Free Beyond the Farthest Star by Bodie and Brock Thoene Page B

right?”
    Anne arched an eyebrow. “Stuff?”
    Stephen prodded, “How you are the night?”
    Clifford jumped into the conversation. “And an alien pod germinating in Mrs. Harper’s bowels until you—”
    Stephen’s glare silenced Clifford. “That was just to shock us. Right?”
    Anne questioned, “Like how Marilyn Manson might really drive an SUV, Stevie?”
    Stephen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Right.”
    Clifford blurted, “Marilyn Manson drives an SUV?”
    Principal Johnston approached and stood in front of Anne. Sheriff Burns and Mrs. Harper waited beside the police car. The principal announced, “Sheriff Burns would like a word with you, Miss Wells.”
    Clifford, in a world of his own, mused, “My mother drives an SUV.”
    With an odd sense of routine, Anne grabbed her backpack and stood. She decided to play her role to the max for the principal. “Who is Midnight really, Sticks-boy?”
    Stephen evidently didn’t know if he was supposed to play along or not. “My horse. You know.”
    Anne sneered. “That is, like, so original. And she’s like … black?”
    The principal ordered,
“Now,
Miss Wells.” Without looking back, Anne headed for the police car.

    The principal frowned at Kyle. “And Kyle, Sheriff says, ‘Don’t be late to work today.’ ”
    Kyle drawled defiantly, “I’ll make an effort.”
    The principal demanded, “Excuse me, Mister Tucker? You want to finish the year in Denton Juvie, son? You jus’ keep breakin’ your probation.”
    Stephen grabbed Kyle by his collar. “He’ll be there, sir.”
    The principal spun on his heel. “Make sure he is, Mister Miller.”
    Kyle pushed Stephen away as the principal followed Anne to the car.
    Clifford scowled as though he had just missed everything that had happened. “It’s powder-puff blue. Baby-proof windows and side airbags.”
    Kyle shoved Clifford. “That’s cuz Marilyn Manson’s a punk, puky baby like you, Cliff. Right, Stephen? Isn’t Cliff a—”
    Kyle’s eyes went cold as he turned to find Stephen’s attention fixed on Anne as she joined the sheriff and Mrs. Harper.

Chapter Nine
    T HE NEW HORSE was a two-year-old registered sorrel paint filly from Oklahoma named Shawnee. A wild little thing when she backed out of the trailer, she was already in the round pen with Potsy when Stephen got home.
    He parked the pickup at the barn and climbed the corral fence to watch his grandfather work to gently bring the young horse into what would become a relationship of trust and submission.
    Within a matter of minutes Potsy had the young animal following at his heel with the lead rope slack. “Like an old Labrador retriever,” Stephen thought.
    Potsy stopped. The horse stopped. Potsy took three steps backward. The horse backed in sync.
    Potsy looked up. End of today’s lesson. He smiled and beckoned to Stephen as he patted the filly. All was calm. All was bright.
    “Thought you’d be home thirty minutes ago.” Potsy spoke as calmly to Stephen as he did to Shawnee.
    Stephen leaped off the fence and accepted the lead rope from his grandfather. “Stuff goin’ on at school.” He led Shawnee toward her stall.
    “What’s up?”
    “Anne. In trouble, I guess.”
    “You guess?”
    Stephen could not bring himself to recite the events of the whole rotten day. “You know, she’s different.”
    “Folks don’t like different,” Potsy commented. “Scares ‘em.”
    Stephen halted. Shawnee halted. “And Kyle. Kyle hates her. She just … kinda
works
at making folks scared of her.”
    Potsy took three steps and stopped. He glanced over his shoulder. “The more scared folks are, the more a filly’ll act out. It’s a way of takin’ control of a situation. You know that, Stephen.”
    “She’s not a filly; she’s a girl.”
    “Not a lot of difference sometimes. Nor between mares and women neither.”
    “Potsy, did I tell you? She’s got scars on the inside of her forearms. Like she’s … well …”
    “I know. Your