High Hurdles (8 page)

“And so I bopped Amy on the head to make her shut up, and . . .”

“That’s nice, dear.” Gran sighed.

DJ tried to follow Gran’s gaze to see what was so interesting. Grass. Flowers. Pretty, to be sure, but . . .

DJ tried again. “Then I slapped the little kid upside the head . . .”

“Good.” Gran handed DJ back the glass. “You want to finish weeding? I think I’ll go take a shower and get ready.” The older woman rose to her feet and drifted over to the French doors off the deck.

DJ stared after her for a moment before slamming the glass down on the lawn. Jerking weeds out of the ground was probably better than jerking the hairs out of a certain policeman’s head. When she stabbed herself on a hidden thistle, she said a word she was glad Gran wasn’t around to hear. Maybe getting a horse wasn’t her biggest problem after all.

Chapter
•
11

“You lying little—little zit!” At the moment DJ couldn’t think of anything worse. “I could pound you so far into the dirt, not even your hair would show.”

“You and who else, jerk face?” James stood plastered against the stall wall. Six inches shorter than DJ but snarling like a cornered bobcat, he traded insult for insult. “You think you know everything, cat eyes.”

DJ clamped her hands to her sides, knowing that if she touched him, she would pound until . . .

“What is going on here? DJ! James! Both of you, out of that stall this instant.”

“But she . . .”

“I do not want to hear it. Up to the office! Now!”

DJ could feel the flames burst from inside and turn her skin to fire. Bridget never tolerated fighting on the grounds. And here DJ had been right in the middle of one! With James. She shot him another murderous glare, spun around, and stomped her way to the office. She could hear James behind her trying to make excuses. It wouldn’t do any good. Bridget did not accept excuses. If you blew it, you better admit it. Thoughts raged inside her.

What kind of self-discipline lets a creep like James get through? If you can’t control your anger over a stupid thing like this, how can you handle the stress of big-time competition?
DJ tried to ignore the question, but the guilt that rode her shoulders felt like a pair of Percherons.

She straightened her spine and crossed her arms over her chest when Bridget walked in, trailed by James. DJ glared pitchforks at him, tines first. “I’m sorry I let him get to me like that.” She forced the words from between clenched teeth.

Bridget nodded.

DJ stood even straighter and dropped her arms to her sides. Bridget’s look said she’d better try again.
Why is Bridget picking on me? After all, James started it
. DJ dug deeper. She could feel the heat on her face, as surely as if she were standing in front of a roaring fire. “I . . . I’m sorry I fought like that. I should have been able to control my temper.” She breathed a sigh of relief. The slight softening of Bridget’s mouth meant she’d passed.

“James.”

James slouched in a chair, arms across his chest, refusing to look at DJ. Or Bridget. He seemed to be studying a dirt spot on his jeans.

“James.” The word cracked like a whip.

“Sorry.”

Sure
, thought DJ.
You really look sorry
. Instantly her mind flashed to herself. Was she sorry? Truly sorry? Or did she just want to get back in Bridget’s good graces? The urge to chew on her thumbnail made her hand twitch. But then she’d get a look from Bridget for that. Instead, she bit on her lower lip.

The silence around her waited as if it were alive.

James squirmed, twitching first one shoulder and then the other.

With a rush of surprise, DJ felt sorry for him. He was having a harder time apologizing than she was—and she had hated every minute of it.

“I’m sorry I started the fight with DJ.” The words burst out.

“Then there’ll be no more incidents like this?”

Both DJ and James shook their heads.

“Consider yourselves both on probation. Any more such displays and you’ll suffer the consequences.”

DJ could hardly hear the words, even though she saw Bridget’s lips moving. James had admitted he provoked the fight! That took guts. More guts than she’d thought he had. She watched him nod and walk out the door.

“DJ.” DJ stopped in her tracks.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I expected better of you.”

“Me too.” But Bridget’s words cut into DJ’s heart.

“Is there something going on that you would like to tell me about?”

DJ shook her head. Why would Bridget care that Gran had gone out with Joe five times in the last week? And that DJ had had a knock-down drag-out fight with her mom? And that Amy and everyone else but her got to ride and show this summer? “I better get back to work.”

“If I can help in any way, I would like to.” The words followed DJ out of the office. Why was she having trouble seeing the writing on the duty board? She dashed a hand across her eyes.
Must be allergies. There’s too much dust around here.

Gran’s minivan was gone when DJ rode her bike up to the house. She dug in her pocket for her key to let herself in the front door, leaving her bike leaning against the side of the house.
Remember to put it away
, she reminded herself.
You don’t need to get yelled at again
.

She heard the phone ringing as she finished fiddling with the key in the lock. Why, oh why did she always have trouble with the key? On the fourth ring, she finally opened the door and dashed across the room. The message machine was already asking the caller to leave a message. DJ clicked it off with one hand and lifted the receiver with the other.

“Hi, DJ speaking.” She listened for a moment. “No, I’m sorry, my mother isn’t here right now. Anyway, I don’t think she wants the house painted. Gran and I did it last summer.” She hung the phone up and read the message left for her.

Gran would be back late; she’d gone into San Francisco on BART to meet Joe for dinner. BART was the rapid-transit train that linked Bay Area cities by rail.

DJ crinkled up the paper and tossed it in the trash.
Great!
Now on top of everything else, she’d have to cook dinner—unless, of course, her mother wanted to eat out. She checked the calendar. No, Mom would be at class tonight. And most likely, she wouldn’t come home first.

She could call Amy and invite herself over there for dinner. Mrs. Yamamoto always said to come anytime. One more didn’t make much difference, since there were already four kids. But if someone asked her about her summer . . . well, maybe it was better to stay home.

DJ wandered into the family room. The house wore that empty, forgotten smell it had when both Mom and Gran were gone. DJ lifted the cloth draped over her grandmother’s latest painting. She hadn’t gotten very far today. DJ shook her head. Gran wasn’t thinking too well lately, and it showed.

She ambled back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. There weren’t even any good leftovers. Usually when Gran was going to be gone, she made something that could be reheated in the oven or the microwave.

The quiet settled on her shoulders like a heavy blanket. A sigh escaped. She took out a can of soda and, after shutting the door with her foot, filled a glass. The soda fizzed, one side running over, so she had to slurp it quickly. The clock clicked. She’d never noticed it before.

She climbed the stairs to her room, one hand trailing on the banister. “This is a good time to work on my own art.” Her voice echoed in the stairwell.

But even with charcoal in hand, her mind kept drifting back to the Academy. Why had she lost it like that with James? Some kind of Christian she was to want to beat up another human being! That is, if you could call James a human being.

DJ rolled over on her back. “How come the harder I try, the worse I get?” She curled back on her side. “God, I really want to be good and gentle, like my Gran. I hate it when someone is mad at me. That jerky James! He makes me so mad. I’ll bet you’d get mad at him, too, if you were here.” She hugged her knees and waited. It was so quiet. Even the birds were taking a break.

“I should have just walked away. Gran says to be extra nice to people who are mean to you. I really blew it this time. All I do anymore is blow it.” She reached for a tissue in the drawer in her nightstand. The box was empty. She wiped the drip from her eye on the edge of her seafoam green bedspread.
If only Gran were here
.

“Darla Jean Randall!”

DJ jerked awake. Night had fallen. Her mother was home. “What?” She pushed herself to her feet and scrubbed her eyes with her fists. She could hear her mother downstairs.

“Your bike, that’s what! How many times have I told you to put it away? You know someone could steal it. I should just let that happen—then what would you do?”

DJ flinched as if each word were a switch lashing at her legs. “I’m sorry.” She swallowed the
I didn’t mean to
and clattered down the stairs. On her way out to the garage, she paused at the dining room where her mother was going through the mail.

“How was your class?”

“Fine. Where’s Gran?” Lindy tossed a couple of envelopes to the side.

“Out to dinner with Joe.”

“Any messages?”

“No.” DJ continued out to the garage. Talking with her mother was a real kick. If Gran had been there, she’d have asked about DJ’s day. But not
her
mother. DJ put her bike away and closed the garage door. Her stomach rumbled when she stepped back into the kitchen. She got out the bread, peanut butter, and strawberry jam. Some dinner this had turned out to be.

The lights were out in the dining room. The family room was empty. She could hear her mother moving around upstairs in her bedroom. DJ took her sandwich and milk up to her own bedroom and shoved the door shut with her foot. What a totally crummy day!

Saying her prayers didn’t make her feel any better.

“Mornin’, darlin’.” Gran greeted her as though nothing had happened. “You want scrambled eggs for breakfast?”

“No. I’m in a hurry.” DJ grabbed a food bar out of the cupboard. “See you.”

Gran came to the door to the garage. “Joe invited all of us to his house for dinner on Sunday to meet his family.”

“I have a show.” DJ swung aboard her bike and pedaled away. “Why’d I want to meet his family?” she muttered to herself while pumping up the street. “Who cares? I’ve got more important things to do than that.”

“Have you been watching Megs’ legs?” Bridget joined DJ at the mare’s stall.

“Sure.”

“Well, check that off foreleg. There’s some swelling there. I saw her limping yesterday when I turned her out, so I iced it last night.”

DJ stroked the bay mare’s nose and squatted down to examine the leg. Sure enough, the pastern was swollen. “Sorry, girl. I’ll get the ice packs.” She rose to her feet and turned to leave the stall.

“I’m sorry, DJ. You want to ride Jake?”

DJ shook her head. “He’d probably come up lame, too.” Now she couldn’t even take her jumping lessons. The one thing in her life that seemed to be going right. Angry, she muttered a word her Gran would be shocked at. It only made her feel worse.