alphabet, he closed the book for a second.
"You gon' turn that light out, boy? Gotta git up early an' unload that wagon!"
"All right! I'm just finishing up something!" he called down.
Opening his chest, he put his Bible, pencil, and ledger pad under his clothes. Crawling on top of the hay, Derek lied on his back, staring through the window-door that he'd left open. In the quiet, he had time to think about what happened at church.
Stupid Anthony, he thought viciously. Stupid Jonathan! I'll show him embarrassing! Like what happened was my fault.
From there, his thoughts turned to Devon's remark: And what have you done to make yourself so much better than Anthony Clayton?
Thinking about it for a moment, Derek surprised himself when he really couldn't come up with much more than the fact that he never made fun of people's parents.
Well, except for Gabriel's mother. But she was completely different. For one thing, she was still alive. And for a second, she was annoying and pushy. It wasn't even the fact that she was Gabriel's mother that made him be mean about her sometimes. It was her personality. The way she treated him personally. There was no way Anthony could even know his mother or father, let alone have reason to hold a personal grudge against either of them.
But I should be grateful for Mrs. Worthington , he reminded himself, hearing Beth's voice echo in his head. She has been very kind to me. Looking around the open loft, smelling the horses below him, and shivering in the cool night air, he repeated to himself, I should be very grateful.
Sighing, he pulled the sheet off the hay and crawled underneath it. I should see if I can get a blanket from Beth . Shivering once more, he thought longingly of the wool lap blankets in the carriage house.
After a few more minutes of lying awake, he stood up and pulled his pants on. Taking a match and his lamp, he climbed down the ladder as quietly as he could, slipping out the door.
Once he was outside, he lit the lamp and hurried across the lawn, the night sounds of the forest echoing around him. It's only the wind , he told himself when he jumped at a branch snapping. Just the wind knocking down some of the branches that started to fall in the storm yesterday. That's all.
Ducking into the carriage house, he took one of the blankets and ran back across the lawn as fast as he could, slamming the stable door closed by accident.
Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth brayed loudly, kicking wildly at the wall, her white eyes wide and petrified as she thrashed her head back and forth. Blueberry was startled awake and began to carry as well.
"Who What Who's there?" Devon yelled, coming out of his room, grabbing the pitchfork off the wall, and brandishing it at him.
Derek tossed the blanket behind the pile of grain sacks quickly. "It's just me!" he said over the racket the horses were making, holding up his lamp so Devon could see him. "Had to go to the bathroom," he explained.
Shuffling forward, muttering under his breath, Devon grabbed at Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth's nose, holding her head steady. "S'okay, girl. S'okay. Easy, easy."
Derek, in turn, patted Blueberry, soothing him until his frightened racket was reduced to nervous twitches of his tail every few seconds.
Pointing a callused finger right between Derek's eyes, Devon said gruffly, "Do it again, boy, and I'll have your head," then shuffled quickly down the walk and slammed his door closed, the pitchfork still in his hand.
"Sorry," he said softly, more to the horses than Devon.
Retrieving his blanket, Derek climbed back up to the loft and curled up on his bed. After only a few minutes, he slipped into an odd dream in which millions and millions of little letters were chasing him down the path to the river in the dark.
Chapter Eight
The following week went by with ease, the calm, cool weather adding to the mellow mood that settled over the Worthington Plantation.
During a particularly mild midmorning, Derek
"You gon' turn that light out, boy? Gotta git up early an' unload that wagon!"
"All right! I'm just finishing up something!" he called down.
Opening his chest, he put his Bible, pencil, and ledger pad under his clothes. Crawling on top of the hay, Derek lied on his back, staring through the window-door that he'd left open. In the quiet, he had time to think about what happened at church.
Stupid Anthony, he thought viciously. Stupid Jonathan! I'll show him embarrassing! Like what happened was my fault.
From there, his thoughts turned to Devon's remark: And what have you done to make yourself so much better than Anthony Clayton?
Thinking about it for a moment, Derek surprised himself when he really couldn't come up with much more than the fact that he never made fun of people's parents.
Well, except for Gabriel's mother. But she was completely different. For one thing, she was still alive. And for a second, she was annoying and pushy. It wasn't even the fact that she was Gabriel's mother that made him be mean about her sometimes. It was her personality. The way she treated him personally. There was no way Anthony could even know his mother or father, let alone have reason to hold a personal grudge against either of them.
But I should be grateful for Mrs. Worthington , he reminded himself, hearing Beth's voice echo in his head. She has been very kind to me. Looking around the open loft, smelling the horses below him, and shivering in the cool night air, he repeated to himself, I should be very grateful.
Sighing, he pulled the sheet off the hay and crawled underneath it. I should see if I can get a blanket from Beth . Shivering once more, he thought longingly of the wool lap blankets in the carriage house.
After a few more minutes of lying awake, he stood up and pulled his pants on. Taking a match and his lamp, he climbed down the ladder as quietly as he could, slipping out the door.
Once he was outside, he lit the lamp and hurried across the lawn, the night sounds of the forest echoing around him. It's only the wind , he told himself when he jumped at a branch snapping. Just the wind knocking down some of the branches that started to fall in the storm yesterday. That's all.
Ducking into the carriage house, he took one of the blankets and ran back across the lawn as fast as he could, slamming the stable door closed by accident.
Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth brayed loudly, kicking wildly at the wall, her white eyes wide and petrified as she thrashed her head back and forth. Blueberry was startled awake and began to carry as well.
"Who What Who's there?" Devon yelled, coming out of his room, grabbing the pitchfork off the wall, and brandishing it at him.
Derek tossed the blanket behind the pile of grain sacks quickly. "It's just me!" he said over the racket the horses were making, holding up his lamp so Devon could see him. "Had to go to the bathroom," he explained.
Shuffling forward, muttering under his breath, Devon grabbed at Lady Sarah Mary-Ruth's nose, holding her head steady. "S'okay, girl. S'okay. Easy, easy."
Derek, in turn, patted Blueberry, soothing him until his frightened racket was reduced to nervous twitches of his tail every few seconds.
Pointing a callused finger right between Derek's eyes, Devon said gruffly, "Do it again, boy, and I'll have your head," then shuffled quickly down the walk and slammed his door closed, the pitchfork still in his hand.
"Sorry," he said softly, more to the horses than Devon.
Retrieving his blanket, Derek climbed back up to the loft and curled up on his bed. After only a few minutes, he slipped into an odd dream in which millions and millions of little letters were chasing him down the path to the river in the dark.
Chapter Eight
The following week went by with ease, the calm, cool weather adding to the mellow mood that settled over the Worthington Plantation.
During a particularly mild midmorning, Derek
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