The Challenger by Terri Farley

considered the slushy rain pelting the windows. It would be convenient to come down with a cold about now.
    She glanced up and saw Mr. Blair’s eyes scanning the classroom. Sam curled over the keyboard, typing nothing in particular. The last thing she needed was an after-school photo assignment.
    â€œForster,” Mr. Blair bellowed.
    â€œShe’s back here.” Rachel raised her hand in a dainty pointing motion.
    â€œI take the bus,” Sam shouted back. She tried to infuse her voice with a little regret, but Mr. Blair ignored her excuse.
    â€œYou’re good at shooting in low light, and if this slush turns to blowing snow, that’s what you’ll have out there.”
    Wind could get up a lot of force, rushing across the broad football field. Sam hated the idea of standing out there, shivering.
    â€œI don’t have a ride home,” Sam protested.
    â€œNo problem. I’m staying for the game,” RJay told her, then raised his voice. “Mr. Blair, I’ll give her a ride.”
    â€œWhy don’t you shoot it? Please, RJay,” Sam begged.
    â€œMe? I’m not an award-winning photographer. Sam, you’ll get something great. I know it.”
    â€œI’m not that good. I only took second place,” she reminded him.
    â€œYou were robbed,” RJay insisted. “Besides, when your editor and your advisor say you’re shooting a game, you shoot it.”
    â€œOr flunk,” Rachel chimed in.
    Sam hid by bending down to tie her shoelaces. She should’ve worn something besides these lightweight hiking boots. They’d turn soggy right away. She jerked the knot tight, to keep them from filling with snow, and the right lace broke. Looking at the scrap in her hand, Sam decided that some days were simply cursed.
    Â 
    She arrived home after dark.
    The heater in RJay’s car hadn’t worked well enough to thaw Sam’s frozen toes. Her teeth were chattering as she came into the warm house.
    â€œI’m home,” she managed to announce.
    A television babbled from the living room. No one came to greet her, and she could see Gram had already served dinner and cleaned up.
    â€œI’m starving,” she shouted.
    â€œI left a plate for you,” Gram called.
    Sam opened the oven to see a white china plate crowded with meat loaf, carrots, and mashed potatoes, which reminded her just a little too much of the snow starting to mound up outside.
    The door between the kitchen and living room opened just as Sam slid her fingers into an oven mitt and reached for her plate. “How was the game?” Dad asked.
    â€œWe lost in double overtime,” Sam said.
    â€œToo bad.” Dad closed the oven. “Before you sitdown, could you make one turn around the yard? Your Gram’s short a hen, and she’s been out three times since sundown looking for that one Rhode Island Red.”
    â€œSure,” Sam said.
    She pulled her coat closer, switched on the porch light, and walked outside. The snow had stopped and so had the wind. The sky was cloudless, black, and sprinkled with stars.
    â€œHere, chick, chick, chick,” Sam called. Nothing moved around her. Even the hens in the coop didn’t flutter.
    Where was Blaze?
    Sam didn’t like being out alone. She trudged through the snow and her boots left ridged patterns, showing her where she’d been. She circled the coop, walked as far as the barn, and stood in the warm straw.
    â€œHi, Ace,” she said, answering the gelding’s nicker. “Seen any runaway hens?”
    If he had, Ace wasn’t telling. Sam looped through the old pasture, looked up at the ridge, then shivered all over again.
    â€œToo bad, henny penny,” she muttered. “It’s going to be a long, cold night.”
    Sam turned back the way she’d come, ready for dinner. She’d only taken a few steps when she looked down—and stopped. She took a deep breath, then started jogging