Missing by Becky Citra Page A

position so he’s always facing me. His ears are forward. His eyes are dark and soft in the moonlight.
    I feel like an invisible rope connects us. If I back up, he steps toward me. If I turn to the side, he steps with me.
    He is watching, always watching.
    I turn my back to him and walk across the round pen. I hear his hooves on the ground, following.
    He’ll learn , Marion told me, that next to you is the place he wants to be.
    She didn’t tell me how I would feel when it happened.
    I turn around. Renegade stops, his eyes meeting mine. I make the kissing sound and he takes a step forward.
    I kiss again.
    Another step. He is so close I can touch him now.
    So I do.
    I rub him gently between his eyes.
    A shiver ripples under his skin, down his neck and along his flanks.
    But he doesn’t leave.

F ifteen
    Dad is awake when I get back to the cabin. He’s making hot chocolate in our little kitchen. He doesn’t ask me where I’ve been, but his eyes rake over me. I’m conscious of bits of hay clinging to my running shoes and Renegade’s scent in my clothes. I’m bursting with joy over what just happened between Renegade and me. More than anything, I want to tell Dad.
    The words stick in my throat. Suddenly, for some stupid reason, my thoughts get mixed up with Mom and I imagine telling her too.
    Mom, who I try so hard not to think about. Mom, who loved horses like I do. Mom, who wrecked everything when she left.
    I swallow. It’s so long since Dad and I have talked about anything that matters. Anything at all. I’m not sure I know how anymore.
    â€œWant some hot chocolate?” he says.
    â€œNo thanks,” I say.
    I feel frozen to the floor. The clock on the wall is ticking loudly. It’s half past four. We’re both up in the middle of the night. There should be so much to say.
    I want Dad to ask me. I want him to say, “Where have you been? What happened?”
    But he doesn’t. Instead he says, “We’re not staying, remember. Not past the fall.”
    This is Dad’s way of telling me that he knows about Renegade. That he doesn’t want me to get emotionally attached. It’s too late. Sudden tears sting my eyes. For one overwhelming second, I hate Dad. Really hate him.
    â€œI just don’t want you to be disappointed,” he adds.
    Thanks. I get it. I stare past Dad, stone-faced.
    He goes back to his bedroom and closes the door.
    I put my hands up to my cheeks and breathe in the smell of Renegade. I’ve just had the best night I can ever remember. Why do I feel so miserable?

    The next day I tackle the snarls in Renegade’s mane. I dig my fingers into the middle of the mats, yanking the coarse hairs apart. I use a pair of scissors to snip away the worst knots. I think about getting the bottle of mane detangler from the barn but it’s probably old and dried up. I make a mental note to go back to the tack shop and buy some horse shampoo and conditioner.
    Marion was here earlier, admiring Renegade. I showed her how he has suddenly accepted my touch. I can run my hands over his whole body—his legs, under his belly, even his ears. We made plans for what comes next.
    Renegade stands patiently, his tail switching at a few flies. I’ve worked through about half of the mane and my fingers are starting to ache. The back of my T-shirt is damp with sweat. Pull, tug. I whisper apologies to Renegade, but his eyes are half closed and his head hangs down.
    The comb catches and a plastic tooth breaks. I step back, take a breath. A sudden mental picture catches me off guard. Mom beside me, her long brown fingers skillfully braiding strands of Monty’s mane and securing them with tiny black elastics. My clumsy efforts and then Mom’s hands on top of mine, gently guiding.
    Did that even happen? I’ve pushed away the memories for so long, I don’t know what’s real anymore. I swallow a lump that’s squeezing my