On Saturday morning, Dad asked me to go for a drive. I was glad to have some time alone with him, but a little curious too.

“Dad, where are we going?”

He turned and winked at me. “I thought we’d go see that pony. There’s no harm in looking.”

I raised my fist in the air. But then I remembered how upset Mama had been. “Has Mama changed her mind?”

Dad waved at Mr. Carter, who rode by on his tractor. “She knows where we’re going. If the pony is small and very gentle, maybe she’ll consider it.”

I crossed my fingers. Considering it might mean yes.

“Sarah Beth,” Dad said, “I’ve been meaning to thank you and Ruby Lee for cleaning up the house. You girls did a fine job.”

“Thanks.” With the mention of Ruby Lee, my good mood flew right out the car window. Sometimes I was still mad at her, but mostly I was ashamed.

Dad laughed. “When I was about your age, Ruby’s daddy used to help us prime tobacco. We’d race to see who could get to the end of the row the quickest.”

I hardly remembered Ruby’s daddy. He joined the army when we were little.

“I haven’t seen much of Ruby this summer,” Dad said. “Guess you girls are growing apart; that’s what happened with Leon and me.”

“Why?”

Dad’s jaw tightened, and he looked straight ahead. “Separate schools, different friends. It was just easier that way, but I cried like a baby when he was killed in Vietnam. He was a good man.”

It was too late for Dad and Leon to be friends again, but maybe not for Ruby and me. I needed to write her a letter.

Mr. Whitaker, who owned the pony, was wearing Wrangler jeans and a cowboy hat. We walked with him out to a red barn that was bigger than our house.

“Hey, Slim,” Mr. Whitaker called. “The folks are here to see Butterball.” A skinny cowboy led a pony out of the barn on a halter rope.

Butterball lived up to his name. He was as round as the cakes of butter from Granny’s churning. I walked inside the riding ring to take a closer look at his brown and white spots. Butterball kicked up his back legs, but I was too quick for him.

“Sarah Beth, move outside the fence,” Dad said sharply. He turned to Mr. Whitaker. “Why are you selling Butterball?”

Mr. Whitaker chewed on a piece of hay. “Well now,” he said, “my granddaughter is an inexperienced rider. Ol’ Butterball has a little too much spunk for her.”

Mr. Whitaker kept talking about what a fine pony Butterball was, but I could tell Dad wasn’t convinced.

Dad leaned against the riding ring, watching as Slim led Butterball around in a big circle.

Mr. Whitaker moved a little closer to Dad and said in a low voice, “It’s a shame about ’em integrating Shady Creek. Guess your daughter will have to go to school with coloreds.”

“Guess she will,” Dad said. He kept his eyes on Butterball. “If I had my druthers, things would stay the same, but the law says different. I just hope no trouble comes to Shady Creek.”

I scratched my head. Dad and Leon used to be like Ruby and me, but now he thought integration was a bad idea. Like most of the other grown-ups, he was afraid of change.

Dad stuck out his hand and shook Mr. Whitaker’s. “I appreciate your time, but Butterball is not what we’re looking for. We need small and gentle.”

I’d have to find another pony for Robin. I reached inside my shorts pocket and crumpled the newspaper ad.

Just before bedtime, I heard Mama crying on the porch swing. I closed the screen door and went to sit beside her. “What’s wrong?”

Mama’s dark eyes were swimming in tears. “Don’t worry. I’m just feeling a little blue.”

That answer didn’t satisfy me one bit. “When you cry, I’m afraid about Robin.”

Mama pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. “No, there’s nothing new. It just hurts me to watch her suffer.” Mama wadded the tissue in her hand. “I’d rather be in pain myself. I know you don’t understand now, but someday when you’re a mom, it’ll make perfect sense to you.”

I couldn’t imagine being a mom. That would be in about a million years, but I did know how much it hurt to watch Robin suffer.

We rocked on the porch swing, and Mama’s voice was soft, just above a whisper. “My shoulders ache from bending over the sewing machine.” Mama was taking in some extra sewing to help make ends meet. “I miss having a dishwasher,” she said, “and it’s aggravating to live so far from town.” Mama sighed. “Sorry to be such a complainer, but it is a beautiful night.”

The lightning bugs were blinking in the dark while we glided back and forth on the swing. “What’s going on with you and Ruby Lee?” Mama asked. “Every other summer, it’s always been Ruby this and Ruby that.”

“Nothing is going on. She’s just busy.” I wanted to tell Mama about my fight with Ruby and ask her at least a hundred questions about integration, but I was afraid of worrying her. As long as Robin was sick, I had to take a backseat. It felt sort of like I’d lost my parents. I didn’t like it much, but that’s the way it was.

Mama reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Don’t look so serious. You’re a beautiful girl when you smile.”

I shook my head. “I’m not beautiful. I have too many freckles.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Mama said. “You’re a good writer, a kind person, and an attractive girl.”

Mama was just trying to make me feel better. I wasn’t cute and funny like Robin, or beautiful like Betsy, or musical like Ruby. I was just ordinary, and I wasn’t nearly brave enough.

We kept rocking until Robin yelled, “I have to potty!”

Mama stopped the swing with her foot and wearily stood up. “I’d better hurry, or else I’ll have to change the sheets too.”

I followed Mama into the house.

“I hate the bedpan,” Robin said. “My bottom feels dirty.”

“Just finish,” Mama said, “and then I’ll clean your bottom.”

Robin whimpered in frustration.

I said, “Hey, Rob, let’s sing the stinky song.”

Robin giggled and then sang along:

Diarrhea (sniff, sniff), diarrhea (sniff, sniff)

Some people think it’s funny

But it’s always black and runny

Diarrhea (sniff, sniff), diarrhea (sniff, sniff).

Mama finished cleaning Robin’s bottom and emptied the bedpan. “You girls have a warped sense of humor,” she said.

I thought a warped sense of humor was much better than an unhappy sister.