The horse show was a blast. One of my colleagues there, a third grader named Squank1 told me that she found me impressive. “You’re the bravest adult here. The rest of them are afraid to ride”.
I pressed her on this. “Afraid to ride, really?”
“It’s not so much the riding, more the fear of falling off in front of all of these people and being embarrassed,” she replied.
She had burgundy and green ribbons in her hair and an impish glint in her eyes. “Are you afraid of falling?” I asked.
“Kinda yes, kinda no. I’ve done it before. My mom makes a big deal out of it. I just want to have a good ride.” Squank seemed pretty smart despite her name. “Have a good ride,” she said as she walked her mount towards the arena.
She seemed so kind as she rode away. Once underway, riding the course, the kindness faded. Squank became a stone cold killer. She burned through trot poles and shredded corners all while maintaining perfectly balanced poise.
Her kindness? It must have been a ruse, a way of sizing up the …
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