Franny Parker Read Free

tube at her.
    â€œThat’s their name, Ben. Just a stupid name. It does not mean they are supposed to be
painted
aquamarine!” Sidda argued. Her hands were on her hips now.
    I poked Ben, trying not to giggle. He was a master at stirring Sidda up.
    â€œMom,” she complained, “tell him he cannot paint the turtles aquamarine.”
    Mama was unpacking canvases now. “Ben,” she warned, but I could see the grin through her wavy hair.
    â€œOkay, okay,” he groaned, grabbing a tube of red. “Then how about
magenta
?”

Saddle Up
    E arly Monday morning, I was in the barn grooming Snort when a freckled face popped over the stall door.
    â€œWhat page are you on?” Pearl Jones’s wild red hair stood on end and Snort reared back in fright.
    â€œEasy, boy,” I said. “It’s just Pearl.” Pearl was my best and oldest friend, but her wild hair and sudden appearances never failed to startle the pony, or the family, for that matter.
    The barn was the only place to escape the heat, and I’d spent the morning tucked in a corner of Snort’s dark stall with
The Yearling
. Snort didn’t mind.
    â€œWant to ride?” I asked.
    Pearl’s eyes narrowed and she stared at the book resting on the stall door. “You didn’t answer the question.”
    â€œOh, Pearl, not again,” I said with a sigh.
    The summer reading frenzy had begun last month. Poor Pearl. Her mother had a hand in this, I knew. The Aubree Library began its annual summer reading contest the day school let out, and Mrs. Jones’s eye was always on the lookout for a prize: in this case, $100 and a tall gold trophy for the kid who read the most books. Pearl, for being such a shy and reasonable girl, had the misfortune of a not-so-shy and rather unreasonable mother.
    Pearl was the oldest child in a family of six kids, which meant she had the dubious distinction of being the first representative of the Jones family in every endeavor the public might witness. No accomplishment or event occurred without Pearl’s mother pushing her toward every opportunity for glory. During Girl Scout cookie sales, Mrs. Jones bought and ate every box that Pearl couldn’t sell just to increase their tally. She gained at least twenty pounds. At soccer games, Mrs. Jones was known to stick out her foot when a girl on the opposing team ran into the sidelines. And at horse shows, Mrs. Jones would swat a pony playfully on the rear end, causing it to buck and launch the poor rider clinging to its back.
    Despite her mother’s foul play, poor Pearl still hadn’t come in first place in anything. So this year her mother had aimed her powers at the reading contest as their big chance. Every moment was a reading moment, according to Mrs. Jones. Pearl even had to read in line for the ice cream truck at the town pool. Mrs. Jones most likely wouldn’t notice if Pearl was drowning, but Pearl had better not lay out her beach towel without at least two books on it.
    â€œSo?” Pearl asked, swiping at a red curl hanging in her eyes.
    â€œPage thirty,” I said, giving up. “How’s Nancy Drew?”
    Pearl frowned, sinking onto a bale of hay. “Boring, that’s how.”
    â€œLet’s go for a ride,” I said, dusting off my saddle.
    I went to the tack room for Snort’s saddle. The day Mama had given the saddle to me was the day I got Snort, four years ago, on my eighth birthday. I’d been tearing through the presents looking for a brush, a hoof pick, any sign of a pony. As the pile of presents got smaller and smaller, I’d tried to put on a brave face. A diary from Sidda, a sweater from Grandma Rae, a macramé necklace from Ben. When all the boxes were open, I sat in the pile of wrapping paper and thanked everyone, trying hard not to let the tears pushing at my eyelids escape. And then Mama took my hand, pulled me out to the porch, and led me to the swing where it