Read That Boy From Trash Town for Free Online

along on her head. She had stopped talking to herself, but when she reached Heracles' stall, she talked to the horse as she saddled him, meaningless words that made her feel less alone. In response, Heracles nickered softly against her back to let her know that he sensed the wildness in her and was looking forward to the ride.
    In the stable yard, Whitney guided the horse to the mounting block and swung into the saddle. Then, leaning forward, she patted his neck and said, "Okay, boy, let's do it."
    Open pasture lay beyond the mansion of Harcourt House, and as she walked Heracles past the tennis court and the pool, the sound of the horse's hooves on the flagstone terrace was like claps of thunder. Uncle Ames was a light sleeper and would probably hear, which meant he would be complaining to her mother tomorrow—again—but she was in too much of a hurry to worry about him.
    As soon as they had gotten far enough, Whitney urged the horse into a gallop, letting him have his head through familiar trees and shrubs that dotted and cultivated part of the estate. Then suddenly open land was before her, and she was free of Harcourt influence.
    She rode hard and fast through the fields, feeling the powerful animal beneath her as they both worked off restless energy. Excitement sent her blood racing, and she laughed in pure joy when the wind tore the scarf from her hair.
    Half an hour later they topped a small rise. Pulling Heracles to a halt, she stood in the saddle. Below she could see Harcourt House and her own little Sweet House. And beyond that she saw what used to be Trash Town. From her vantage point she could also just make out the top of Dean's house.
    It wasn't the first time she had sat on this hill watching his house. In fact, she had given him an antique weather vane so that she could spot his house instantly. This little knoll was the destination of all her midnight rides. Seeing his house, even from a distance, made her somehow feel closer to him. And no matter what was going on in her life, just knowing that he existed, knowing that Dean was in the same world, comforted her.
    Before she was old enough and bold enough to take midnight rides, Whitney had walked to the little hill. Sometimes to daydream. Sometimes to brood.
    She'd been almost eight when she'd found out that Dean's stepfather was beating him on a regular basis.
    The first time she'd noticed the bruises, Dean had shrugged them off, telling her that street-fighting was a way of life in Trash Town. She hadn't liked it, but her faith in Dean was total. If he thought the fights were necessary, she would try not to be upset when she saw his battered face.
    But one day she had learned the truth. That day, she had sneaked through the gap in the hedge at home and had run through Trash Town to find Dean so she could tell him about the perfect score she had gotten on a spelling test.
    She was still more than a block away from Dean's house when she saw him. He was standing on Adam Street talking to a slightly overweight, balding man.
    The anger on Dean's face stopped Whitney in her tracks, and she hid behind a broken baby buggy so she could listen to what was being said without being spotted by him.
    "I want to help you, Dean," the man was saying, "but I can't do a thing until you tell me what's going on. Other people have told me, but I need for you to confirm it. Just say it. Say, 'My old man is beating the hell out of me.' That's all you have to do. I can take it from there. I can get some help for you."
    "Like what?" Dean asked, his voice sullen. "You gonna turn me over to the social workers so I end up in juvie hall?" He snorted in disgust. "Like I really need that."
    The man was silent for a moment. "You know what I'm most afraid of? I'm afraid that one day you'll have had enough and will lose your temper... and wind up killing him. You've got a good brain, kid. Most of the time you don't use it, but it's there, and I don't want to see it wasted in prison. At least