The Great Pony Hassle Read Free

me again.”
    â€œDon’t you talk about my grandmother that way!”
    Sometime during the long, hot, dusty bike trek back to town and across it to the feed mill, Staci had told Paisley that she hated her. From then on it was open war. Paisley didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Paisley was having a great day. At the feed mill, she had discussed pony care with the man behind the counter, making a friend of him within a few minutes. Adults seemed to like Paisley, Lord knew why.
    â€œSure, that’s right, missy,” the man told Paisley. “Electric fencing’s the way to go. Cheap, easy, quick. But you listen to me: It can be dangerous too. I don’t want you trying to plug it in.”

    â€œBut it’ll be okay for me to put up the posts and wires?”
    â€œSure, nothing to it, so long as you don’t hook up to no current. Tell you what. I don’t feel right giving you the hookup box.” The man penciled a number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Paisley. “You get done, you give me a call, I’ll come out and bring the box and plug it in for you.”
    â€œThat’ll be great! Hey, thanks!”
    Then, to Staci’s astonishment, Paisley had pulled a big stash of money out of her pocket and bought a bundle of metal fence stakes, a role of wire, a plastic gate handle, some ceramic insulators, and the boxlike gizmo that would operate the whole setup and was to be delivered later.
    â€œYou have some kind of sledge or maul to drive the posts with? Okay. Ground’s not too hard yet. Good luck with the new pony!” the counter man had called after her as she struggled out the door with her purchases. “Make sure you tie lots of bits of rag to the wire!”
    â€œSure thing!” Paisley called back. “Thanks!”
    Staci wondered why rags had to be tied to the wire, but she would have let herself be tied to an African anthill before she asked Paisley. She was so thirsty her eyes bugged, but she would have eaten raw hamburger before she hinted for a soda. And it didn’t make her feel any better that Paisley really did seem to know something about ponies. She watched without helping as Paisley fastened all the stuff she had bought to her bike rack with some binder’s twine she got from the feed-mill man. Paisley could tie everything onto her bike except the roll of wire. It dangled too far and brushed her wheel.
    â€œHere, carry this,” she told Staci.
    â€œCarry it yourself,” Staci said. Not for all the palomino ponies in the Western Hemisphere would she do Paisley any favors.
    â€œI need my hands free for my brakes and gears.”
    â€œTough,” said Staci. That was when Paisley threatened her with the pickle lady remark, and Staci told her not to call her grandmother Dill a pickle.
    â€œSure, Anastasia. Whatever you say. She’s not a sour cucumber. Not really.”
    â€œAnd you’re not really parsley, Parsley.”
    â€œBut of course you truly are a Russian princess, Anastasia.”
    That stung. Staci had reasons to feel sensitive about her fancy name. She knew she was small and bony and dark-skinned, with a plain, thin face and entirely too much nose. She did not feel that she would ever be pretty, much less a princess, and she wished her parents had named her something ugly that would have suited her better.
    â€œShut up,” she said.
    â€œSoon as you start to carry this.” Even arguing, Paisley was in a good mood. A happy mood. As if she was in love, ever since she had seen Noodles.
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œYou carry it,” said Paisley gaily, “or I’ll tell my sister what you said about her hair.”
    â€œGo ahead,” Staci said, even though she didn’t really want Stirling to know. She felt as if she could kind of like Stirling. Sometime. Maybe.
    â€œAnd I’ll tell the whole world you’d rather play with baby-toy ponies than help with a real