Free The Girl's Guide to Homelessness by Brianna Karp Page A

vacation to the rural mountain town of Ramona. I would not sit atop a horse for many more years after that, until one day in my early twenties, when I impulsively picked up the phone and called Kelly, a horse trainer in Santiago Canyon.
    Kelly was a tiny, short-haired, spunky ball of pure energy and devout Christian platitudes. She was also a damn good rider and understood horses innately. She worked tirelessly with me on my riding skills. Her horse, Mystery, was a pleasant little Paint, still green but placid and eager to please. I reveled in my newfound hobby, reclaiming for myself some fanciful, impractical childhood wish.
    One day, I showed up at the riding ring to be greeted not by chocolate-brown Mystery, but by a galloping, stocky, muscled mare, Lucy, named for Lucille Ball. Lucy was a flaming red dun American Quarter Horse. Solid and compact, she was clearly a highly intelligent and responsive horse, well-trained, but I would come to learn that she had a stubborn streak a mile wide. She was Kelly’s other horse, had been boarded at a separate ranch and was being reboarded with Mystery.
    â€œI thought you were ready to start on Lucy,” Kelly greeted me. “She’s a little more advanced than Mystery and, who knows, I may even sell her to you some day.”
    I watched Lucy canter around the ring. She kept one ear swiveled in my direction, watching me out of the corner of her eye. She looked suspicious.
    â€œUm, you know, she’s cute and all, but I’m kind of set on a draft. Some big-butted Shire or Percheron with a back like a cushy couch. Slow and docile,” I qualified.
    â€œWell, those drafts, they sure do eat a lot.” I knew this, but damn if I cared. I had a decent salary; I could afford a little bit of extra feed, when I was finally ready to buy a horse.
    â€œClimb on into the ring. I’m going to go grab the saddle,” she called as she clambered up a dirt dune toward the tack shed.
    I stooped and crawled between the horizontal railings, leaning against the bars and watching Lucy galloping. Shedidn’t slow down for nuzzling and scratches, as Mystery would have. She sped up, passing me four times on her mad sprint around the pen. She passed as close as she could each time, seemingly testing how near she could get before I freaked out and bailed from the ring. I held my ground. Kelly wouldn’t have sent me into the ring with a dangerous horse, right?
    That was when Lucy passed by me for a fifth time and, without slowing a whit, took methodical aim and kicked me .
    It was so fast and unexpected that I wasn’t quite sure it had happened. The kick was light, aimed to warn and not to hurt, and landed on my hip like the lazy swatting of a fly. I was flabbergasted.
    The little bitch.
    From then on, it was personal. Goddammit, I was going to show this horse she couldn’t just go around kicking me.
    All in all, Lucy was an obedient horse. She knew her commands, knew what every slight pressure on the reins and stirrups meant. Occasionally, though, she would get a bug up her butt. Kelly assured me that this was typical mare behavior. On one occasion, Kelly sent me on a gallop up the trails near the stable. Having galloped to the tree she wanted, I turned around and assumed that I was to head back. All hell broke loose, however, when Lucy’s return gallop broke into a full-on, all-out bolt, as if she were trying to take us both to hell. Screaming, I yanked on the reins harder and harder, begging, “Whoa! Whoa! Fucking WHOA! ” At the last moment, Kelly turned her own horse into Lucy’s path, blocking her, and Lucy pulled back. I, however, kept going, soaring magnificently heels-over-helmeted-head through the air and landing with a blunt thump on my side in the dirt below, where Lucy,still in the process of stopping, trampled on my leg and then backed up, realizing her error.
    The wind knocked out of me, I moaned on the ground, clutching myself and