I have coppery highlights that emphasize the green in my hazel eyes.
Right now, in the artificial light cast by the lamp on my dresser, it’s difficult to find anything remotely special about my appearance. My brown color is boring and my eye color is overshadowed by the dark circles beneath my eyes. The sweatshirt I’m wearing hangs loosely around my thin frame, jumbling what few curves I have.
I walk over to my closet, swinging the slightly ajar door fully open so I can peer at the contents. There are only a few hanging items to flip through. A jean jacket, which is out because I’m already wearing denim, a sweater that shrunk last winter, my rain jacket, and a navy blouse. I actually like the blouse a lot, but it’s entirely unsuitable for January.
