Prize Problems (2 page)

I was so excited, I pedaled my bike far too fast, cornered our gateway like a Hollywood stunt rider and, bouncing the front wheel off the step, just missed head-butting our front door and ending up wearing our mailbox for a hat.

“Wow bike, impressive!” I told it as I wobbled out of the saddle. “You can buck almost as well as Drummer!”

My mom, annoyingly oblivious to my obvious excitement and bubbling important news, had her cell phone jammed to her ear. And she was clearly in no hurry to wind up the conversation. Which could only mean one thing: she was talking with one of her gentleman friends.

My mom collects boyfriends like Drummer collects straw in his tail. She has three at the moment. Oh no, wait a minute, I forgot, she only has two now, ever since I answered the door to the geeky dark-haired, bespectacled one with the question, “Which one are you, David, Simon or Leonard?” He got huffy and the date was off. What's more, he took his chocolates with him, which was the real bummer. It was David, in case you were wondering (as if!). Simon and Leonard are still in the running. Well, more hovering around, actually. I don't think Mom's that smitten with either of them.

It's since Mom got her new Facebook page. Carol (her influential-and-not-in-a-good-way friend) took a smoldering photo of her to post up and the offers have come flooding in. Soooo embarrassing. I mean, when she was a member of her internet dating club at least no one else could log on and watch her list of weirdo friends getting ever longer. Now her love life is anyone's business. I just answer the door and let them in. No names, no questions, no nothing.

It's called denial, apparently, and I'm in it.

Thing is, my mom and dad are divorced and while Dad is having a great time with his new girlfriend Lyn (aka Skinny Lynny—there's more fat on a chip), Mom is still looking for Mr. Right. I mean, Mr. Right 2.0, seeing as the first Mr. Right (my dad) ran off with a much younger woman (Lyn—are you getting all this?) from work. I don't know why she needs a Mr. R., but she seems to think she does. Hence the Facebook thing. Hence the suitors. Hence the mix-ups when she decides that limiting her male friends to one at a time is so yesterday.

Anyway, Mom eventually got off the phone (after much face-pulling and gesticulating by me), flicked her newly highlighted blond hair back, narrowed her eyes, stuck her hands on her hips and demanded to know why I was buzzing round her like a demented fly.

So I told her.

Now, I thought that she'd whoop a bit and we'd dance about our tiny house with glee at the huge news that I had a riding vacation in the bag—and she didn't have to pay for it—which was the clincher, as far as I was concerned 'cause how many times is expense trotted out as an excuse not to do something? And I know we don't have the spare cash for such things.

Only she didn't. She sucked her cheeks in a bit and kept asking totally pointless questions. You know the sort of thing—where was it? Who was in charge? What qualifications did they have? How did we know they weren't weirdos, and why didn't Charlotte want to take one of her sisters? Some I could answer, and some I couldn't, so I gave her Bean's phone number and asked her to call her parents. Honestly, what a fuss! You'd have thought Bean had offered me a human sacrifice weekend with Vampires Anonymous!

I must have crossed my fingers, toes, legs, arms—practically everything—while she spoke to Bean's mom (I almost tied myself in a knot) but eventually, she hung up and said she didn't see why, in principle, I couldn't go.

Phew! I immediately rang Bean on my cell.

“We're so going!” she yelled. Then I had a thought.

“Why not get your parents to drop you off here on their way to the concert thing—we can give High Grove Farm's website a good going-over.”

“Good idea. MOOOOM!”

I winced and held my cell at arm's length, my ear ringing.

“I'll be by just after seven!” Bean said (at least I think that's what she said, my hearing having been severely compromised) and hung up.

When she arrived, we sat at the computer and munched chocolate chip cookies. We just bought groceries, so supplies were up! I was hoping we'd be able to make a hole in the cherry Danishes I'd spotted in the cupboard, too. Thank goodness my mom had ditched her keep-fit and health kick regime when she stopped going out with her gym instructor. Now what was needed was for Simon or Leonard to be like a pastry chef or something—that would be awesome! That was just one of the many problems with Mom dating—she tended to morph into whatever her latest boyfriend was into. I just prayed she wouldn't fall in love with a math teacher or a child psychologist. Imagine!

“Here it is, High Grove Farm,” Bean announced as the sunshine-yellow-colored website flashed up before our eyes. “Our mission statement: Happy holidays for horses and humans!”

“Quick, click on ponies,” Bean said, pointing to the menu and spitting chocolate chip crumbs into the keyboard.

I clicked and a picture of a chestnut pony with a white star appeared. We leaned forward in our seats, full of anticipation.

“Sorrel is our impeccably bred chestnut mare,” I read out. “Formerly a top show pony, perfectly schooled Sorrel now teaches our guests the finer points of horsemanship.”

“What a gorgeous thoroughbred head,” said Bean. “I wouldn't mind learning the finer points of horsemanship, whatever that means. Who's next?”

I scrolled down. A piebald head looked out of the screen. At least, he tried to; a curtain of white forelock made it tricky. The caption read:

Bold and brash, Harry used to be a working pony in the city pulling a cart for a street vendor. A real character, he tries his hardest at anything and everything!

“My great-gran used to run out to feed the horses in the old days when they came around,” said Bean.

“Harry must be ancient!”

“Says here he's twelve, so that doesn't stack up,” replied Bean.

“He looks fun, I wouldn't mind riding him,” I said, scrolling down to the next pony, which was a gray—almost white.

Shadow is our longest-serving resident, and is a great favorite with our more nervous riders. Dear and patient Shadow never puts a hoof wrong!

“Ahhh, he's cute, but I hope I don't get him,” mused Bean, reaching for another cookie. “I want something with a bit of life! Who's next?”

Bean's pony Tiffany had plenty of life in her. The trouble was, it mostly took the form of spooking at perfectly ordinary things like trees, or snorting at a leaf that was just ever-so-slightly wonky.

“This one's called Dot-2-Dot,” I read as an Appaloosa head appeared. Her spots were arranged willy-nilly all over her face, and we could see the whites of her eyes, in true Appaloosa fashion.

Dot-2-Dot is the new girl on the block. Although young, Dotty is learning fast and loves to please.

“I hope I don't get Dot either,” said Bean, screwing up her nose.

“Why not? She looks gorgeous, I love Appaloosas—don't tell Drummer, though!”

“I want a dirt-colored one. It would give me a rest from grooming a light pony, like Tiff,” explained Bean. I neglected to point out how she didn't actually groom Tiff much. Instead I said, “Dot-2-Dot is a cool name! Who's next?”

A gray pony with a dark gray mane and a pink snip—a tiny marking between his nostrils—peered out at us from the screen.

Lively Sprout loves jumping and has plenty of tricks up his sleeve. Life's never boring with Sprout around!

“Up his sleeve?” said Bean. “It sounds like he wears a sweater. Can you get sweaters for ponies?”

“What kind of name is Sprout for a pony?” I said.

“Perhaps he's from Brussels,” suggested Bean, and we both giggled.

“I hope you don't get him,” I said. “Together, you'd make a bean sprout! Get it?”

“That's so not funny,” mumbled Bean.

I thought it was. “They all sound like profiles of my mom's potential boyfriends on her internet dating site,” I said, changing the subject.

“Whatever are you two doing?” asked my clairvoyant mom. She must be clairvoyant because she had a plate of cherry Danishes with her.

“It's the High Grove Farm ponies,” I told her. “Don't they look adorable?”

“Which ones are yours, do you know?” Mom asked, peering at the screen.

“No, not yet,” sighed Bean. “But they all look great!”

“There's one more,” I said as a bay head came into view. It looked a little like Drummer. I did hope Drum wouldn't mind me deserting him. I hadn't told him yet.

Meet Cherokee, our stunning tricolored pony. Bay with white splashes, Cherokee came to us from a horse rescue organization. He's now fully settled in and loves his new job!

“Oh, I do so want Cherokee!” I wailed.

“I wonder what happened for him to wind up in need of rescuing,” Bean said.

Mom helped herself to a Danish. “I'm sure they're all wonderful,” she said, giving me a look, “although not quite as wonderful as Drummer.”

I grinned at her. I love the way Mom's loyal to Drum.

“Any chance of clicking on accommodation?” asked Mom, looking intently at the screen. I clicked, hoping it wouldn't show anything that made Mom change her mind about me going. I don't know what I thought it might be—tents or a camper van or an old, falling down barn. I just expected the worst.

“Mmmm,” said Mom, reading the blurb. “Farmhouse accommodation in a dormitory. All our guests live as family with good, wholesome home cooking. Please advise of any dietary requirements or allergies. Sample menu—click on that link, would you Pia?”

I obliged. I was quite anxious to see a sample menu, too.

It wasn't exactly
Top
Chef
but there seemed plenty of it. Fish sticks, burgers, lasagna, pot pies, chicken, salads, dessert. Plus a snack shop selling cookies and sweets. Barbecues held every week, it said.

“It doesn't look like we'll starve,” said Bean.

Satisfied with the website descriptions, plus the pictures of the farmhouse and images of happy guests digging into High Grove Farm fare, Mom decided she had something else to do and left. We went back to the ponies menu to take another look.

“I've got a fabulous new polo shirt and some gorgeous leather riding gloves I'm saving to take to High Grove Farm,” Bean told me. “Oh, and how cool will it be, you being able to tell everyone what the ponies are saying!” she added.

My heart sank. “I'd rather not,” I said. “It might make things difficult.”

“Oh, Pia!” wailed Bean. “You'll tell me what my pony says, won't you?”

I nodded furiously. “Of course. But I'd rather keep the pony-whispering thing a secret, if you don't mind. Things always seem to go wrong whenever people know about it.”

Bean sighed. “OK, if that's the way you want it,” she agreed. “I can't make up my mind which pony I like best. Harry looks so cheeky, and Sprout looks like he'd be really cool—but then Sorrel looks super classy—and she's the right color, too. I'm so looking forward to a vacation from grooming!”

I felt excitement rising in my chest. I would need to make sure to pack Epona so I could talk to whichever pony I got for the week. “I don't mind who I ride,” I said, grinning. “This riding vacation is going to be the totally, totally coolest thing ever!”

Welcome to High Grove Farm!” boomed a tubby woman bearing down upon us and wiping her hands on her apron. She wore her graying blond hair in two braids, which made her look like an aging Viking woman, and her rosy cheeks were shiny like apples. “I'm Mrs. Reeve—you must be Amber and Zoe.”

“No, we're not,” said Bean bluntly. “We're Bean and Pia.”

“This is Charlotte and her friend Pia,” Bean's mom corrected her, giving her a look. Bean gazed skyward in despair.

Bean's mom and dad had driven us to High Grove Farm. It had taken three hours and all the time we'd sat in the back of the car and talked ponies. Bean's parents had talked about her mom's latest commission from some rich guy who had seen her work in a gallery. He'd been quite specific, apparently, about where he wanted to put the sculpture—it had to be a certain size. This didn't sit too well with Bean's mom.

“They don't understand how an artist needs to be inspired,” she had complained, wafting her hand about in what looked to me like a particularly artistic way. Either that or she had a smell under her nose. “I can't just produce something to order like that. There's no knowing exactly how it will turn out, it's all fluid and organic. I have to feel the piece and let the process guide me. I don't control it, it controls me.”

I didn't understand what her mom was talking about, not being artistic myself. I'd seen some of her works and they missed my brain by about three miles. She took everyday objects and sort of did things with them. When I'd visited Bean's house, I'd thought a beaten-up bicycle in the garden with twigs and bits of rubber stuck all over it had been something the family had thrown out, rather than a particularly raved-over piece her mother had created, which had been accepted for a prestigious exhibition somewhere. Wouldn't you think anyone with talent would sculpt something fabulous, like horses? I mean, who could get tired of making horses? But no, Bean's mom has a very modern approach to sculpture, which I just don't get.

Bean's father had a gripe of his own—about some concert he had lined up. He'd complained about how people expected artists to just perform without the necessary practice.

“It's exactly the same thing,” Bean's mom had declared, her arms wafting in earnest. “People who are not artistic have no concept of how we work, Bernard. It's not something you can turn on like a tap. They don't understand how an artist needs to be inspired.”

“So true, Ingrid,” Bean's father had agreed, nodding furiously and braking hard at a set of traffic lights so that our seat belts cut us practically in two. “They expect a five-star performance with only a two-star practice.”

“And then they're disappointed!” Bean's mom had concluded, her hand falling on to her lap.

I had so felt for Bean if this was the sort of conversation she was subjected to all the time. No wonder she'd been looking forward to the riding vacation. As the traffic lights had turned green and Bernard angrily crunched the gears and accelerated, throwing us back into the seats, my thoughts had flown back to Drummer and our parting that morning. I'd sniffed a bit and welled up, blinking back the tears. I hated leaving Drummer behind and wished he could have been included in our adventure.

“Katy will see to your every need,” I'd told him, stroking his thick, black mane.

“Don't miss your ride,” he'd replied, between mouthfuls of hay.

“I wouldn't go and leave you like this,” I'd gulped, “only I've always, always wanted to go on a riding vacation. It's going to be an ambition fulfilled,” I'd added, dramatically.

“Yeah, well, you always wanted to be a horsey celebrity,” Drummer had reminded me, “and we all know how well that turned out!”

Suddenly, leaving my pony behind had seemed a lot easier. “Don't be too upset!” I'd remarked.

“I'll do my best. You'd better go while I can still hold it together,” Drum had returned his full attention to his feed bag. “Shut the door on your way out.”

Mrs. Reeve beamed at us. Her mouth seemed to take up almost half of her face. “Charlotte and Pia. Of course—Charlotte is our competition winner, aren't you? Clever girl! Well, we'll make sure you have a wonderful time here at High Grove Farm. All my guests have a wonderful time!”

Mr. and Mrs. Beanie each shook Mrs. Reeve's hand and Mrs. Beanie asked whether they might be able to see where Charlotte and I would be sleeping.

“Of course, follow me and bring your luggage. Two of the others are already here and they're dying to meet you both,” gushed Mrs. Reeve, walking back into the old farmhouse and beckoning us to follow her.

We went in through the kitchen. “This is where we all take our meals,” boomed Mrs. Reeve, waving toward a huge pine table with wooden benches either side, before we followed her up two sets of wide stairs to a huge room in the roof which housed six beds, three on either side of the room.

“And there are two shower rooms, through there,” waved Mrs. Reeve, smiling at Bean and me, “and there—so no excuses about lines!” She nodded knowingly to Bean's parents, assuming Bean and I couldn't wait to give the soap a miss for five days—the nerve! There were two suitcases next to beds on opposite sides, already claimed, so we dumped our cases on two adjacent beds under the eaves nearest to the window and peered out. Below us we could see a farmyard with stable doors opening on to it and beyond, a schooling paddock. Open countryside surrounded us. It was gorgeous!

“Can't see any ponies,” muttered Bean, scanning the view.

Bean's parents declared themselves satisfied with the arrangements and we all trooped down the stairs. Mrs. Reeve puffed a bit and flicked back a braid.

“You girls run along to the stable yard and make friends with Grace and Ellie—and Annabelle's there too. They're all dying to meet you!”

“Good-bye, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Beanie, leaning down to kiss Bean on the cheek.

“Have a good time—and you Pia,” her father said gruffly, glancing at his watch.

“Thank you Mr. Beanie,” I said. “And thank you very much for letting me come on this vacation with Be—Charlotte.”

Bean's mother smiled. “You're very welcome, Pia. I hope you both have a lovely time. Don't forget to clean your teeth thoroughly every night, Charlotte, will you?”

We fled to the stable yard. Stables filled two sides of it; the third had doors marked tack room, feed room and chill-out room; the fence and gate filled the last.

As the gate clicked shut a tall young woman wearing a lemon-colored polo shirt, checked jodhpurs and long boots appeared from the chill-out room. Her auburn hair was tied back and she wore quite a lot of eye make-up. She looked too clean to be on a stable yard. She looked a bit like she ought to have been on the TV instead, talking about the weather. Or, as my dad always complains, lying about the weather.

“Hello girls!” she called, smiling earnestly. “I'm Annabelle, so if you want to know anything, just ask me. You must be Zoe and Amber!”

“No, we're still not them,” said Bean a bit testily. “I'm Bean and this is Pia.”

Annabelle's smile froze and she tilted her head on one side and blinked rapidly in confusion. Clearly, she didn't take too well to being wrong. “Bean?” she said, frowning, “I thought Charlotte was coming with Pia.”

“I'm Charlotte, but everyone calls me Bean.”

“Your parents don't,” I hissed.

“They don't count,” Bean hissed back.

“Well, come and meet Ellie and Grace,” said Annabelle, waving us over, her smile resurrected. “They're dying to meet you!”

A girl with very long brown hair appeared at the door. She wore jodhpurs and a bright pink polo shirt and she gave us a rather disinterested once-over. It didn't seem like she was dying to meet us.

“This is Ellie,” explained Annabelle, beaming at us.

“And this is Grace,” said another, much larger woman, emerging from the gloom with a girl who was her in miniature. Grace had very fine, very blond shoulder-length hair, a strand of which snaked into her mouth. Totally not dying to meet us, too.

“Don't do that, Grace,” the woman said. “Honestly,” she said to no one, or possibly everyone, “she's always sucking on her hair.”

Grace didn't say anything as her mouth was full. We supposed the woman was her mother.

“Have you got your own ponies?” Ellie asked, flicking her long hair back behind her shoulders. Her very blue eyes peered out from under her bangs like two cornflowers under a hedge.

“Yes,” I gulped, remembering my wonderful (albeit rose-tinted) Drummer and wishing he was with me. “Drum's a bay, all over, no white on him whatsoever. Look, I've got a picture of him on my phone.” I found my favorite photo of Drum with his ears forward, smiling for the camera.

“He looks very nice,” Grace said shyly.

Her mom peered over her shoulder to take a look. “Part Arab,” she snapped, matter-of-factly. I nodded.

“And this is Tiffany,” said Bean, wielding her phone like a light saber. “She's a bit nervous, but she's got a heart to match her color.”

Ellie looked blank.

“Gold,” Bean explained.

“I'm getting a pony, soon. A show jumper,” Ellie told us.

“Fantastic!” I said. I mean, what's more exciting?

“Have you got a pony, Grace?” asked Bean.

Grace didn't get a chance to answer—her mother swooped in like a hawk.

“Not yet. Grace rides at the riding school presently, don't you Grace?” Before Grace had the chance to speak her mother continued, shaking her head, “I'm hoping this vacation will improve her confidence and get her going a bit. Honestly, when I was her age I was galloping about and leaping on and off ponies all day. Grace doesn't take after me, that's for sure!”

Grace just stood there, sucking her hair—probably grateful she didn't take after her mother. I felt sorry for her. What was her mother still doing here? I'd have died if my mom had come and hung around, voicing her disappointment with me to anyone within earshot. Annabelle seemed to feel the same way.

“Well, Mrs. Sharpe, I'm sure you have a long drive home, and you can see that Grace is fine with us. We'll take good care of her, won't we girls?”

“Hiya!”

We turned to see a girl with long, reddish blond hair, lots of black mascara and pink lip gloss climbing over the gate. Behind her, another girl tried to open the catch, her short, curly blond hair wobbling as she struggled.

“I'm Amber!” exclaimed the climber, leaping down and trotting toward us with a grin. “And this, if she ever gets here, is my sister Zoe.”

We introduced ourselves—Grace's mother introduced Grace, adding that her daughter was a bit shy and she didn't know where she got it from.

No one else knew either.

Amber continued to grin at us. She and Zoe were a couple of years older than me and Bean, and looked fun.

“We'd rather you went
through
the gate, dear, instead of over it,” said Annabelle, smiling away like a ballroom dancer. “It's awfully bad for it.”

“Told you!” said Zoe, scowling at her sister. “Unless you climb at the hinge end, it makes the gate drop.”

“Oh, why do you always have to be right all the time?” moaned Amber, her shoulders sagging.

“You never pay attention, we've been told about gates before,” Zoe said huffily.

Amber blew a defiant raspberry. “Phew,” she said, running her fingers through her hair, “all this fuss over a gate! Have we met before?” she asked, looking at me quizzically. “Only you look really familiar.”

I shook my head. I couldn't help thinking how Amber was the perfect name for her—her hair was the color of petrified tree resin. I would have remembered meeting someone as striking as her, I was sure.

“Come and have some refreshments,” offered Annabelle, and we all followed her into the chill-out room where drinks were set out on a table. A big, black, fluffy cat sat on one of the three sofas, pony posters adorned the walls and there were horsey books and magazines scattered all around. I had hoped there'd be some food, I was starving!

“Cool place!” exclaimed Amber, reaching for a Coke.

“Have you got a pony?” Ellie asked her.

“No, worst luck!” Zoe interrupted, stroking the cat. “It's our dream to get one—maybe one day.”

“I'm getting one—a show jumper,” said Ellie. “I expect I'll win lots of ribbons and cups on mine.”

“I'm sure you will, dear,” soothed Annabelle, still smiling.

“I just want a pony to love, I don't care about winning stuff,” Amber said bluntly, shrugging her shoulders. “I really want a chestnut with four white legs.”

“Oh no, Amber, you know I want a dun,” moaned Zoe, tickling the cat under the chin. The cat purred like a coffee-grinder and Annabelle told us he was called Soot.

“You could do with being a bit more ambitious, Grace,” said her mother, giving her a poke. Grace's lack of reaction suggested poking was normal behavior.

“Now you're all here I can tell you about the fun we'll be having during the next five days,” said Annabelle, her voice revving up to sound more exciting. “Ahhh, here's Sharon, our groom,” she added, as a girl of about eighteen came bounding into the room. Slender with short, almost-white blond hair which stuck up in all directions like an explosion, Sharon wore a lemon polo shirt like Annabelle's (only dirtier), navy jodhpurs, chaps and dusty boots. It was obvious that Sharon did all the dirty work, leaving Annabelle to stay clean and stylish. She gave us a huge grin and winked. We all grinned back.

“Hi there!” she said. She looked a lot more fun than uptight Annabelle.

“I'm just about to run through the itinerary,” Annabelle explained, waving her clipboard in the air.