Well, Mister Trotter told me I should practice writing. He says I’m doing good considering how late I started. I was never taught letters. Well, not like other kids are, anyway. Before she left, Ma taught me some, and I sorta remember, but after that…

Anyway, Mister Trotter says the more I practice, the easier it’ll be. Miss Red says it’s always hard, but worth doing, so I thought I’d try. I’ve heard of some rich fox girls who keep diaries. I never thought much of it, but I thought maybe it was good practice. So I asked Mister Trotter if I could have one, and he had Mister Sharps bring one in the other day.

Well, okay, a couple weeks ago now. I haven’t started yet because, well, every time I tried, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get going. I think, I don’t know, I think maybe I was trying to start with the wrong things. I was trying to write about…well, it’s not important. But I think I should maybe write about Red’s. I’d rather read about it anyway, and I plan to read this after I write it, so, it makes sense to me!

I don’t really know what I’m doing, but the books Mister Trotter uses to teach us letters all seem to have chapters with names, so I’m going to try that. Maybe it’ll make this thing more official. Maybe someday Mister Trotter will use this book to teach other people how to read. Actually, I don’t think I’d want anyone else reading this…

I think most people in the Waste don’t think much about what it means to be a centaur. I can’t blame them. I mean, I don’t spend much time thinking what it must be to be a Vash, or a Human, or a Minotaur. When I was young, I used to lie awake wishing I were a fox, but that was just because they seemed to have such nice things, and their families always seemed to be whole…

But anyway, I’ve never not been a centaur, obviously, so I don’t know for sure, but something tells me being a centaur is harder. I mean, if a human needs to get across the Waste, they ride an acridian. Or a leotau, if they’re rich. Same with the Vash. Or Nogs. Even the Rattlers can ride. But centaurs don’t ride, they Rid, as the saying goes.

I’ll never forget how exhausted I was when I ran away. I ran clear across the Waste, and I didn’t stop, until Miss Red found me. I could barely move, I was so tired. The rest of us, the first Miss Red brought to the ranch, they were tired, too, but those acridians we stole helped them. They rode the whole way. I ran.

The other thing people don’t think about when it comes to centaurs is our shoes. Every once in a while, I catch myself staring at somebody’s boots. I hate to admit it, but I sometimes wish I had feet, and could wear boots like everyone else. Well, except Rattlers, I guess. Rattlers probably have it worse than I do. I’ll have to ask Mr. Sharps sometime. All I know is that for a centaur in the Wastes, shoes are a must.

And that’s the problem. People ask me, every once in a while, why community is so important for the centaurs. Usually I just shrug and tell them that I’ve never seen it. It sure wasn’t like that in my house with…well, anyway. But that’s a lie. I have seen it. Every centaur, no matter how aloof, feels that draw. That comraderie (remember to ask Mister Trotter how to spell that!) It just comes with being a centaur.

Why? I’m sure there are all kinds of reasons. I’m sure if you ask some of the older ones, they’ll tell you it’s for protection. They’ll tell you that together is stronger than alone, and usually, they’re right, I think. Maybe some of the Ridders will tell you it’s just common sense, having someone to watch your back. They’re right, too. But me? I say it’s the shoes. Maybe I haven’t been around enough yet, but I ain’t never met a centaur who could shoe herself.

I was reminded of this early on in my time here. I tend to go bare-hoof around the Ranch as much as possible. There weren’t that many of us when Miss Red first brought us here, and I was the only centaur. At first, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want Miss Red to think I was ungrateful. So for a while, I went without shoes. Indoor chores weren’t a problem, so I always volunteered for those, but on days we had to work outside, I was nervous. I’ve seen centaurs with cracked hooves before. It ain’t pretty.

I don’t even remember how it happened, but eventually Miss Red got me some shoes. I think she had ‘em specially made by a friend of hers. I was so happy when I got them that I broke down crying. I don’t like to let Miss Red see me like that, or anyone else, for that matter, but I was just so grateful.

All I needed was someone to help me put them on. I couldn’t ask Miss Red. It was more than enough that she had gotten them for me, and she has so much to do around the Ranch, I couldn’t bother her. And Mister Trotter, well, I love him to death, but I don’t really see him hammering shoes. So, I turned to the other kids. Specifically, my friend Honeysuckle.

I think we were both pretty nervous as we went outside that morning. I had my new shoes in my hand, and the nails. Honeysuckle had a hammer. She must have asked me five or six times if I was sure. She had never shoed a centaur before, not that she should have. But I still remember what she said to me as she placed the nail in the shoe and got ready to drive it in.

She looked up at me and said, “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

I think that’s when I first felt like Red’s Ranch was home. Because nobody had ever said that to me before. Where I used to live, no one ever would have. But at Red’s Ranch, that’s what my friend was thinking. I smiled at Honeysuckle. I said, “It won’t hurt, and anyway, I said it was okay.”

Honeysuckle smiled and…

Honeysuckle smiled and brought her arm back, but I think she was still nervous. I’m pretty sure she closed her eyes. When she brought the hammer down, she missed the nail, slammed the hammer into my leg. Now THAT hurt.

We were playing cards today. Fox’s Run. It seems to be everyone’s favorite. Not mine. I’ve never cared for the game, but Miss Red wants us all to know how to play, and more importantly, how to bluff, and all the kids liked Fox’s Run the best, so I played along. My luck had been average. I was down for the day, but keeping my head above water.

Maroa was still in, and starting to hit a streak. Derec was holding on by a thread, and Vorena was playing conservative. She didn’t bet often, and when she did, she had hands so low that no one could beat her. That’s what I always hated about Fox’s Run. Low hand wins, which made certain cards just heartbreaking to get.

It was getting to be evening, and the youngest kids had already been put to bed. Usually I would have helped, but Miss Red takes card lessons seriously, and told me to keep playing. I had just lost three straight hands, one on a heartbreaking seven high to Maroa’s six high, and I was going to fold right off, because I didn’t want to go on a tilt.

But when Derec shuffled up and dealt out our two cards each, I saw the worst thing I could see. Two eights. The Eight of Scales and, of course, the Eight of Hooves. After all the time and everything that’s happened, it still surprises me what that card does to me. I can’t really explain it, even to myself. All I see when I see that card is her face, which I can barely remember.

Vorena opened the betting. I knew that was a bad sign, with how she’d been playing. I called. Maroa raised again, more bad luck with the cards she’d been getting. Derec folded. Vorena re-raised. I called, and so did Maroa. Derec flipped over the first card. One of Scales. This wasn’t getting any better for me. Vorena raised, and heavy. I called. Maroa faked a raise to try to read us, then called.

Derec flipped over the Eight of Horns. I had three of a kind, and no way to win. The third flip card was dead no matter what it was. The pot was between Maroa and Vorena, but I was being dragged along no matter what. Vorena checked. I think she was bluffing a pair of eights, but I knew exactly how unlikely that was. I checked too. Maroa raised, and Vorena re-raised. That was it. They were firing rifle shots at each other, and Vorena’s re-raise would have left me with only a few chips. So, knowing they weren’t going to stop, I just went all in. No point in dragging it out.

I don’t even remember what happened between the two of them. They called my little bet, I know that, and there was some more raising, both before and after the third card was flipped. But I wasn’t paying attention. I was staring down at the Eight of Hooves in my hand. I knew it was stupid. I knew it didn’t make any sense. I knew I should have let go. It was a long time ago, I told myself. Things are different now. That’s what I told myself. But it didn’t matter. I couldn’t fold, even when I knew I should have.

When the betting finally stopped, we all revealed our hands. Maroa ended up with a one, three, eight, a very good hand. Vorena beat her out with a lower two. I might never forget their faces when I showed my pocket pair. Maroa’s snake eyes bulged. Derec just shook his head. Vorena’s mouth hung open as she stared. I didn’t say a thing.

As I started to move away from the table, Vorena caught my arm. She said, “Why didn’t you fold that terrible hand?”

I laid my fingers on the Eight of Hooves and said the only thing I could think of. I said, “I just…couldn’t let her go again.”

Vorena let go of my arm, and I trotted off to my room. I think someone called after me, but I’m not sure, and I didn’t stop to check. I closed my door and shut my eyes for a while, then I went into my bag. I dug around until I found my deck of cards, wrapped up in an old brown paper bag that once held a bottle of whiskey. I pulled out the cards, which were organized in order from lowest to highest and by suit.

The Silvers came first, and I thumbed through them quickly. Then the Scales, and I did the same. Then came the Hooves. I slowed down. One of Hooves, Two of Hooves, Three of Hooves, Four. I stopped, then slowly went on. Five of Hooves. I could tell I was starting to cry. I don’t know why I do this to myself. Six of Hooves. Seven. It’s not like I get anything out of this, right? I lived through it once, why should I keep doing it? Slowly, very slowly, I pulled the Seven away to show the next card.

The Nine of Hooves.

For a long time, I just stood there, staring at the space between the Seven and the Nine. There was no Eight. There was never an Eight. I don’t remember much about the night she left. I’m pretty sure I took a belting, but that’s an easy guess. I more remember the next morning when I got up, and Ma was gone. On the table was the deck of cards, with the Eight of Hooves missing. I guess she took it with her. I have no idea why.

But when I finally ran away, I took the rest of the cards. I didn’t take much else. A few scraps of food and a few of my things, and the cards. I didn’t want to take too much, because I didn’t want to give him enough of a reason to come after me. But I wanted those cards. They were no good for playing anymore anyway, without the Eight. But they just…seemed like an important thing to hold on to…

Yesterday, some of the kids stole a bottle of Holster’s Whiskey from Miss Red’s pantry. In general, I don’t feel good about anyone, even the other kids, stealing from Miss Red and Mister Trotter, but Miss Red did tell us once that if we’re going to survive in the Waste, we better be able to steal like a professional. She said it’s part of the bandit way of life. If you can get clean away with it, it’s rightfully yours. Of course, she added that if you steal from the wrong person and they catch you, it’s on you, not them, and I have this feeling that if Miss Red catches one of us stealing from her, our chores ain’t gonna be too pleasant for a bit. But I wasn’t in on the stealing. They just invited me to share the spoils.

I’ve never had whiskey before. I try to steer clear of the stuff. I’ve found that centaurs and alcohol are not a great mix. But just because I’ve never had any doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about it. I know plenty. Some whiskey is dirt-cheap and some takes a fox’s paycheck to buy. Some you can get in any general store, and some you have to send away to the oldest parts of Verkell to get. But all whiskey burns. It burns your throat, it burns your head, and it burns a hole in your pocket for your coins to slip through.

Holster’s is a middle of the road whiskey. It’s not the barely distilled swill that the prospectors make, but it’s also not something you mortgage your farm for, neither. It’s the kind of thing people buy when they want other people to think they’re doing well for themselves, but they’re really not. The bottle is a fancy thing, which I’m guessing was half the cost. The glass itself was raised in places to give the look of two six-shooters at the sides of the bottle in holsters, giving it the name. At the neck of the bottle, the raised glass looked like a belt buckle.

There were five of us. We were in my room, because it was the one Miss Red or Mister Trotter were least likely to check. I think it was Jumbo and Prayson who stole the bottle, although Derec could have been in on it, too. Sori was there, too, but I think they grabbed her on their way back from the kitchen. The boys didn’t think to steal any glasses, so it was just us five and the bottle.

Jumbo went first. He was usually the first person to try something out. I remember how his snout flared when he took his sip. He didn’t cough, though, which was good. Prayson went next. He coughed so much I thought he was going to spit the whiskey back up…

There were five of us. We were in my room, because it was the one Miss Red…

I took one sniff and turned my head away. It smelled like home. Pa used to drink this stuff like he needed it to breathe or something. Every once in a while, I think I can still smell it, even when there’s none around. This stuff brought back a lot of memories, and I didn’t like any of them. The other kids were watching me, waiting, and I could tell Prayson was about to say something, so I just took a drink, choked it down, and passed the bottle back to Jumbo.

We went around the circle a couple of times, and the bottle was starting to get down there. We were starting to feel it, too. Sori was giggling a lot, while Jumbo was sort of mumbling to himself whenever it wasn’t his turn. Prayson must have told us he loved us about three times. Derec and I were holding it together a bit better, or at least I think I was. I guess I don’t know for sure. But anyway, there was somewhere between half a bottle and quarter left when it came back around to me. When it did, Jumbo started chanting “Buckle Down.”

You know, Diary, I’m always amazed at the power of words. Mr. Trotter says they’re powerful, too, which is why he wants us all to read and write, but it goes beyond what he teaches us. I mean, it’s amazing how one phrase can mean so many things. Sometimes, when one of us needs to work harder at our lessons, either Miss Red or Mister Trotter will tell us that we need to buckle down, which means we need to work harder. When you’re drinking Holster’s Whiskey, though, to buckle down means to drain the bottle, putting the little raised buckle at the bottom.

But “Buckle Down” means something very different to me. My Pa used to take his belt to me all the time. Most of the time, I never knew why, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t do it to teach me any sort of a lesson, so the reason meant nothing. He just did it. I don’t even remember when it started, but at first, he would double up his belt and swing it down at me. Later on, though, when he was in a really bad mood, he’d wrap his hand in it and hit me with the leather.

But, when he was really mad, he’d wrap his hand differently, with the buckle down. It was the buckle down nights that gave me most of my scars, and…

I just told Miss Red that I was leaving. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Tomorrow morning, I’ll say goodbye to everyone else. I’m not sure if that will be harder or easier, honestly. I love them all so much. But it’s time. I just know that. I can’t even explain it, I just know. But I’ve never had to actually say goodbye before. Ma left in the middle of the night. I left Pa the same way. There were never any goodbyes. Tomorrow, there will be. Part of me hates that thought. Part of me loves it.

But tonight, I’m saying goodbye to you, Diary. You’ve done a lot for me, more than I ever thought. When I started writing in you, I couldn’t bring myself to write about Pa and what he did to me. I couldn’t manage to write about Ma and when she left me. But now I can. I think I could even talk about it. You’ve been a surprising friend, especially for a book! And Mister Trotter says I read better than Miss Red (although I’m not supposed to tell her that!)

But it’s time to move on, and I’m leaving you behind. I’m not leaving you because I don’t love you, or because I don’t need you anymore. I’m leaving you behind because I know someone’s going to find you. And knowing Red’s Ranch, it’ll be one of the other kids. And because I know the other kids, I know they’ll read it. And you know what? That’s alright. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and it’s because I can tell my stories.

And whoever’s reading this, you can tell yours, too. There are people at Red’s who will listen. Miss Red will listen. Mister Trotter will listen. I would have listened, and when I visit, I’ll listen then. And you know what? I bet you’ll listen, too. It’s like Miss Red said about reading. It’s never easy, but it gets easier, and it’s important.

I love you all.

- Scar