Before They Rode Horses Read online

  Since I also already thought I knew most of it, I was prepared for the fact that this week, at least, I wasn’t going to get the Most Improved award. Something had to go right for me!

  At first, there were few surprises. She taught us to shake hands firmly. “No dead fish!” she exhorted us. We also learned to look people in the eye when we spoke with them or greeted them. I didn’t have any problem with that. I’d already learned those things.

  She had a place set for each of us at her dining table and showed us which fork to use, how to hold our knives, when to begin eating, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. All old hat to me, though I must say I’d never seen so many forks and I doubt I ever will. Imagine four forks and five spoons at a meal! I can’t eat that much. Oh, that was another thing she said. We were to be proper ladies, and proper ladies never ate too much. Forget everything you ever heard about cleaning your plate. Miss Martin said we were to leave food on the plate.

  I tried that on my mother one time when she served spinach. She didn’t buy it.

  Anyway, after we ate our imaginary meal—don’t think that stingy old Miss Martin actually gave us food to eat with all those utensils—she got to the section on being considerate.

  We were always to remember that other people had feelings and we should try to put ourselves in their shoes and hear what they were saying. It was never acceptable to hurt somebody’s feelings. In fact, she made it an absolute: “A lady never insults anybody.” That sounded fair to me. I try not to hurt people’s feelings or insult them. Then she said it again, only she finished it in a kind of joking way.

  “A lady never insults anybody. Unintentionally.”

  Everybody laughed. It was kind of funny, but it was really mean, too. It meant that she thought it was all right to be snide, to put people down and hurt them, you just had to be subtle about it. It made me wonder. For one thing, it made me wonder about the collection of Most Improved certificates I was getting from Miss Martin. Were those actually insults? Was she trying to hurt me? That kind of remark makes you wonder, and it made me think about what it really meant to be sensitive to other people. What I’m saying is that Miss Martin taught me a lesson without meaning to teach me a lesson—much stronger than the lesson she’d already given.

  I couldn’t wait until the end of class. Miss Martin had invited our mothers to come to the tea party she was giving for the graduates. What it actually was, was a sales pitch for her advanced course.

  We served the tea, poured carefully, ate cookies neatly—without soiling our white gloves!—shook hands, and curtsied to everybody.

  “Oh, barf!” said Stevie.

  “I think I feel a pain coming on,” said Carole, clutching her stomach as if she were about to vomit.

  “I do feel a pain coming on,” said Deborah. The girls looked at their watches. Still fifteen minutes apart. They watched while Deborah rubbed her stomach gently and breathed soothingly. “Okay,” she said when it was over. “Go on.”

  I was still upset about what Miss Martin had said about insults and worried about whether she meant anything personal to any of us by it. I was so upset that I spilled some tea on my dress and dropped a cookie. My white gloves got soiled when I tried to pick it up. As if that weren’t enough, I put way too much milk in my mother’s cup of tea, so it dribbled into the saucer and onto my dress while I was walking over to give it to her. The net result of all this is that when I graduated from The Martin Academy, my dress and my hands were as dirty as they were on my first day when they were smeared with axle grease. I certainly wasn’t going to get a Most Improved certificate that day!

  When we were finally done with our tea, we each got a kind of diploma from The Martin Academy. I had the feeling that if Miss Martin hadn’t already filled out the forms before the class, she might have been tempted to flunk me. But my mother was there and the classes were over. It was time to move on. My diploma simply said that I was a graduate of the academy and fully prepared to go on to the full course that they offered. My mother looked at the thing in surprise and began to say something, but I gave her a look that Miss Martin didn’t teach us. So Mom never mentioned the idea of me going on to the full course of charm. In fact, now that I think about it, she’s never mentioned The Martin Academy again at all. I think she may have decided that it was a waste of time and money in the first place, but, as you’ll find out, she’d be wrong. It wasn’t a waste at all.

  The day after I graduated from The Martin Academy, fully prepared to be as charming as anybody you’ll ever know, was the day we had the dress rehearsal for A Christmas Carol. Ms. Stevens loved the idea of me wearing my black tutu. I added a pretty red-and-green cape that they had in the costume room, and I put some holly in my hair. I also wore some pink lipstick and a little bit of blusher, just the way I’d learned in Radiance. I looked good and I knew it. I also knew all my lines and all my cues. I knew where I was supposed to be and what I was supposed to do at all times. I was ready.

  I can’t say the same for Larry. Oh, he’d learned his lines and he’d finally remembered where he was supposed to be, but he couldn’t act worth a darn and that splendid mean quality that had won him the part in the first place was totally gone. He was sweet and gooey from the first. He even sounded apologetic when he told Bob Cratchit that he didn’t want him to take Christmas off!

  We made it through the rehearsal, but everybody in the cast, except Larry, was glum as could be. This was going to be a disaster unless somebody did something and did it fast.

  I went home that night feeling lower than I had since the day I’d learned I was going to have to go to charm school. Larry Titus was the wild beast who had been tamed by my charms. Our play was ruined and it was all my fault—well, my mother’s fault maybe, because she’d been the one to make me go to The Martin Academy.

  VIII

  I DON’T KNOW what made me think of it. It was probably that awful thing Miss Martin had said about insulting people and how it upset me so much that I’d spilled tea and dropped my cookie. I’d really let her get to me and it had made me behave in ways that I didn’t usually behave. I mean, I couldn’t believe what a klutz I’d become just because I was upset by what she’d said.

  School that day was very long. I don’t know if I heard anything at all. I had to learn the whole sevens multiplication table on my own later because I didn’t hear any of it that day—but that’s another story. Ms. Barnard had to call me three times before I realized it was my turn to read a paragraph. It was a disaster. That didn’t bother me, though, because I knew however bad the day was, the night was going to be worse. It was the night of our first performance.

  After school, Mom made me take a nap. That was probably a good idea. Then we had dinner and I put on my costume. Usually, just putting on that pretty tutu was enough to lift my spirits. Not so that night. It didn’t make me feel any better at all. I was blue as blue could be. Dad drove me over to the school. He said he and Mom would be there for the performance and they’d be sitting in the first row and they just knew they’d be proud of me. There was sort of an awkward silence in the car then, because we both knew that something was wrong. He didn’t say anything else until he pulled into the school parking lot. Then he stopped the car and looked at me.

  “Is there something you want to talk about?” he asked.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “I know you’re worried about something …”

  “I can’t talk about it, Dad,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to go into what Larry was doing to the play, especially after Dad and Mom had gone to the trouble and expense of making me so charming!

  “Well, darling, I want you to know that whatever it is that’s bothering you, I am very certain you will figure out a way to solve the problem. You are smart, hardworking, clever, kind, and all-around wonderful.” Then he held out his arms and gave me a hug. It was better than any Most Improved certificate I ever could have gotten. I knew he meant every word he’d said.

  “Thank you, D
addy,” I said, and I hopped out of the car.

  I know this sounds funny, but it was as if there was some sort of energy transfer in that hug. It was exactly what I needed, and it gave me the inspiration to do what I did.

  Everything backstage was all confused. Bob Cratchit had lost his hat. Tiny Tim was complaining that his crutch was too short. The Ghost of Christmas Present had a stomachache, and Jacob Marley swore he couldn’t remember any of his lines. Ms. Stevens was running all over the place, trying to help everyone at once. But everyone knew that none of that stuff was going to matter much if Larry was as bad in the performance as he’d been in the rehearsal.

  I found Bob Cratchit’s hat in the girls’ bathroom. Tiny Tim had picked up the wrong crutch. It only took me a minute to find the right one in the box of props. I even got a soda for The Ghost of Christmas Present. It calmed his butterflies in a second.

  “You’re wonderful, Lisa,” Ms. Stevens said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Now, if only you could find some way to make Larry Titus into a decent Scrooge!”

  She blushed the second she said that. She didn’t like admitting she’d made a mistake in the first place, and she particularly didn’t like to be complaining about one student to another. She apologized and asked me if I could forget she’d said that.

  “I’ll try,” I promised. “But it won’t be easy. And besides, it’s my fault anyway.”

  She gave me a hug, too, and told me I’d been doing a wonderful job and she was so proud of me.

  So, if everybody was so proud of me, how come I couldn’t correct the thing I’d made go wrong? That’s when it came to me.

  I looked at the clock. It was five minutes until we were due onstage. We’d start right on time. Everything was ready. Everyone was dressed. Everyone had on their makeup. All the props were in place. The stage was set. The only thing there was to do for the next five minutes was to get more nervous.

  “Psst, Larry, come with me,” I whispered. I reached out and took his hand, but of course not where anybody could see it. I would rather have been caught dead than to be seen holding Larry’s hand.

  It wasn’t hard to convince him to come with me. He still had that gooey-eyed look. He’d have followed me right off the edge of a cliff, and that was exactly where I was intending to lead him.

  The school auditorium has a back door that goes outside. I took him through that door, hoping no one would notice and no one would follow. I had to be alone with Larry.

  His eyes lit up when we got outside. I knew I didn’t have much time.

  “We just have a minute,” I said.

  “I know,” he answered.

  “Look, I had to talk to you before we went on stage. I want you to know that it’s going to be all right anyway.”

  “Sure,” he said. But he didn’t sound sure, and that was what I needed to hear.

  “I just wanted to reassure you,” I said.

  “About what?” he asked.

  “That I’m sure you’re going to do a good job. And that I am sure nobody in the audience is even going to notice.”

  “Notice what?” he asked nervously.

  “There’s no time left. Just do the best you can under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” he cried.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  Just then, the stage door swung open. It was Ms. Stevens. “Larry? Are you out there? The curtain’s about to go up. Hurry!”

  I pushed him into the light so that she could see he was there. He didn’t have time to ask me any more questions I wasn’t going to answer. A second later, he was on stage. A second after that, the curtain went up.

  Well, I’m not a mind reader or anything, but when you’ve been the one to write what’s going on in somebody else’s mind, it’s not really hard to read. That night Larry was a mess. All he could think about was what I’d said. He was worried sick about what I’d told him. He didn’t know what people weren’t noticing under the circumstances. But it was freaking him out. And that made him go back to his bullying behavior. He snapped at Cratchit. He growled at Marley. He was great.

  And by the time I got on stage, he was downright scared—just exactly the way he was supposed to be. He turned in a better performance than he’d managed in any of the rehearsals. Backstage, Ms. Stevens was wide-eyed and beaming. I was worried because I was afraid he would still be acting mean when he was with the second and third ghosts or at the end, but it worked just right. Before the second act, I clapped him on the back and told him it was working pretty well. That made him feel a little more relaxed, and when he was a little more relaxed, he was nicer, which was exactly what was supposed to happen to him during the play. By the end of it, he was Mr. Nice-Guy. The audience ate it up. They couldn’t stop clapping, and it wasn’t just my parents, either.

  When it was all over, I tried to get out of the backstage area before Larry got to me, but I didn’t manage it. He came running over to me.

  “What were you talking about?” he asked.

  “When?” I asked, batting my big eyelashes at him just the way Miss Martin had taught us.

  “About what people wouldn’t notice, probably,” he said.

  “Why, Larry, I just don’t remember,” I said. I scratched my head as if I were trying to stimulate my brain. “I wonder whatever could I have been thinking of?” I did the eyelash thing again. Then I dashed out the door to meet my parents. Larry tried to run after me, but he was surrounded by his parents and their friends, who wanted to tell him what a wonderful job he’d done. He couldn’t run away from them. I was free!

  My parents were great. Daddy gave me another gigantic hug. Mom did, too. She told me she’d known that all I needed was confidence and she thought we could thank Miss Martin for some of that.

  I laughed. “Oh, Mom, you don’t know how right you are!”

  “WAIT A MINUTE,” said Deborah. “I’m sure the play was such a success, but you promised that this was going to end up being a story that would give me an example of how to be a good mother. I was waiting for that, and now that we’ve reached the end, I’m still waiting.”

  “You didn’t get it?” Stevie asked her.

  “Are you telling me that if Max and I have a daughter, I’m supposed to send her to some silly lady to teach her to be a wimpy boy-chaser? Or how to be sneaky?”

  The three girls laughed.

  “No, that’s not the point at all,” said Stevie. “Although I must say I’m impressed. I didn’t know that Lisa had it in her to be that sneaky before she met me. I could learn a thing or two from her.” She patted Lisa on the back. “Good job,” she said. “I’m proud of you, too.”

  “Back to the subject,” said Deborah. “Exactly what is it that I’m supposed to learn from that story?”

  Carole took her hand. “Deborah,” she said, “you forget that Lisa learned the art of storytelling from Mrs. Reg, your mother-in-law. Don’t tell us she never told you a story?”

  “Oh, she does it all the time,” said Deborah. “When she finishes one of her stories, I often find myself wondering why on earth she told me that particular story, and I always know that if I work at it long enough, I’ll get the message. But as I think about this one, I don’t know what I’ve missed.”

  The girls laughed because that was exactly the way they always felt about Mrs. Reg’s stories. They were surprised, however, that Deborah had missed the point of Lisa’s story. It was so obvious!

  “Easy,” said Stevie. “It has to do with the promise that Lisa exacted from her mother in exchange for going to charm school.”

  Lisa grinned. She knew her friends would figure it out.

  “I still don’t get it,” said Deborah. “You never told us what it was you made your mother let you do.”

  Lisa just kept smiling.

  “She didn’t have to tell us,” Carole said, laughing. “It’s easy. You made your mother let you take riding lessons. Right?”

  “Of course!”
said Lisa. “What could be a better example of really good mothering than that?”

  “Incurable. You girls are incurable!” said Deborah. But she was smiling.

  And then she stopped smiling. “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s another contraction, and it’s stronger this time.” She massaged her stomach and took a deep breath through her nose, then blew out smoothly through her lips, almost whistling. The girls looked at their watches. It was twelve minutes since the last contraction.

  “They’re getting closer together,” Lisa said. “Should we call the doctor?”

  Deborah shook her head as the contraction passed. “No, he said there would be no need to call him again until they were five minutes apart. That’s hours and hours away. So, who’s next?”

  She looked at Carole and Stevie. Carole and Stevie looked at one another.

  “I guess it’s my turn,” Stevie said.

  “Let the games continue!” Deborah announced as she fluffed a pillow and put it behind her neck.

  Stevie took a deep breath and began.

  STEVIE’S STORY

  I

  WELL, THE FIRST thing I should tell you is that my brothers and I have not always gotten along as well as we do today.

  Unfortunately, at the moment the words came out of Stevie’s mouth, Carole was taking a sip of tea. She couldn’t help herself when she heard what Stevie said. She snorted, and an explosion of laughter brought forth a spray of tea. She stopped most of it with her hand, but then had to wipe up the rest of the mess while laughing uncontrollably. Lisa was no help. She was rolling on the floor with laughter.

  “Oh dear,” said Deborah. “Does this mean that Max and I should only ever have one baby?”