Eager Star (4 page)

The next morning I woke up at five and couldn't get back to sleep.

Lizzy, already dressed, stood humming over a pan of hash browns. The humming stopped when I walked in decked out in my old blue jeans and a ratty T-shirt. “Winnie! You can't wear that!”

I grinned. “I'm going for a ride, Lizzy.”

“But—”

“I'll be back in plenty of time. I'll wear anything you pick out for me, okay?” Not that there was much to pick from. Each time we moved, we left more stuff behind, parts of ourselves, shedding our skins like snakes.

In minutes Nickers and I were cantering through a morning dipped in dew, her hoofbeats the drums to overhead geese. This was my world, the only time I felt totally okay.

But I'd have to make middle school my world too. For the first time, I really cared about making a good impression. People had to get to know Winnie the Horse Gentler.

The sun was up by the time we trotted back home. Towaco whinnied and came in for oats. He seemed more at home. I didn't think it would take long to work out his kinks, now that he was free from Stable-Mart.

“You're back!” Lizzy cried when the screen door slammed behind me. “Dad knew you'd be late, but you're not! I set out your best jeans and that turquoise shirt. Brings out the green in your eyes.”

When I came out of the shower, I heard Dad banging on something outside. Another invention. Lizzy had my backpack loaded with three notebooks and a brown bag.

“Thanks for packing me a lunch, Lizzy.” I tried not to think about the notes Mom used to drop into our lunch boxes, how I'd hide them under my napkin. “I wish sixth through eighth grades were together like in Wyoming. At least we'd be in the same building.”

“It's a short week, Winnie. You'll do fine!”

That part I liked, starting on the Wednesday before Labor Day. It gave us three days on, then three days off to get over it.

Lizzy pulled on her orange backpack. “Sweet! I'm off.”

Lizzy had always been the first kid to school, waiting for the doors to open. I still needed to fix my hair.

As I was leaving, Dad climbed into his truck. We'd sold our car in Wyoming and crossed the country in the cattle truck. It took all of Dad's inventor skills to keep the thing running.

“Winnie? I thought you'd left already!” The engine caught on the third try. Exhaust fumes shot up like thunderclouds.

“Plenty of time!” I shouted, waving.
I haven't blown it yet, Dad.

He waved back, and the truck jerked forward, then chugged off down the street. Lizzy had stuck on a new bumper sticker:
We brake for bugs!

From the pasture came a sharp whinny. Nickers neighed. I couldn't leave without checking on the horses. I dropped my bike and ran.

Nickers and Towaco stood a horse's length apart. Nickers, ears flicking, stuck out her muzzle, flared nostrils at Towaco. She was trying to make friends!

But Towaco didn't understand. He took off in a dead run to the back of the pasture. Nickers whinnied, trying to call him back. But when Towaco kept running, Nickers bucked, offended, then tore out after the Appaloosa.

“Nickers, no!” I called.

I climbed the fence, snagging my shirt on the way over, and ran through the wet grass after the horses. When I caught up with Nickers, she looked rejected, and Towaco scared.

“You two!” I scratched Nickers' withers. It was almost funny. My horse was as bad at horse relationships as I was with people relationships. “Nickers, maybe you should think of horses as people.”

People! School!

I ran through the pasture, over the fence, across the yard, to the back bike.

I didn't see another kid on the street. Maybe they were all early, like Lizzy.

Nobody could have pedaled faster. But when I reached middle school, only a couple of grown-ups were hanging outside. I shoved my bike into the full rack, next to Catman's back bike. Even Catman was here!

Sweat puddled under my arms as I raced up the steps of Ashland Middle School and into the halls—the empty halls. The sloshing of my soggy tennis shoes echoed as I tiptoed toward the classrooms.

Way to go, Winnie! Late for the first day of school.

Remember,
I told myself, searching frantically through my pocket for my class schedule.
These students are just a bunch of horses. And you're just looking for your first herd.

But even horses worry about first impressions. A new horse tries to come off strong and confident.

Found it!
I unfolded the schedule. Room 228.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached second floor, expecting to get yelled at for prowling the halls.

Voices floated from classrooms. One teacher with black bangs and a long face stuck her head out of her classroom. I imagined a black mare sticking her head out of her stall as I tiptoed past.

Room 228. I yanked out my rubber band, since most of my ponytail had straggled out anyway. Taking a deep breath, I went in.

The “lead mare” stopped talking as I moved to the front row, where the only empty seats were.

“Winnie!” someone whispered.

Amazed to hear my name, I glanced up and saw Eddy Barker waving me over.

“Barker!” I plopped into the seat next to him. “Is this English?”

Before Barker could answer, the teacher tapped my desk.

I looked up into the angular face of a middle-aged woman with tiny, gray eyes and red lines for lips. Her olive suit matched her shoes and skin, as if she'd dipped herself into a can of paint. I stared too long, imagining what breed she'd be if she were a horse.

“Miss . . . I'm afraid I don't know your name since you chose not to join us for introductions.”

She didn't say it mean. More like disappointed. Her forehead wrinkled like a worried Barb, a North African desert horse. Barbs might even have been around longer than Arabians.

“Sorry,” I said.

She kept frowning at me, as if waiting for something.

“My name? Winnie . . . Winnie . . . Willis,” I stammered.
Winnie the Horse Gentler. Maybe you've heard of me?
But I couldn't say it for real.

“I marked a Winifred Willis absent earlier.” She picked up her grade book.

Someone snickered behind me. I turned to see Summer Spidell in the back row, whispering something to Hawk.

Another kid whispered, “Odd-Job Willis.”

I turned back around but caught a glimpse of somebody I'd seen before.
No way!
I peeked again, then slumped in my seat.
Grant! The kid on Eager Star. The one who spooked Nickers and sent me on a backward ride!

And I'd have bet three Shetland ponies that he was telling everybody about seeing me ride backwards! I could imagine what they were saying—backward bike, backward horse . . . backward girl.

The teacher cleared her throat, which is what some people do without realizing it after I talk, like clearing their throats will make me sound less gravelly. “I'm Ms. Brumby.”

Brumby?
She had to be kidding. A Brumby is a bony, Roman-nosed, Australian scrub horse, disagreeable and hard to train. I stared at her frizzed hair, bony face, large nose—a Brumby! All my emotions sucked together and came out with the force of a horse's kick, a burst of laughter that sprayed spit.

Barker stared at me, wide-eyed.

The room stilled.

“Do you find my name so amusing, Miss Willis?” she asked coldly, turning her grade book in her arms. The cover had an address label on it and big, black letters that read BARB BRUMBY.

No! Not Barb!
A Barb is a tough, desert horse, the one I'd thought of when I first saw her. I tried to stifle the laugh that pressed against my ribs, making my eyes water.
Barb Brumby!

Barker elbowed me, as if I needed a heads-up that I was sinking myself.

“Sorry—” I choked on the word and stared at my desk.

“Miss Willis,” Ms. Brumby said evenly, “we do serious work in this class. You would be advised to get here on time from now on.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

As she laid out her class plans, I pulled myself together. First class, first teacher, first impression. How could I have blown it already?

I managed to tune in to class again. “One- third of your grade will come from your journals. You're free to write whatever you desire.”

Right.
I already knew I'd be keeping two journals—a fake one for her, and a real one for me. Like I'd want Ms. Brumby to know what I
really
thought of her class or of life in Ashland Middle School.

I did like journal-keeping though. When I was nine, Mom and I took a three-day ride into the hills to observe a herd of wild Mustangs. We camped out, getting up with the sun just to watch horses all day. I'd kept a journal, recording how they jockeyed for position in the herd.

I got an idea. I pulled out two of my notebooks. While Ms. Brumby talked, I opened the gray notebook, closest in color to Nickers, for my real journal. In the red notebook I'd write what the teacher wanted to hear.

On the gray cover I wrote:
Ashland Middle School
. Then I began:

The horses at middle school divide into small herds, where each horse struggles to make a strong first impression. A social order exists, with low stragglers and high horses ignoring each other.

From the back row some girl snorted, and I heard Summer's fake giggle.

Mares have been known to make weird noises to be noticed by the stallions
, I wrote.
False whinnies and snorts can
—

I shut my notebook as Ms. Brumby walked up. A buzzer sounded, and kids didn't wait to be excused. “For tomorrow, class, read the nursery rhymes in chapter one of your text for the introduction to our poetry unit. I expect intelligent discussion.” She glanced at me, her lips turned up slightly, as if to say,
I don't expect it from you.

“You have math now?” Barker shouted. Kids exited classrooms in a giant student stampede.

“Yeah!” I yelled, relieved to have him in another class.

Lizzy babysits for Barker's five brothers, and she thinks they're the nicest people on earth. Barker's dad teaches poetry at Ashland University. But he doesn't look like a poet. He played AU football as a student. Mrs. Barker teaches computer science at the same university. I bet they eat lunch together every day.

Our math teacher, Treadwater—known as Mr. T.—reminded me of a pony we'd trained in Wyoming. He was short, with a scraggly gray beard and a face that would have looked at home on Mt. Rushmore. He got so excited about numbers I didn't understand half of what he said. As he talked about the beauty of basic single digits, I pictured him pawing the floor, horse counting
1, 2, 3.

My last class before lunch was life science. On the blackboard was a list of animals:

Mayfly—24 hrs

Hamster—1.8 yrs

Bat—2 yrs

Black Salamander—3 yrs

Mouse—3 yrs

Tick—3–4 yrs

Blue Jay—4 yrs

Blue Spider—15 yrs

Goat—18 yrs

Cat—21 yrs

Macaw—64 yrs

Box Turtle—123 yrs

Giant Tortoise—177 yrs

At the bottom, it said:

Bristlecone Pines—thousands of yrs

Humans—eternity?

Then I saw the title at the top of the list:
Longest Known Life Spans
.

Cool! There just might be one class I'd like at AMS
.

Summer and Grant walked in together. I grabbed a seat under the window at the opposite side of the room.

Hawk glided in, her multicolored dress catching the light so it sparkled. Every guy in the room looked up.