Conformation Faults Read online

  “Tell me about it.” Stevie wiped her brow and glanced out at the members of group three, who were lowering themselves to the red and blue synthetic mats that lined the floor in the center of the gym. Her gaze wandered to the closest mat, where Veronica diAngelo was holding court with several of her friends. Group three was supposed to be warming up in preparation for its fitness tests, but to Stevie, Veronica’s stretches looked more like the kind one might do when first waking up after a long, restful night’s sleep.

  Callie followed her gaze. “Is it just me, or does she always have that queen-of-the-world look about her?”

  “More like queen of the dorks,” Stevie replied, rolling her eyes. She had known Veronica a long time, and they had never gotten along. Back in junior high, Veronica had been a regular riding student at Pine Hollow along with Stevie and her friends. But even then Veronica had cared more about her fancy riding clothes’ designer labels and her purebred horses’ designer bloodlines than she had about actually learning anything about riding. A couple of years later, Veronica had finally grown bored with horses and traded her time at the stable for more time at the mall prowling for guys. Nobody at Pine Hollow missed her much, least of all Stevie.

  Stevie turned away from Veronica and her friends, giving her full attention to Callie. “Sorry we didn’t get much chance to talk last night,” she said. “It was great to meet Sheila, though. I think everyone really liked her.”

  Even as she said it, Stevie had to admit to herself that it was a sizable white lie. She still wasn’t sure she liked Sheila much at all. Lisa had seemed really distracted—probably by worries over her paper, or maybe her paranoia about Prancer—and had spent most of the evening smiling politely at everything anyone else said. After her late arrival, Carole had only stayed for about half an hour before making an excuse about doing laundry and taking off.

  “I just wish I’d remembered to invite Emily,” Callie said. “And I wish A.J. had come.”

  “Fat chance,” Stevie said. “I saw the new A.J. for myself yesterday, and believe me, he didn’t look to be in a partying mood.”

  Callie smiled sympathetically. “I know. Phil told me a little bit about that last night,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Stevie waved one hand wearily. She had spent a lot of time since the previous afternoon thinking about A.J., and so far she hadn’t come up with any useful revelations. “Not really,” she told Callie. “Anyway, A.J. has been a weirdo for weeks now. Sheila’s only here for a couple more days. I’d rather talk about her. So how are things going?”

  “I don’t know.” Callie kicked absently at the metal support of the bleacher with her good leg. “We went straight to bed after you guys left last night, and this morning my dad talked her ear off about that new welfare committee he’s on in Congress. So I feel like we haven’t talked much yet.”

  “You still have time,” Stevie assured her. “Where is she today? I thought maybe she’d come to school with you.”

  “Nope. She’s touring a couple of local colleges today. Including Northern Virginia U., by the way. Isn’t that where your older brother goes?”

  “Yeah, but she shouldn’t let that stop her from going there,” Stevie said. “With any luck Chad will have flunked out long before next fall.” She was kidding—her oldest brother, Chad, was doing very well at the university. “Seriously, it’s an awesome school. What’s she planning to major in?”

  “I’m not sure,” Callie replied. “She likes history, and she’s always been interested in writing—you know, newspaper and yearbook stuff.”

  “Well, NVU’s supposed to have a great journalism department.” Stevie grinned. “I only know that because the last time Chad called home, he was totally gaga over some girl he met who’s a journalism major.”

  Callie grinned back. She had heard plenty of stories over the past months about Chad’s legendary romantic life. It sounded as though he had spent the past five or six years of his life falling for a new girl every week.

  Her smile faded as her thoughts returned to Sheila. She would be back from her tours by the time Callie got home from school, and Callie was already dreading seeing her again. Her gaze was trained on her classmates out on the mats, who were beginning their first set of push-ups, but she wasn’t really seeing them. Instead she was seeing Sheila as she had first seen her at the airport the afternoon before, perfectly groomed and staring sympathetically at her crutches.

  “It’s weird,” she said softly, after looking around to make sure none of the other students was close enough to hear. “I’ve known Sheila my whole life. But now it’s like I’m not sure what to say to her.”

  Stevie shrugged. “I know it must be tough. But just try to say what you’re really feeling instead of what you think she wants to hear, and things should work out all right.”

  Callie ran her fingers lightly over the top support of one of her crutches. Stevie made it all sound so simple. And for someone like her, it probably was simple. Stevie never seemed to worry about what other people thought of her. She just went ahead and did and said what she wanted and things worked out for her somehow. Callie wished she could be like that, but she didn’t think it was likely to happen. The best she could hope for was to learn to be a little less guarded, a little more trusting, with a few select people in her life.

  Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a shriek from the gym floor. Callie glanced over and saw Veronica leaping to her feet.

  “Ow!” Veronica squealed. “Ow, ow, ow!”

  “What’s the matter?” the phys ed teacher asked, rushing toward her.

  Veronica gave the teacher a sour look. “I have a cramp in my leg,” she whined. “I should have known it was too soon to start exercising again after that terrible flu I had last week.”

  Stevie smirked and leaned toward Callie. “Right,” she whispered sarcastically. “It’s the dreaded Bermuda flu. It managed to keep her out of commission straight through a four-day weekend.”

  The teacher made a few soothing noises, then sent Veronica over to sit in the bleachers. “Over here, Veronica!” someone called from a few rows behind Stevie and Callie. “Come sit with us.”

  Veronica headed for the voice. As she stepped onto the bleacher seat beside Callie, the edge of her white leather sneaker hit one of Callie’s crutches, sending it clattering to the floor.

  Callie winced at the noise, which momentarily silenced the students all around them, and automatically bent over to retrieve the crutch, grimacing at the movement, which strained her weakened right side.

  “Hey, watch where you’re putting your big feet, Veronica,” Stevie said. She leaned over and helped Callie grab the crutch.

  “Why don’t you tell your little friend to watch herself, Stevie?” Veronica demanded. “It’s bad enough she sits around here every class and watches the rest of us sweat. The least she could do is keep her stupid stuff out of the way.” With a toss of her dark hair, Veronica moved on without a backward glance.

  “What a jerk,” Stevie muttered. She glanced at Callie. “Sorry about that.”

  Callie bit her lip and shrugged. “Not your fault,” she said, trying not to let Stevie see how much Veronica’s casual insult had bothered her. She hated being this way—hated standing out from the crowd because of her injuries, hated sitting on the sidelines during class, most of all hated relying on those ugly metal crutches. It was one thing to be different because of an achievement or talent, like when she won an endurance race or received an academic award. But this difference was more like the extra attention she and Scott got because of their father’s job. She hadn’t asked for it, she hadn’t done anything to earn or deserve it, she didn’t want it. But it was there, and she had to deal with it every day of her life, like it or not.

  She sighed and pushed the crutches a few inches away on the wooden seat, reminding herself that this was temporary. In a few weeks or months she wouldn’t need the crutches anymore, and people like Veronica diAngelo could go
back to ignoring her. If only that day didn’t feel so far in the future … In a way, she mused, her life since the accident had been a little like an endurance ride. At the beginning her ultimate recovery had seemed impossibly far away, like the finish line in a hundred-mile race. Now that she was more than halfway there, there still seemed much too far to go, too many miles left for her weary mind to imagine.

  But if it really is like a race, it will all be worth it in the end, Callie reminded herself, feeling her old determination taking over once again. The day I can finally throw these stupid crutches out in the garbage will be better than crossing a thousand finish lines. I just have to dig in and hold on until then.

  Carole chewed on her lower lip, her eyes trained on Ms. Shepard. The teacher was shuffling some papers on her desk as a few stragglers wandered into the classroom.

  The bell went off with a jangling buzz, and Carole jumped nervously in her seat. She gripped the edges of her desk, wishing for the magical ability to move time forward by will alone. Just five minutes, maybe ten—that would be enough. Then she would already know the truth, for better or for worse. She would have yesterday’s test paper sitting in front of her. As it was, she feared the suspense might overwhelm her before the teacher got around to passing out the grades.

  “Every Pine Hollow student must maintain a C average or above.” Max’s words floated through her mind before she could stop them. “Any student whose average falls below that level in any subject will not be allowed to ride until he or she brings up the grade.”

  Max said the same thing every year, gave the same warning to every new crop of Pine Hollow students. Carole had heard him say it as part of his introductory speech to the beginners’ riding class just a few weeks before. At the time the words had hardly registered, they were so familiar from years of repetition. But now they seemed burned into her brain, throbbing there, taunting her with their black-and-white, unmistakable meaning.

  It’s not going to happen, she told herself, crossing her fingers hopefully. I answered most of the questions. Maybe I got lucky. Maybe this was a practice test or something. Or graded on a really easy curve.

  “All right, class,” Ms. Shepard called. “Settle down. I’m going to pass out your tests now. Most of you did fairly well.”

  Carole bit her lip so hard that it started to go numb. The teacher dropped a couple of papers on nearby desks, then glanced down at the next test in the pile.

  “Carole,” Ms. Shepard said, turning toward her. She fingered the corner of the paper. “Carole, I must say I’m a little surprised at your performance. I’d like you to stay after class so we can talk about it.”

  Before Carole had a chance to digest that, her test paper landed on her desk. The grade, written in bold red ink in the top right-hand corner, hit her like a sledgehammer between the eyes.

  F.

  Carole felt her hands begin to shake. She grabbed the test and stared at it in shock, hardly believing her eyes. F. It was enclosed in a big red circle. She flipped to the second page. The blank answer spaces beside most of the essay questions had left the teacher plenty of room to jot a note in red. Nice try on #1, she had written. But you forgot to mention that the Genteel Tradition began as a movement toward beauty and optimism in literature and the arts. Partial credit. And what happened to the other answers?

  Flipping the test back to the first page, Carole glanced at the grade at the top once more before quickly turning it facedown on her desk. But it was too late. That big, bright F—F, as in fail, flunk, fool—was emblazoned in her mind. She felt tears spring into her eyes, and she squeezed them shut to keep the tears from spilling over. It wasn’t fair. Why did this have to happen, now of all times? She should have known that things were going too well. She was loving her job, making real progress with Samson, and feeling good about everything at the stable, from helping with the new riders to assisting Max and Judy with Prancer. And now school had to intrude, to ruin everything. It just wasn’t fair.

  She could hardly concentrate on anything her teacher said for the rest of the class period. For once she wasn’t distracted by thoughts of Samson and his training. She was busy trying to figure out a way out of this mess.

  One thing she knew for sure: Max wasn’t going to make an exception for her. There was no way around that. If Carole’s overall grade fell below a C—and this early in the marking period, one test could do it—that was it. Once Ms. Shepard reported that grade to the vice principal, the vice principal would call Pine Hollow. And once Max knew that Carole had slipped below the cutoff, he would ban her from the stable, allowing her only to feed and groom Starlight, if she was lucky. Carole didn’t think she could stand that.

  She hadn’t figured out a solution by the time Ms. Shepard dismissed the class. The only plan she had come up with was to call Stevie as soon as she got home and beg for her help. Stevie had always been good at wriggling her way out of tight situations and finding creative answers to sticky problems. Maybe she could help Carole out of this one, though Carole couldn’t begin to imagine how.

  “Carole,” Ms. Shepard said as Carole started to gather her books. “Don’t forget, I want to talk to you.”

  “I know,” Carole replied heavily. She stuffed her books—and the test—into her backpack, then walked slowly toward the teacher’s desk. A few of her classmates gave her curious looks on their way out, but Carole avoided their eyes. She just wanted to get this over with, to find out where she really stood.

  She stopped in front of Ms. Shepard’s desk and waited, eyes downcast, until the rest of the class had gone. Then she looked the teacher in the face. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Shepard,” she blurted out, not sure what she was going to say until she heard herself saying it. “I know I messed up on that test. But—But I just need another chance. Maybe if I took a retest—”

  “Carole.” Ms. Shepard held up a hand to stop her. “Please, I have a few things I want to say first. I just want to make sure you realize that this is a serious matter. Your grades up to this point have been adequate, but hardly stellar. This test is going to make a real dent in your semester average so far.”

  Carole chewed on her lip again. “How much of a dent?”

  The teacher glanced down at the grade book on her desk. “Well, I haven’t worked out the numbers yet,” she admitted. “But if I had to take a guess, I’d say that once I average in this grade, you’ll barely be passing.”

  Carole’s whole body seemed to go cold at the teacher’s words. This was worse than she’d thought. If her average was a D—or even a D, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to bring it up before midterms, and those were weeks away. She couldn’t let it happen. She just couldn’t.

  “Ms. Shepard, listen, please,” she began, hardly knowing what she was saying. “I know I did really badly on this test, but you have to give me another chance. Please! I’ll take a makeup test whenever you say. Just give me one more chance.”

  Ms. Shepard was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Carole,” she said. “It just wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the—”

  “But you don’t understand!” Carole cried out. This time, as the tears came, she didn’t bother to hold them back. She was too busy trying to come up with an argument that might change the teacher’s mind. “I had a lot on my mind this past week, and I just couldn’t concentrate.…”

  Ms. Shepard pulled a box of tissues out of her desk and passed it to Carole, looking concerned. “Oh, dear,” the teacher said. “Carole, is there something I should know? Has something been going on lately—something with your family, perhaps?”

  Carole blinked. Why did teachers seem to think that students’ difficulties always stemmed from family problems? She opened her mouth to try to explain, to convince Ms. Shepard how important this stage of Samson’s training was, how delicate Prancer’s situation was right now, how much other work there always was to do at the stable.

  But before she could form the words, Ms. Shepard had grasped her hand. “You can tr
ust me, Carole.” The teacher’s words were gentle. “If there are problems at home—some kind of family trouble that kept you from preparing for that test—maybe we can work something out.”

  Carole hesitated. Was she hearing right? Was the teacher offering her a way out of this mess?

  But I can’t, she protested silently. I’m not having any family troubles. Dad hasn’t even been at home lately. I can’t lie about that.

  Or could she? It would be so easy, and who would really be getting hurt?

  Her mouth was forming the words before she realized she’d reached a decision. “Actually, I have been awfully worried about my dad this past week. He’s been sick.”

  “Sick?” Ms. Shepard looked slightly skeptical.

  There was no turning back now. Carole took a deep breath and blinked a few times. “I know it doesn’t sound like much,” she said, her voice quavering a bit from nervousness. She had never knowingly lied to a teacher before, and it made her feel queasy. Still, what choice did she have? “But my mom died a few years ago, and Dad’s all I have left …”

  “Oh, you poor thing.” Ms. Shepard rubbed the back of Carole’s hand, looking stricken. “I had no idea. I hope he’s feeling better now.”

  Carole nodded. “Oh, he’s fine,” she said. “Um, I was just pretty tired from, you know …” She faltered, wondering how other people did this all the time.

  Fortunately, Ms. Shepard had heard enough. “Don’t worry about that now, Carole.” She dug into the top drawer of her desk, pulling out a calendar. “Let’s see when we can schedule a retest, shall we?”

  Carole nodded, hardly daring to breathe for fear of ruining things. She couldn’t believe this was happening. It was almost too easy.

  “Do you have a study hall?” Ms. Shepard asked. “Maybe we could do it then.”

  “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday fourth period,” Carole supplied.

  The teacher stared at her calendar. “Hmmm. I have a class then. It might be better to schedule this after school. How about Thursday? That will give you a couple of days to prepare.”