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were always like the first day of school, as if the instructor believed we’d forgotten how to steer the horse. We went through a series of compulsory maneuvers, trotting down the center of the ring, circling a beacon to the right, trotting the quarter-circle along the rail to the proper diagonal, cutting across the middle of the ring and returning to the beacon. Simple stuff.
I trotted Red Baron down the center of the ring, confident that Cary knew nothing more than how to hot-wire convertibles in the city. I reached the beacon and began turning to the right.
Red Baron, apparently, had thoughts of his own. They were not the same thoughts and plans I had.
He reared and turned, and took off like a shot to the left, leaving me in a heap next to the beacon, the hunt cap I shared with my sister rolling away through the thick, oily dirt that covers the floor of such rings, the boots I borrowed from Mitch McRae filled with that awful mess.
Cary laughed. The instructor expressed concern and suggested the best thing for me was to get right back on that horse to rid myself of a permanent fear of riding. I had other ideas. Why don’t I just pick up my hunt cap, brush the dirt off my camp T-shirt, return the boots to Mitch and go swimming? I’d catch up with the group after arts and crafts. I could live the rest of my life with a fear of riding, I reasoned. I wasn’t so sure I could live with another round against Red Baron.
But there were other concerns. Kathy Snead was in my riding class. She
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