Page 2 of Stick Around,
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can I rent some dignity instead?”
The woman behind the booth laughed like I’d told the funniest joke. “Everyone feels that way at first.”
I grimaced. “I’m only here because I’m emotionally compromised and easily manipulated by promises of alcohol, food, and pampering.”
The lady smiled, completely unfazed by my distress. “It’s seventy-five dollars for the premium rental.”
“Seventy-five dollars?” My voice hit a pitch only dogs could hear. “For a stick with a stuffed head?”
“It’s not just any stick.” The woman looked offended as she turned to a display of stick horses and grabbed one. “This is Sparklehoof.”
It appeared to be the Rolls Royce of hobby horses, with a white plush head adorned with rainbow streaks in its mane andrhinestones on its bridle. I stared at the craftsmanship that had gone into this ridiculous creation. The eyes were realistic glass ones and seemed to stare into my soul.
April squealed. “It’s perfect!”
I’m glad one of us was enthusiastic. “Why don’t you enter the competition instead of me?”
“I’m afraid of horses, real or stick,” April said, because that made perfect sense.
“So am I!” I threw my hands in the air. “This whole trip was supposed to be a breakup recovery, not a mental breakdown accelerator.”
Ignoring me, April handed her credit card over and gleefully paid. She was officially the worst best friend ever.
The rental lady handed me Sparklehoof. “Don’t worry, the competition is beginner-friendly. Clear the jumps in order and try to maintain good form.”
“Good form? On a stick?” I gaped at her.
“And remember to keep your eyes up and a smile on your face!” she cheerfully called after us as April dragged me away.
“You can’t possibly expect me to?—”
“Here.” April pulled a silver flask from her purse. “Liquid courage.”
I took the flask without hesitation, checking to make sure no one was watching before taking a generous swig. The rum burned going down my throat. “There’s not enough alcohol in the world to make this okay.”
April took the flask back and tucked it into her purse. “Look at it this way: no one knows you here, and what happens in Vegas?—”
“If you finish that phrase, I’ll beat you with this horse.” I waved Sparklehoof for emphasis.
“Save that energy for the competition.” She guided me toward a staging area where other competitors were stretching like they were preparing for the Olympics. “There are prizes.”
“Prizes?” That caught my attention, but before I could ask her more, a voice came over the loudspeaker.
“The novice division begins in five minutes. Competitors, please check in at the starting gate.”
I took another drink from April’s flask while she was busy adjusting the participant number on my shirt. The rum was starting to work its magic, the edges of my mortification softening just enough to make this seem marginally less catastrophic.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, our novice competitors!” the announcer’s voice boomed across the hall.
I stood next to a man in his fifties wearing rainbow knee socks and a tweed coat. He turned and nodded to me with complete seriousness, like we were about to participate in an actual equestrian event. “First time?”
“First and only.” I wondered if it was too late to fake a medical emergency.
“I said that my first time too. Lost my fantasy football league and had to do an event. That was a few months ago.” He smiled and petted his horse like it was a living, breathing creature. “Good luck out there.”
I watched others go before me, the crowd cheering them on with unsettling enthusiasm. Half of these people were moving their feet in a way that mimicked actual horses by lifting their knees high, pawing at the ground before takeoff, even making little whinnying noises.
Was this an actual competitive sport or a mass delusion I’d been dragged into?
