The Girl with the Chicken-House Pony

By Doris Anderson

Twelve-year-old Annie Thompson used to be friendly and cheerful. She loved her home in Southern California, and she loved school. Now Annie has a secret--one that makes her feel shamed and all alone. When she was nine, an older boy named Lonny molested her more than once, threatening to kill her and her parents if she told.

Now in seventh grade, Annie is withdrawn, suspicious, and depressed. Her parents dont understand where the girl they once knew has gone, and she cant tell them. It was her fault, she tells herself. Kids at school sense shes in pain, and they bully her.

And then, Precious, a six-year-old brown-and-white Welsh pony with a white star on her forehead, appears in Annies life. The pony, too, despite the neglect it has received, is a survivor. Together, Annie and Precious embark on a journey that takes them both to a better place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781480822825

Doris Anderson

Doris Anderson has taught thousands of students--many haunted by secrets just like Annie’s--during her long teaching career. When her own children were young, she learned how important horses can be for young people. Anderson has published plays to help teenagers with life issues. She lives in Southern California.

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Copyright © 2015 Doris Anita Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2280-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2281-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-2282-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015916884

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/22/2015

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Doris Anderson

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Prologue

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It was some years ago, before people really spoke of such things. You took whatever life threw at you, and if you had a dark secret, you didn’t tell anyone—even your parents. The shame and embarrassment would’ve been too great. You didn’t go on TV and blab it to millions of people, making charges and trying to free yourself of the darkness by doing so. You didn’t come across magazine articles everywhere with stories like yours, so you didn’t know how common it was. You dealt with it alone as best you could. And if it took a pony, who’d gone through her own hell, to help you make your journey, then that was the company you had.

Chapter 1

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Precious really was her name. I bet whoever named her saw her right after she was born—a tiny brown-and-white Welsh pony with hooves the size of walnuts and a white star on her forehead. I think she was so small that any grownup could’ve picked her up and carried her around like a dog, yet she was all horse. I can picture her jumping around, dashing back and forth, and bucking for the joy of it.

But I’ve learned that, as happens with so many farm animals, her first owner probably kept her for just a little while. I’ve been told that often, as soon as barnyard ponies can survive without their mothers, they are sold at a livestock auction really cheap, unless they find a good home. I hate to think of what might happen to them when they’re sold for pennies on the pound.

I think Precious was born fresh and innocent like any frisky filly, but over her six years, she’d picked up bad manners and dangerous behavior. That was how she’d learned to survive against would-be cowboys and poor care.

Precious wasn’t a machine like the mechanical ponies outside supermarkets, where for just a quarter, a kid could kick and bounce and pretend he was riding a rodeo bronco. You don’t have to worry about feeding or watering a fake horse or whether it needs rest or shelter from the weather. It doesn’t get lonely. It doesn’t feel pain. You can use it, and then you can forget about it.

I think Precious had seen abuse and neglect, probably even before that ignorant Mr. Kincaid had put her in a dusty old chicken-house, and she’d come to expect bad things when someone yanked her out of her dark shelter. No wonder she’d figured out so many tricks that helped her get away.

* * *

I was innocent too, until the second half of the fourth grade. I used to be friendly and cheerful in school, and I loved my class.

My teacher, Mrs. Silver, called my mother one afternoon. Mrs. Thompson, Annie is just right to be queen in our play.

That’s great, Mom said.

Yes, Annie can pretend well, Mrs. Silver explained. "When we practice, she’s got the other kids believing she is the queen."

Mom laughed.

I called to invite you to the performance. It’ll be Tuesday afternoon. Think you can make it?

I’ll be there, Mom answered. Thanks so much for calling.

Mom got away from her teaching job right after her last class. My brothers, Brent and Ted, got to watch too. They all clapped like crazy when the play was over.

I was a happy girl back then. We lived in a new home in a quiet town in Southern California. I had my own bedroom. My brothers called me Annie Fannie, but that was okay. I could handle them because I was older and bigger.

Sometimes when they got tired of being bossed around by their sister, they’d gang up on me. One or the other would hide something of mine—like my Mickey Mouse wristwatch—just to be mean. Other times, they’d slip something icky in my bed so that when my feet slid between the sheets, I’d shriek in disgust. Probably it was just a blob of plastic goo for making gross worms in fluorescent colors. I’d fling back the covers, see their trick, and yell, Mom, look what Brent and Ted did! I’d hear them giggling in the bedroom they shared. I knew they were hiding under the covers, pretending to be asleep.

Mom would come in my room, take the goo, and calm me down. I’d listen as she stepped softly to the boys’ room.

This isn’t funny, guys.

What? Brent would ask.

The trick you played on Annie.

What trick?

She held up the goo. Ted peeked out from under the covers and pointed at Brent.

Brent said, I don’t know how that stuff got in her bed.

Mom would say, How did you know I found it in her bed?

And so it would go. Actually, I really loved my brothers. I loved my parents. I loved my life in the brand-new neighborhood full of ranch-style homes popular in the seventies. The worst thing I faced back then was wetting the bed—until my whole world changed.

Chapter 2

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A month or so after the play, Mrs. Silver referred me to the school psychologist. I guess she noticed that I was acting strange. I hung around by myself at recess instead of jumping rope with the other kids or giggling with my friend Jill. I didn’t raise my hand to answer questions in class or offer to read out loud anymore.

I was afraid somebody would find out what unspeakable thing Lonny had done to me a couple weeks earlier in his locked bedroom when we were at their house for a barbeque. He was the son of my dad’s friend, and my parents liked to hang out with their family once in a while. I think they thought Lonny was just an ordinary kid, like my brothers—full of innocent mischief. But even my brothers didn’t know what he was really like.

I didn’t think anyone at school would notice how I was acting until Mr. Lassiter called me to the office and took me into a small side room. Oh no, I’m in trouble, I thought. At first, Mr. Lassiter shuffled through some papers, and then finally he looked at me. I hung my head.

Uh, Annie? he said. I just want to ask you a few questions. Answer as best you can, okay?

I was baffled. He offered no explanation of why I had been singled out. No assurance that I wasn’t in trouble. No comment like, We noticed you haven’t been playing with your friends much, and we’re worried about you. Nothing. I felt like a rat in a cage.

After asking me a bunch of questions from a list he had in his hand, Mr. Lassiter stepped outside the room. I overheard him talking to the visiting school nurse, the one with the big hips and wide face. I heard him say, Annie may be schizophrenic.

I heard the lady say, Really? That’s a shame. I wouldn’t be surprised. I’m no expert, but I’ve read that sometimes these problems show themselves quite early.

I can’t really give a diagnosis, he said, but she seems quite stressed about something. Keep an eye on her for a couple weeks and let me know what you think, okay?

I felt my chest tighten up. I must be a freak. I didn’t know what schizophrenic meant, but when I stepped out of the little room, all I could do was hang my head. Maybe they knew about Lonny. Maybe they knew about my awful dreams. Maybe they knew that even during the day, I’d have flashbacks of what happened in his room. Maybe they felt I deserved it. The strange thing is, I don’t think Mr. Lassiter ever called Mom to talk over what he thought, because Mom never mentioned anything about it.

I felt like a total scuzz. If only he’d asked, I’d have told him the whole thing. Especially if he’d acted like he was trying to help me and wasn’t just looking at me like some kind of lab rat.

As the rest of the fourth grade went by, things got worse. It happened again at Lonny’s house. I became a zombie plodding back and forth to school. Awful dreams had begun to scare me so badly I’d wake up shaking. I’d think I heard someone sneaking around outside my parents’ bedroom window—someone who wanted to hurt them because of me. Or I’d wake up thinking something was under the bed. It would reach up to grab my leg or arm. And I’d find out I’d wet the bed again.

My one escape was reading alone in my room. I’d read and reread all the books Mom had bought me, so I borrowed more from my classroom. I’d cart them home but then forget to take them back.

Once in a while, Mom would peek in at me there sprawled on my bed. You okay, honey? she’d ask. She looked a little worried, like she thought I was turning into a hermit or something.

I’d fake a grin. Yeah. Just reading.

She’d linger a moment, then back out. I know she was pleased that I was enjoying books so much, but she had no idea why I buried myself in them. I think she began to wonder why I didn’t hang out with Jill much anymore. Hey, Annie, she said one evening when she’d called us to supper. You’ve been reading in your room a lot.

I simply nodded and took my place at the table.

She said, That’s good, honey, but … Her voice trailed off when she noticed my little brother Ted hadn’t shown up yet. Brent, go get Ted, will you? she said. It’s time to eat. And the subject was forgotten.

Then one day Mrs. Silver gave Mom a call. Mrs. Thompson, she said, would you do me a favor, look around Annie’s room, and see if she’s got some of our classroom reading books stashed away?

Mom was embarrassed. As a teacher herself, she didn’t want her own kids getting in trouble at school. Oh, my gosh, she said. Of course I’ll look around.

Sure enough, there on my bookshelves and stacked in my closet Mom found many books she knew she hadn’t bought me—enough to fill two big shopping bags. How did you get all these books in here? she asked.

I hung my head. I don’t know.

Mrs. Silver isn’t mad, honey, she said. She just knows you love to read and wonders if you borrowed them and forgot to bring them back.

I sat silent.

Is that what you did? she went on. Borrow them?

That sounded fair. I nodded.

Well, Mom said, Mrs. Silver needs them back for the other kids.

I nodded again. How will I ever get all these books back? I said. What if the other kids find out? They’ll call me a thief.

Mom smiled. We’ll fix it up, Annie. She gave me a hug. Here’s what we’ll do. You help me gather up any that I might have missed, and I’ll take them over there after school tomorrow. Okay?

Okay.

The next morning, she hauled them out and put them in the trunk of her car. On her