The Law of Moses(14)

It didn’t sound wrong to me, but I made note of it. I didn’t want Moses to think I was stupid.

“Everyone in this town says it wrong. My grandma says it wrong! It drives me crazy,” Moses grumbled. He was in rare form today. But I didn’t mind that he was complaining as long as he was talking to me.

“Okay. I’ll fix my grammar. You want to tell me what else you don’t like about me? ‘Cause I’m thinking that isn’t all,” I said.

He sighed but ignored my question, asking a few of his own. “Why are you here, Georgia? Does your dad know you’re here?”

“I’m bringing you your lunch, Einstein. And no to the second question. Why should he? I don’t check in every time I ride my horse.”

“Does he know how you’re out here jumping fences?”

I shrugged. “I’ve been riding since I could walk. It’s not a big deal.”

He let it drop, but after a few bites of his sandwich he was picking on me again.

“Georgie Porgie puddin’ and pie. Kissed the boys and made them cry. What kind of name is Georgia?”

“My great-great grandma was Georgia. The first Georgia Shepherd. My dad calls me George.”

“Yeah. I’ve heard him. That’s just nasty.”

I felt my temper rise in my cheeks, and I really wanted to spit on him from where I sat atop my horse, looking down on his neatly shorn, well-shaped head. He glanced up at me and his lips twitched, making me even angrier.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not trying to be mean. But George is a terrible name for a girl. Hell, for anyone who isn’t the King of England.”

“I think it suits me,” I huffed.

“Oh, yeah? George is the name for a man with a stuffy, British accent or a man in a white, powdered wig. You better hope it doesn’t suit you.”

“Well, I don’t exactly need a sexy name, do I? I’ve never been a sexy girl.” I gave Sackett a hard nudge in her flanks and pulled the reins sharply, more than ready to leave. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t be bringing Moses his lunch again. He was a jerk, and I was sick of it.

But as I rode away I thought I heard him call after me, “Just keep telling yourself that, Georgie Porgie. I’ll keep telling myself that too.”

I brought his lunch again the next day.





Moses




“SHE LIKES YOU, YOU KNOW.” Gigi smiled at me, teasing.

I just grunted.

“Georgia likes you, Moses. And she’s such a good girl. A nice girl. Pretty too. Why don’t you give her some attention? That’s all she wants, you know.” Gigi winked at me, and I felt the heat that I had so prided myself on controlling start to spread through my chest and down my abdomen.

Georgia may only want attention now. But that wouldn’t last. If I gave her attention, she would want to spend more time with me. And if I spent time with her, she might want me to be her boyfriend. And if I was her boyfriend, she would want me to be normal. She would want me to be normal because she was normal. And normal was so lost to me that I didn’t even know where to look for it.

Still . . .

I thought about the way she looked when she fell asleep the night I painted the ceiling in her room. I’d looked down through the slats on the scaffolding, and she was directly below me, curled around a pillow she’d pulled off her bed. It was as if I floated over her, my body hovering six feet above hers. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, the same color as the wheat in the fields around the small town where we lived. But her hair wasn’t coarse and wispy. It was silky and thick and wavy from the braid she’d worn all day. She was tall, not as tall as I was, but long and lean, with golden skin and deep brown eyes that were a sharp contrast with her fair hair. My opposite. I had light eyes and dark hair. Maybe if you put us together, our physical oddities would even out. My belly tightened at the thought. No one would put us together. Especially not me.

I found myself watching her sleep, the painting temporarily forgotten. The man in the corner of the room who shared his thoughts, who shared Georgia’s story in pictures that poured into my head and out my hands, had disappeared. I wondered if I could call him back. I wasn’t finished yet.

But I didn’t try to call him back. Instead, I stared down at Georgia for a long, long time, watching the girl who was easily as persistent as the ghosts in my head. And for once, my mind was full of pictures of my own making, filled with dreams only I had conjured. And for the first time ever, I fell asleep with Georgia beneath me and peace inside of me.





Georgia




LUCKY HADN’T BEEN WORKED with at all before he came to us. Dad didn’t have much time to train him, but I had nothing but time. I had a knack, everyone said I did. So I spent a few hours with him every morning getting him used to me, making sure I was the one who fed him, I was the one who he saw, day in and day out. He would run when I drew near, deliver a skittish two-step when I cut off his desired direction, and generally get very irritated with me. The day I got a rope around his head and he let me lead him around was a month in the making. It took me another two weeks before we were in a bridle and he let me draw his head back toward me as I stood at his side.

“That’s it, baby. You gonna let me have your head?” I smiled as I talked, trying not to gloat. You train a horse with pressure. Not pain. Pressure. A horse doesn’t want to get in the trailer? You don’t force him. You just run him in circles, round and round the trailer until he’s breathing hard. Then you try to take him up the ramp again. He doesn’t want to go? You keep running him. Eventually, he’ll figure out that the pressure lets up when he’s in the trailer. He gets to rest in the trailer. So he’ll climb that ramp eagerly every time.