Horse Girls
BY VIVIAN DEROSA
2024 Adroit Prize for Prose Runner-Up
Selected by Kaveh Akbar
“I love what the author does with the first-person plural through these pages—enacting what a ‘we’ exalts, what it indicts, what it excludes.”
Meet the Horse Girls
Last night, Canter Hill Stables burned to the ground and we had nothing to do with it.
We’re not sure how the fire started. But here is what we do know: We weren’t at the barn yesterday. Sure, we’ve been riding here for seven years, and we learned how to count by adjusting the holes in our stirrups, and we usually arrive at five am sharp to kiss our horses good-morning, rub down the leather tack, and pick stones out of hooves — but yesterday was the county fair. We were stuffing cotton candy into our lip-glossed mouths, or riding the purple plastic ponies on the carousel, or vomiting our guts out after taking a spin in the Tilt-a-Whirl. It doesn’t matter. You can picture us doing whatever you want.
We’re sorry, but we don’t know much about the dead horse. He was the prized stallion of the stables. He moved through the world bucking and brawling. Some of us weren’t supposed to touch him. Does that help you at all? And we know even less about the dead boy. Maybe he’s the one who started the fire. Boys do that, sometimes, set something wonderful ablaze. But what would we know? After the fair, we went home.
At the time of the crime, Courtney was in her room, rearranging her Breyer collection so that each model horse would best catch the light. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. Blunt bangs hid her forehead, and the rest of her thick hair was perfectly trimmed to her mid-back — the same haircut as her horse.
Em usually mucked out the stalls at night, but yesterday, she was sitting on a sagging couch, memorizing a jump course. Today’s the New Jersey Juniors Grand Prix, you know — one hundred thousand dollars for whichever rider manages to make the fewest mistakes. At the same time that a boy turned forever still, Em was thinking about swerving off course. Tear right out of the ring. Ride until she reached the willow tree where we’d buried something, once. But the truth is, she’d always point her horse towards the final jump, the triple bar decorated with pinwheels that spin in place. Right back where we started.
And Jessica? She was already asleep when the stallion went missing. Some people soften in rest, but Jessica just got sharper; elbows bent, acrylic nails digging into the cream sheets. Her eyes were closed then, but now they’re open, gray and angry and hollow like the dead horse’s eyes.
Look at her.
Look at all of us.
We’re cold-blooded like Clydesdales and whale-tail thongs breach out of our breeches. Our lashes are clumpy with Better Than Sex mascara, but do you really think we’d be able to tell you if it lives up to its name? Tell us we’re pretty; nay, tell us we’re first place. The bands on our braces are the same color as the scrunchies at the end of our pony-tails. We get Bs on Algebra tests and A cups at Victoria’s Secret. Our nails are always done. Around the barn, we’re Courtney and Emma and Jessica, but our show name is bitch. When we smile, we spread our thin lips and bare our horse teeth.
Do we look like we’d lie to you?
Two Months Earlier
Orlando
This was a summer with teeth. The sort of summer where you have to hold your hands flat or else June will bite your fingers off. We wore spaghetti straps. We left sweat stains when we straddled the saddle. We were fourteen. We closed the tack room door, held our arms up in front of the oscillating fan to air our pits out. We aired our grievances out. Freaking Danielle with her freaking palomino who’s hogging the outdoor ring. And also, our mothers. Self-explanatory. And the barn owner, who had yet to arrive, even though we’d been waiting for him — and the new horse — all morning.
Humidity, heavy on our shoulders like a shrug. Half-chaps pulled up to our knees, knees pulled up to our chests. Mosquito wings crushed under our boots. This was the first day of our seventh summer together, and we had absolutely nothing to do until Jessica said she wanted to pierce her ear with a horseshoe nail.
We didn’t ask if she was joking. Jessica was as sharp as her name. Hissing s, biting c. The walls around us were covered with bridles and bits. These days we were always biting down. We bit our tongues. We bit the insides of our cheeks until they turned white rubber.
“Don’t you think you’ll need something sharper?” Courtney asked.
“Like what?” Jessica lay on her stomach, stretched across her tack box.
We pretended to think it over. We all knew Em had a sewing kit in her tack box. The edges of her saddle blanket would fray, or there’d be holes in Lancelot’s winter coat. All her stuff was secondhand. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to Claire’s?”
Jessica smiled.
Em handed her the needle. “Let us help you.”
“My mom packed disinfectant wipes,” Courtney said. Courtney’s mom made us travel with portable first aid kit in case something terrible happened. In all fairness, a truly remarkable number of terrible things did happen to Courtney: scoliosis, an allergy to cashews, getting poison ivy on her vagina. Never really stopped itching down there.
We went to the barn bathroom, windowless and wood-paneled with another whistling fan. In front of the blurry mirror, Jessica brushed her hair back to reveal our target. We leaned in. Wiped down the needle, then the ear. This wasn’t the first time we’d done this. Well, we’d never pierced an ear before, but we’d disinfected Em’s nose ring and we’d cut Courtney’s bangs and we’d tweezed Jessica’s eyebrows, each of us plucking hairs until they were narrow, uniform. What we mean to say is: this is hardly the first time we’ve moved as one.
We pointed the needle, aimed for flesh.
As we broke skin, we could hear the barn owner’s trailer pull into the gravel driveway. He was here. And so was the new arrival. Our hands shook. Even before we met him, even before we knew this horse was unruly and irresistible, snarling and stark white like molars, even before we realized there was a drop of blood on Jessica’s cheek from the piercing, we knew: this was going to break skin. This was going to leave a hole.
—
We all know the rules: when we feed horses, we hold our hands out flat. When we talk to boys, we put our hands on their knees. We didn’t have to learn these things. We just knew; it was natural.
(Except for some of us it wasn’t. The first year that Em rode at Canter Hill Stables, her fingers would curl up right before the horse’s teeth closed in. Jessica used to sit on the tack room floor with her, slowly bending each of her fingers back until there was a dull pain, until her hand was perfectly flat. Except Em still couldn’t learn the rules.)
(A few months ago, a horse bit Em. Jessica watched.)
(It was Jessica’s horse. King, a thoroughbred. It was like Em was a little kid again — her fingers, suddenly springing forward. She couldn’t stop herself in time. Impact. King’s teeth on her pointer. Relax — no blood, no scar. Just some teeth marks. And her hand, shaking.)
(Later, Jessica would ask her: what did it feel like?)
(Like, out of control. Like something closing in too fast. Like I couldn’t stop it. Like I couldn’t stop myself.)
(Like this? Jessica asked, reaching for Em’s finger. She put it in her hot mouth, placed it in between her teeth, and closed down on Em gently — and then, not gently at all.)
(Yes.)
(Just like that.)
—
Jessica’s new horse took his first step into Canter Hills Stables by slamming one hoof onto the barn owner’s foot.
“Oh my god,” we said, because the barn owner told us if we swore in the stables he’d cut our lesson time short; we were a classy coastal show barn, after all, not some South Jersey hillbilly red barn farm.
“Motherfucker,” the barn owner said. He dropped to the ground, cradled his foot like a child.
We should have gotten ice, pounding our fists on the machine in the tack room until it stubbornly spat out a few cubes, wrapped them in paper towel, and brought it to the barn owner. We should have asked if he was okay. We should have taken a step back, probably, from the horse nearly foaming at the mouth. We shouldn’t have stepped closer. And closer. And closer.
“Don’t crowd,” the barn owner said, still wincing.
“We’re not crowding.”
“Girls.” The barn owner was lucky that he wore boots even though he wasn’t riding today. Probably saved him from any broken toes. “I want you to be careful around this horse.”
“We’re being careful.”
“Girls. Please.”
“Where’d he come from?”
“He’s not used to being in a show barn. He startles easily.”
“We’ll be still.”
“I don’t want any of you riding him yet. Okay?”
“We won’t,” we said.
“Promise?”
“What’s his name?”
The barn owner hesitated. “This,” he finally said, “is Orlando.”
—
He was so white he made snow look dirty. He was taller than two of us stacked together. When his hooves hit the ground, there were tremors. When the breeze caught his wavy mane, there was silk. He was well-bred and large-boned. He had flared nostrils and large shifting eyes. He could crush us with one hoof. He couldn’t stop twitching. His teeth were bared. His shoulders were tense. He was ready. He was strained. He was powerful. He was nervous. Everything about him was contradictory except for this: all our lives, we’ve ridden weary school ponies and tightly-wound trained horses, and within seconds, we knew: Orlando was the only wild thing that Monmouth County, New Jersey had ever seen.
What would it be like, to ride him?
—
“Don’t even think about it,” the barn owner said.
We wanted to pull Orlando’s face to ours and see our own eyes reflected in his. We wanted to saddle and straddle him, hair and tail flowing out behind us as we gallop away. We wanted to kiss his chrome lips, his silver hooves. We wanted to be in love. We wanted to be the ones to break him. We wanted to be broken. Heartbroken. We wanted to be chosen. We wanted to be wild. We wanted. “We won’t touch him,” we said.
“I’m not kidding. Wait until I’m done with him. Stick with Jasmine until I give you the all clear, Jess.”
“Really,” we said, “We won’t go anywhere near him yet.” We glanced at each other. Soon. When we got the chance.
“Good,” the barn owner said.
Too easy. Like he had never even seen a Horse Story.
—
Everyone knows how a Horse Story goes: girl meets horse, girl loves horse, happily ever after.
Okay, usually, there are some obstacles, but save yourself the trouble of watching Flicka and Felicity: An American Girl Doll Movie and all three seasons of The Saddle Club: we’ve seen them all, and we read the books too. There’s always a girl who’s special. There’s always a horse that recognizes her as such. Her father says absolutely not, but the horse is a mysterious black or copper like a penny, and she’s never wanted anything this much. There’s a fall — cue the broken bones, the bruises, a father’s I-told-you-so. But then the girl climbs back on the horse, and this time, they win the race, and the crowd cheers, and they save their beloved small farm from bankruptcy, and they win the Olympic gold medal, and they finish first in the Derby, and the horse nestles his nose in the girl’s palm, and they all ride off into the horizon.
Of course, it’s all a metaphor. Probably about being fucked for the first time. Can’t you see it? The horse is the bad boy the dad doesn’t approve of. Maybe The Fall is a religious reference? Is the desire a coping mechanism for the missing mother? Genuine question; we don’t know, we haven’t taken Lit Analysis yet.
Some people argue that Horse Stories aren’t really about horses, that you could replace the stallion with a boy on a motorcycle and not much would change.
Let’s be clear.
This is not that kind of Horse Story.
We might not know that much about analysis, but we know that in this one, the horse is crucial. And we don’t know much about genre, but we know that people never know what to do with a real love story. Maybe you were only ever looking for metaphors because every love you’ve ever had required a pro and con list. Have you ever loved something purely? Have you ever loved something so much you’d hang their old shoes up for luck? Our love is unbridled. Every real Horse Story is about a heart that knows what it wants.
Here’s how this Horse Story goes.
—
We were going to ride that horse.
—
(If you ever find your fingers curling towards teeth, there might be a part of you that wants to be bitten.)
—
We were mucking out our horses’ stalls. We were scooping manure and starting shit. God, that was the tallest horse we’d ever seen. Could clear the triple bar jumps just by stepping over them. Orlando, Orlando, Orlando.
“You’re so lucky,” Em said.
Jessica shrugged. “He’s not mine yet.”
“But he will be.” Em stuck her pitchfork into the hay, sifted it until there was just stool left — she leaned in closer. The manure was green, moist, prolific. Good. Though, a little softer than usual; maybe Lancelot was nervous. She’d check on him later. “Are you riding him in the Grand Prix?” Silence, except for the scrape of the rake against straw.
We’ve been riding together for seven years. We learned how to trot by holding each other’s legs. We learned how to jump by counting each other’s strides. We watched each other fall, we picked each other back up, and yes, we competed against each other, but we were all on Canter Hill’s riding team — if one of us won, it boosted all of our scores. But this year, now that we’re finally eligible for the Grand Prix, we’ll have three rounds: dressage, jumping, cross-country. All individual.
“My mom’s thinking of getting a new horse too,” Jessica said, “Has her eye on a quarter horse. Gelding.”
“Jeez,” Em said, “There won’t be any empty stalls left by the end of summer.” “Don’t worry,” Jessica said, “People will leave.”
We’re used to horses arriving and departing. Boarders come and go. Horses died — colic, cancer, catastrophe. The barn owner brought in new pet projects. Even Em’s horse, Lancelot, could leave at any moment. Because Lancelot wasn’t really her horse.
Sure, she’d ridden him for three years and loved him for three years before that, like you love your own feet, like you love anything that’s part of how you move in the world. But Em only leased him. Extra barn labor in exchange for time with him. An agreement that only lasted as long as the barn owner didn’t receive an offer — though the barn owner already promised her that he wouldn’t load Lancelot off on any old bidder.
That’s not a deal he’d cut with everyone. We were lucky that the barn owner liked us so much. Or maybe we were just lucky to be Jessica’s friends.
“What pasture are we turning out the horses in this week?” Courtney asked.
“I’ll ask my Dad,” Jessica said. “Can you finish the rest of my stall?” she asked Em, handing her the pitchfork before walking back into the barn owner’s office — her father’s office. (Weren’t you listening, when we told you how a Horse Story goes?)
“My mom texted,” Courtney said, “She’ll be here in fifteen minutes to pick us up.” It wasn’t exactly an invitation. As soon as June rolled around, the three of us moved together, sleeping at each other’s houses, wearing each other’s pjs, raiding each other’s cabinets for cereal.
We brought our horses in for the night. We gave each a forehead kiss goodbye. We stood outside the closed door to Orlando’s stall and listened to the kick, kick, kick of a hoof against the wall, like a battering ram swinging against the castle’s gates —we were used to agitated arrivals, a pair of ears pinned back or a frustrated snort, but this was different. The stall walls were shaking. We pressed our ears against the wood until the barn owner turned the corner — “Girls—” and then we slipped into the tack room to switch our leather boots for rubber ones to start the long trek down the driveway.
Unlike some of the ranches nearby, Canter Hill Stables was a show barn. That meant no pigs or chickens, no plants or cows. Just horses. Thoroughbreds with long legs, finely-shaped Quarter Horses, Arabians with high cheek bones. Across the street stood the barn owner’s Colonial, stately windows watching Canter Hills like eyes. In two days time, when it was Jessica’s turn to host, we’d all pile onto the pillar-lined porch, but today we kept walking to the parking lot.
If you headed the other direction, past the barn, past the heated indoor ring, past the outdoor arena, towards the forest, you’d watch the grass grow longer, until there were weeds, untamed dandelions, dirt trail rides by the river, the pond where Courtney routinely almost-drowns each summer, the meadow where we finally joined Courtney in her game and pretended that we were the horses, prancing around the grass and throwing our long proud necks from side to side.
But we didn’t walk that way today.
Courtney spotted her mother’s car, skipping ahead, as Jessica opened her bag and pulled out two pieces of mint gum, offering one to Em.
“Thanks.”
Jessica cracked her gum. “I’m gonna ride him this week.”
“Where do you think he came from?”
“I don’t know. My dad didn’t say.” She shrugged. “Do you think he’s actually wild?”
Em blew a tiny bubble. When it popped, she thought about the sound Orlando’s hoof made slamming into the stall, and pictured the walls of the barn falling down. Bursting open. “Does your ear still hurt?”
Jessica touched the hole, which was still red around the edges. “Not really.” Her French-tipped nail slid over her lobe. Then — “Want to feel?” She reached for Em’s hand and held it up to her ear, Em’s chipped nail alongside hers. Em could barely feel the hole, just a tender indent in soft skin. Mostly, she felt the pressure of Jessica’s hand, tight against her own. Her palm was bony. Like a bird’s body. Warm.
“You should put a pair of earrings in,” Em said. “To keep the hole open.”
“Courtney said she’d lend me a pair.” She dropped Em’s hand, and it swung back to its place at her side. “Maybe we can pierce yours tonight,” she said, “That way we could all share earrings.”
After a moment, Em said, “Wherever he’s from, he’s not wild, Jessica. Just feral.” “There’s a difference?”
“I read about it.” Before Em’s mom saved up enough tips from the salon for her first riding lesson, Em read all the equestrian books she could get her hands on, the closest she could get to touching a horse. “The only true wild horses are those Przewalski ones.” We’d seen them in a zoo once, on our 7th grade field trip. Though maybe they’re not really wild horses if they’re fenced in.
“Stout and brown?” Jessica spit her gum back out into the wrapper.
“Yeah. All the others were once domesticated, so they’re not really wild. All the mustangs out west, they just strayed, or escaped, or were released. Then they turned feral.”
“Feral,” Jessica said, and Em watched her mouth form the word, lips glittery with a grape gloss that she let Em borrow earlier. She smiled, startlingly white spots on her teeth where her braces used to be.
“Feral,” Em agreed. She turned the word over and over again in her own mouth, feral feral feral. It tasted like kicked up dirt and berries picked straight from the bush and saltwater. It tasted like the beginning of June. It tasted like Jessica.
“Come on,” Courtney called from the car, “My mom already ordered the pizza!”
Jessica and Em trotted over, said, “Hi, thanks for having us.” We rejoined Courtney in the backseat, all of our legs squished together, arms interlocked, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, the mixed smells of lesson horses and leather bridles and musky manure and our mother’s perfumes and perspiration, the three of us so close, we could barely tell ourselves apart.
