The Painted Ponies of Partequineus and The Summer of the Kittens by Peter H. Riddle Page B

out across the lawn, only he wasn’t really seeing anything, you know? I could tell. I put his books on the patio table next to his wheelchair.
    â€œGuess I’ll see you tomorrow in school, huh?” I said.
    He kind of nodded a little but he didn’t look at me. That was okay. Like I said, we’re best friends, and I understand when he can’t talk to me. Some of the kids think he’s stuck up or something when he gets like that, but I know it’s ’cause every so often he hurts something awful, his head or his back, and he just goes off somewhere inside himself to get away from the pain.
    I wish I had somewhere to go like that.
    I went back into the house and found Mrs. Morris in the kitchen. “I think maybe Jimmy’s not doing too good,” I told her.
    â€œThis isn’t one of his best days,” she said. She was smiling like she almost always does, a kind of a sad smile. “Thank you for bringing his books.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Maybe he’ll feel better tomorrow.”
    â€œI’m sure he will.”
    I left Jimmy’s house and walked down the street. Mom was doing something to the roses up next to our house. She had a box that said “Rose Food” on it, and she was digging all around the roots and pouring some pellets in and tamping them down.
    â€œYou’re late,” she said as I dropped my backpack on the front steps.
    â€œJimmy missed school today. I had to take him his assignments.”
    Mom nodded her head and picked up her clippers and started pruning or whatever it is she always does. She used to ask about Jimmy, but she doesn’t any more. I guess when somebody’s sick a lot, other people stop caring. Well, not stop caring exactly, but just sort of accepting that there isn’t anything they can do to help.
    Mom doesn’t talk much about anything any more, ever since Dad started acting so strange. We used to talk a lot, and I miss it, only now I think she’s a little bit lost inside her head, like Jimmy when he’s hurting. There’s all different kinds of hurts.
    I picked up my backpack and climbed up the steps and went into the house. It was dark inside. It used to be that Mom always opened all the shades early every morning, and she’d sing while she was making breakfast, just simple little tunes that I think she made up herself. Now the house is quiet most of the time, and gloomy. I don’t stay in it any more than I have to, except for my own room, and I never pull my shades down, even at night. I let in all the light there is.
    I left my backpack in my room and headed for the kitchen. There was a half-full package of shaved chicken in the meat drawer, and I scooped some out and wrapped it in a paper towel. Then I wandered out the back door into the yard. There’s a loose board in the fence, and I can just squeeze through into Mr. Harding’s yard so I can get to the street without Mom seeing me. Not that it would matter much if she did, except that she’d ask me where I was going, and I didn’t want to explain why I had the chicken or tell her about the cat, and I didn’t want to lie to her, either.
    I sneaked along the side of Mr. Harding’s house, keeping low out of sight of the windows, and peered around the front corner to see if he was sitting on his porch. He wasn’t, and I hurried out to the street and turned toward the railroad tracks. They’re kind of overgrown, ’cause the little short line that uses them only serves the gypsum quarry out near Windsor and the feed mill in Port Williams, so we only see maybe one or two trains each week. I crossed over and squatted down next to the dyke gate.
    â€œHere kitty,” I called softly. I didn’t want Mom to hear me, in case she was still out in the yard. I wasn’t really expecting the cat to be anywhere around, and I was surprised when it came out of the bushes right away and came up to me. I