“Beck!” Mr. Kipp snapped in Beck’s left ear.
“Who? What?” Snorting, Beck lifted his head off his chair’s headrest. Instantly, he combed out his medium-length, brown hair and met Mr. Kipp, his acting teacher, with his light blue eyes that sparkled like the rays of the sun shimmering over a cyan lagoon.
Mr. Kipp placed his hands behind him and paced before the fifteen-year-old. “Have you been studying your lines for Romeo?” he sternly asked, giving his student a knowing look.
In the small room, every student’s eyes bore into Beck, who blushed behind his acne-free face.
“Oh, um… sure, Mr. Kipp,” he said. Nevertheless, images of him riding Despereaux through Maglin City filled his grieving mind.
Mr. Kipp pointed at the round, wooden stage at the front of the room. “If that’s the case, then why don’t you come up here and practice the balcony scene? Eh?” he asked in a cheerful, yet stern voice.
“Dang it,” Beck mumbled. He hated dozing off, but he couldn’t help himself—not when he worked twenty-four hours as both Beck and Majestic Man.
Beck rose to his exhausted legs, but they were so tired that he had to lock his knees. The corners of his dark brown eyes caught something in the window not far from him.
The immense horse seemed to stare, but he kept most of his body out of sight.
“Despereaux!” Beck whispered. He gave a quick nudge of his head, and Despereaux backed away from the window, swiftly and quietly.
“What is it, Beck?” Mr. Kipp asked, glancing in that direction.
“Uh… nothing,” Beck stammered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Well, then, come on. We want to hear your wonderful voice,” Mr. Kipp joked. He moved the chairs aside to clear the stage, allowing Beck to make his way up to it.
A gush of cool air from the AC passed through the tears in his vintage dark blue jeans, which were held up by a brown belt with a silver buckle. He tucked the tail of his crimson, checkered shirt into them and grabbed his tank top underneath. He had a habit of doing that when he was nervous.
Mr. Kipp plopped down in the teacher’s seat at the lip of the stage. Nodding, he said, “Go on, Romeo.”
Dang it! Beck did not remember anything from his monologue, even though he could have sworn he had practiced it that morning before riding. “Um…” he stammered, starting to fan himself with his tank top. “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and… um… Juliet is… um… yada, yada, yada.”
Mr. Kipp slapped his palm to his face. “Strange,” he said when he removed his hand, “I never knew ‘yada, yada, yada’ was from Shakespeare’s time.”
Beck’s face turned tomato red. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.” His voice was glum, and he jogged down from the stage. Too embarrassed to say any more, he ducked into Maglin Arts High’s narrow, 10th-grade hallway. Beck approached his locker at the end of it and placed his forehead on it. He tried to unlock it, but sweat clung to his fingers, and he missed the combination. “Marv never told me that being a hero would be this hard,” Beck admitted to himself. He jumped when his iPhone rang from his back pocket, where his silver, Majestic Man chain hung. The two Ms buried themselves in his buttocks.
Beck released his phone and checked his collar ID. “Oh, speaking of which…” he said when he saw the name Marv on the screen. He pressed the accept button and put the phone to his ear. “Yo, Marv.”
“Yo, Beck,” a deep, gruff voice said on the other end of the line, “I need to talk to you.”
“Dude, I’m at school,” Beck whispered. “Now’s not a good time.” He checked to ensure the hallway was empty. So far, so good.
“It’s important,” Marv complained.
“After school, Master. Despereaux and I will meet you at the cave.” With that, Beck hung up. He moved from his locker to the midnight-colored, double doors at the end of the hallway and opened them. What he found was the school’s dumpster corner and his noble steed waiting for him.
Tacked with a Western saddle, Despereaux stood at least seventeen hands. His coat was brown, but his socks and hooves were black. At the sight of Beck, he nickered and twitched his ears.
Beck approached his horse. He patted his long, slender nose and said, “Despereaux, you know you’re supposed to wait for me here or in the woods.”
Tossing his head, Despereaux sniffed Beck’s hair. He stomped his hooves and flicked his long tail, which looked like overgrown feathers.
Beck leaned into his horse’s ear. “I have a task for you. Go home and grab my uniform and sword. Marv needs to see me after school.”
Despereaux huffed, clearly a little agitated.
“Okay, sorry. I mean, he needs to see us,” Beck corrected.
That’s better, was the look Despereaux gave him.
***
Beck returned to class, lost in thought, but gulped when Mr. Kipp asked, “Where have you been, Beck?”
Beck sucked in a breath of air and placed his hand on his chest. “I just needed some air.”
“Well, then, have a seat.” Mr. Kipp gestured at Beck’s seat. “We’ll discuss this matter at the end of class. But for now…” He tapped his feet. “Drumroll!”
Excited, the students leaned forward in their seats and tapped their feet.
“For the next part of the term,” said Mr. Kipp, “after we finish Romeo and Juliet, we’re going to put together a play about Prince Benjamin! Hyah!” He snapped his arm forward like he was handling a sword.
Beck perked up in his seat. “Prince Benjamin? Who the heck is Prince Benjamin?”
“Only one of the greatest legends in all of Pinta Country. He’s the Lost Prince,” Mr. Kipp explained.
“Oh!” Beck sarcastically said, nodding his head. “The Lost Prince. Um, who’s the Lost Prince?”
“Well, he…” Mr. Kipp started, but then his voice trailed. “Have you never heard of the legend about the prince who survived the devastating fire that killed the king and queen? Beck, you really need to get your head out of the clouds.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Beck said, as images of his father on his deathbed and his training with Marv overtook his brain, “I guess I just have a lot going on at the moment.”
Mr. Kipp gave a quick flick of his hand. “It’s okay. I understand. But by the end of this term, young Beck, you’re going to be an expert on Prince Benjamin.”
***
Beck’s tummy rumbled when the bell for lunch dismissed the rest of the students from Mr. Kipp’s class. They picked up their bags and laughed and joked as they left the room. Nevertheless, Beck remained in it. “Mr. Kipp, may I go to lunch?” he asked, the second he and Mr. Kipp were the last ones standing.
“In just a sec, young Beck,” said Mr. Kipp. He dragged the teacher's chair to Beck and sat down backward in it. Mr. Kipp rested his flappy arms on the headrest. “Now, I know it’s been hard for you lately, given the recent death of your father, but—”
“Oh, please, Mr. Kipp, not this again,” Beck interrupted. “Mom and my sisters expected it.”
Nodding, Mr. Kipp said, “Maybe, but something is obviously troubling you, son. Have you spoken with any grief counselors yet?”
“I don’t need a counselor,” Beck argued. “I’m not grieving. It was expected!”
“Ah, the joys of being a teenage boy,” said Mr. Kipp. “They’re sometimes too cool to admit their emotions. Beck, I was you once. My father died when I was your age, too. It was expected as well, but I took advantage of every grief resource I could find. The next thing I knew, I held a high school diploma in my hand and was on my way to college. I don’t believe I would have achieved this if I hadn’t gotten help when I did. Think about it, son.”
“I’m not grieving,” Beck repeated. Regardless, he felt a lump in his throat. “Can I go to lunch now, Mr. Kipp? My horse—no, no! I mean, I’m hungry.” He scrunched his face in an attempt not to cry.
Seeing that, Mr. Kipp patted Beck’s hand. “It’s okay to cry, son.”
“Ooh!” Beck said, embarrassed. “Goodbye, Mr. Kipp. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Quickly, he got up and picked up his bag. Beck slung it over his shoulder and made haste for the door before anything else could happen.
That time when he entered the hallway, students surrounded him like bowling pins just waiting to be tipped over. He tried to hide in the crowd, but an innocent-sounding voice found him: “Beck! Beck!” A curly-haired, red-headed girl, who wore a pink and blue, flowing skirt and a top with hearts on it, sprinted to him. “Come on! We need to hurry before all the enchiladas are gone!” She clutched Beck’s upper arm, but he removed her hand.
“Not now, Anecka. I need to do something.”
“Again? Aw, but Beck!” Anecka complained. “We used to always have lunch together.” She followed Beck to his locker.
He opened it and pulled out a bag of long, thin carrots.
At the sight of them, Anne’s eyes widened. “Goodness, Beck! Who on Earth eats that many carrots?”
“You can never have too many veggies,” Beck answered, patting her shoulder. “Eh?” He pushed by Anne and hurried outside to the school’s backyard.
For a second, Beck’s eyes roamed around the basketball court and yard. Good, the students playing basketball were too involved in their game to notice him. Beck snuck past them and ducked into the Maglin Woods, which surrounded the school. The second he felt the cool breeze under the overgrown canopy, he stopped sweating. Finally, he was alone.
Birds chirped from their perches and took off one at a time. Their feathers glistened in the few rays of the sun that scanned the forest bed.
“Psst,” Beck said under the animals. “Despereaux. Despereaux.”
A huff came from behind some bushes, and then Despereaux leaped over them like a dressage horse. He trotted to Beck and tossed his head. Something stuck out of the saddle bag he wore—a black cape—and a sword dangled from the case on it.
“Well done, boy,” Beck said, patting his muzzle. “You’re getting better at grabbing my things.”
Nodding, Despereaux lifted his front hoof and put it back down. He chomped at the carrots Beck held, but Beck swatted him away.
“Hey, hey! You know better than that, amigo!” He narrowed his eyes and tossed the mane out of Despereaux’s eyes.
Nickering quietly, Despereaux pointed his muzzle at the treetops.
When Beck was getting ready to rip open the bag, like how an excited child opened a Christmas gift, a loud crack came from deeper in the woods. “What was that?” Beck fearfully asked. He and Despereaux glanced at the area from which the crack came. Not wasting any time, Beck removed his sword from the case and held it at the ready in his left hand.
Despereaux hid behind his back and nudged him forward.
“Coward,” Beck said, peering back at him.
“You’re the hero. I’m just the sidekick,” Despereaux seemed to say.
Beck inhaled, but kept moving forward. He and Despereaux tiptoed to a large log that overlooked a pond. Within the pond, frogs hopped off their lily pads and disappeared underwater.
Crack!
That time, the crack came from the area adjacent to the pond. Bushes with different-colored flowers rustled—not from the breeze but something else.
“Stay here,” Beck whispered to Despereaux. He fixed his eyes on the rustling bushes and tiptoed, as quiet as a mouse, toward them. A trail of sunshine created a path on the ground.
The second Beck was halfway down the Yellow Brick Road, a yell came from behind him. Instantly, he whirled around and clashed blades with someone. The forest’s shadows covered him from head to toe, so it was hard to identify him, but he was young.
The boy and Beck positioned their feet and lunged at one another. The sounds of their clashing broadswords vibrated through the entire forest.
Beck punched the boy across the face, knocking him off balance, and rushed toward Despereaux. “Despereaux, go!”
Despereaux did not have to be asked twice. He bucked a few times and took off at a full gallop.
The mysterious stranger recovered from Beck’s blow and lunged at him again, but Beck parried his move. He fought as hard as he could and eventually managed to knock the sword out of the stranger’s hand. It stabbed the ground at the base of a tree.
Thinking fast, the stranger hurried to a few, low-lying branches. He pulled them back like a slingshot and let them go before Beck could capture him. The branches smacked him in the face, and Beck fell onto his back.
Leaping to his feet, Beck chased the stranger to his sword. Before he grabbed it, he banged the hilt of his weapon over his head.
The stranger flinched and dropped onto his front on the forest bed, beside a pile of deer dung, motionless. It must have been there for a while because it did not smell.
“Despereaux!” Beck called, lowering his weapon. He dropped it and sank to his knees beside the stranger. Beck grabbed his shoulder and turned him onto his back, the second Despereaux returned.
The stranger was no more than fifteen years old. His black, wavy hair reached his shoulders, and he wore a white shirt with puffy sleeves, a vest over it, tall boots, and brown pants sewn several times with many stitches. Dirt covered one side of his own acne-free face.
Looking down at him, the only words that left Beck’s lips were: “Who are you?”
ns216.73.216.217da2
and then Add to home screen.