City folk like Miss Dolly might think that manure smells bad, but to me, it’s just part of who Milkshake is. Demanding that a cow not smell is like telling the rain not to make mud. Rain is wet. It just is.
“Books are excellent sources of information,” Scotty says. “They’re credible and more reliable than the internet. They’re . . .” He scrunches up his face. “We have to have books.”
I sigh. Sometimes, he’s more focused than a hen after a worm. “I know. But I have a lot to do. Maybe you can look up all that stuff and tell me if you find anything real important.”
Milkshake rubs her big forehead against my jeans as I climb out, asking for one more good scratch before I go. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back to check on you.” I rub her head and smile.
“I could tell you—or I could write you a note!” He lights up like Mom just gave him a whole day free in the library.
“Sure. Write all the notes you want.”
Chores done, we head in to wash up. We leave our shoes on the porch beside T-Rex, who snores softly from his nest of old sleeping bags. I used to spend loads of summer hours snuggled with him, my head pillowed on his side, his steady heartbeat and breath soothing against my ear. Scotty still naps with him sometimes, but if the sun is shining, I got work to do.
Scotty shoots a hopeful glance toward the kitchen, but no pans of sizzling bacon, casserole, or biscuits and gravy wait for us on the stove. Between her nursing school and whatever she’s doing in her sewing room, Mom’s usually gone even when she’s here.
He sighs and stares at the closed door of Mom’s room, where the hum of a sewing machine whirs inside. “I’m gonna starve to death.”
“I’ll make dinner.”
“Can we have pizza?”
“Only if there’s some in the fridge already.”
The way he rushes to the kitchen, I almost feel sorry for him when he checks the shelves and bottom drawers but comes up empty. With droopy shoulders, he trudges to the stairs. “There’s no pizza.”
Potatoes it is. I might not be the best cook in the world, but potatoes are a no-brainer. All I gotta do is wash off the dirt, stab them a few times with a fork, toss them in the oven, and ta-da! Dinner is served.
We’ve been eating an awful lot of potatoes lately.
Once I get the spuds in the oven, I clear some mail off the table and drop the letters in the basket on top of the piano before setting the table. Scotty’s plate and mine go on one long side of the heavy wood table, with Mom’s plate across from us, and Grandpa’s on the far end. There’s room enough for Scotty or me to slide around to the head of the table where Dad used to sit, but neither one of us does. None of us sits there. We never talk about it, but it’s Dad’s seat. That’s all there is to it.
When Grandpa comes in from the field, his face and hands smudged black with oil and grease, I call Scotty down to eat and knock on Mom’s door.
Inside the room, the whirring stops. “Yes?”
I lean my forehead against the door. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I’ll be right out.”
She makes it to the table about the same time that Grandpa shakes the last drops of soapy water off his hands and eases into his chair. I load my spud with butter and bacon bits, because: bacon. Does there really need to be another reason?
“Did Miss Dolly get that sign up on the road?” Mom sprinkles salt over the potato on her plate.
“I thought she stopped at the end of the lane on the way out.” Grandpa points his fork at Scotty. “Did you see a sign?”
Scotty opens his mouth, but I kick his foot and head him off. “There’s no sign there now,” I say.
“Maybe she forgot,” Mom says.
I shrug as Scotty stares at his plate. Technically I told the truth. There is absolutely no sign at the end of the driveway right now. All we gotta do is keep quiet, but I know the truth is teetering on the edge of Scotty’s tongue like a bucket of water about to spill over. The way he’s squirming, he’s probably half chewing his tongue off to keep it all inside.
“Well, I suppose another day or two won’t make much difference.” Mom sighs. “Miss Dolly left a message that she’d be by in a couple days to survey the property. Changes are coming soon enough.”
Everyone tucks into their food, and I stab my potato with my fork. Changes might be coming, but if I have anything to do with it, it’ll be Miss Dolly who has a change of plans and not us.
Chapter Five
With Mom either studying or sewing in her room, and Grandpa picking up tractor parts in Blackfoot this morning, it’s up to me and Scotty to get the animals fed before school, but we only need a couple bales today—just enough for Milkshake, since I pulled her away from the main herd and put her into the barn to keep an eye on her.
Good hay is still green inside the bales, but dry all the way through without any mold. Sometimes wet bales are heavy so we can tell, but other times we cut the string and have to jump back as white mold spores explode up from the blackened insides. It works the same for people. You never know what’s going on inside just by looking. Sometimes you got to wait for them to open their mouths before you know what’s happening in their hearts. I bet Miss Dolly’s insides are blacker than black, no matter how gussied up the outside is.
Scotty and I lift a bale between us, push it onto the tailgate of the truck, and shove it as far as we can, which isn’t very far, ’cause even good bales are pretty heavy.
“Climb up and roll that one farther in.” I pull a few bits of hay from my shirt and drag another bale closer to the truck. That’s the worst part about loading hay. Just when I think I’ve got it all out, bam, another piece of hay pokes through my socks or down my shirt. How it always ends up in my underwear, I have no idea. The good news is that our neighbors live too far away to notice me twisting all over with an arm halfway down my pants, trying to pull out the sneaky bits of hay.
Once we get the bales loaded, I open the door and jump in the truck. Dad started me driving garden tractors when I was five—course he could walk faster than it could go. He figured if I was big enough to help fix machines, I was big enough to drive them, so I’ve been driving the farm truck since I was tall enough to see over the dashboard and still reach the pedals at the same time—just not very far or fast.
I start the truck and ease it over to the barn in first gear. There, we half-drag, half-roll the bale to Milkshake’s stall, where her blue ribbon from the Eastern Idaho State Fair hangs nailed to the post.
“I got your breakfast!” Scotty cuts the twine with his pocketknife and grabs a slice of hay.
Dried leaves and stems crackle under my fingers as I toss the alfalfa flakes into the manger, where they break apart into soft piles.
A dirt bike grumbles up to the barn entrance as our nearest neighbor boy, Mateo, rides in and toes the kickstand down, his overstuffed messenger bag of newspapers swaying as he dismounts.
His dark hair is blacker than a brand-new tire and he can slick up into a sweet fauxhawk when he wants to, but after riding his paper route, it’s more like a crazy-haired guinea pig stuck on his head than anything. Still, it’s just long enough to touch his lashes—not that I’d look at his eyelashes, because gross. I mean, he’s definitely not ugly, but we ran around in diapers together, so who cares if he has dimples or muscles or whatever. He’s just Mateo. And we’re friends. That’s all.
“Hola, Mateo!” Scotty waves before tossing a scoop of grain onto the hay.
“¿Qué onda, Scotty?”
“Nada.” Scotty grins. He doesn’t know a whole lot of Spanish yet, not even as much as me, but once he’s decided to learn something, it’s a done deal. Besides, Mateo likes to let him practice.
“Is she calving?” Mateo grabs the top rail and runs a hand over Milkshake’s side.
“Not yet, but soon.” I scratch her forehead as she roots around
in the hay. Like a kid eating dessert before supper, she goes for the grain first. Only thing she likes better than grain is potatoes, which she pops like candy. Crunch!
“Oh, almost forgot. I saw this on the side of the road.” Mateo pulls a white stone out of his pocket and passes it to me like it’s no big deal.
Tiny sparkles glint from the translucent surface as I turn it over and hold it up to the light. “Wow, that’s a nice one. Quartz, maybe?”
“I think so. Thought you might like it for your collection.”
I tuck the stone into my pocket, but I keep my fingers wrapped around it a little longer. Mateo doesn’t bring rocks, shells, arrowheads, or crystals every day—not even every month—but it’s nice when it happens. I think he saw my dad pocketing a rock one time and that got him started.
He scans the barn, his dark eyes lingering on half-filled boxes along the wall. “So, when are you moving?”
I stiffen. “Who says we are?”
“It’s in the paper.” He slides a paper out of his bag and opens it to an ad with a picture of our farm and information about an open house and tour of the property next week.
“Give me that.” I almost rip the thing out of his hand. How dare Miss Dolly put a picture of our home in the paper! Old Mrs. Pruitt’s probably dancing a jig and drooling over the juicy news already. I check the dates listed in the ad. “A week? This is happening in a week?”
“That’s what it says. If you’d ever read my texts, you’d know that already.”
Since the accident, texts always feel dangerous, as if by sending them, I’ll hurt the person on the other end. “I left the phone at the house.”
“Dead?”
“Probably.” I shrug.
He fake-whispers to Scotty, “Why does she even have a phone?”
Scotty shakes his head. “If I had one, I’d text you back.”
They stare at me, and I scowl at Scotty. The traitor. “I don’t text.”
“I know,” Mateo says, “but I thought . . . Never mind. Where are you moving to?” He holds a hand out for the paper.
“Nowhere.” I toss it back to him. “It’s not gonna happen.”
He keeps his gaze on Milkshake. “It’s in the paper. I think it’s probably gonna happen.”
“Just because it’s in the paper doesn’t make it so. It’s that Miss Dolly. She’s talked Mom and Grandpa into selling, and it’s nuts. They’ve all lost their minds.”
Mateo rolls the paper and tucks it carefully into his bag. “My dad told me this might happen.”
“It won’t.” I smooth a flyaway hair off my cheek and let the rest of my braid slide, bump by bump, through my fingers. “We’re gonna stop it.”
“We’re going to war.” Scotty hops off the stall and gathers up cut twine.
“War, eh?”
I pretend not to hear the disbelief in Mateo’s voice. “Yeah. You know that sign you didn’t see at the end of the road? That was the first shot.”
“We cut it down,” Scotty whispers.
“Shh!” I snap.
Mateo smirks. “You think cutting down a sign will make it go away? You can’t stop it.”
My shoulders bristle like a rooster puffing its feathers. “Can too.”
He leans against the stall, arms folded. “Oh yeah? How?”
“We got a plan.” Scotty grins. “I’ve been catching grasshoppers for days.”
“Your mom isn’t stupid. She’ll catch you, and then what? You gonna lie to your mom?”
“Course not.” I wouldn’t have to lie if I could just show Mom that I can do this.
“Won’t your mom ask for help with the open house? You really gonna tell her no? Vivas in las nubes.”
Scotty pauses in his cleanup. “Paige lives in the clouds?”
“More like—she’s dreaming if she thinks she can change something like this.”
“Watch me.” I sidestep him and stalk to the truck. “We are fighting this. Come on, Scotty. We’ve got stuff to do.” That’s no lie. Another hour and we’ll be late for school.
“Aw, don’t be like that.” His arm drops to his side.
“Mateo, this farm is my whole life. I’m fighting for my family. You can help, or you can go away.”
I feel him standing there, watching me open the truck door and jump in, but I don’t say anything. What else is there to say? It is a war, just as real as the ones Grandpa talks about—except the war zone is right here at home. We have to win. And Mateo’s supposed to be on my side.
He walks real slow to his bike, but neither of us start the engines. Finally, he sighs, steps over, and leans against my door. “Maybe I can help.”
“You mean it?”
He puts his hand over his heart. “No lie.”
His words are better than ice on a hot day. With his hand on his heart, his promise is as good as gold.
“Okay,” I say, “that sign has got to stay down. Miss Dolly wants the farm bad. There’s no way she’s gonna let it go easy.”
“Sign down. Got it.” He nods. “What else?”
“When people come over, we need to make them think things are awful here. That no one in their right mind would ever want to live on this farm.”
His lips curl into a sly smile, and I poke his arm. “No one other than us. Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.” He raises his hands. “I was going to ask, though—can I bring a hanging basket over here for my mom? My dad bought a big one for Mamá, but we need to hide it until her birthday. You think you could take care of it for a week or two?”
“Yeah. Put it in the greenhouse.”
“Sweet. Anything else you want me to do?” Mateo adjusts his messenger bag full of papers.
“You can help catch grasshoppers,” Scotty pipes up.
“I’ll keep an eye out for them. I bet Kimana would help, too. You should ask her at school.” He straddles the bike. “Oh! I almost forgot. I saw a fox down at the grove by the irrigation pump. It ran across the road and ducked right under the mainline. I thought you should know.”
“I hope there’s not another den. I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks.”
He waves. “See you at school.”
We start our engines, and I watch in the rearview mirror as Mateo disappears behind the garage, a dust trail rolling up behind him.
On the seat beside me, Scotty repeats Mateo’s words, memorizing them. “Vivas in las nubes.”
I park the truck behind the house and grab cat food from the back porch. Scotty scampers ahead to the chicken barn, and by the time I get there, he’s already lying on top of the straw stack, his hand outstretched.
“Pass me the food.”
I hand it up to him, then climb the side wall. Our peacock watches me until Scotty slips the food inside its cage, latches the door, and backs off so the bird can eat.
“Did you know peacocks can live for forty years?”
“Nope.”
“And a family of peacocks is called a pride—or a muster, or an ostentation—depending on the source.” Scotty lies back onto the straw, his head pillowed on his arm. “Oh, and they kill snakes.”
“What? Like little ones?”
“Yup, big ones, too. Peacocks defend their territory and kill intruders—even poisonous snakes.”
“What about black widows?”
He tilts his head. “They eat other spiders, so maybe? Probably? I’ll look it up.”
I watch the peacock’s slender neck dart down as he eats, every move graceful. How would he protect his family? Shake his pretty tail at the intruder? I try to imagine the shimmering feathers moving to fight a snake, and I can’t do it. “He seems too fancy for fighting.”
“Did you know peacocks symbolize rebirth?”
That one seems odd. “Why would a peacock ever want to be reborn? The
y’re perfect as is. Look at that tail. How could he ever hope to have something better than that?”
“It’s symbolism. I didn’t say it makes sense. In Spanish, he’s a pavo real—a royal turkey—and they do fight intruders.” He rolls the r and draws the word out so it sounds like pavo rrrey-al.
“I told you it was like a turkey,” I tease.
“It’s not a turkey. It’s nothing like a turkey. You really should get a book about him.”
“Ugh, Scotty. Not again.” I pick a piece of straw out of the end of my braid. Usually, I don’t mind the red color, though Mom says it’s probably gonna darken to auburn when I grow up, but teachers always notice me because of it. There could be a whole room full of kids perfectly willing to volunteer, and who gets called on? Me. The one person trying to blend in with the desk and catch up on a little sleep.
Scotty sticks his fingers through the cage and pets one of the peacock’s tail feathers. “No, really. You can’t know things unless you read them.”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me whatever there is to know soon enough.”
“But—”
“Stop! Okay? Just stop.” I see his fingers flutter, so I soften my tone on purpose. “I told you to write notes if you want me to know something.”
“You could pretend it’s a manual,” Scotty says. “Except for a peacock instead of a tractor.”
The peacock eyes me and bobs his head as if to agree.
Sassy little thing.
I flop beside Scotty on the straw. “If we’re keeping him, we should name him.”
“How about Pavo Cristatus? That’s his scientific name. Cristatus means he’s got feathers that stick up on his head.”
The peacock ruffles his feathers and makes a funny click, click noise.
“I don’t think he likes that. You want to name him ‘Turkey with Feathers on His Head’? You’re grounded from naming things.” I pick at the straw and toss a handful over the edge. “I like the first name you told me—pavo real. Let’s call him Royal.”
The Wish and the Peacock Page 4