“Spencer—where’s your head?” Grandma glares at me. “I asked if you wanted another spud.” “Sorry. Yeah.” “Yeah?” “Yes, please.” Grandma drops the baked potato onto my plate. “What’s on your mind?” Em. Em. Em. I’m not about to tell my grandmother that I can’t get a girl out of my mind. Ever since the day when Geoff O’Reilly’s gray mare messed up my morning, I’ve looked at Em differently. Which is dumb, because she’s still her old, slightly snotty self. But she had reached up to touch my knee. That moment was the highlight of my month. “Girl trouble?” Grandma winks and pushes the gravy jug across the table. “No.” Fortunately, the Lordy problem is getting more complicated so my quick response isn’t exactly a lie. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject. “Working on it as we speak.” Grandma fishes several sheets of paper out of a stack she’s pushed aside to make room for the dinner dishes. She slides the list of tomorrow’s race entries across the table toward me.
