Free Eager Star by Dandi Daley Mackall Page B

turned his notebook so she could read what he’d written: “Colossians 3:23.”
    â€œWhat’s it say?” I asked. Lizzy and Mom would have known.
    Barker said it from memory: “‘Work hard and cheerfully at whatever you do, as though you were working for the Lord rather than for people.’”
    I knew it wasn’t something Barker wrote to sound good. He worked hard and was happy. He probably did work for God. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to work for God instead of Mr. Baines.
    â€œI know God would make a great boss and everything . . .” I was thinking out loud, but Barker and his mom didn’t make me feel stupid. “Only knowing me, I’d probably still want to win the barrel race to impress God just like I want to impress Mr. Baines.” And Grant. And Summer. And Dad . . .
    The snaps stopped, and from the couch came a throaty noise.
    We turned to Great-granny Barker.
    â€œChild,” she said, not taking her gaze from the window, “God ain’t waiting at no finish line. No, Jesus is running with you, caring more about the steps on the way than the big finish. Can’t nobody impress God. Just look at what he created out there!”
    Outside her window, a blanket of lightning bugs blinked on and off below while above, the whole sky blinked stars.
    â€œYou’re right, Ma!” Mrs. Barker wiped her eyes.
    I didn’t want to forget what she’d said even though I didn’t really understand what it meant. He cares more about the steps than the finish? I reached into my backpack and pulled out my notebook, flipping pages until I got to a blank one.
    â€œWinnie?” Barker reached for my notebook and turned to the cover. “Didn’t you turn in your journal to Ms. Brumby?”
    â€œYeah.” I glanced at the notebook in front of me. “I turned in my class journal. This one is my personal—” I stopped, the words cut off, along with my oxygen. “But this should be gray—” I stared at the cover of the journal, the red journal, my classroom journal for Ms. Brumby. “This can’t be red!”
    I dumped out my backpack. No gray journal. Dizzy, I yanked my notebook off the table and stared at the cover again, as if it might magically change from red to gray.
    â€œIt’s not possible,” I muttered, gripping the notebook so tight a page ripped. “I know I turned in my journal.” I remembered adding mine to the bottom of the stack before passing it on. “But if this is my class journal, then that means—” I couldn’t finish. I stood up so suddenly my chair fell backward. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” My heart pounded like horses galloping. Horses! I tried to remember everything I’d written in the gray journal about the Ashland Middle School herd, the comments about the mares and stallions. The “Old Mare Teacher!”
    Every word I’d written for my eyes only was now in the hands of Barb Brumby.

She won’t read it, I told myself as I pedaled backwards in the dark. Ms. Brumby’s too busy to read journals. She just wants to make sure we’ve written something. Anything. Maybe I’ll get a great grade for writing so much.
    By the time I reached home, I’d almost convinced myself.
    Until I saw Dad.
    He was sitting in his reading chair, his back to the door. Slowly, he folded the paper, took off his glasses, and turned to face me. “You know, I wish just once I could go an entire semester without hearing, ‘Mr. Willis, I’m calling about your daughter Winifred.’”
    I tried to explain about the two journals getting mixed up. “And besides, it wasn’t really my fault. Remember? Picturing people as horses was really your idea in the first place.”
    â€œTrue enough,” Dad said. “But that’s not the problem, Winnie. Most of what you wrote sounded