Mustang Moon (7 page)

The Phantom reared on the other side of the river. Like a frosty tree turned upside down, branches of lightning ran jagged behind the stallion.

The Phantom had come back!

Sam's arms clamped around herself. She was scared, excited, and she had no choice. The stallion had returned. She couldn't leave him rearing alone in the darkness.

Sam had lifted the hem of her nightgown and her toes had pressed into the squishy mud, when the porch light flashed on. For an instant, she imagined it was more lightning, but Dad's solemn voice left her no escape from the truth.

“Samantha, get back inside.”

“But, Dad—”

“No excuses. We'll talk about this tomorrow.”

She'd been caught. She'd be grounded. Worst of all, the Phantom would go on waiting in the darkness, thinking she'd forgotten.

S
AM WAS ALREADY
sitting on her neatly made bed, dressed and ready for school, when her alarm went off.

If she had just one friend, today would be easier. If Dad weren't angry and likely to lecture while he drove her to the bus stop, today would be easier. If she could go for a gallop on Ace after school, today would be easier. But none of that would happen.

Face it, Sam told herself as she switched off her shrilling alarm clock, today is
not
going to be easy.

Breakfast was not on the table. Nothing sizzled on the stove. Yes, she'd told Gram she only wanted cereal and toast on school days, but this felt wrong.

Dad stood at the window, staring out at the gray morning.

“Dad, I—”

“Eat some breakfast. Gram's out doing your chores.”

A lump swelled in Sam's throat. Worry over last night had knocked thoughts of morning chores right out of her head. Out in the wind-tossed yard, Gram was filling water troughs, feeding Ace, finding eggs.

“I've still got time.” Sam glanced at her watch. “I'll go stop her.”

“She's doing it as a favor. Just for today. Now, get something to eat.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

Even though he wouldn't turn to look at her, Dad didn't sound too angry. Still, he wouldn't change his mind about grounding her. Dad was stubborn and so darn sure he was right.

The only question was how long she'd be grounded.

Sam poured milk on her cereal and considered Dad's stiff back. The smartest thing she could do was wait for him to explain her punishment, instead of harassing him about it.

Sam tried to be patient. She finished her cereal, managed to eat some toast, then rinsed her bowl. As Gram came back inside, Sam kissed her good-bye, climbed into the truck, and held her backpack on her lap as Dad drove toward the bus stop.

The rain-washed sky spread bright blue above the Calico Mountains, but Sam's chest felt tight. Her teeth hurt from clenching. She knew that if she didn't ask Dad about being grounded, she'd burst into tears
when the first little thing went wrong.

She couldn't let that happen on her first day at the bus stop. Even if she ended up waiting there alone, she'd be examined as a newcomer as she entered that bus. How cool would it be to appear with red, swollen eyes, looking like a kindergartner afraid to leave home?

Sam took such a deep breath, Dad must have heard her question coming.

“For how long?” she asked. “How long before I can ride Ace?”

“We'll start with a week and see how it goes,” Dad said.

A week. Seven days. That wasn't so long. She could stand it.

“And the fall drive? Will I be able to ride in time to help bring the cattle in?”

“No.”

Seven days. Not so long, but time enough to keep her from riding Ace, her hat held down by its stampede string as the wind whistled past. Long enough for her to miss a once-a-year event.

“Since you're already mad at me,” Sam began, and noticed Dad didn't correct her, “are you going to butcher Buddy?”

The truck slowed as if Dad had lifted his boot from the gas pedal.

“What in—?” He twisted toward her. “What in the
world
are you thinking, Samantha?”

“About money,” she said. “I'm thinking that we need every dollar we can make from the hay and the cattle.”

Dad shook off his surprise, and the truck surged forward again.

“First off, we only raise enough hay for our. own stock. I don't like to buy it over the winter. Second, when we get so poor one pet calf would save us—” Dad's mouth curved up at one corner, but his expression wasn't quite a smile. “Well, let's just say I'd put you to work long before that happened.”

“I'd go to work,” Sam offered, “if it meant keeping Buddy. Sure I would.” She pictured the mall at Darton and wondered how old you'd have to be to work in the food court. “I bet I could find a job after school. Do you want me to do it?”

Sam couldn't interpret Dad's expression. It flickered somewhere between proud and embarrassed.

“I'll let you know,” he said.

The truck slowed again. The bus stop was just ahead.

Dad braked, turned toward Sam, and leaned across to touch her cheek.

“Your hair looks real cute that way, Samantha.” Dad nodded three times.

Sam knew he wanted to add something else. She glanced down the road. The bus wasn't in sight, so she waited.

“Honey, there's not a darn thing wrong that time
won't fix,” Dad said. “Now, you go on and have a nice first day.”

 

Sam walked toward the girl standing at the bus stop. Uneasy because she knew the girl was watching her, too, Sam tried not to stare.

The other girl was thin. Not model trim or athlete lean, but downright gawky. She wore dark-framed glasses, and her white-blond hair hung in skinny braids. They ended in tassels that made them look like exclamation marks.

She wore a hot orange tee shirt, jeans, and black high-top tennis shoes. Showing through the mesh pocket of her backpack was the most complicated-looking calculator Sam had ever seen.

Sam gathered her courage, trying to think of something to say, but the other girl beat her to it.

“Hi. I'm Jennifer Kenworthy. If you're Samantha Forster, I think we've met before, a long time ago.”

“I am,” Sam said. “And I sort of remember that, too.” But this wasn't the timid girl Sam recalled. “I usually go by Sam.”

“Good. I go by Jen, or Jennifer, but never Jenny—except to my mom.”

They both smiled, then Jen's face took on a puzzled look. “Why did Jake tell me your hair was kind of punk-looking?”

“He didn't know any better,” Sam said. “It was, until last night. I had a trim and he hasn't seen it yet.”

Jake didn't take change in stride. Sam thought of the morning after the Phantom had accidentally given her a black eye. When she'd tried to cover it with makeup and a bold attitude, Jake had exploded.

“That's pretty dramatic,” Jen said. “All I did for the first day of school is break my poor mother's heart. Not really. That's just what she said, because I insisted on dressing like a normal kid. Last year, when I started going to public school, my mom made me wear skirts and twinsets. This year, I'm dressing myself.”

About time
, Sam thought. She'd been selecting her own clothes forever. But she only said, “Looks good to me.”

“Thanks,” Jen said. “Mom said I was dressed to go muck out stalls, but I stood firm. The thing is”—Jen lowered her voice—“I don't really care.”

“So, you have horses?”

A queasy look crossed Jen's face, and Sam worried that she'd ended the friendship before it had begun. How could she have forgotten what Jake had told her? The Kenworthys had been on the verge of losing their ranch when Slocum offered to buy it.

“Well, yeah,” Jen said. “You remember—”

“I do. Sorry,” Sam apologized. “I forgot.”

“No big deal.” Jen ducked her head. “After all,
I
forgot you, uh, didn't have a mom to say stupid things to you, like mine does.”

Silence simmered between them for a minute.
They'd both messed up and admitted it. That seemed a fine beginning for a friendship.

“But, yeah,” Jen said at last, “we still have a few horses. Mine is Silk Stocking, but I call her Silly. She's a truly ditzy palomino mare.” Jen shook her head, then added, “I plan to be a vet, though, and she's better than a textbook on horse neuroses.”

“She'd probably get along great with Ace, my little mustang. All the other horses like to push him around.” Sam met Jen's eyes. Clearly, they both loved their horses, no matter what. “We should go ride sometime.”

The roar of the yellow school bus ended their conversation. Jen didn't do more than nod, and Sam didn't mention the ride would have to wait until she was out of trouble.

 

The morning hours were filled with slamming lockers, ringing bells, and shouting voices. Guided by a useless photocopied map, Sam navigated miles of mazelike halls. She made it to each class on time, but Jake's warning about weeping freshmen kept her from visiting her locker until lunch hour.

Arms aching, Sam approached her locker, carrying every book from each morning class. In little tiny ink numbers, she'd written her combination on the inside of her wrist.

Her locker opened like a dream. Sam arranged her books inside, closed it, and opened it again, this
time without consulting the numbers on her wrist.

When a group of laughing girls passed by, Sam looked at her watch, pretending she had someplace to go. She didn't. She'd had English class with Jen, but Jen hadn't mentioned meeting for lunch. And Sam hadn't seen Jake.

She decided not to wander around looking lost. Instead, she pulled an apple from her backpack and wished the break would end. She practiced opening her locker again. She had journalism after lunch. She'd been on the newspaper staff in middle school, and her teacher had said she had talent. Sam was excited to give it a try in high school.

She might meet some people, too. Although a lot of the other students were strangers to each other, Sam had felt too shy to speak to people in her other classes. She hoped journalism was less formal. Maybe there she could relax and make some friends.

Sam closed her locker. She turned the dial very deliberately, in case anyone was watching.

At last, the bell rang. A stampede of students filled the halls, but it was a knot of rowdy boys she noticed. As they forged a path through the other kids, Sam saw Jake. The quietest of them all, he moved along in the center, grinning.

Until he saw Sam. Then, Jake came to such a sudden stop, another student rammed into him from behind. Jake staggered forward a step, but his eyes stayed on Sam.

Jake hated her short hair. That was clear. He kept going—without waving, without saying hi, without recognizing she was alive.

He'd get used to it, Sam told herself. It's not like she'd planned to tag along with him at school. She'd see him at home and he could spout off about the mistake she'd made.

Right now, she'd better hurry to class.

 

“We've got to hit the ground running,” said Mr. Blair.

Sam's journalism teacher looked more like a football coach as he fired off orders. Half the students loitered near a row of computers. The other half sat at attention in desks ranged in straight rows.

The students whispering by the computers must be the veterans, Sam thought. The students who were seated and attentive, Sam admitted, looked like freshmen.

“Class time is for putting out a newspaper. The textbook is for teaching you how to write. Here's a schedule.” Mr. Blair flapped a sheaf of papers. “Do two chapters each night and turn in the work every day when you get to class.” Mr. Blair took a breath, then pointed. “What did I say?”

“I, uh—” said a boy wearing a black tee shirt.

“That's what I thought.” Mr. Blair turned toward Sam and pointed. “What did I say?”

“We're putting out the newspaper during class
and reading the book at night.” Sam rattled off what she remembered. “We turn in the work—” When Sam saw Mr. Blair's eyes narrow, she hurried to correct herself. “We turn in
two
chapters' worth of work every day.”

“Okay.” Mr. Blair turned toward a bespectacled boy who sat with his feet atop a big wooden desk. “RJay, give this girl a story.” Mr. Blair jerked his thumb toward Sam, then asked, “Name?”

“Sam,” she said, lacing her fingers together in her lap to keep her hands from shaking. Then, as Mr. Blair scanned the student list in his hand, she added, quietly, “
Samantha
Forster.”

“Hmm. A freshman.” Mr. Blair stared so long, Sam thought it very possible he was trying to read her mind. “Give her a story anyway, RJay.”

The teacher shooed her toward RJay.

Feeling singled out, Sam crossed the room. She tugged at the hem of her scoop-neck white shirt, even though she knew it looked fine with her new jeans. Today, she'd seen a hundred girls dressed the same way, but Sam still felt awkward as she stood before RJay. She guessed he was the editor of
Dialogue
, the Darton High newspaper, but he said nothing to confirm it.

“Go see Rachel,” RJay said, and then he, too, pointed.

At first, Sam didn't recognize the name.

Rachel looked like a model. Her sleek hair was
the dark brown of coffee. She wore a short, trendy plaid skirt with suspenders. On most girls, it would look silly. On her, worn over a crisp white blouse, it looked great.

Rachel let Sam stand and wait while she talked to a blonde in a cheerleader's uniform embroidered with the name
Daisy
. Gradually, Rachel turned.

Her rose-gold fingernails skimmed the wing of hair slanting across her forehead, lifting it away from her eyes. She scanned Sam from head to waist, but still said nothing.

Sam turned hot with embarrassment. She felt like such a reject, but she had to say something.

“RJay said you'd assign me a story,” Sam explained.

“Back-to-school interview with Ms. Santos,” Rachel ran the words together, sounding bored and faintly British.

Sam frowned.
Ms. Santos
. Her ignorance only deepened her blush.

“Where would I find her?” she asked. After she found her, maybe she'd figure out who she was.

“Oh.” Rachel stretched the word so that it sounded like
ow
. Did Rachel have an English accent or was she pretending? Sam couldn't tell, but all at once she remembered. When they were out picking berries, hadn't Jake said Linc Slocum's daughter was named Rachel? Hadn't he said Slocum was divorced and that Rachel and her brother spent summers in
London with their mother?