3. Claire
3
CLAIRE
D addy buys me a horse for my thirteenth birthday.
What he lacks in warmth he makes up for with expensive, pretty gifts.
She’s beautiful.
A gorgeous, cream-colored filly. When I run my hand over her soft neck, she shivers with delight and snorts, nudging her snout against my arm.
Excitement buzzes in my chest, but I know better than to let it show on my face.
Squealing is not lady-like .
“What do you think?” Dagney asks. He holds onto her reigns to let me introduce myself to my new friend.
I love her. I love her, I love her, I love her .
“She seems healthy,” I respond carefully. Everything is a test. Even now, I can feel Daddy watching me a couple paces away as he negotiates with the seller.
“What are you going to name her?” Dagney prods.
I glance towards my father. “Can I name her? Daddy?”
Those steel-gray eyes meet mine. “Go ahead.”
I press my lips in a thin line. I tickle my fingers along her rough hair. “Rose.”
Daddy cuts me a look. I feel it like a knife in my back.
“No,” I correct. “Calypso. The goddess who traps Odysseus.”
My gaze flickers to Daddy. He gives a small nod, which is his way of saying: good enough .
“Calypso.” Dagney smiles. “She’s a tempest.”
I slip my hand over the leather of her saddle. “I’d like to ride her home.”
I say it fully with my chest, so Dagney helps me up.
When Calypso starts moving, immediately, I feel us lock into sync. Her strong muscles push us forward and I squeeze my thighs around her solid back. Her legs move as though they’re my own, and soon, we’re pounding ground, the air whipping through my hair.
“Thank you,” I whisper in her ear and she lets out a small huff of approval.
I’d had my first taste of freedom, and I don’t ever want to lose it.
Calypso and I start a trend.
I’ve got a horse, so now all my friends get horses for their birthdays, too.
All my friends have birthdays in June. There’s a joke around town—Belleflower only produces Geminis.
Mary-Kate, Elsbeth, Bonnie, and Violet are the “Promise Sisters.” They aren’t really sisters—it’s part of Belleflower tradition. Promise Sisters are a group of girls that show “exceptional promise.” Once you’re a Promise Sister, you’re given a ring by the Benefactors Society and you’re officially eligible to become a Belleflower Queen, as long as you keep your “promise” to be a good, proper young woman.
All my friends have their Promise Rings. They say it’s only a matter of time before I get mine, too. After all, I am the daughter of a member of the Benefactors Society.
But being without a ring makes me itch on the inside.
At least I have Calypso. With our newfound freedom, my friends and I ride through the woods every day after school. We take our horses to town. We ride them through the long stretches of empty land that belong to our families. We take them through well-worn trails and follow the river that cradles my father’s land and slices underneath the railroad.
In the summer, we start packing lunches and having picnics on the river. We claim a stretch of lake near the railroad where the river bubbles pleasantly. We stretch out on the sunbaked stones and, when we get too hot, we dip our toes in the softly flowing stream.
Mary-Kate is my oldest friend. She’s Arris Dagney’s daughter, which makes us practically related. Her brother, Loren, is three years older than us, and often comes to “chaperone.” But right now, his chaperoning just looks like skipping stones in the river. Mary-Kate is stretched out beside me—flowers printed on her sunglasses. I sit on the rock and drag my feel through the cool river.
“What are the Belleflower Coronations like?” I ask.
“You’ve been to the parades.”
“I know. I mean, after the parade. They have a party at your house, right?”
“Yes, but Daddy never lets us stay.”
“They’re private,” Loren chimes in. He tosses another stone. It skips once and sinks. “Very secret.”
“But you have to know something .”
Mary-Kate sits up. She lowers her glasses down her nose and frowns.
“Ugh,” she says. “Sooter alert.”
I follow her gaze to the three boys a ways down the river. They’re climbing over a flat stone and pushing each other, cackling the whole time. Rough, raggedy boys in flannel and jeans with bad, over-the-sink haircuts and dirty hands.
Sooters . As in: children of former miners.
The word also stands for South of The Railroad .
The Promise Sisters wouldn’t be caught dead with Sooters.
Except I recognize one.
A short boy in a too-big Stetson hat.
“Hey, look, it’s the Promise Suckers!” one boy shouts loudly.
Mary-Kate huffs. “Can you little boys play downwind? The stench is positively dizzying .”
Another Sooter belches, the sound vibrating as though through a cave, and the rest of them laugh.
Loren’s lips curl like he’s just bitten into a lime. “Want me to chase them off?”
“No. Ignore them.” Mary-Kate fixes her sunglasses and settles back down on the blanket. “Maybe if we stay very still, they’ll vanish.”
I try to. But every now and then, my eyes trail to my church braid-buddy. And every time they do, I find him watching me right back.