Pony Passion. Harriet Castor

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СКАЧАТЬ out,” said Kenny. “Let’s not do it again, all right?”

      I nodded, grinning and feeling teary at the same time. “New club resolution.”

      “Seconded!” said Rosie.

      “Thirded!” yelled Frankie.

      “You can’t say thirded,” said Fliss. “But I know what you mean.”

      While we were waiting in the lunch queue the M&Ms swanned past with their trays already full. They’re such greedy guts, they always push to the front.

      “Untwisted your knickers yet?” asked the Goblin (that’s our name for Emily Berryman) in her weird gruff voice.

      “What a shame you’ve got the worst project,” smarmed Emma Hughes. “But then, your presentation’s bound to be pathetic, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

      “Actually, Transport is the coolest subject,” said Kenny, “and anyone with even half a brain can see that.”

      “That’s not what you were saying to Lyndsey at break,” said the Goblin.

      “You sneaky little eavesdropper!” gasped Fliss. “You’ve no right listening in to private conversations!”

      The Goblin snorted. “Well, what’s the point when they’re as boring as yours?”

      And before any of us could reply they sailed off with their noses in the air, like the silly stuck-up idiots that they are.

      “Grrr! What would I give to squash those two toad-faces into a big pile of mushy peas!” growled Kenny.

      “We’ve got to make sure our project is a squillion times better than theirs,” said Frankie. “At least!”

      “We will,” said Rosie firmly, linking arms with me.

      Sitting at a different table from the M&Ms, we soon forgot all about them. Kenny kept making farty noises with the ketchup bottle, which made everyone fall about, and Frankie did her impression of Mrs Weaver in a bad mood, which is freakily good. I’d cheered up loads, but there was just one more thing I wanted to say.

      “Transport is definitely the coolest subject, of course,” I began sheepishly, not meaning it at all, “but, guys – you’re right that I’ve missed some Sleepover Club things because of the stables. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

      “It doesn’t matter,” said Frankie, waggling a chip in the lake of ketchup she’d made on her plate. “We all do other things, like Fliss goes to ballet and Kenny goes to those tedious footie matches. Oof!” Kenny’d grabbed her lunch tray and pretended to boff Frankie over the head with it.

      “And anyway,” Fliss said, prodding at her salad with her fork, “we don’t think all those things we said about the stables, honest.”

      “Only some of them,” said Kenny, with a wicked grin. “The minute you start stinking of horse poo, Collins, I’m outta here!”

      You’re going to think I’m mad, considering what had happened that day, but when I got home from school all I wanted to do was go to the stables. In three weeks’ time there was going to be a gymkhana there – a riding competition with lots of different races and games that you can enter with your pony. I’d played a few gymkhana games before, but I’d never entered a proper competition, so I wanted to do my best.

      On my bike I can whizz to the stables in about two minutes, which is dead handy. Today, the moment I got there, I went to see Bramble. She’s a lovely bay – brown with a black mane and tail. Of all the ponies at Mrs McAllister’s stables, she’s my favourite (only don’t tell Alfie and Marvel and the others!).

      And when you’ve had a wobbly day at school, there’s nothing like having a pair of kind brown eyes to talk to and a lovely warm furry neck to hug.

      “Hey, Bramble,” I said, stroking her soft nose to say hello. She nuzzled my hand gently. It seemed like she was pleased to see me.

      “Hello, Lyndsey!” called Mrs McAllister, who was walking across the yard. She’s my riding teacher, as well as being the owner of the stables.

      “Hi, Mrs McAllister,” I called back. “Can I do some practice today, for the gymkhana?”

      Mrs McA looked at her watch and pursed her lips. “Well… give me about half an hour. Then I’ll come and watch you do some jumping on. Bramble’s had a fair amount of exercise today, so why don’t you just give her a gentle warm-up while you’re waiting?”

      “Great!” I said. “Thanks, Mrs McAllister.”

      “Glad to see you’re so keen, Lyndsey,” she said, heading for her office.

      “Well, less than three weeks to go now!” I said.

      “Two, you mean!” she called, tapping the poster taped to the office window as she passed. “See you later!” And the office door swung shut behind her.

      Two weeks? I frowned, puzzled. But surely the gymkhana was on the 28th? “Wait a sec, Bramble,” I whispered, and ran across the yard to have a look at the poster.

      My watch just tells the time. It doesn’t have a little date window on it, like Fliss’s does, so I’m never the person to ask if you want to know the date (unless it’s my birthday!). But for once I could remember Mrs Weaver writing it up on the board this morning: Monday 16^th.

      Well, I bet you’ve done the maths already, haven’t you? Yep, that’s right. Dozy here had been reckoning on nearly three weeks to turn herself into Cuddington’s answer to Zara Phillips when there were less than two. The gymkhana was a week on Saturday!

      That was enough of a shock in itself. But the next moment I felt as if Bramble had leapt across the yard and given me the most almighty kick.

      “Oh no!” I groaned out loud. “Frankie’s sleepover!” She’d said a week on Saturday, hadn’t she? And I had promised promised promised (cross-my-heart-and-hope-never-to-set-foot-in-a-stirrup-again) not to miss it. What on earth was I going to do?

      Through the window I could see Mrs McAllister, the phone pressed to one ear, looking at me weirdly. I was probably grimacing really gruesomely, worse than the M&Ms with tummy ache. Quickly, I turned round and marched back to Bramble’s stable, to tack her up.

      Half an hour later, when Mrs McAllister came out to the field and shouted, “How about some jumping on, then, Lyndsey?” I wasn’t feeling any better. If anything, I think I was feeling worse. My heart was going ker-boom ker-boom in my chest, like it was trying to get out, and I kept thinking how desperately I wanted to enter the gymkhana. I had to find a way. But how could I, after what I’d said to the others? Especially after the barny we’d had about me preferring ponies to my friends!

      It was hard to concentrate, but I needed to – jumping on is really tricky. You see, there are some races where, to be quick enough to stand a chance of winning, you have to get off your pony and get back on again while it’s still moving. I’m OK at the flying dismounts (sounds like a circus trick, huh?). It’s the vaulting – that is, the getting СКАЧАТЬ