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

flying and all. His planes aren’t just toys. They’re a whole lot more to him, a way to be in control of something, something powerful, and to do something that not just anybody can do. They’re more than just models. Maybe they’re even a part of him somehow.
    Jimmy doesn’t take everything for granted like I do, walking and running and just being a kid. Those are things I never even have to think about, but he must. All the time.
    Anyway, about the cat. When I came home from school this afternoon and went up to my room, she was waiting outside the window as usual. I haven’t told you that yet, about what happened later that night after she jumped out the window and went down the tree.
    Here’s what happened. I finished all my homework, and Dad still hadn’t come home yet, and Mom and I made some popcorn and watched TV for a while, only there wasn’t much on, so we played cribbage for about half an hour and I won, two games out of three. Then I went to bed, and I was just about asleep when I heard the cat meowing. I got up and looked out the window. See, it was shut on account of there wasn’t any screen, and the bugs would get in, and the cat was sitting on that long branch of the tree and looking in. So I opened the window, and she sort of crept along the branch, right out to the very end, and then she jumped and landed on the windowsill and down to the floor and up on the bed.
    â€œYou can’t stay here,” I told her. “If anybody finds you, I’ll be in big trouble.”
    But she didn’t pay any attention to me. Okay, I know she didn’t understand what I was saying, but I sounded kind of angry, so she should have gotten the idea, but instead she did that flop-back-and-wash-her-privates thing that cats do, one back foot stuck up in the air. I got into bed, and when she finished washing she went down to the foot of the bed and turned around three or four times, pushing at the comforter with her front paws, kind of making a nest for herself, and when she was done she laid down on her stomach and started washing her front paws. I didn’t see what happened after that, ’cause I was really tired and I guess I fell sleep, but when I woke up the next morning she was still there, all curled up with her eyes closed.
    I opened the window in case she wanted to go out and went to the bathroom to take a shower, and when I came back she was still lying on the bed, but she was awake by then. I picked her up and carried her to the windowsill, but instead of going out she jumped down and wandered over to the door. She looked up at me and meowed, and I said “Shush!” ’cause I didn’t want Mom to hear her, or especially Dad, in case he had ever finally come home. Then I went out and closed the door and went downstairs for breakfast.
    Mom was there but Dad wasn’t. I didn’t ask where he was. I didn’t really care, and asking might have made Mom sad. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and ate a slice of toast. Then I poured some Rice Krispies into a bowl, about twice as much as I usually eat, and some milk too.
    â€œWe’re having an assembly today,” I told her.
    â€œThat’s nice, dear,” Mom said, not really listening to me.
    â€œA whole bunch of kids are getting all their hair cut off.”
    â€œUh, huh.”
    I ate some Rice Krispies for a minute or two, and then Mom stopped what she was doing and looked at me strangely. “What did you just say?”
    â€œSome ninth grade kids are getting their hair cut off, right down to the scalp, and we’re all going to the gym to watch.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œIt’s a fund-raiser for cancer. You know, like when kids get cancer they lose all their hair ’cause of the medicine they have to take, so the ninth graders are getting their hair cut off. That way kids with cancer won’t feel like they’re different. And they’re