At Risk

  * * *

  Notwithstanding the rain pounding on the metal roof above our heads, we easily heard Mrs. Hill's voice crackle over the PA system. She did not sound happy.

  Her message for me to report to the office ASAP elicited a variety of remarks from the crew, mostly obscene, and, as far as I was concerned, said with far too much pleasure. All morning long, they'd been debating whether or not Mrs. Hill would have heard about the fight and had been taking bets on her reaction. Ignoring them, I propped my pitchfork and rake in the corner of the stall I'd been mucking out and headed for the office.

  By the time I got to the office door, I was sopping wet, which, when I thought about it, was kind of appropriate for the upcoming discussion. As I put my hand on the rain-splattered doorknob, I had a knot in my stomach reminiscent of visits to the principal's office. When I stepped inside, Mrs. Hill looked up from her paperwork and compressed her lips.

  I took off my hat. Rainwater dripped off the ends of my hair and slid down the back of my neck. "Mrs. Hill?"

  "Stephen . . ." She tapped a finger on my notes. "What's all this about?"

  I looked out the door. It was raining so hard, I couldn't distinguish the pile of rubble from the line of the arena fence. "Last night, someone torched the Foxdale Jump. They stacked it into a heap and set it on fire. There's nothing left but charred wood."

  "But why?"

  I slowly turned to face her. "I don't know."

  I told her about the vandalism, and her face grew stiff with disbelief. She stared at me and absentmindedly clicked the top of her ball point pen against the desk blotter. The sound acted as a metronome, measuring each passing second, intruding on the lengthening silence, and I found standing still under her gaze difficult.

  "You called the police?"

  I nodded.

  "Another thing . . . "She did not look pleased. No pleasure anywhere. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "Mr. Sanders told me that you got into a fight with someone at the party." Her face was flushed with anger.

  Damn Sanders. He hadn't walked away like I'd thought but had hung around to watch. And when I'd had that damned piece of glass shoved up my nose, he hadn't done a thing to help. But he had the balls to imply that I'd started the whole thing. I hoped his horse would dump him on his ass. Into a puddle would be even better.

  "Well?" she said.

  "I don't know what he told you," I tried to keep my voice even, "but the guy I fought with hit me first. He was bothering Mr. Sanders, and I walked over to see if I could do anything to help. The guy was yelling obscenities, so I asked him to leave, and that's when he hit me. So I . . . defended myself."

  She picked up a piece of hard candy and fingered the wrapper. "Who was this person?"

  "He delivers hay for Mr. Harrison."

  "What?"

  "He drives the hay truck for Mr. Harrison sometimes," I said.

  She swiveled around in her chair, pressed a couple of keys on her computer keyboard, and scrolled down the screen. When she found what she wanted, she snatched up the phone, punched in a number--Mr. Harrison's, I presumed--and unleashed some of her anger in his direction. More than likely, the poor guy didn't have the foggiest idea what she was talking about.

  Mrs. Hill seldom got angry, but I saw that when she did, she didn't hold back. Personally, I was happy to be removed from target status. She demanded he dismiss his driver. He must have disagreed, because she said she "could be responsible"--her exact words--"for getting a different supplier." Here we go, I thought. Mrs. Hill listened without speaking, then disconnected.

  She looked up at me. Her face flushed as patchy red blotches spread up her throat. "I'm sorry, Stephen. Mr. Sanders gave me the wrong idea. I should have known you wouldn't start anything."

  "That's all right."

  "No it isn't." She rubbed her forehead. "Mr. Harrison's going to dismiss his driver. He had the nerve to say he wasn't responsible for what his driver did when he was off. I tell you." She slapped her palm on the desk blotter. "He can be responsible for the type of person he employs, can't he?"

  I struggled to keep a straight face. "Yes, ma'am."

  She waved me off. I cut through the lounge, wondering what Harrison's driver and Sanders had been arguing about and, more to the point, whether he had purposefully been trying to get me in trouble. And if so, why?

  The crew had moved on to barn B, and they almost seemed disappointed that I hadn't gotten my butt in trouble. Marty's opinion of Mr. Sanders was, as expected, unrepeatable. I didn't spend much time thinking about it, or the torched jump, but chose to think about Rachel instead.