“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 T
ortoise—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.
“Victoria!” a tall, sandy blond guy called out. Then I recognized him as the palomino rider who’d been racing Grant.
Terrific. Now Grant and his racing buddy could compare notes about me.
Hawk’s gaze met mine, and she nodded slightly as she took her seat next to Summer. I guess I should have known she’d be Summer’s “Victoria” at school, not my “Hawk.” I couldn’t really blame her. You couldn’t just pull away from a kid like Summer if you wanted to stay in her group—the popular group.
Grant and Summer were play-fighting over a pen.
Kids grew louder, and still no sign of a teacher.
“Man!” said Grant’s buddy, getting to his feet. “That stuff on the board looks hard!” He slid between chairs to the board and started erasing. “No way do I want some teach making me memorize all this!”
“Go, Brian!” yelled a redheaded girl in a tank top. “My hero!”
A couple of kids clapped. Summer giggled.
Outside in the hall, something clattered to the ground. Brian dropped the eraser and darted back to his seat.
“Rats!” came the voice from the hall. Papers shuffled. “No offense.”
No offense? Only one person excused herself to rats. But Pat Haven ran Pat’s Pets, the pet store where I worked. She didn’t teach school.
Yet in she came, carrying a pile of papers high as a haystack. Her short, brown curls bounced. She’s a miniature horse, compact and springy.
“Can you believe I got lost?” she exclaimed. “I was here before school started this morning, but things look different with all you kids in the building. I’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off! No offense.”
“No offense for what?” Brian asked.
Pat dumped her papers onto the teacher’s desk. “To the chickens! More of them than there are of us.” She took a deep breath and looked around the room. When she saw me, she winked.
“You’re not Mr. Scott,” said the guy next to me. He wore glasses, khaki pants, and a navy T-shirt under a green-checked shirt.
“Why, you’re sharp as a porcupine, aren’t you?” Pat smiled at him until he blushed. “No offense to our quill-filled friends. I’m Ms. Haven, your substitute until Mr. Scott returns.”
“I know you!” shouted the redhead. “You’re the lady from Pat’s Pets.”
“Give that lady a gold star!” Pat shouted back.
This was too weird. Why hadn’t she told me she’d be teaching?
“Will everything you teach be on Mr. Scott’s final, Mrs. Haven?” Grant asked politely.
“Let’s not worry about the final our first day of class! Today we’ll talk about life! Life Science. How long is life? you ask.” She stared around the room, her big, brown eyes holding everyone captive. “It all depends. Take a look- see.” Pat wheeled around to face the board and her shoulders sagged. Until that instant, she must not have noticed that all her work had been erased. I felt so sorry for her, so angry at Brian and his buddies, I considered ratting them out. No offense.
Pat stared at the blank board. She rifled through her papers. “If I had a brain in my head, I’d have typed that list instead of copying it onto the board this morning. Now you don’t have it. And neither do I.”
I could tell she didn’t know what to do with us now.
“I remember nightingales can live three years, although most don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I couldn’t stand seeing her struggle, especially since it was Brian’s fault. Ordinarily, I’d have kept my mouth shut and waited for the class to end. But Pat had been great to Lizzy and me and Dad since we moved to Ashland. She’d rented us our house, sent Dad repair work, and given me a job on the pet help line.
Besides, wasn’t this year supposed to be different?
“I can put your list back up,” I offered, my voice hoarser than normal.
Pat perked up like a mare seeing her weaned foal. “You copied it already?”
“Not exactly.” I moved to the board. For once, maybe my photographic memory could come in handy.
Even though Brian had left nothing but a few swirls of chalk dust, when I stared at the board, I could see the list as clearly as if it were still there. My mind had taken a photo. I never know how long photos will stick in my brain, which makes it hard to count on my memory for tests. But for now, I could see everything. I just filled in what I saw as I wrote:
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
I kept writing, hoping Pat would break the silence behind me and start talking again.
Blue Spider—15 yrs
Goat—18 yrs
Cat—21 yrs
“Well, I’ll be a blue-nosed gopher!” Pat exclaimed. “No offense. Winnie, you remembered all those numbers just right. Don’t forget, everybody. These aren’t average life spans. These are the oldest known ages.”
No kidding. I’d never known a horse to reach 62, but that’s what I wrote by Horse. Mom said when she was a kid, horses hardly ever topped 20 years. With better feed for older horses now, you can expect your horse to live 20, even 30, years. I hoped Nickers would break the 62-year record.
Pat talked about the class, but I didn’t hear much. I kept writing until I got to the end and circled eternity the way she had. Then I sat back down.
“What’s with eternity?” Summer asked. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s a shame, Summer,” Pat said, her voice light. “I’m hoping we can talk more about that one.”
“Is all of this going to be on the test?” Grant asked, scribbling furiously.
“What test?” Pat asked. “Oh, can’t say. But I’m sure y’all want to copy the list Winnie so graciously recopied for us.”
Brian groaned.
Kids flipped open notebooks, bummed paper, dug for pens.
I copied the list too, just in case the photograph wasn’t the long-lasting kind. I’d just written eternity when the buzzer rang.
Kids rushed out faster than ever for lunch.
The tall, redheaded girl stopped in front of my seat. “That was so tight! If I had your memory, I’d never crack a book! Not that I do now.”
“Thanks!” Unreal! Somebody’s talking to me on the first day of school? I made a good first impression? What if she has a horse and—?
“I’m Salena. Call me Sal.”
Summer walked up behind Sal and shoved her toward the door. “And you can call her Pat’s Pet.”
Sal laughed, elbowed Summer, then walked out with her.
Hawk drifted past. “See you at lunch, Winnie.” But she didn’t wait for me.
I stepped out into the hall and slipped behind the door, pressed to the bricks, waiting for an opening among the students. Taking out my gray notebook, I observed the herd galloping to the cafeteria. Hawk kept step with Summer and Sal.
Established mares don’t like to associate with new mares who might not fit into their herd, I wrote. They prance and strut with the popular mares, ignoring the new mare.
The three girls stopped to let Grant catch up. I observed how things changed. Summer and Sal tried to talk to Grant at the same time, competing for his attention. Mom and I had observed the exact same thing in the herd of Mustangs we’d watched.
Mares turn on each other, I continued, as soon as a male enters the herd. They’ll sac
rifice female friendship in hopes of snagging the male.
“Split for lunch?” Catman strode by, the first time I’d seen him at school. He didn’t slow down, so I hoisted my pack and trotted after him.
“Ever think,” he shouted, not turning around, “that the hokeypokey is what it’s all about?”
Sometimes you have to ignore the Catman.
The cafeteria was as noisy as an auction barn. Catman tossed his rainbow-colored pack on a table and headed for the food line.
I pulled out the lunch Lizzy had packed. Nobody sat at my table, although every other table seemed crowded. I looked around for Barker but didn’t see him. Grant and Summer plunked their trays at the table behind me. Hawk sat across from Summer.
Nothing but horses. I’d have to break in sooner or later if I wanted to get known around here. I’d face Grant, let him ridicule me for riding backwards, and then get on with it.
Only not now. I pretended to study my peanut-butter-and-cheese sandwich.
I peeked at Summer’s table. Grant swiveled, tapped his spoon, surveyed the cafeteria, waving over a couple of kids—the king granting favors.
Grant is herd leader, I wrote in my journal. Anyone who wants to move up in the social order around here has to impress him. Acceptance by the leader brings acceptance by the herd.
And I’d made a lousy first impression on Grant.
Grant fork-banged his tray, jiggled in his seat, ate too fast.
I wrote: Grant’s what’s known as a “hot” horse—an eager, nervous creature who chews on the bit, runs instead of lopes, and can’t stand still under saddle.
“Type A personality?” Catman plopped down his tray across from me. “My great-grandfather was in the army. He’s type A.”
I snapped my journal shut. “How long were you standing there, Catman?”
“Long enough. Horses—people—far out.”
“I’m trying to understand them,” I admitted. “I need more problem horses, so I’ve got to get to know kids like Grant and his group.”
Catman scraped up watery applesauce from the corner square of his tray. I didn’t know if he’d heard me or not.
“See that?” I pointed, and Catman looked just as Summer ruffled up Grant’s hair. “Touch. It’s the way horses communicate. Humans too, I guess.”
Eager Star Page 3