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common—both were lead mares, and every stallion in this herd was attracted to them.
    â€œThat’s the group I have to break into,” I whispered to Catman as they walked past our table.
    â€œGrant!” Catman shouted.
    The peanut butter stuck in my throat.
    â€œCatman?” Grant sounded surprised.
    â€œSomebody here you ought to meet.” Catman waved his hand toward me.
    Run! Flee! It’s a horse’s natural response to terror, which is what I felt. I refused to look up.
    â€œOh?” Grant sounded puzzled, cautious, as if he thought Catman might be tricking him.
    Catman scraped the last drop of tapioca from his tray. “Winnie Willis.”
    Nowhere to run. No place to hide. Face Grant right now. Take my punishment, the teasing. Get it over with. Move on. A do-over.
    I looked up, bracing myself to be mocked out.
    Grant waved to someone behind me. Then he studied me up and down as if checking my conformation, considering the purchase, rejecting me as unsound. “I’m Grant.”
    I waited.
    Nothing.
    No sign of recognition.
    I couldn’t speak. It felt like Grant could see through me to something more interesting on the other side of the cafeteria.
    â€œCome on, Grant!” Summer tugged his arm. Hawk walked ahead.
    â€œSee you, Catman,” Grant called back.
    I stared at his back as he walked away. Everything I’d imagined he’d say, the ribbing I’d have to take—it hadn’t come. He hadn’t teased me because he hadn’t noticed me.
    Why should I worry about making a bad first impression? I couldn’t even make an impression!

Afternoon classes dragged on. Social studies and keyboarding sounded like work. Art and gym weren’t so bad because we just talked about doing stuff and didn’t really do anything.
    After school, kids ran from the building as if it were on fire.
    â€œI switched into Pat’s class,” Barker shouted as we fought for our bikes. Kids jerked the rack, yelling across the street or down the sidewalk. “Pat didn’t even know she was subbing until yesterday. She said Mr. Scott needed time off for ‘middle-school syndrome.’”
    I didn’t know what it was, but I suspected I had it too. And I’d only been in middle school one day.
    Catman whisked through the masses on his back bike. “Stop by my pad? Say hey to Churchill?” Churchill is the father of Nelson, the cat Catman gave me. Catman named them after Winston Churchill and his wartime cat, Nelson.
    I was glad not to have to go home and face Dad. He’d want to hear about my new friends and their problem horses. Couldn’t hurt putting off his disappointment.
    A dozen cats ran out of bushes to greet us as Barker, Catman, and I left our bikes at the foot of Catman’s lane. Catman slid his glasses on top of his head so he could nuzzle three tabby kittens.
    Flat-faced Churchill plodded up to me.
    â€œHow goes the war?” I asked, stroking his back until it arched.
    Catman stood up. “Keeeeee-y!”
    Cat Burglar, white with a black mask, darted past us. Wilhemina, the fat orange tabby, and a dozen others followed as we walked up the overgrown lane. A beautiful, longhaired, white cat threaded through my feet, almost tripping me. “Who’s White Beauty here?”
    â€œHaven’t you met Aussie?” Catman asked in an Australian accent. “Great cat lovers, them Aussies. Number one cat-owning country in the world. Canada’s second, U.S. third.”
    Coolidge Castle loomed ahead, the roof shooting off in every direction, ending in a spire. Most of the windows were boarded up, and the whole house looked like it had waited 200 years for a coat of paint. Looking at it, nobody would ever guess that inside velvet furniture covered wood floors and chandeliers hung over a living room as big as a paddock.
    Mr. Coolidge appeared on the weedy lawn. He was carrying a plastic figure that looked a