Objects in Mirror by Robins Tudor

Author:Robins Tudor [Robins, Tudor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: YA Fiction
Publisher: Red Deer Press
Published: 2013-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Journal — Monday, July 29

• Twenty-seven pounds down. It suddenly seems like a lot. What have I done? What am I doing?

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, I work through my usual duties. I walk Bella, adding in the five minutes of trot I’m now allowed to throw in. I work Iowa, with Andy scurrying around, setting trot poles on the straight, on bends, spaced long, spaced short. “We need to get her into a couple of jumping classes before the end of the summer. This will get her ready.”

Then I ride three horses for a prospective buyer, hopping up on one, then another, while Andy keeps up a seamless chat with the client. Using my best show skills to work like crazy and make each horse go perfectly, without ever appearing to expend an ounce of effort.

“Do you think they’ll buy one?” Matt asks as he comes into the ring to relieve me of one of the two hopefuls I’ve been left holding.

I wasn’t sure how Matt would act today. Was afraid there’d be awkwardness between us after yesterday’s incident, but he seems perfectly fine; I guess everything’s back to normal. I’m relieved.

“Quinn went really sweetly.”

Matt nods. “He always does.”

But we both know Quinn’s not likely to be sold today. The other two are taller, prettier, flashier. Also worse-behaved, questionably sound, and one’s a cribber. Smart, reliable Quinn would be a better mount for most young riders— would have been a much better fit for the girl who bought Sprite—but this parent, like most others, will probably look right past him, find a vet to declare the big, showy bay sound, and end up paying for extra schooling when her daughter can’t control him. If the horse stays here, she may end up paying me to ride him.

The horse Matt’s leading stays in the front barn while Quinn lives in the back. “Meet me at the picnic table when you’re done,” Matt says and, twenty minutes later, I do just that.

“What’s this?” I ask as Matt pulls containers, napkins, and a couple of small flasks from a big knapsack.

“Lunch.” Before I can shake my head and say, “No,” he says, “Yes, Grace. Yes.”

He’s got that look on his face again—the one from yesterday, and when I see it, I chant to myself: Sprite, Whinny, Iowa, Matt.

I keep my mouth shut.

Matt starts divvying things up. A massive sandwich, bursting with fillings, stays on his side of the table.

I get a thin bagel, raisin and cinnamon flavored, with nothing on it, not even butter.

He has a container of trail mix and a granola bar.

I get an apple.

He tops things off with a ziploc bag, lumpy with chocolate chip cookies.

For me he has a cup of yogurt and a spoon.

“And this,” he says, pushing a small thermos my way. There’s an ice pack held against it with an elastic band and, when I unscrew the top and look inside, I see milk, its ever-so-faint bluish tinge marking it as skim.

This is OK. I can start with this.

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