I walk across the rally quad towards Geometry class, my mitten-cloaked hands clutched around my textbooks. My heart throbbed a rapid tempo in my chest, and my throat was dry with anxiety. Why was I so nervous? I never get nervous. I’m an equestrian—if I’m nervous while riding, the horse will pick up on that and become nervous themselves. So when I’m riding, I’m never nervous. I actually considered myself pretty good at controlling my emotions, reining them in like I do to my off-the-track Thoroughbred gelding when he reverts back to his racing mindset as we canter around the arena. But today my thoughts are too forward, bucking and jigging across my brain, and I can’t calm down. It’s not really a big deal; it’s just talking to my teacher about grades. I’m calm. I’m calm… I’m an awful liar; equestrians always are. Horses can sense when you’re lying. Horses can sense everything: earthquakes, storms, your emotions… I wish I was at the barn right now. People are so complicated and hard to figure out. Horses are easier. I don’t know how to raise my grades, I don’t know how to talk to my teacher, I don’t know how to make a friend or fall in love. But I do know how to clean a sheath, sit a bad spook, and teach an abused, starved horse to trust a human again. And, in my opinion, that’s a lot more important than Geometry.