Payoff?
I grit my teeth at the way she talks to him. Grandpa knows more than she’ll ever hope to learn, and she talks to him like he’s a child.
“I’m glad to see the packing is underway,” Dolly says. “The more you can pack up or throw away, the better. Now that the papers are in order, I’ll post a sign. We’ll be more aggressive after you’ve done what I’ve told you. Don’t forget. I’ll be back.”
The screen door bangs open, and she glides down the steps to her fancy Cadillac. Just before she gets in the car, her phone rings, and she whips it out.
“Hello?”
Scotty and I peer through the bushes beside the house while she waits, her long, electric-green nails thrumming against the hood of her car. If I’d seen her in town, I’d have thought her pretty, with her black hair all fancy like a runway model, penciled eyebrows, and shadowed eyes same as you’d see in the movies. But when she talks, a giant mole, or maybe a wart, bobs at the corner of her mouth like a bug trying to decide if it’s gonna jump in or not. I wish it would. I bet a beetle down her throat would make her quiet down and leave my family alone.
“I’m just leaving. I’ll be back to the Pocatello office in twenty minutes. No, they didn’t back out. Like I told you, with all the development for the new Siphon I-15 exchange, and the Northgate Project, this is prime real estate. This is exactly the sort of place you’re looking for.” She laughs again—more of a soft cackle really—then slips inside her car and revs the engine before heading out to the road.
What kind of a person laughs about ruining someone else’s life? We’re just another juicy fly she’s caught in her web. She might look like a movie star, but all that face paint and those fancy clothes can’t make up for an evil heart.
Scotty and I watch as she stops at the end of the lane and hauls a big white board out of the trunk and over to the poles her goons installed the day before. I cringe at the whir of her electric drill that whines like a demonic mosquito drilling holes in the heart of our farm.
“That must be the ‘For Sale’ sign,” Scotty whispers. “I hate that thing. They’ll never let us keep the peacock now.”
He’s right. If Dolly wants everything cleared out, it’s just a matter of time before Mom and Grandpa discover our blue-feathered secret.
“What will we do?” Scotty says. “How do we farm without the farm?”
Dolly drives off, her sign bright and cheery at the end of the driveway, and the whole thing swirls in my head until one thought is louder than all the rest. We need a plan. If we make the barns smelly enough, maybe no one will want our farm, ever. I bet a couple gophers stuffed in Dolly’s car would make her think twice about coming back—or maybe slugs in her tea?
Dad said it was my job to watch over the farm while he’s gone, and he’d never want this. Never in a million years. He’s not here to protect our family from being caught in Dolly’s web of lies, but I am.
A war plan starts to take shape in my head, and then I’m running to the toolshed, my braid bouncing against my back as I weave around the tractors and over tufts of grass.
“What?” Scotty races beside me. “What are you gonna do?”
I spy what I need and wrench the wood saw off a peg. “I’m gonna cut that sign right down to the ground.”
We skirt the house and slip down the lane.
Righteous fury swells inside like an irrigation pump shooting hot water straight through my chest. How dare she laugh about taking our farm away? How dare she break my family all to bits? She may fight dirty with fancy cars, fancy words, and fancy clothes, but there isn’t a farm kid ever born alive that doesn’t know how to fight dirty right back. She thinks she’s got us whipped, but this farm girl’s got a thing or two up her sleeve, and I’ve not lost the fight yet.
I leap over a side ditch and lift my saw overhead like a sword. “C’mon! We’re going to war.”
Chapter Four
Miss Dolly’s enormous face takes up most of the sign, and she’s grinning with perfect white teeth like she’s so proud of herself. Well, when Scuzbag drops a half-eaten mouse on the porch, he’s mighty proud of himself too, but that doesn’t mean I have to like what’s left behind.
The rest of the sign says BARGAIN SALE! Eighty Acres of Prime Commercial Land with House and Outbuildings.
Bargain sale.
Reading it makes my stomach twist like I drank a whole glass of curdled milk.
I might not be allowed to drag Miss Dolly out by the ankles in real life, but I can topple her graven image in nothin’ flat.
I crouch to set the blade against the base of the sign, but Scotty grabs my arm. “Don’t move.”
“Aw, man. Not now, Scotty. This is important!”
“It’ll only take a minute.” Scotty holds on tight, but leans over me real slow, then pounces with both hands cupped down on the ground. “Got him!”
“What do you need another grasshopper for? We’ve got work to do.” I get to sawing back and forth, a thin furrow growing beneath my blade. “Watch the road.”
“It’s not a grasshopper. It’s a katydid.” He peers between his fingers at his new prize. “Hello, little Microcentrum rhombifolium. Don’t be scared. You’ll be with your family.”
“Looks like a grasshopper to me.” Wood flakes salt the grass by my knees as I draw the saw faster across the sign post, the metal rasping against the wood. A couple minutes later, I break through the first post and set the teeth against the second.
Scotty taps my shoulder. “Someone’s coming.”
I hide the saw deep between two clumps of weeds before scrambling to my feet. “Who is it?”
“Dunno.” Scotty steps back to give me a clear view of a shiny red Dodge Ram as it comes up the road.
I don’t recognize the driver, but he’s got sunglasses and a tiny, fancy hat like he’s some kinda FBI secret agent. Scotty waves, being neighborly, but the man doesn’t wave back—which proves he’s a stranger. Everybody waves here. The stranger looks this way and that, like he’s got no idea where he’s going at all. When he gets right up beside us, he slows down to give Dolly’s stupid sign a long once-over before rolling on by.
“Shoot.” I was hoping no one would notice the sign before we cut it down, but that chance is gone. I dive for the saw. “Let’s get this done.”
For someone with such a fancy car, Miss Dolly sure does use wimpy posts for her signs. I don’t even break a sweat sawing through. If Dad had posted a sign, he woulda used pressure-treated wood or a railroad tie—something that would last past the first hard gust of wind.
When my saw bites through the last bit of wood and the whole thing topples over, Scotty giggles. “Timber!”
For good measure, we kick gravel and weeds over what’s left of the poles till it looks like any other patch of weeds along the side of the road.
It took barely ten minutes to take the sign down, but hiding the thing is a whole lot trickier. I send Scotty on ahead to watch for Grandpa and Mom while I carry the board on my back like a flat turtle to the canal and drop it in.
Good thing we did, ’cause Scotty hisses a warning. “Another car. I think it’s Mrs. Pruitt.”
“Gosh dang.” Of all the luck. I drop the saw and double-check that we’ve covered our tracks the best we can. I’m mostly sure a car can’t see inside the canal from the road, but it still sets my teeth on edge when Mrs. Pruitt’s rusty station wagon rumbles over the last rise and slows down. Like always, she almost breaks her neck from gawking so hard.
We plaster neighborly smiles on our faces.
“Think she’ll stop?” Scotty talks through his smile, and I do the same.
“I hope not.” I wave, cheerful-like, and breathe a sigh of relief when she rolls on by. “Ugh. Why’d it have to be her?”
That lady couldn’t keep a lid on a jar if it was bolted down. Hopefully she d
idn’t notice anything, ’cause if she did, it’ll be all over the county before supper.
Dust envelops us as she rounds the corner, and I grab the saw. After that, it’s easy to walk along the canal as the board floats hidden beside us.
Near the house, Grandpa waves from the south field, where he’s been fighting with the tractor. With the saw tucked tight against my back, I wave. Nothin’ to see here. Just minding our own business. We walk on.
At the culvert where the canal tunnels underground, we grab the corner of the sign and drag it out, dripping wet.
“Should we carry it the rest of the way?” Scotty asks.
“Nah, this is fine.” I drop it facedown and drag it so Miss Dolly’s polished smile can kiss every rock, weed, and twig on the way to the burn pile. I smirk, imagining all that dirt getting stuck between her teeth.
The screen door bangs open, and we drop the sign in the high grass as Mom steps onto the porch and spots us. “Paige? Scotty?”
We keep walking all natural but veer toward the house. “Yes, Momma?” I say.
“Have you done the chickens and pigs yet today?” Her wandering gaze slides away from us and over the field, like she’s looking for something but can’t remember what it is.
“Yes, ma’am,” Scotty reports. “Did them first thing, and I checked the cows.”
“Oh, cows. Right. Good job, hon.” She half turns away, picks up one of my old robots from the windowsill on the porch, and starts fiddling with the arm piece without lookin’ at what she’s doing. “I keep thinking I’m forgetting something.”
She sure is forgetting something, like how delicate my robots are. Course, I shouldn’ta left it out like that, but there was only so much I could carry that day. I keep thinking I’ll bring it in and finish it when I have time, but time’s like a lit fuse, and no matter what I do, it keeps getting shorter.
“Is it your homework? Maybe you got a test tomorrow for nursing?” Scotty asks.
“Oh, I’m studying, but I could swear there was something I should—” Her head snaps up, and she stares long and hard across the fields before turning back to the house and disappearing inside with my bot.
The screen door slams after her.
“Did she remember what she forgot?” Scotty shades his eyes. “Is it a test?”
“It was just her heart pulling toward the field again. It’s normal time for Dad to come in.”
I think losing someone you love is like having a puzzle all put together nice—maybe your most favorite puzzle in the whole world—and then someone goes and takes out half the pieces. You might could tell what the picture was, but it won’t ever be the same again.
I sigh and try to ignore the gnawing hole inside me, but I’m missing a fair number of pieces myself.
I lift up the corner of the sign again. “C’mon. We’re almost there.”
Each year, we gather all the leaves, twigs, and Christmas trees, and pile them higher and higher until New Year’s Eve. Then, at the stroke of midnight, Dad would tuck a firework he’d saved from the Fourth of July down inside, make a wish for all of us, and light the wishfire. Like a giant birthday candle to welcome in the New Year.
We make our own wishes, too.
Mom, Scotty, and me make our wishes by blowing on s’mores cooked over the wishfire then eating the warm, gooey, delicious mess. Grandpa likes to gaze up to heaven through the fiery pinpricks of ashes riding the winter breeze and send his wish on to Grandma. Dad always pulls a stone out of his pocket, whispers his wish to it, then tosses it deep into the heart of the fire. He picks a new stone every year when he plants the first crop, and then carries it with him in his pocket like a lucky penny.
Last year, we almost didn’t light the wishfire, but Grandpa said there was no use in letting a perfectly good burn permit go to waste. But as it burned, all I could think of wishin’ for was a time machine. I filled a bucket of water and set it in the snow, in case we needed it. At least Scotty was happy—especially when I said he could have my s’more.
Seeing as it’s only April now, the pile is only a little taller than me.
After pulling a few branches off the pile, Scotty and I shove the sign as far as we can underneath the brush. The edges of the board scratch deep ruts into last year’s ashes, pushing charred pieces of wire, hinges, and rocks aside.
A double bump on the edge of one of the blackened stones catches my eye, and I pluck it out of the ashes. Flat and smooth, it rests in the palm of my hand, a scorched heart-shaped stone.
Scotty peers over my shoulder. “Is that Dad’s lucky rock?”
“I think so. From two winters ago.”
I should put it back—keep it safe in the ashes like a penny in a wishing well, but my fingers close around it, and I can’t quite make myself let go. I slip it into my pocket. “Come on. Let’s hide the sign.”
We sprinkle grass, twigs, and leaves all over and chuck big branches over the mess so it’s impossible to see where the old pile stops and our new camouflage begins.
“Should we light it?” Scotty nudges a lump of dead grass with the toe of his boot.
Light the wishfire early? That’s crazy. “Nah, we’ll light it on New Year’s like always.”
“Unless we aren’t here.” His voice is so soft, I don’t think he means for me to hear, but I do, and neither of us talk for a while after that.
Later, we scramble up the side wall to check on our peacock again.
A thin line of white outlines his bright black eye, which watches us carefully.
If he could talk, what would he wish for? Maybe he wishes he landed somewhere else, somewhere with his family.
I tilt my head, and he does too.
Probably he’d wish he never got hurt at all. He’ll probably heal in a few weeks. That’s way better than the hurts on the inside that seem to go on and on. Well, being alive means hurting sometimes, so we make do with what we’ve got.
Scotty flops down beside me, and after a while, his brain starts leaking facts again. “Did you know peacocks live in India? That’s on the other side of the world.”
“Nope. I’ve only ever seen them at zoos.”
“Did you know girl peacocks are called peahens?”
“I know about normal hens and geese and ducks. Doesn’t seem that much different. Just prettier feathers. I can guess the rest.”
He pokes a blade of grass through the peacock’s wire cage and lets it go when the bird snatches it and gobbles it whole. “They’re a whole different species. Guessing isn’t good enough. What if we’re wrong? We gotta know. I bet there’s books on peacocks. We could share.”
“Books are your thing, not mine.” That’s way too much sitting still. I get antsy if I don’t have something to work on, like my bots, or an engine, or even caring for one of my animals. I mean, who doesn’t like a good long scratch while they’re munching on hay? My cows love it, and it’s just as much fun for me to watch them flutter their eyelids as I dig my fingers in and find that perfect spot. “Did you check Milkshake when you checked the cows today?”
Scotty purses his lips. “I saw her, but she was kinda back from the trough, so I didn’t get a good look.”
Shoot. I was so distracted with the peacock I clean forgot about Milkshake. I roll up and scoot to the side of the stack. “I better go check. It was my job anyway, not yours. It’s okay. You don’t have to come.”
“Wait!”
But I don’t wait. I run across the farmyard feeling like a fool. I don’t have time for mistakes like this. No matter what else is goin’ on, I gotta get everything done. I can’t let myself be tired or distracted. Farm work can’t wait. Reaching for the top rail, I jump up to lean over the corral overlooking the herd. “Milkshake!”
Scotty’s small hands grab the rail beside mine, but I pretend not to notice and keep scanning for my favorite cow.
&nbs
p; “You read books to study about robots for Lego League. What if the peacock needs something special? We don’t even know how much we don’t know.”
I groan. Once he starts looking stuff up, there’s no stopping him. “I’m not in the league anymore. Remember? I can’t do it anymore.”
“But you love it. What about your robots?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. That was kid’s stuff. I’ve got real-life things I gotta do now. Besides, we’ve had loads of birds. It’s probably the same as caring for a turkey.”
He hangs both elbows over the rail, and I can almost see his analytical brain kick into gear. “You are a kid. Twelve is a kid, not a teenager. There’s no ‘teen’ hanging off the end of your age—you know, thirteen, fourteen, like that. And you don’t know if peacocks are like turkeys. That’s a hypothesis, not a fact. You can’t just say things and make them facts because you want them to be. You need evidence to support your conclusion.”
“Evidence? Like what?” I tap my finger on the rail, then holler over the herd again, “Milkshake! Come on, girl!”
Milkshake sways into view, her rusty-brown, swollen belly pressing out half-again farther than the rest of her as she ambles up to us. The other cows have dropped their calves already, but Milkshake didn’t take as fast as the rest, so she’s still carrying.
“Evidence like facts from a zoologist.” He leans over and scratches Milkshake’s ears while I hop down, pluck some fresh grass, and pass him a few handfuls.
“Here, keep her busy for a minute.”
Milkshake’s long, sandpapery tongue snakes out and curls around Scotty’s bundle of grass, sliming his fingers as she pulls it in. She starts munching while I climb inside the corral to check her.
“Her udder is filling up, but her behind’s not swollen yet. Maybe a couple more days before she calves?” Dad would know for sure, but I give it my best guess. I scratch her back and press gently against the bulge in her side. The calf inside bumps back at my soft nudges. “Almost time to meet you,” I whisper and run my hands over her thick hide. It smells of dust, cut grass, sweat, and manure.
The Wish and the Peacock Page 3