Walk on, walk up, and whoa.

She's nervous, you see.

I could tell when she walked into the waiting area in the barn--suddenly pacing, repeating, "I'm going to the mall." She'll be going to the mall tomorrow with a school group, its true. She flipped her head back to look at the ceiling lights.

I knelt down to get to eye level. "Hi, my name is Andrea."

"I'm going to the mall," she said, looking left of my head, into the arena where horses were warming up. I adjusted her helmet a little, shortened the chin-strap to fit her head. When it was her turn, I took her hand, and her mother asked if she could come, too. I agreed.

At the gate, mom had to go. It was just me, the instructor, her, and the horse now.

She protested. She dropped to her knees. She pulled against us. She whined, waled, turned limp in our arms.

Up the block, step by step, we practically dragged her. When we lifted her onto the back of the horse, she whimpered, screamed, began to kick. Her horse stood there patiently against the panicked blows, and we pulled her away, back to the block, then to the waiting area.

Her horse was brought over again--for grooming this time, not riding. Mother and I held her hands and I put a brush in my back pocket. She began to get weak in the knees getting into the arena whimpering as before. Mother cradled the back of her neck while I pulled her arms along until we were next to the horse again. I held the brush in her hand and we ran it down his neck. "I'm going to the mall. I want to go home. " No, you're here, with your friend, the horse--we told her these things again and again. After 5 minutes of brushing, watching her horse's ears flick back and forth as she repeated his name, and eventually reaching her fingers into wooly winter coat, she went back out of the arena to regroup with her mother. She returned later, helmet still on. Her mother's jaw was set, her movements were brisk. They came over to me at my post by the gate.

We talked. "I'm going to the mall." Let's go see your horse one more time, okay?

Volunteers positioned the horse at the block for the second time. Like the professional he was, he stood squared, calm, seeming not to remember the tiny girl-explosion who had approached him earlier. While he stood, we practiced walking up those steps, assuring her that she didn't have to ride today. The instructor and I stood there, supporting her weight as she reached a tentative hand forward to touch that familiar fur, put her hands on the instructor's hands, placed her fingers on a closely-clipped mane. "Thank you, horsey."

Good. This is better. She came off the block down the steps, to the cement waiting area outside the arena. Mother and I sat with her to watch the last of class. We waved at her horse as he walked by, riderless. "I would like to pet him again," she said. We exchanged surprised looks. "Going to the mall, I have a pool, do you want to come?" she said. Mother scowled a bit at that.

I called the volunteer leader over again. He brought the horse, who stood there like a patient kind of friend as she was coaxed out of her chair. Two hands, now, through the gate, into his fur. Fingers reached through the thick hair to get to the skin. Good. This is better.

When her horse was lead away, she reached for my hand and said, "You come to see my pool? My horsey come to see my pool?" Oh, friend, you come to visit me, and I'll help you learn to ride. Its so much better than a pool. Just you wait and see.