Riding Invisible (3 page)

After about thirty minutes of silence, I jogged over to groom Shy before going home. The first thing I noticed was something black piled on the dirt, like maybe the wind had blown a dark-colored scarf inside the corral. I opened the gate and a breeze curled around my feet. The black stuff fanned out, and that's when I realized what he'd done.

The Local Psychopath had cut off my horse's tail!! Shy was left with only a stub. Just hair had been cut off, and he wasn't actually harmed, but hey, my horse was robbed.

So I went marching home carrying Shy's tail, and the useless clump of stuff flowed from my fist, a physical thing that displayed Will's evil action; it swept the ground and felt so lifeless in my hands. I dumped it on the dinner table where they were eating macaroni, and the pile of dusty horsehair formed a shape like a question mark. Mom gasped and her green eyes got wide—same color as Will's—and Dad told me: “Get that off the table, son, whatever it is.”

I pointed at Will. “Why don't you ask HIM what it is?”

And my good-looking brother smiled with his perfect, could-do-dental-commercials teeth. He put on his fake, exemplary Mom Voice. “Yancy dearest, what have you brought home for dinner tonight? My goodness. It's terribly filthy.”

“Your boy Will's an insane sicko!” I screamed, while my parents stared at me, and Will sat there grinning. “I mean, like, horses NEED their tails. That's how they get flies off their bodies, and fly season's not over for two months. Shy just lost three feet of fly protection, thanks to my stupid brother!”

“Are you saying Will intentionally cut off Shy's tail?” Dad said, or yelled, or whatever, and he jumped out of his chair looking really pissed.

Will jumped up too. “No way! He's a liar!” His voice all confident sounding.

Dad's fork dropped.
CLINK!
He headed toward Will. It was getting way too intense for an enjoyable macaroni and cheese meal, so I escaped to my room and locked the door, but I could hear them scream. I could hear Will holler, “Not me! You always blame me!” And then a loud crash. I wondered if it was the sound of Dad hitting Will. But Dad isn't supposed to hit Will—that's what he and Mom learned in their Behavior Therapy Class a long time ago, that Dad has to stay calm and firm and give Will positive reinforcement when he does something good. Hey, it's a psychologist-approved behavior program for their out-of-control, majorly insane son.

About fifteen minutes after all the screaming, Dad knocked on my door, but he couldn't get in because it was locked. “Yancy,” he called from the hall. “It is not okay for Will to do crap like that. Open the door and let's talk about it.”

I turned up the volume on my iPod.

“Yancy!” Dad rattled my doorknob. “You in there?”

“No.”

“Okay, fine. Tomorrow we'll talk about this during our family conference.”

Thirty minutes after that, Mom's soft tap. “Sweetheart? You didn't eat your dinner. I left a plate on top of the microwave. I think Will feels badly about what he did. Yancy? You okay in there?”

I turned the music up even louder. What were they supposed to do? Put Will in handcuffs? He'd never touched my horse before. Why now? Was this a normal progression of Conduct Disorder Mind Warp? If my favorite thing in the world was a goldfish, would he fry it for dinner?

I needed time to think. My only hope was the stupid Family Problem–Solving Conference, these monthly meetings where we all had to sit in the den, face–to–face, prepared to discuss our family trauma and drama. I usually hated those conferences because they're completely boring and nothing was going to help Will anyway. My parents use the Behavior Therapy Approach, a way-useless tool, IMHO. How come I'm the only one besides Will who knows that? But since we are equal members in this family, I was supposed to have EQUAL POWER, but only if I spoke up at the meetings. But whenever I complained about Will, he made me pay later, and if I complained that he made me pay, then he made me pay for that. It just never ended.

But this time was different. I wanted revenge! All day at Frank's I was thinking,
MY HORSE HAS NO TAIL
. This time it wasn't about me. I would not sit there with my mouth taped shut as usual. I would have to say something about Will's sick behavior.

And that's what I did. As soon as everyone reached the den, I climbed to my feet and blurted it out. “Shy lost his amazing tail and even worse, he's gonna suffer. Will should lose something amazing, too. Something he's proud of, right? My suggestion is that we shave his freakin' head.”

Will reached back and stroked his ponytail. “Dude! We are not living in some ancient civilization. This is Chatsworth!”

“Well, what you did was barbaric. A ponytail for a ponytail. It's fair!”

Will glanced around. “Dad! Mom! Tell him his idea is ridiculous!”

Of course they agreed with my brother. Ridiculous with a capital R. So I went with PLAN B, that Will should lose TEN points off his chart toward earning his learner's permit, and Dad and Mom said
PERFECT!
while Will did some cussing and screaming. They told him the ugly words would cost another point, so he shut up. Then we squeezed into the bathroom, and they took Will's pathetic little cutout race car that he's got all tacked to some pathetic Microsoft clip art chart. It might work for a six–year–old, but hey, this dude is sixteen, and they made Will take his race car and move it back eleven spaces. So that put him on square seven, poor guy, and he needs a hundred squares of positive actions to reach his goal.

When we left the bathroom, on the way back to the den, Will glided down the hall toward Dad. “So how can I earn some of those points back?” he said so nicely, hanging his arm over my father's shoulder the way guy-pals do. “Can I wash your car, maybe? That should be worth a point or two.”

And Dad said okay! Only one lousy point, but still—fuck! It almost made me puke. The therapists have told my parents, especially Dad, that it is not good for Will to have such a low rate of positive reinforcement, because it's very harmful to his self-image. He needs ample opportunity for success, they say. But here's my POV. On our journey back to the den after the car-busting ceremony in the bathroom, returning to our wondrous Family Problem-Solving Conference, Will flipped me off behind their backs and narrowed his tiger eyes so full of anger and hatred, there was no doubt in my mind about what he was saying:

YOU AND YOUR HORSE

ARE GONNA PAY!!

So it was definite:
WILL AIN'T GONNA CHANGE
. And of course the chilling knowledge: he would find a way to get even. Family Problem-Solving Conferences. Did they help?

I made myself a promise. I would NEVER attend one of those conferences again. I'd have to resolve Will's violence on my own.

God, I should stop writing but the flashlight shines strong with Dad's expensive batteries, and the moon is bright and cheery. Trying to heal me.

And now, down in the gully, I can visualize a hiker finding this journal, buzzards circling my dead body. I visualize the hiker opening my book, looking into what I've written here about my life while he tries to decipher the words and drawings.

WHAT DOES THAT PERSON

THINK OF ALL THIS?

Is he skeptical? Does he believe what I've written? Maybe Mr. Hiker is wondering if my parents are negligent. Why haven't they protected me and Shy? If I had a chance to speak to Mr. Hiker, I'd try to convince him how I've been putting up with my brother's shit my entire life. Will's shit is the normal thing. No one seems very worried about me, so I must be fine, right?

Listen, Mr. Hiker. They love me, but they just don't get it. Here's an example:

This one day when I was in the eighth grade, I stayed in bed sick after Mom left for her yoga studio, so she didn't know I was there hanging out in my room when she came home for lunch with a girlfriend.

“How do you stand it, Jessica?” Mom's friend was saying. “Will's a total handful, isn't he? How does Yancy deal with his brother's craziness?”

And Mom replied: “Yancy's okay. He gets A's, he's a good writer, a gifted artist. I think his horse is super…you know, a perfect way to escape all the stress around here. Thank God one of the kids is normal.”

But, Mr. Hiker, listen to this. Can any brother of Will's be NORMAL? Keep reading. (I've almost reached the violent part.)

The next afternoon, Sunday, the day after the tail incident, he was at the stables again. AGAIN! He was NOT playing softball at the park.
BAM-BAM-BAM
: my heart.

Will laughed and his teeth were so white, and he watched a humongous frantic crow peck at dried horse poop inside Shy's corral.

“So, manure-eater,” he told me, “let's go to Gomez's and get that cash.”

“NO.”

Quick as a slingshot—
SMACK!
—Will's fist slammed against my shoulder, and it made me stumble backward, but I stayed on my feet, left-right-left-right, knees shaking, belly churning. He hit me again. And even though I'd never stood up for myself before, the part of my mind that loves my horse started telling me to fight for the missing tail. I made myself forget that Will is huge and mean and dangerous. Kill Will!!

BAM!
My knee landed hard in his groin. God, the stunned look on his face was priceless, like he couldn't believe I'd kneed him, and then he doubled over.

“Fuckhead!” Will staggered into the barn, digging deep inside a tack trunk. He'd really gone crazy, and stuff flew out, and I was ducking and dodging stiff-bristled grooming brushes and a metal currycomb, three rolls of orange vet wrap, a gray bottle of fly spray, and then something shiny and silver waved through the air, but he didn't throw that.

“I've got scissors, asshole, and I'm cuttin' your stupid horse to shreds!” Will leaped inside Shy's corral before I could blink, and his arm lashed against Shy's hindquarters. My horse bolted, all panicked, lunging hard against metal bars, seeking a way out. The animal was trapped. The scissors flashed again, but Shy was dodging the danger. I reached the gate and slid the latch with one fast yank, and it jabbed my thumb, but I was beyond pain. My legs swung up, squeezing Shy's bare back, and he galloped through the gate and bumped into Will, who got knocked to the ground. GOOD! We were speeding, galloping strong, and I had to guide the horse with my knees and we escaped.

“I hope you die!” are the words I screamed.

Of course Will shouted a quick answer: “Your fuckin' horse is gonna die! I'll chop him into little pieces and you'll find his hooves in one place and his ears in…”

So maybe when we were about five blocks away I slid off and ran around to Shy's flank. The gash, a thin red stripe, barely a hide wound, not serious. And I was out there without a lead rope or halter or anything, but Shy is well-behaved. He'll follow me anywhere. So my horse buddy and I headed for a place where Will wouldn't find us, behind the concrete wash where the little kids ride their skateboards.