Free Sidesaddle by Bonnie Bryant

Belle to walk, trot, and turn. She even devised a sort of postingsystem at the trot that was almost easier than when riding astride because of the rest for her right leg. It was also more precarious because it was so hard to figure out how to balance.
    Stevie was pretty sure Belle didn’t like any of it one bit more than she did, but Belle was as willing as she was to give it a try. When she pulled the mare up to the final halt of the afternoon, Stevie leaned forward to give her a great big well-deserved hug, the result of which was that she totally lost her balance and slid right out of the saddle and onto the ground.
    “I guess that means I don’t have to figure out how to dismount, eh?” she asked Belle. Belle snorted. Stevie thought she knew what that meant.
    Even though it had been hard, even though most of it seemed futile, Stevie felt good about the ride. She dusted herself off, took the reins, and walked Belle back to her stall. It wasn’t often in riding that Stevie faced so many challenges in an hour. It wasn’t as if she’d learned a lot about sidesaddle riding, but she’d learned a lot about figuring things out, and that was always satisfying for her.
    Belle seemed to sigh with relief when the sidesaddle came off. Stevie took it back to the tack room and then returned to give her horse a quick grooming and some fresh water. When she was returning to Belle’s stall for a final good-bye, she passed the little mirror over the sink in the tack room and saw herself for the first timein a couple of hours. She was startled. It was almost as if it weren’t Stevie who looked back at her.
    The girl she saw wasn’t wearing a soiled T-shirt. She was wearing an ironed white blouse. She wasn’t wearing a torn sweatshirt. She was wearing a pale blue sweater with seed pearls. Sure, it had gotten a few smudges of dirt from the two tumbles she had taken, but it was still pale blue and pretty. The girl in the mirror didn’t have straight dirty blond hair. She had curls—a lot of them. She was Stevie, all right—the new and improved Stevie. She paused for a moment, smiling at the girl, who smiled back. She could almost imagine someone standing behind her—one Phil Marsten, smiling broadly, warmly, and lovingly. “Elegant, feminine, and charming,” Phil’s image seemed to say, squeezing her shoulders gently.
    Filled with a new and improved confidence, Stevie bade Belle farewell and headed for home.

W HEN S TEVIE GOT HOME , her parents had returned from their visit with Mr. Lake’s friend. Stevie greeted them quickly and retreated upstairs. She barely registered her mother’s furrowed brow as she passed by.
    Once out of the shower, Stevie slipped into a clean pair of jeans and a clean, carefully folded T-shirt, but as soon as she saw herself in the mirror, she changed her mind. That wouldn’t do at all. Neither would the droopy straight hair. She dried her hair, fluffing it with her fingers as best she could because she didn’t want to borrow her mother’s curling iron when her mother was at home. The finished product looked pretty good. Then it was time to choose her wardrobe for the rest of the day.
    It took a while. In fact, it took a long time. Stevie hadn’t realized how totally devoid of suitable clothes her wardrobe was. Her mother was right. She needed some new clothes and she needed them right away. Finally she settled on her only non-denim pair of slacks, some yellow ones that were a little too big. She found a blouse that more or less went with them and a knit top. It wasn’t as nice as the blue sweater with seed pearls, but it would do.
    She pulled on some socks and school shoes, since she didn’t want to wear sneakers, and went downstairs.
    Her mother did a slight double take when she saw Stevie, but she said nothing. Stevie noticed it and took that as a compliment on her new fashion sense.
    “Mom, you’re right about something.”
    “Where’s the band and fireworks?” Mrs. Lake