“Go, Chup,” she said. “All of you. Get out of here!”
Chup? Chup? Chup asked.
When they didn’t move, she bent. They rushed to her and each of them gave her the tiniest of hugs. One at each shoulder, and Chup cuddling her chin. She’d read about tough love in books and knew what a good parent had to do for their child’s sake. She gathered the chupacabra into her arms and strode over to her window, opened it, and placed them on the windowsill.
“Now, go.” She clenched her jaw to keep from sobbing. “Go and promise me that you won’t hurt anyone. There are plenty of mice. But keep from the chickens or you’ll be hunted.” It seemed like good advice. “Go! I never want to see you again . . .” And she shut the window. Tears stung her eyes. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Why you all gussied up?” Dylan demanded from the doorway, rubbing tired eyes. She jerked away from the windowsill.
“None of your business,” she croaked.
“Why you crying?”
She thought for a good answer. “Dad.”
“Dad’s never going to let you go to that school,” he said. “Not while he needs you. Not with your lying.”
“I’m not lying.” She paused, head hanging for a moment before staring back. “You’re old enough to leave; why do you stay?” Her hands slowly curled into fists.
Dylan cocked his head and shrugged like it had never occurred to him to do anything else.
“Dad couldn’t run the farm by himself. We owe him. You more than any.”
“But you could be a plumber, or a carpenter, a mechanic even, you know how to fix the tractor.”
Dylan shrugged. “I like the farm. Dad, Connor . . . I know it, you know?”
He hadn’t said he liked Limpy. “No, it doesn’t make sense. There’s a world out there.”
His jaw muscles flexed and he brought a fist to his shoulder like he wanted to throw a punch. “Limp, I’m not leaving.”
“But it’s going to be sold.”
“I’m not leaving.”
And that was it. Dylan and her father, maybe Connor, too, they were in denial.
“Okay,” she replied, but her eyes had narrowed. “But why did you say I owe Dad more than anyone else?”
He backed up a step and refused to meet her eye. “I remember Mom. Not real well, but a little. She had wavy black hair that ran down her back and these big green eyes, and she could sure play that harp . . .”
So, Dylan blamed Limpy for the death of their mother as well. Limpy owed everyone.
She tried to swallow the hurt, but it welled up. “That wasn’t my fault!” She tumbled to the bed to bury her head in her pillow. When she glanced back, Dylan was gone.
Clearing her eyes, she pushed off her bed and grabbed a heel of potato bread for her breakfast. The boys could fend for themselves. She was right. It wasn’t her fault, and she would prove that she hadn’t destroyed her mom’s harp. Her eyes lighted on the empty surface of her dresser. Only the pen remained. Her artist’s statement was gone. Her dad had taken it. Dylan had been right about one thing. Her father was determined for her to stay on the farm. To stay at his side. Perhaps it was where she belonged.
Someone knocked at the front door.
Limpy stuffed her fake chupacabra into her knapsack and swung it over her shoulder. The knock echoed again, and she huffed down the hall to open the door.
On the steps, Mr. Sotheby stared at Limpy over his bulbish nose.
“Is your father in?” he asked.
“Pops!” she called without moving. Under Mr. Sotheby’s arm was a wad of long documents. “Is that an—?” she asked.
“It’s an offer, yes,” he said. “To purchase the farm.”
She should be happy, but she wasn’t. Not at all.
Her father’s steps thumped down the hall and she pushed past the banker, dragging the knapsack with the stuffed animal after her.
Out into the early morning light she sprinted. Dylan glanced up from where he mended a shovel, but said nothing, just shook his head. Limpy picked up her bike and was off down the drive before anyone could catch her. Not that anyone tried.
Chapter 22
Limpy rapped on a door that flaked blue paint. Within, someone groaned. She glanced nervously through the stairwell window at the sun breaching the horizon. No one in Flesherton slept this late on a Wednesday.
“Mr. Smith?” she tried. There was an unintelligible shout, and she started back down the stairs. “Sorry, I’ll come back.” But steps thudded beyond the door, a chain jiggled and the doorknob rattled. The door drew back to reveal a red-faced, bleary-eyed man with stubbly cheeks, a mane of white hair, and so bedraggled an appearance that he seemed to have been crumpled like the sheet of newspaper in her pocket.
“Sorry,” she squeaked.
He squinted. “You’re the potato girl.”
She flushed. Despite the insults hurled at her by other kids, she’d never been so specifically labeled by an adult.
“Limphetta,” she replied.
“What do you want?” The foggy eyes of the man bore down. His rancid breath beat at her with each exhalation.
“You ran the Herald,” she said.
“I did. Ran it . . . actually, I ran it until the day you were born. Funny that. What of it? You don’t want to be a reporter, do you? Good luck finding a job if you do.” He laughed in a sad and self-pitying way. This was what happened to those who stayed, Limpy realized. Emmanuel had bullied her for no better reason than needing Arnie to hang out with. What would happen if Limpy stayed? She would rot. Her desperation gave her strength.
“I have one of your articles,” she said. “You wrote it.”
He brightened at this and straightened, opening the door to reveal a single room with a mattress on the floor and a bed strewn with soda cans and clothes. She searched in her pocket and drew out the printed copy of the article.
“‘Puerto Rican Family Warns of Deadly Chupacabra Threat,’” she said. “Flesherton Herald, by Hal Smith. That’s you, right?”
“Yeah, what’s the question?”
She smoothed out the paper.
“What do you think Mr. José meant when he said, ‘be strong’?”
Mr. Smith glowered at her and held out his hand. She gave him the article. He didn’t answer for a moment, forehead rumpling as he read what he had written years ago.
“I don’t know. I remember him then. Always checking over his shoulder like he was running from something himself. I guess he meant not to run. He’d run from something in Puerto Rico, that I know. Chased clean away.”
Limpy thought about that. Uncertain.
“I need you to tell my father about it,” she said.
“Say again?”
“Will you talk to my dad and tell him it’s true?” She held her hands clasped at her chest as if Hal Smith could answer her prayers.
“What’s true?” His lips curved into a scythe of a smile. “Chupacabra?”
She shrank and nodded.
“You joking?” He shoved the paper back into her hands. “Read the date, kid.”
She did: April 1st.
“That’s right, April Fools’ Day—this was a prank,” he said. “Swear I had more readers of that stupid article than anything.”
“The article’s a fake,” she whispered almost to herself.
“Didn’t say that,” Mr. Smith said, laughing. “José there believed it. But he’s madder than a wet hen.”
“You never found anything? You never investigated?”
He looked at her strangely, bending down so that his breath blew over and seemed to coat her. “Investigate? el Chupacabra? I’d heard you weren’t as dumb as your brothers.”
Limpy straightened at that. “My brothers might not have much education, but that doesn’t make them dumb.”
Smith lifted an eyebrow that said he didn’t believe her anymore than he believed in chupacabra. “No, I didn’t investigate. People that owned your farm just wanted to make money on t
he insurance is my guess.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s how this all started. After those stables of yours burned down, José here starts screaming about chupacabra. Says they ate all the animals too. But I know better. The owners needed the money, see—it was all a scam.”
“A scam? No, I’ve seen the chupacabra. They’re real.”
He scoffed, “Listen, the owners got behind on the bank and burned it to the ground to collect the money from the insurance. That’s what happened. Said it was some animal that had gone and done it—José backed them up, but no one believed any of it. So don’t let that give you any ideas on how you can solve your father’s . . . predicament.”
He stared at her and must have seen a glimmer of hope in her eyes because he added, “And don’t you go believing in chupacabra either.”
Chapter 23
One thing was clear; Hal Smith wouldn’t be any help convincing her father. As she biked to school, she decided to tell Emmanuel everything. If Mr. José believed, maybe Emmanuel would too. She’d tell him, right after she hugged him for taking the blame for the science class explosion.
As she locked her bike to the rack, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A flash of gold on the roof. She was on time for class today. Other students wove their way down the path and climbed the school steps. A bus pulled to the curb and off hopped kindergartners one after the other, giggling and shoving and falling over without any reason. But Limpy felt watched.
High, at the corner of the school roof, another flit of movement. But it didn’t look like any of her chupacabra. It had been bigger.
“There!” Emmanuel pointed to where she looked. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what I saw.”
“Emmanuel,” she gasped, not having seen him approach; his head blocked the sun and she couldn’t see his face. She didn’t want everyone to know, so when other kids started peering where he pointed, she replied, “What are you talking about? I don’t see anything.”
“No, Limpy, I know I saw it, and at the library too. You’re hiding something. That’s what happened during science class. You didn’t switch the experiment. Someone else did. Something else.”
“Shh . . .” she hushed, but it was too late.
Other students had begun to gather, including Arnie, who crossed his arms so that his chest puffed out. “I won’t shush,” Emmanuel cried. “Tell me what that was.” He planted his hands on his hips.
What could she say? She couldn’t tell him that she’d found chupacabra—not until they were alone. “I don’t know what that was,” she replied. “Probably the janitor.” His expression soured.
“Oh, I remember now,” he said. “It was your art project. Well, let’s see it.”
“I’ll tell you everything later,” she whispered under her breath, everyone crowding in.
Her eyes went protectively to her knapsack. Arnie moved faster than she thought possible for a kid of his size. He snatched a strap of the sack and sprinted. Limpy dived after him, tripped over a little kid, and skinned her knees and palms on pavement. Arnie tore open the bag, hauled out the stuffie and held it over his head.
Limpy’s eyes watered as she stared at Emmanuel, who suddenly looked uncertain.
“Wait, you’ll tell me?” he asked. “I’m right?”
Limpy nodded and picked gravel from her palms.
Emmanuel’s eyes widened with fear and wonder when Arnie held up her creation. “It’s one of them . . . ,” Emmanuel said. “Arnie has it!”
Limpy realized Emmanuel thought it was real, but before she could stop him he leapt away.
“Look, it’s Limpy’s favorite potato friend!” Arnie laughed, turning around with the stuffie so that all could witness.
In truth it was parts of all her favorite stuffies and, after finishing it in the dark, she hadn’t really gotten a good look at it. She’d embroidered a network of tattoos all across it to cover the seams. Now her heart rent to see it in Arnie’s grubby hand. From his belt he pulled his hunting knife. Sunlight sparked from the blade.
“Don’t do that!” Emmanuel cried as he shoved kids aside to reach Arnie. “It’s real.”
Perhaps nothing else could have given Arnie cause to stop, but he did. He lowered the stuffie to poke at its glass eyes with a fat finger. “What’re you talking about? Real?”
“I know what it is,” Emmanuel said and looked to Limpy for support.
She shook her head. “You don’t understand!”
From somewhere above she heard a chup. Tufts, Chup and Podge all leaned over the edge of the roof and stared at the bully with what appeared to be the cutest, fuzziest, coolest chupacabra ever hatched.
“It’s so sweet,” Limpy overheard in the gathered crowd. “She made that?” “I want one.” “She couldn’t have made that.”
Arnie was pressing down on its belly with both thumbs. “It’s a stuffie and you’re crazy.” Emmanuel carved a path through the throng. “See!” Arnie lifted his knife and brought it down on the stuffie’s chest.
“No!” Emmanuel shouted.
But it was the cry that resounded from the school roof and not the barreling Emmanuel that drew Limpy’s attention, a cry worse than Ghost’s trilling scream. Emmanuel threw Arnie down and they tumbled together, the stuffie flying. In a moment Emmanuel had it and pulled the blade, inspecting the wound.
“It really is a stuffie,” he said and then blushed at the roar of laughter. Silently, he handed it to Limpy and then walked, head bent, into school.
Limpy ignored Arnie and the gathered students, searching the roof for the real chupacabra. But they were gone.
“Can you make me one?” It was one of the kindergartners from the bus. Pigtails sprouted from sandy hair. She and several others pushed around Limpy as she walked into the school atrium. They eyed the stuffie longingly.
“I’d like one too,” said another. “What’s its name?”
“Uh, Chup—Chuppies,” Limpy said.
“How much are they?”
Suddenly, Limpy felt overwhelmed by the press of the little kids. “Sorry,” she said. “I only made one. It’s not for sale.”
Their little faces collapsed. They seemed to kick imaginary rocks as they made their way into class.
The day passed slowly. Several times she caught Emmanuel looking at her and then shaking his head in confusion. It was during English and Ms. Summerfield taught at the head of class, discussing essays she’d handed back—Limpy had received a B, and a note that she could do better—when an announcement came over the PA system.
“Limphetta O’Malley to the principal’s office,” it called. She looked to the teacher, who nodded to the door, and then to Emmanuel who turned away.
She took her knapsack with her. Only a half hour remained of classes.
When she entered, Principal Dougald was staring at his computer. He didn’t ask her to sit. “Do you still have your stuffed animal?” he asked.
“Yes.” Limpy was surprised that the principal even knew about it.
“Show it to me, please.” His gaze went from the computer to where she untied her knapsack. “Place it on my desk.”
The creature-stuffie had been cramped under her books and seemed to grow as it decompressed.
The principal looked from the computer back to the stuffie and then to the computer again.
“What is it, sir?”
He turned the monitor. “It appears your stuffed animal has made the news.”
On the screen was a video shot from a helicopter. It circled fields and she recognized the local landmarks, grain towers, tracts of golden hay and corn. As the camera panned, it zoomed in on shapes in the fields made from flattened stalks and grass. Crop circles. Like the kinds aliens were said to make. Huge crop circles. Except these were not shaped like circles. They looked almost identical to the creation on the desk. These were chupacabra circles.
“I’ve been principal here for fifteen years . . .” Mr. Dougald said, still looking at th
e computer screen. Limpy cringed in the chair. “And this, Limphetta O’Malley . . . is one of the . . . funniest pranks . . .” He couldn’t contain himself any longer. Tears sprang to his eyes as he burst into laughter.
Limpy would have thought it funny too, if it didn’t mean her friends were asking for trouble. Worse, causing more trouble. A chill shot down her spine. This wasn’t a prank. It was a memorial.
“The farmer, Arnie’s ma, is right mad, but—” Principal Dougald giggled some more as he struggled.
“I didn’t—”
He held up his hand. “I know you couldn’t have done all of that. Your brothers deserve some credit, am I right?”
“I need to go home.”
The bell rang and he waved her off. “Limphetta, good luck with Hillcrest tomorrow.”
She nodded and leaned against the door.
By the time she left the principal’s office everyone knew about the crop circles. Some of the students even clapped as she stepped into the hall. Emmanuel was waiting.
“I didn’t do it,” she told him. “I can explain everything.”
“I know you didn’t. Come to the store.” His face was ashen as he started to walk away as if they had no time to waste. “You need to meet my father.”
“You already know who made the crop circles. Don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes I do,” he said. “And crop circles may be only the beginning.”
Chapter 24
“Why did you take the blame for the explosion in science class?” she asked Emmanuel as they rushed toward the General Store, Limpy on her bike and Emmanuel jogging beside.
“You have to go to the art school, Limpy, you’re so good at it, you have to. And I knew you didn’t do it.”
Limpy had sewn for years and Ms. Summerfield had been the first teacher to really take an interest in it as something artistic, but never had a friend. A true friend. “Thanks, Emmanuel. Thank you,” she said. For some reason art school didn’t feel quite as important at that moment. Leaving Flesherton didn’t seem quite as urgent either. Not if she had people like Emmanuel around.
Keep in a Cold, Dark Place Page 11