Free That Boy From Trash Town by Billie Green Page A

sense anymore, she told herself as she steadfastly ignored her mother, who continued to talk to her through the door.
    Fifteen minutes later Anne finally got tired of talking without getting a response and left. Suddenly there was nothing to distract Whitney from her thoughts. There was nothing to keep her from pulling up her stock of memories of her father.
    "Where is my Maid Mary going with flowers in her hair?"
    "To see the Queen, Daddy. And that's not flowers, it's jewels. You have to wear lots of jewels when you visit the Queen. It's a rule."
    "Queen Elizabeth would think you're beautiful, even without flowers."
    "Not her, silly. The Queen of Hearts."
    "Oh, in that case, you 'd better keep the jewels."
    "Mother taught me to curtsy. Do you want to see? I can do it without falling now. Come with me, Daddy. You don't have to go to work today. Come with me to see the Queen."
    For hours Whitney sat in the window seat, unmoving, as silence and darkness spread across her bedroom. It was a little before midnight when she finally stood up and stretched her stiff back.
    There were no answers here, she told herself. Not in this room, not in this town. Dean was right. It was time for her to grow up.
    * * *
    It took Whitney nearly an hour to pack and three trips downstairs to transfer all her luggage to her car. She didn't worry about waking her mother—Anne Grant always slept like a log.
    Tonight Whitney resented that. She resented the ease with which her mother had blocked out the day's events. Anne should have been up worrying. Guilt and shame should have kept her awake.
    But Whitney knew that her mother had already shoved their confrontation into a cubbyhole in her mind, a cubbyhole marked Don't Look. If Whitney stayed here, her mother would never mention it again. It would be as though nothing had ever happened, and maybe, after a while, Whitney would begin to believe that, as well.
    She wouldn't let it happen, she told herself as she tossed her makeup case into the back seat of her white Jaguar. She wouldn't turn into a Harcourt and start ignoring what she didn't want to see.
    She stood for a moment, looking at the house. During her college years Whitney had lived in a dorm, then in a sorority house, followed by an apartment shared with several friends, but she had always thought of this as home. Not the Harcourt estate, but this house. Sweet House. Here she had been able to watch out for her mother. Here she had been close to Dean.
    But the house was just another part of the lies. It wasn't her home, had never been her home. Home was still ahead, she told herself. Home was somewhere in the future.
    It shouldn't hurt so much to leave a lie.
    Sliding into the driver's seat, Whitney closed the door and started the car, but when she reached the stables, she stopped again, put the car in park and stepped out, staring over the top of the car at the low, dark buildings.
    One more time, she thought. One more goodbye. One last midnight ride.
    Ten minutes later she was on Heracles' back, headed toward open land. The horse seemed to sense that tonight was different from all the other nights they had ridden together. The wildness and pain that was in Whitney was somehow transmitted to the horse, and they tore across the land as if chased by demons.
    Whitney almost laughed when she realized the horse understood her better than her mother did. But she didn't. Instead, she cried. The wind rushed by her, first cooling her tears, then drying them.
    When she reached the knoll, Whitney pulled Heracles up sharply. He reared twice, then twitched and snorted, shifting his feet restlessly as though he weren't ready to stop.
    "We won't stay long," she murmured, looking out toward West Edge.
    Now she would think of Dean.
    The lights were still on in his house, and she knew his inability to sleep should have been some small comfort, but the comfort couldn't reach her.
    As she sat in the dark, Whitney allowed more memories to wash over her, memories