Read Online Missing by Becky Citra - Free Book Online Page B

what the articles from the Internet say I need.
    That’s all. Just a rope. I bite my lip and slide the latch on the gate. I slip inside the round pen and shut the gate. It clangs and Renegade jumps. I move to the middle of the pen, my eyes on Renegade. He swings his butt toward me and flattens his ears.
    Control movement .
    That’s where I’ll start. My plan is to make Renegade move. Anywhere, it doesn’t matter where. As long as he moves when I tell him to. That will establish my leadership. Or, as one article said, I will be the lead mare in this tiny herd of ours. Horses need a leader. They feel safer, more secure. That’s the theory, anyway.
    I hurl the end of the rope toward his butt. I don’t mean to throw so hard. It smacks against his flank and wraps around his back leg.
    He kicks out hard. The rope jerks from my hand and dirt sprays my face. I duck instinctively. He explodes into a fast gallop, streaking around the pen as if he is being chased by a thousand demons. I’m terrified he’ll fall or crash into the pipe walls. The pen is small, too small for this speed. The eye I can see rolls in fear. Hooves churn the ground into dust. Flanks turn sleek with sweat.
    I am rooted to the ground, my legs weak. Every part of me says to stay out of his way. Everything I’ve read leaves my head. I’ve no idea how to stop him. I’m sure he’s going to kill himself. Or kill me.
    He gallops around and around, his hindquarters surging, his hooves drumming rhythmically. Dust and the pungent smell of his sweat choke my nostrils.
    I’m in awe of his power.
    I think he’s gone crazy.
    I remember more words. Round pen work is not about mindlessly racing a horse around in circles. A horse that is not fit can run to exhaustion or death.
    A random thought jumps into my head: Dad would know what to do.
    Change direction .
    That’s the second step. Now that he’s moving, I have to tell him which direction.
    I’m terrified to try. I’m certain I’ll be trampled. So I do nothing.
    After what seems like forever, Renegade slows to a canter and then a trot. Control movement. Change direction . Since I tossed the rope, Renegade has been the boss. I’m nowhere near being the lead mare. Renegade knows it too. He kicks out in my direction—hard, resentful—and then stands still, his sides heaving, blowing through his flared nostrils. He won’t look at me.
    The dust settles. I stare at him, my heart racing. Flecks of foam speckle his black muzzle.
    Shaken, I open the gate. I leave it open for Renegade. I pick up the rope and loop it over my shoulder. Then I grab the empty grain bucket and escape back to the barn. I need to think. I need a better plan.

T en
    When Van and I get to the museum at twenty after one, one of those plastic clocks saying Back in Ten Minutes is hanging in the window. We go to the 7-Eleven for Cokes and guzzle them on the hot, sunny sidewalk in front of the museum. I’m filled with the joy that comes on the last day of school.
    An old rust-speckled car pulls up to the curb and a woman gets out, calling, “Sorry to keep you waiting.” She has spiky black hair sticking out of a brightly colored bandanna and piercings on her nose and eyebrow. She walks around to the passenger side and lifts a small blond boy out of a car seat. “Had to pick up Jeremy at the day care,” she explains. “He’s not feeling well. I’m Hana.”
    Hana unlocks the door and turns on lights. We’re in a small room filled with glass cases; a display of old-fashioned dresses stands against one wall. “There’s a lot more to see in the other rooms,” says Hana. She sets Jeremy on a blanket in the corner with a couple of picturebooks and a plastic container of Cheerios. “Any questions, just ask.” She eyes our Cokes. “Please leave the drinks out here though.”
    We set the cans on the counter.