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students. Taking out my gray notebook, I observed the herd galloping to the cafeteria. Hawk kept step with Summer and Sal.
    Established mares don’t like to associate with new mares who might not fit into their herd, I wrote. They prance and strut with the popular mares, ignoring the new mare.
    The three girls stopped to let Grant catch up. I observed how things changed. Summer and Sal tried to talk to Grant at the same time, competing for his attention. Mom and I had observed the exact same thing in the herd of Mustangs we’d watched.
    Mares turn on each other , I continued, as soon as a male enters the herd. They’ll sacrifice female friendship in hopes of snagging the male.
    â€œSplit for lunch?” Catman strode by, the first time I’d seen him at school. He didn’t slow down, so I hoisted my pack and trotted after him.
    â€œEver think,” he shouted, not turning around, “that the hokeypokey is what it’s all about?”
    Sometimes you have to ignore the Catman.
    The cafeteria was as noisy as an auction barn. Catman tossed his rainbow-colored pack on a table and headed for the food line.
    I pulled out the lunch Lizzy had packed. Nobody sat at my table, although every other table seemed crowded. I looked around for Barker but didn’t see him. Grant and Summer plunked their trays at the table behind me. Hawk sat across from Summer.
    Nothing but horses . I’d have to break in sooner or later if I wanted to get known around here. I’d face Grant, let him ridicule me for riding backwards, and then get on with it.
    Only not now. I pretended to study my peanut-butter-and-cheese sandwich.
    I peeked at Summer’s table. Grant swiveled, tapped his spoon, surveyed the cafeteria, waving over a couple of kids—the king granting favors.
    Grant is herd leader, I wrote in my journal. Anyone who wants to move up in the social order around here has to impress him. Acceptance by the leader brings acceptance by the herd.
    And I’d made a lousy first impression on Grant.
    Grant fork-banged his tray, jiggled in his seat, ate too fast.
    I wrote: Grant’s what’s known as a “hot” horse—an eager, nervous creature who chews on the bit, runs instead of lopes, and can’t stand still under saddle.
    â€œType A personality?” Catman plopped down his tray across from me. “My great-grandfather was in the army. He’s type A.”
    I snapped my journal shut. “How long were you standing there, Catman?”
    â€œLong enough. Horses—people—far out.”
    â€œI’m trying to understand them,” I admitted. “I need more problem horses, so I’ve got to get to know kids like Grant and his group.”
    Catman scraped up watery applesauce from the corner square of his tray. I didn’t know if he’d heard me or not.
    â€œSee that?” I pointed, and Catman looked just as Summer ruffled up Grant’s hair. “Touch. It’s the way horses communicate. Humans too, I guess.”
    I pointed to the clusters of kids around the cafeteria. “There! Zebras hang out in threes like that. Those six girls and one guy—a Przewalski harem—six mares to one stallion.” I bit into my sandwich. “I wish humans were as easy to understand as horses. Horses say more with their ears than most people do with their mouths. Nickers has 16 muscles that move her ears in all directions to let me know exactly how she feels.”
    â€œCats have 32,” Catman said. He drank his chocolate milk in one gulp. He’d eaten everything on his plate, plus Lizzy’s lizard-shaped oatmeal cookies I’d donated.
    Summer and Hawk stood up in the center of their noisy group, which included Brian and Sal. Side by side, the two seventh-graders looked like opposites. Hawk was as dark as Summer was light, brown eyes and black hair to Summer’s gray eyes and blonde hair. But they had two things in