CHAPTER 21

I’m frozen. But not from cold. Clutching the reins, hoping Sam won’t run again, I can’t do anything but stare as rivers of horses course past, too many to count. I can’t begin to think about catching one. There’s no way to slow them down.

The phone won’t matter now. I pull it out and snap one picture, two, three. But when I glance down, shining my headlamp, the pictures just look like gray blurs across my screen. I look back up, confused: Why don’t even traces of their shapes come through?

Suddenly, the horses are gone.

It’s hard to see any real hoofprints in the dirt. I swivel my head around, but I can’t find a single sign of them—no quickly nodding heads, no swishing tails.

I sit awhile longer, Sam’s breathing slow now. Then I see something.

If the moon hadn’t glanced off the tree branch in that exact way, I probably would’ve missed it. But there it is: a strand of hair—so long and wiry-thick I know it came from one of the dappled horses’ tails—stuck to the broken-off edge of a dead branch.

I stop Sam and softly slide off his back so I don’t startle him. He’s finally tired. So am I.

When I pluck the hair from the branch and hold it up to the light, it’s a silvery black and even coarser than most horsehairs I’ve seen. It seems to shine, but in a way that makes it look like a beam of moonlight instead of a real hair that came off a real horse’s tail. Then I remember my saddlebag, and I tuck the hair safely into it.

I keep Sam moving, trying to strike a balance between going quickly enough to get home fast and slowly enough to stay balanced. The ride is bumpier and slower than before, and I realize when I hear cracking under Sam’s hooves that some tiny patches of ice have formed over the leaves, probably remnants from earlier rain and today’s cold.

Just as I’m thinking I’ll probably have to be extra careful now, Sam stumbles and I almost lose my seat. I have to grab the pommel of the saddle so I don’t fall off.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, hopping off and stroking his nose. “What happened to you?”

Check his legs, I think, my heart sinking. I know that’s what Andy would do, right away. Sam’s not the kind of horse to stumble. I run my hands down the back two, then the front, feeling for swelling. When I touch his right leg, he picks it up fast and kicks lightly back, away from my hand, not because he wants to hurt me, but just because he’s trying to get away from some kind of pain.

My headlamp illuminates the scratch. It’s a gash, really, not huge, but a little deeper and longer than an easy-to-heal cut.

No. I should have been paying closer attention. I don’t remember seeing anything sharp, but then again, when the horses were running, I didn’t see much of anything. Who knows what Sam could’ve slashed, barreling up that path in the dark with all the others?

There’s a small first-aid kit in my saddlebag, so I dab a little antiseptic on Sam’s cut. Hopefully it will be enough to get him back to the barn. I pull the reins over his head and begin leading him slowly. Maybe I can sneak in and fix it up before Mom sees. Maybe it’s small enough to heal overnight, though even as I think it, I know that’s probably not true.

When we cross the pasture and I see the shadowy outline of Mom, standing in front of the barn with her hands on her hips, I know there’s no way to hide. I lead Sam up to her and try to explain, but my words seem to fall apart in the cold air.

“Let me get this straight,” Mom says. “A, you took Sam riding in the dark, on the coldest evening we’ve had yet this fall. B, you’re always supposed to text me first. Obviously. And C, how did Sam cut himself? Remember the first rule—”

I break in before she can finish her sentence. “Always look out for the horses,” I say. “I know. But Mom—I was. That’s what I—”

She holds up her hand, cuts me off. “You know, I haven’t forgotten your equine therapy idea. I’ve been reading more about it and thought it might actually work, as long as we could get Andy on board and convince your father. I planned to get started on some initial training exercises with Sam tomorrow when you were at school, to get a feel for how he might do. But with this cut, Sam won’t be much use for a while.”

“What?” Tears spring to my eyes, and my stomach wavers, sickness welling. Mom doesn’t know about Andy’s letter. She doesn’t know Andy’s not on board. I shut my eyes tight to squeeze that thought away, then open them again. If I win the prize, Andy might not need to be on board, at least not right away. “It’s only a little cut, though, right?”

“It’s deep enough to worry about,” Mom says. “I’ll have to keep an eye on it, make sure it doesn’t get infected.” She looks at me and her eyes smolder like coals. “You don’t want Sam going lame, do you?”

I shake my head, my throat thick. Sparrows flutter out of their nests and whirl around my shoulders.

“You’ll help me, then,” Mom says. “We’ll have to tend to the wound every day.”

“Yes,” I whisper. Tears cloud my eyes and I rest a hand on Sam’s warm neck. I was thinking too much about the wild horses, and not about the one right in front of me. I open my mouth to apologize, but Mom holds up a hand and shakes her head.

“I’m too upset to talk more right now,” she says. “Clean and bandage the cut properly. I’ll come back to check on him later.” Then she stalks off, her arms crossed.

I lead Sam into the barn, put him in cross-ties. After I’ve cleaned his cut as gently as I can with water and saline solution, I apply ointment and wrap a padded bandage around his leg. He stands still, his head hanging just a little.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I whisper. Then I lead him into his stall and make sure he has hay and fresh water.

My phone sits like a stone in my pocket. My fingers go to it, then draw back. I remember Maya’s face, the soft chill of her voice when she said, Then maybe you’ll understand. I’ve made so many mistakes today, but I know at least one I can try to fix. Maybe two.

I breathe into and through the wings that fill my chest. What if Maya doesn’t want to talk to me? Not just now, but ever?

But then I remember Nari’s reading: Isn’t it easy to want to control everything that happens? And Sharon’s word: honesty.

I thought I knew what Andy would say about equine therapy, but I didn’t. I can’t know how Maya’s going to feel either.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to make things better.

I start and delete about ten texts before I settle on the simplest one:

Hey can we talk?

Even before the dots appear that show she’s writing back, I can already feel the healing start, a bandage patching up the torn parts of my heart.

Not because I know how things are going to turn out, but because I did what I needed to do.

Ping. I look down and see just one word:

Sure.

The next day during lunch we eat fast, not saying much. But it feels good to sit together.

Maya takes a swig of chocolate milk. “Ready?”

I pop one last grape in my mouth. “Let’s go.”

Since our school is small, with nine grades in one building, we still have a playground, plus the basketball court and soccer field. We eat lunch at a different time than the little kids, and it’s kind of funny how many of us decide to use the slide and merry-go-round once we’re done.

Maya and I sit side by side on two of the swings. It’s been ages since I actually pumped as hard as I could and soared into the sky. But it feels good to rock my legs back and forth while I think about what to say.

I fumble around with some explanations and unfinished sentences, but as soon as I say “I’m sorry,” Maya’s face relaxes, and I continue. “I thought about it and… I know it’s not your fault that your dad told Andy to go to rehab. It’s not your dad’s fault either. Jail would have made sense too. Lots of people have to do that.”

“Like I said, he was only trying to help Andy.” Maya twists her swing a little ways toward me, then lets it fall back again. “In the long run, I mean. He had to think about the law too.”

“I get that,” I say. “I’ve been trying to figure out what to think about Andy, honestly. At first, I didn’t think that what he did was actually him.”

“It’s kind of funny that you can believe in wild horses you barely see, but not in something that for sure happened,” Maya says quietly. It might sound mean, but I know it’s not. It’s just true. And I haven’t forgotten what Sharon said about honesty.

“Well, I guess it’s more about what I want to believe,” I say. “And now Andy’s the one I’m mad at. I can’t figure him out.”

“Well, my dad said that what makes the whole thing really hard is that the people he has to sentence are often great people who just happen to have this problem.” She’s looking at me, and her eyes are kind. “Maybe Andy isn’t one thing or the other, you know? Maybe he’s both.”

For a while, I can’t speak. The words clump together in my throat. I feel like Mr. Hamilton, wondering how his dad could have been completely wrong when someone in the same room is trying to prove that he might have been right.

All I end up saying is “I hope so.” Then Maya pushes her swing near mine and hugs my shoulder.

“How’s your dad?” I ask.

“Much better,” Maya says. “He’s on a special medicine, and they’re giving him all these anti-stress techniques too.”

“That’s awesome.” Relief washes through me. I really want Mr. Gonzalez to be okay.

“It’s a start,” Maya says.

“So… are we good?” I look at her, trying to read her eyes.

She smiles. “We’re good.”

Other students start to stream out the cafeteria doors. Some roll themselves down the huge hill at the end of the playground. Others head toward the field: we aren’t allowed to have leaf fights, but apparently football is okay, even though those games usually get intense.

Jamila and Cory sit in the two empty swings next to Maya and me.

“Hey, guys,” Jamila says. “You nervous about the History Fair?”

“Not really.” But Maya’s words don’t match her voice. She’s put more effort into her project than pretty much anyone else.

“I think I’m prepared,” Cory says.

“Ha.” Jamila rolls her eyes. “If by ‘prepared’ you mean you spend all your time editing this one single video you’re using instead of making sure you have all the required sources, then—yes! You’re prepared!”

“She’s harsh.” Cory looks at us pleadingly, but Maya just laughs.

“Be more like her,” Jamila says, nodding toward Maya, “with her binders and notes all organized. Then I’ll stop giving you a hard time.”

“How about you, Claire?” Cory asks. “Are you ready?”

I think about my poster, divided into its neat sections. All I’m missing is a horse.

“As ready as possible.” My voice sounds pretty confident, even to me.

“Well,” Cory says, hopping off the swing, “since nobody’s defending me, I’m going to have to throw some leaves at all of you.”

Jamila grabs a handful and lobs it at his jacket. “Beat you to it.”

“Hey!” Cory says, hurling some back. “At least it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. I’ll get revenge with some serious snowballs.”

Then Maya tosses a bunch of leaves at me. “That’s for getting mad at me,” she says, but she’s smiling.

Pretty soon we’re all laughing and throwing leaves. We manage to squeeze in about two minutes’ worth before Mr. Jenkins notices and yells at us to stop.