Lilac's Chance

Chapter Five

Dinner that night is a quiet affair. Braydon has slipped back into his infuriating silence and Hank seems to be thinking deeply about something. I'm both furious and picky- furious that Braydon thinks I can't handle a Quarter Horse race, and picky because we're eating microwaveable dinners. Years of eating only health-foods nag at me as I prod my fork suspiciously at plastic disguised as mac'ncheese.

Turns out Hank's foray into town was to rescue my luggage from Mother Teresa before they melted her down and sold her for scrap metal. I hate to think of my faithful truck's fate- it's worse than selling the Thoroughbreds we bred and raised,  because they at least go on to good homes- but I'm strangely grateful for this little kindness. So now my little suitcase is tucked under the couch that serves as my bed, and my paddock boots are waiting at the door next to two pairs of heavy work boots.

Braydon shovels down his food as fast as he can without choking and stands up from the opposite couch where he and Hank sit, starting towards the sink. His plastic tray thrown in- wait, do they reuse these?- he moves towards his room, anxious to get away from us, from me.

Hank's mild voice stops him. "Braydon brought up some interesting points about you earlier today."

What's that supposed to mean? If he has an issue with me, he can say it to my face. I swing an accusing glare to him, but he avoids looking at me. "Did he really, now?" I answer, dragging as much ice into my words as possible.

"They're good points," Hank blunders on. Either he's oblivious or very aware to the lethal way I'm looking at his nephew. I hope it's the latter, as I don't want to be training under someone so dull-minded. "And relevant. What kind of riding experience do you have? Who taught you? Do you meet the requirements to apply for your license?"

Oh. Those are good questions, but I hate the way Braydon looks guilty for bringing them up. I hate the way he told his uncle, instead of asking me, since I'm the one with the answers. And I hate how expectantly Hank looks at me, because that means I have to tell him. The memories of every barn that turned me down linger in my mind. This is my last chance. I don't want it taken away from me because of some false accusations.

I stare at my hands and remember my friend, Anna, and how she had a habit of telling the truth when she could but not giving out any details. It's always worked for her. So I say, "I was taught how to ride by my uncle." Close enough- Willifred, the trainer at Piperson Farms, was practically family. Braydon actually looks surprised- I'd failed to mention this similarity I had with him earlier. "And of course I have my license- I've raced for him a few times. Not on any horse who's name you'd remember." Also true. My omission of So Far So Good doesn't count as a lie. I think.

Hank slits his eyes, but before he can respond, Braydon says, rather harshly, "That doesn't explain why you want to leave the country in order to race." His uncle straightens abruptly- Braydon, apparently, had not mentioned this.

I continue staring at my hands. They're grimy with horses and dirt, and there's a long scratch on the inside of my left pinky. It burns everytime I move it, and I don't know how it got there. "My uncle... is a famous trainer," I say. This is too dangerously close to the truth. I balance on the edge of a cliff- one question and I'll fall. Wind whips at me, trying to drag me down, but I refuse to yield. "And because of that, I've had a lot of what I have given to me. I want to know that what I earn isn't because of who I am, but because of what I do. That's part of the reason I couldn't work out at Silvercreek," I add hastily. It's true, to some extent. They didn't hire me because of who I was, regardless of how well I could ride.

"Hmm," Hank says, but he seems satisfied. Braydon works his mouth for a moment, but then he heaves out a great sigh and leaves. "You'll have to excuse my nephew. Our last jockey... well, we're right to be wary."