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won’t have the luxury of sitting down for a whole afternoon.

chapter seven
    A couple of weeks later, Grandma and I are at the kitchen table.
    â€œSpencer—where’s your head?” Grandma glares at me. “I asked if you wanted another spud.”
    â€œSorry. Yeah.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    Grandma drops the baked potato onto my plate. “What’s on your mind?”
    Em. Em. Em. I’m not about to tell my grandmother that I can’t get a girl out of my mind. Ever since the day when Geoff O’Reilly’s gray mare messed up my morning, I’ve looked at Em differently. Which is dumb, because she’s still her old, slightly snotty self. But she had reached up to touch my knee. That moment was the highlight of my month.
    â€œGirl trouble?” Grandma winks and pushes the gravy jug across the table.
    â€œNo.” Fortunately, the Lordy problem is getting more complicated so my quick response isn’t exactly a lie. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject.
    â€œWorking on it as we speak.” Grandma fishes several sheets of paper out of a stack she’s pushed aside to make room for the dinner dishes. She slides the list of tomorrow’s race entries across the table toward me. She has also printed out Billy Bob’s Picks. Billy Bob is one of several race handicappers who offer advice to people likeGrandma. Grandma figures he’s the best in the business.
    I point at the fifth race. “Lordy’s running.”
    â€œLord of the Fires?” She puts on her reading glasses and studies the race information. “Six furlongs. Nick Espinoza is riding. He’s been doing okay recently. Claiming race: $25,000. What do you think?”
    â€œHe shouldn’t be racing.”
    Grandma peers over her reading glasses and raises her eyebrows. “Espinoza or the horse?”
    â€œThe horse. He’s still not right. He was the one I was riding the day that gray mare got loose. He felt awful.” Awful is a bit strong, but I don’t want Grandma to lose her money betting on a horse I know won’t be near the winners.
    â€œI’m sure Scampy knows what he’s doing.”
    I pour a healthy dose of thick gravy over my baked potato. “They’ve been looking after him okay, I guess. Em’s been icing and wrapping his legs. But I rode him a weekago and he’s still not himself. When I asked him for speed, it was like he just wasn’t that interested. He was sort of uneven in the turns—not strong and smooth like he used to be.”
    Grandma mashes some peas into her potato and loads up a forkful.
    â€œIt’s not like he’s seriously lame or anything. I rode him twice last week and again on Monday. But he’s not right. I can feel it.”
    â€œHorses aren’t machines. They have good days; they get sour.”
    â€œI know that. But he was pretty consistent last season. This summer it’s like he’s always being careful, not going all out.”
    â€œWhat does Scampy say?”
    How do I answer
that
? Grandma doesn’t need to know Scampy fired me for questioning how he was treating the horse. “Scampy has his own way of doing things.”
    Grandma slides her reading glasses down her nose and gives me a hard look.
    â€œYesterday Wee Jimmy Jump-up rode Lordy,” I say.
    â€œAnd? What did Jimmy say?”
    â€œHe’d never say anything against Scampy. He actually said Lordy felt good! It doesn’t make any sense.” For a moment I consider telling Grandma about my suspicions that Scampy is doping the horse. She wouldn’t appreciate it. Scampy and Grandma go way back. Back to the Dad days.
    Grandma puts the tip of her pen beside Lord of the Fires’ name. “So—what do you think?”
    â€œHe shouldn’t be running. If Scampy doesn’t scratch him, I’d say you’d be wasting your money to bet on