Rrrring! Goes the bell at school. Sixth hour is over, and I hurry out of Calc 2/3. I have seventh and eighth periods free, which makes me feel gloriously lazy and entitled. I use this extra time for riding my horse, of course. I stroll to my car and drive to the barn, blasting The Killers. "It's like a cigarette in the mouth / or a handshake in the doorway / I look at you and smile because I'm fine." I'm better than fine, actually. It's only Tuesday, but I'm feeling glorious – and entitled – which makes every Tuesday a good one.
Isaiah, my darling Equus ferus caballus, seems to have decided that today he would rather be eating than working. He does everything I ask of him, but with an air of thinly stretched patience. Occasionally, he swishes his tail or tilts his head to the side, just to remind me that he’s not pleased with the proceedings. This is much improved over his behavior five years ago, when my parents purchased him for me. It took him roughly forty-one seconds to figure out that he could do whatever he wanted to the timid twelve-year-old on his back. Thus commenced three years of Isaiah gleefully charging around the arena and me flapping the reins ineffectually. He still makes a minor rebellion, once every couple of months, but it only takes me a few minutes to remind him that I am the alpha of our little herd. I’m told I will never completely cure him of his occasional revolts; they are too ingrained and he’s too clever and opportunistic to become a mindless robot. I wouldn’t want him to be one, though. That would be terribly boring.
Progress is slow, but by the end of our ride, he is relaxed and – dare I say it? – almost happy. Content, certainly. I get off, and he leans into me as I rub his face.
It occurs to me then that in five months I will be in college, in Massachusetts or New Jersey or Pennsylvania, and Isaiah will remain in Illinois.
I’ve known this was coming for a long time, of course. I will go to college, and Isaiah will stay in Illinois. My trainer will ride him and use him as a lesson horse, and if I’m lucky, my parents won’t sell him. But five months is so soon, and even though I’ve been ready for college for at least a year, I’m not sure I’m ready for the going to college part. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave my blue cave of a bedroom, and my long bike rides, and my horse. Mostly my horse. Because even though our time together has not been marked with many trophies or ribbons or grand accomplishments – we did win two champagne flutes once, and a baseball cap – it has been comforting. Isaiah has been constant in my life, through my transition into high school, and through high school, when I learned just how naïve I really was, and that the only person I can rely on is myself.
But I’m afraid of being in a new place, of being unmoored, of being forced to be self-reliant. I’m afraid of a lot of things – I worry almost constantly. For instance, my most pressing fear right now it that my grades will drop second semester and my offers of admission to colleges will be revoked. I’m afraid of the fact that I have no idea what I want to study, what career path I want to take. So I want to have someone with me, a personal support system. But Isaiah can’t come to college. His application would be horrendous, and I’m sure there are rules against letting livestock in the dorms. (Truly, he could stay at a barn nearby, but it will be cheaper for him to stay in Illinois. And given how much my parents are about to spend on my college education, saving money has become supremely important.)
I lead Isaiah back to his stall. “What do you think?” I ask him. I inquire after his opinion often, though he never responds – I think he likes to maintain an air of mystery. But today, he raises his head and rests his muzzle in the crook of my neck. He does this every once in a while. I don’t know why, but I enjoy it. We stand quietly for a few minutes. His breath tickles my neck as I scratch his forehead. And I stop worrying.
