I wanted to ride. To move. I leaned down and said to Sky, “You get extra treats later.”
Then we were circling the ring, past where the jumps were lined up and stacked, slowly picking up speed. I wouldn’t have jumped Sky, not at night, even with the ring lighting enhanced tonight by a full moon.
Just me, alone in the ring with Sky and her horse sounds, Sky’s breathing and her hooves. Not going against the clock. Not trying to calculate distances and clear jumps and beat the other horses.
Or Atwoods. Even with Mom down, I could still hear her and Grandmother telling me I wasn’t the rider I was supposed to be, or that I didn’t love it enough or want it enough, or that I’d never be the rider Mom was. That I wasn’t enough of an Atwood, as if somebody had slipped me the wrong DNA.
Just remembering what I always loved about this sport, what I still loved when people would just leave me the hell alone.
“Slow down!”
I knew Daniel’s voice instantly.
“Leave me alone,” I said, heading back to the far end of the ring. When Sky and I finally did come back around, as if we’d turned for home, he’d walked out and was standing in the middle of the ring.
I thought about doing one more lap. But I just slowed Sky down instead, brought her to a walk and finally to a stop, patting her head the way I did when we’d finished a good round.
“I was not going too fast,” I said.
“Yes, you were.”
“I’m not an idiot,” I said.
“No comment,” he said. “Now please take your horse back to the barn.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I said.
“I said please, didn’t I, chiquita?”
“Emilio gets to call me that,” I said. “You don’t.”
“Yes, jefa.”
Boss lady.
“Don’t call me that, either.”
Daniel Ortega was a few years older than I was but acted much older and more mature than that. He had only been my trainer for the past couple of years. He was Mexican by birth, having been brought to America, then raised here, by undocumented immigrant parents. But he spoke perfect English, even if his use of words sometimes sounded overly formal to me. Almost mannered. He worked his words as precisely as he did his horses.
And I knew this about Daniel Ortega: He lived in constant fear of being deported because of the changed reality and polarizing politics of immigration in America. A couple of months ago, he’d requested a few days off with no explanation. When I’d asked him about it later, just once, he’d shaken his head and said, “I was raised to believe that being a Dreamer is a good thing.” And left it at that.
Since then he’d become increasingly impatient with my riding and my attitude. When, out of frustration, I’d given him the finger, he’d said, “No, Miss Becky, you’re not number one.”
He was a great trainer, both gifted with horses and passionate about them. I considered him a good friend, but neither one of us ever forgot that he worked for Atwood Farm. As an Atwood, technically he worked for me, too.
“I thought you’d be happy that I’m riding,” I said, “and not out drinking with my friends.”
“It’s too late for you to be in the ring,” he said.
He reached for Sky’s bridle, but I gently moved her a couple of steps away from him.
“Your mom would never have Coronado out at this time of night,” he said.
“Can we please not start talking again about how I’m not her,” I said. “As if I need to be reminded.”
“I never said I wanted you to be her,” he said.
“Are you serious?” I said. “Everybody does.”
“I just want you to be the rider I know you can be, whether you’re here or at college.”
The season was starting in a few weeks, and since the last one had been the worst of my life, I’d be competing here instead of on campus. No more coming up from Miami on Thursday night, riding on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday before heading back to school on Sunday night. I’d gotten into a slump early and kept finding ways to lose. I’d give Sky a bad distance. Or start out too fast and then pull up and confuse her into refusing a jump and we’d circle and get disqualified. Or we’d have a clean round going and then I’d get her too close to the last jump, and we’d get a rail, or crash right through the jump.
Mom even convinced me to see her sports psychologist, who’d told me that when athletes in any sport started waiting for bad things to happen, they almost always did.