Franny Parker Read Free Page A

sat. A saddle with a big red bow.
Her
childhood saddle. The same tired old saddle I’d climbed onto in our attic for years. And now it was mine. With my very own pony to wear it.
    Of course there were stories that came with this saddle, and Mama had told me each one over the years. Every nick or scratch in the leather was a memory. “This,” Mama said proudly, “is from the time Shadow bolted through the woods on a narrow trail. I think a bobcat spooked him. And this”—she pointed to a dent—“is from the time Shadow slipped on Turtle Creek, and we skidded down the bank into the river rocks.” I’d never met Shadow, but I could see him in my head like a red flame, him and eight-year-old Mama racing through the forest, setting the branches ablaze. Her best stories involvednear danger and horses, and so it was real hard for me to follow her Parker Pony Rules of Safety after listening to them. I always felt like I was missing out on something.
    We brushed Snort quickly, concentrating on his sleek brown back.
    â€œIs that him?” Pearl asked, gazing out the barn door.
    â€œWho?”
    Across the way, Lucas Dunn stood on a ladder, his back to us and a paintbrush in his hand. One side of the cabin was coated in fresh white. He worked quickly, the muscles of his back flickering with each stroke.
    â€œWhat’s he like?” Pearl breathed, a flush of red creeping up her cheeks. I touched my own.
    â€œI don’t know,” I lied. But I did know. In just the three days since Lucas Dunn had arrived, I knew a lot. I knew that Lucas liked to listen to the peepers at night, that he stayed up well after his mom had gone to sleep, and wandered by the low riverbed. I knew that he liked to peel the skin off an apple with his Swiss Army knife before sinking his teeth into the firm flesh. And that he preferred walking barefoot in the grass. Ever since he had arrived, it seemed Lucas Dunn loomed outside my window, in my backyard, as plain as the yellow moon in the sky. Wherever I turned was evidence of his being.
    He waved, looking suddenly over his shoulder. “Hey, Francesca!”
    Pearl stiffened beside me, a goofy smile plastered on her face. “Wow.” She sighed.
    â€œCome on,” I said, dragging her away. “Snort’s waiting.”

Animal Hospital
    M ama says the ways of our family put a bee in Grandma Rae’s bonnet. Especially our way with animals. The beginning of July marked Aubree Library’s annual tag sale, a weeklong event where townspeople donated all their old stuff to the cause. Sidda claimed she had no interest, but Ben and I loved to pore over the tables of discarded treasures. Last year I’d discovered a book on Norwegian ponies, and Ben found himself a one-eyed stuffed monkey. So on Tuesday morning we headed off to the sale, our saved allowances in hand, and bought ourselves a yellow cat. The cat wasn’t actually for sale, but it was the most exciting thing we could find amid the droopy boxes of attic clutter. Ben spotted it first, crouched behind a box of old books, probably waiting for a mouse. It was a fine cat, a bit raggedy about the ears. You could tell all it needed was a good supper.
    â€œWe’ll take him!” Ben told the two old librarians, Miss Thorn and Mrs. Tibble.
    â€œOh, honey, I don’t believe that cat is for sale,” Miss Thorn said politely. “He’s just a stray.”
    But Mrs. Tibble recognized a hungry buyer when she saw one, and she could tell Ben wasn’t about to leave without the cat.
    â€œFifty cents!” she barked. “He’s half price.”
    â€œSold!” yelled Ben, who thought we’d gotten ourselves quite a bargain.
    Grandma Rae and Mama were shelling beans on the porch as we marched home with that cat in our arms. Ben was proud as ever, and he would’ve skipped the whole way except the cat didn’t seem too pleased about the skipping part. We had