At home, we went back into the kitchen. Pai was scrambling eggs and stirring a pot with beans and molasses, and Rafael poured himself a cup of coffee.
And I tried not to think about school.
19
WOODHILL SCHOOL
On Monday morning, I went to school after all. I really didn’t have a choice.
“I’ll take you,” Rafael said, standing in the kitchen, making lunch for me again.
But I shook my head. “Thanks, I’m fine. I’ll walk.”
“Good. I want to help with the exercising.” He made pointers of his fingers, reminding me of the way: straight to the end of our road, two blocks left, another one right.
At the table, the Horseman glanced up from his newspaper. “I could take you.”
“I’m all right,” I said.
“The math. We forgot.” His hand went to his upper lip. “Paulo said that you’re smart, that your teacher said you can do anything—” He broke off. “I don’t understand what happened the other day.”
I tried to think of what to say that would bring us away from that morning.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “The math will be fine.” I narrowed my eyes. “You’ll see.” I was going to do something about math today, no matter what.
“And English, too,” he said. “Don’t forget about the English.”
One thing after another.
I didn’t answer him. Days of the week; the tree is nice; I’m hippy to be here; watch out, the mosquito bites.
I nodded at them both. “After school, I’ll take care of Love You. Don’t worry about that, either,” I said, and let myself out the door.
I went along the driveway, looking back to see José on one of the chestnuts, then took the long road to the end where it turned. I practiced what I was going to say to Mrs. Bogart, mumbling to myself.
I passed the fruit store, but it wasn’t open yet. There was a sign on the door, BACK ON MONDAY.
The words came into my head. A weekend sign. And I knew what it meant.
“Back on Monday,” I said aloud. “And Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.”
And another sign. FRESH APPLES.
Ah.
Soon the school was ahead, and I saw the drumming boy, Ian, up ahead, talking to someone and waving his arms around, but I didn’t see anyone else from our class. Never mind. I knew my way to the classroom, too.
I went down the hall and straight to the teacher’s desk, waiting while she wrote something on a pad in front of her.
At last she looked up. “Lidie. I’m glad to see you.”
I said it slowly: “I know math.”
“Yes, good.”
I said it again, realizing I’d forgotten a word. “I know hard math.”
She tilted her head, said something, but I caught none of it.
“I want—” I began.
“Hard math,” she said.
She went to my desk and sat down next to me, a thick book in her hand. She gave it to me to look through, waiting patiently.
It began with the easiest adding problems, baby subtraction, and I thumbed through the pages. Halfway through, I went back a few pages.
I picked up a pen and worked out the problems on that page, X equals this, Y equals that. I couldn’t do the ones that had long English questions, but no matter. I skipped over them.
I did a few on the next page, then moved forward two or three pages, and kept going until I didn’t know any more.
I looked up to see Liz standing there with a few others, watching me. Mrs. Bogart smiled at them. “Wow,” she said.
I knew from the sound of this word wow that I had done well, really well.
“Wow,” I said, too, and they all laughed, but the laughing was kind. Mrs. Bogart went to her closet and brought me another math book to put in my desk. She patted it. “For you.”
Girls spoke to me now, interrupting each other, still talking as if I were deaf, but I was smiling, smiling, and so were they.
“Library,” Mrs. Bogart said.
I looked at Liz. I wondered if I knew that word.
“Books,” Liz said.
Ah, biblioteca.
We lined up at the side of the room, on our way to the library.
I passed my hooded jacket on its hook, with its slight bulge in one sleeve, the baby scarf that no one could see. Maybe my jacket belonged there after all; maybe I did, too.
Upstairs, we went through double doors. The librarian was a man with wavy gray hair; he looked as if he liked to eat. “Hello, Lidie,” he said, and placed a thick book in my hands, a book with pictures.
I drew in my breath. I had seen this book many times before, but now the words were in English.
I paged through. It began with a picture of a herd of horses running together, all legs, a cloud of dust behind them.
I thought of Tio Paulo’s words: They came from herds, living with horses all around them. And even though it was thousands of years ago, they haven’t forgotten. They need friends.
A few pages later, I saw Gallorette, the famous tomboy filly. On another page, I saw Ruffian, queen of the fillies.
I sat there the whole period with Liz, saying their names. Then I saw the photo of Native Dancer. “I have …,” I told Liz.
“The horse?” she asked.
“No, not the horse.” I tried not to laugh. “The …”
I reached for the word, and suddenly it was there. “The picture.”
And then we both laughed. “Look,” she said, reading, then pointing to the blur in the corner. “Isn’t that a cat?”
“Yes, the cat was…”
I stopped.
The cat was his friend. The whole sentence came to me in English.
But then the time was up. I held the book to my chest when the librarian reached for it.
It was so hard to let it go. It was almost as if I’d sat in the library at home in Jales. But after I handed it to him, I watched to see where he put it. I wanted to be able to find it again.
We walked back to the classroom, and all the while I was thinking.
Suddenly I knew what Wild Girl needed.
A cat. A friend.
And I knew just where to find one.
I could imagine Wild Girl changing, becoming feisty, happy. Just as exciting, I thought of what Pai would say when he saw what had happened.
I hugged the thought of it to myself for the rest of the school day. A cat, of course. It was so easy, so perfect, I couldn’t stop smiling.
20
THE STALL
The sun beamed through the window over the filly’s head.
She ate the warm mash from her pail, raising one hoof and then the other. Then she poked her head over the half door of her stall …
And waited.
Would the creature come again? The one with the thick mane of hair, the one who weighed almost nothing on her back?
The filly’s ears pricked forward, listening for the sound of those quick footsteps.
Waited.
21
THE FARM
I sat on the floor in my room, my head back against the wall, trying to keep my eyes open. I had to be sure Pai and Rafael were asleep. Bringing the cat to Wild Girl had to be a surprise.
I thought I’d never hear them come upstairs. We’d all sat in the kitchen, talking until long after bedtime about Rafael’s first race and how Doce would run. I’d finally said goodnight, trying to give them the idea it was time to sleep.
When everything was quiet at last, I slipped out of the bedroom and tiptoed down the hall. I stopped at the small lighted lamp on the table to look at the painting of the horse and jockey. I rubbed my bare foot against my leg, pretending I was the jockey racing my horse to the finish line. I thought again of Rafael’s first race tomorrow, how hard he was working. He was out on the exercise track every chance he had.
Downstairs, I rummaged through the cabinets, trying to decide what a cat might like for a midnight snack. Titia Luisa would have thought
it was a terrible kitchen. There wasn’t enough food to keep a family of mice alive.
I remembered there was a little leftover fish from dinner in the refrigerator. It was dry and chewy; Rafael had cooked it to leather. I didn’t think the cat would complain, though.
I scooped up the fish plate and a few mushy vegetables, grabbed my jacket off the hook, my striped boots from the floor underneath, and went out the back door.
The lights threw misty beams across the barn roof and over the exercise track. How beautiful it was at night! I looked back at the windows; inside, there was just the faintest light from that hall lamp, but the outside walls, the door, and the steps were sharp and clear.
I took a breath. “Here, kitty,” I called, trying to keep my voice down.
The cat was nowhere to be seen. But the other day I had watched her go over the fence and into the small grove of trees out back. I crossed the track and opened the back gate. Under the outline of branches it was dark. Really dark. The ground was as mushy as the cooked vegetables; there was a thick layer of damp leaves from last year.
I’m not afraid, I told myself. I’m wild as a cat, wild as anything that could be creeping around. I moved from one tree to the next, waving the plate with the fish in the air.
“Where are you?” I called. “Where have you gotten yourself?”
“I’m right here,” a voice said in my own Portuguese.
I dropped the fish and jumped back, banging into a tree trunk. A woman stood there in the dark, a big woman. Her hair was caught up in a mess of a topknot on her head, her hands on her hips.
The light was too dim for me to see her face, but her voice was loud. “What are you doing?” she said. Was her voice angry? Surprised?
No more surprised than I was.
I turned and scrambled through the gate, realizing that my lovely boot had come off my foot and was somewhere in the leaves behind me. But never mind the boot or the fish with its mushy vegetables, never mind the cat for now.
Halfway across the track, I looked back, but I didn’t see anyone. Maybe I’d dreamed it all. My hand went up to my chest, and I stood there, head down; I took deep breaths, trying to steady myself.
Half asleep, I told myself. That was all it was.
I hesitated. Should I go back again to look for the cat and my boot?
I sighed. I’d have to wait until tomorrow. I’d do it in the daytime. I wasn’t as wild as I’d thought I was. I let myself back into the house and locked the door behind me, then took two peppermints from the kitchen drawer. I went upstairs with one in each cheek, sucking on them.
No wonder the horses liked them. The minty taste was calming.
“Is that you, Lidie?” Pai called from his bedroom, his voice sleepy.
I didn’t answer. Quickly I opened my door, slipped inside, and closed it behind me. I waited before I moved, counting in my head to a hundred.
He didn’t call again, so I moved across the room. I took a quick look out the window. At first, I didn’t see anything. But there, on the fence, was the orange cat. I couldn’t believe it. Where had she come from?
I watched for another few minutes, but there was no one else outside. I dropped my jacket and the one boot on the floor, then climbed into bed.
22
THE RACE
I had no time to think about the cat or the dream woman in the forest. It was a busy day in school, with music and a play in the auditorium.
I left school the minute the dismissal bell rang and ran almost all the way to the track, feeling the warm sun on my head. Rafael would ride Doce in the ninth race!
I wore the same coral shirt I’d worn that day I’d flown from Brazil. “My favorite color,” I’d told Rafael this morning. “It will bring you luck; I know it will.”
“Not pink?” he said. “I thought it was pink. We talked Mrs. Januário into that color for the stable. I’ll be wearing pink silks.”
I suddenly realized he’d chosen it for me, and swallowed. “Pink,” I said. “Yes, of course. Pink, too.”
I ran past the stone pillars, waving my pass at the guard, and went straight to the paddock where the jockeys would mount. Stable hands were leading Doce into the area. Doce’s mane was carefully braided, his face mask and socks in matching pink.
Pai and Rafael walked along behind them, heads together, going over the things they’d talked about at dinner last night.
Rafael! He looked so different. I hardly knew him. A jockey. Splendid in his silks. Walking along as if he’d done this forever. And Pai! For the first time I saw him wearing a jacket and tie.
I crossed my fingers: Let Rafael win, please let him come in first. I waved, and he raised one finger to his helmet.
I thought of myself then. How would it be if I were the one entering the paddock area? I’d be the one up on Doce, watching his head turning from side to side.
When Rafael mounted Doce, I knew how I would feel: mouth dry, heart beating fast; telling myself I was going to win, had to win, that I wanted that more than anything.
Someday it would be me, I was sure of it. I’d make it happen. I’d work so hard, learning everything there was to know about horses and riding. In my mind was a picture of Tio Paulo rocking on the porch, telling me about his own first race years ago, then glancing at me: And you were born to ride.
Would Rafael win his first race? And someday, would I?
Rafael went past, up on Doce, his helmet low over his forehead. Then I hurried with Pai to our place in the grandstand, moving around knots of people. The stands were half empty because the race was late in the afternoon; it was easy for our eyes to sweep across the track. And what I saw, next to our seats, what I could hardly believe I saw, was the woman with the topknot of hair from last night.
As we angled our way toward her, I heard the announcer’s deep voice: “The horses are on the track.”
I turned to Pai, but he was watching for that first glimpse of Rafael as they loaded the horses into the gate.
I looked toward the gate and saw our first bit of luck. Rafael’s post position was number seven—not too close to the rail, where he’d be crushed in; not too far out, where he’d have to angle his way past the others.
Next to me was the woman, smiling a little. “A good position,” she said.
Pai leaned toward her. “Mrs. Januário,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re back, so glad you could see Rafael up on Doce.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “This is my daughter, this is Lidie.”
Mrs. Januário. The owner of the stable.
“A night creature, like me,” she said softly. Pai, glancing at the starting gate, didn’t seem to hear her. “I put your boot on the back step.”
I raised my shoulders helplessly and whispered a thank-you.
Pai glanced toward us. “Mrs. Januário came from São Paulo with her parents years ago.”
I nodded. So that was why she sounded like us.
Now I turned to the gate, my hands icy for Rafael. I tried not to think about what it would be like if Doce ran out of steam, if they trailed along behind that field of horses, or were boxed in where they couldn’t break out ahead of the others. I crossed my fingers: “Come in first,” I whispered. “Win.”
I didn’t have time for more than that quick worry. The bell rang, and the gates banged open. The horses were out, running, thundering toward us, a blur of bodies and legs and jockeys high up on their mounts. I kept my eye on that bit of pink: Rafael, helmet down, goggles down, one with Doce.
The lead horse was about a furlong ahead—maybe an eighth of a mile—and the others were bunched up behind him when three cut away and moved toward the lead horse.
I knew Rafael was holding Doce back. It was something Pai had said again this morning: Don’t make your move until the final turn. And Rafael was responding as if Pai’s thoughts and his were one.
Then it was time. Rafael asked Doce to go, and Doce responded instantly.
Everything was blurred for me as Doce reached the horses
in front of him. It almost seemed as if he’d have to create his own space to move through them.
I found myself whispering, “Anything can happen, anything—”
We jumped to our feet as one of the horses clipped the heels of another. The rider was thrown from his saddle!
The horse went diagonally across the track, slowing down the others. It gave Rafael enough room to squeeze through, around the horse, and around the rider, who had darted out of the way of the horses.
Fast, then. It was all so fast. I grasped Pai’s arm, my fingers digging into him, hardly realizing what I was doing, yelling, “Rafi, Rafi!” as he closed the gap, passing the third horse, and the second.
He was so close behind the first, so close …
And then he was neck and neck with that first horse. Rafael was crouched down on Doce’s back, the reins tight as they crossed the finish line.
But who had won?
Next to me, Pai grasped the railing, and Mrs. Januário was yelling, “Doce, was it Doce?”
In the infield, the sign lighted up: PHOTO.
We waited; the crowd waited. Behind us, people were shouting.
Pai turned to me. “Inside, they’re looking at photos of the finish line. They’ll study them from every angle.” He tilted his head, his mouth not quite steady. “Ah, wouldn’t it be something if …”
He never finished. The answer was up on the board for us.
I began to cry. I was crying from the excitement, crying because I loved Rafael, crying because, by just a nose, he had won!
Mrs. Januário was shouting “Yes!” in her deep voice. Pai’s face was blurred by my tears. He grabbed my hand and we ran to be there, to see Rafael, his arm raised high over his head in a victory salute.
23
THE STABLE
It wasn’t until the next morning that I thought about the orange cat. The rest of the afternoon had been one I’d always remember: Rafael, his helmet slung over one arm, filthy from the dirt of the track, grabbing us both to him, smiling, laughing.