Free Mustang Moon by Terri Farley

Dad said.
    A week. Seven days. That wasn’t so long. She could stand it.
    â€œAnd the fall drive? Will I be able to ride in time to help bring the cattle in?”
    â€œNo.”
    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.
    â€œSince 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.
    â€œWhat in—?” He twisted toward her. “What in the world are you thinking, Samantha?”
    â€œAbout 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.
    â€œFirst 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œHoney, there’s not a darn thing wrong that timewon’t fix,” Dad said. “Now, you go on and have a nice first day.”
    Â 
    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.
    â€œHi. I’m Jennifer Kenworthy. If you’re Samantha Forster, I think we’ve met before, a long time ago.”
    â€œI am,” Sam said. “And I sort of remember that, too.” But this wasn’t the timid girl Sam recalled. “I usually go by Sam.”
    â€œGood. 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?”
    â€œHe 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.
    â€œThat’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