THE RED CAMP 14

Emily:

Racing

I draw horses. Over and over and over again

until each arch of the neck, curve of the flank and

angle in the fetlock is perfect. Horses are all I think

about. I draw them, study them, collect all sizes of

horse figures, from plastic cowboy and Indian horses

to delicate bone China statues from the TG&Y.

Mrs. DeAngelis, my sixth-grade teacher, has

asked Janine, Stacey and me to stay after school.

She wants to know why every day before school,

during recess, after lunch and sometimes even after

school, she sees the three of us running around the

fields like we’re crazy. I don’t want to say anything,

but she threatens us with detention. So Stacey steps

up and tells her about the secret club we formed

and how we’re practicing real hard to make the next

Olympics. Mrs. DeAngelis smiles and says she’s

very proud of us. Janine and I say nothing, marveling

at how easily Stacey can lie.

Our club is not really about the Olympics. We

don’t talk about it much, but I think it means something

different to each one of us. Our club is kind of

like a family. A family of horses. And we race

because we love to run. We’ve even made up our

own club symbol, which is a large triangle with

three small triangles, each small one intersecting

one of the three angles of the large triangle. In the

center of the large triangle is the letter "A" for Arabians,

our club name, and in the center of the small

triangles is the initial of each of our secret names.

Mine starts with "S" and that is all I can say.

We told our good friend Patty Maloney about

the club, and she didn’t really understand. Patty

likes horses, but she doesn’t love horses like we do.

When we told her we ARE the horses, she looked at

us really weird. I knew we had to stop then. So I

laughed and made a joke and said, "Not really," and

Stacey and Janine laughed, too.

"How could we possibly be horses?" Stacey

roared.

Patty laughed along with us, a kind of crooked,

unsure laugh.

But we are the horses. Or rather, we become

them.

We each have a stable of 25 horses, each horse

with it’s own name, personality and racing style.

Stacey has the long-distance runners. She

trains them by running the length of the entire

playing field over and over again. She can run forever.

Stacey has a deep chest, strong lungs and comes

from behind like most good distance runners. But

lately her ankles have been bothering her, and

we’ve been discussing getting them fired.

The sprinters belong to Janine, who holds the

50-yard dash record and who has calf muscles like

small hams. My horses are the middle distancers

and I have long, lean legs, strong quick feet and

good timing.

Over and over again we race our horses up and

down the field, building our strength, increasing our

speed and practicing in the winter rain and during

the long smoggy summer months.

I guess we are kind of nuts about this, but we

do it because we have to. When I’m running, the

earth is a part of me. The wind urges me on and the

grass springs up below me, lifting me upward and

onward. Sometimes I run so fast, I feel I’m galloping

on all fours, flying low, devouring the ground. When

I’m running nothing else matters. The sun, the

mist, the smells take over. I disappear.