It's Only Temporary

by Sally Warner

  Skye nodded politely and sipped her hot chocolate. “Just a baby.” She’d seen the pictures, and it was true: she had looked like a red-faced, bleary-eyed blob when she was first born, all wrapped up tight like a burrito, with a little cotton cap jammed down on her wobbly head.

  But Scott had taken care of her when they were little, Skye remembered suddenly. He’d pulled her around in his Radio Flyer wagon for so many years that someone on another block once asked if there was something wrong with her. “Nope,” Scott said angrily. “But she doesn’t have to walk as long as I’m here.” That was one famous family story, among many others.

  Scott was her hero, and she had adored him.

  But then, as if he was following instructions from an invisible manual called “How to Make Everyone Miserable,” came the impossible years.

  Yet their parents had somehow figured Scott would be a good driver?

  Why, Skye wondered angrily, had they even allowed Scott to get his license? Was it simply to make their own lives easier? “He’ll be able to take you to school,” Skye remembered her mom – exhausted even back then – saying just last March. “And maybe this is exactly the show of confidence he needs.”

  Well, Skye thought sadly, he’d shown them.

  And so now, instead of her being a little girl relying on her brother to pull her around the neighborhood in his Radio Flyer wagon, she was a girl whose big brother needed her. Or he might, someday.

  Skye thought about it almost every night: Was it still “two steps forward, one step back” for Scott, as Ms. Santina once put it?

  It was impossible to tell without being in Albuquerque, because Scott never talked much in his e-mails about how his rehab was going. And whenever her mom and dad called Sierra Madre, they were obviously trying to stay “focused on the positive,” as Skye’s dad liked to say.

  Gran didn’t seem to know how Scott was doing, either, judging by the questions she asked. But then, Skye’s mom and dad had always taken pride in not blabbing about their problems – even to family.

  But what if Scott stopped moving forward at all? Would she, Skye, have to step in someday and help take care of him?

  Skye didn’t know how she felt about that. After all, Scott had messed up big-time, while she had always tried to be the good kid. So was this going to be her reward?

  “Are you cold?” Gran asked Skye, noticing the shiver.

  “No, I’m fine,” Skye said. “But what made you think of Thanksgiving, Gran?” she asked, as the still-muted movie resumed, following a string of commercials.

  “Oh,” Gran said, smiling. “It’s just a little something I’ve been dreaming up. You’ll find out soon enough, my darling.”

  13

  Trick-or-Treat

  “Happy three-days-before-Halloween,” an excited Maddy said as Skye answered the front door. “You look – are you supposed to be, like, a girl ninja warrior?” she asked Skye, looking momentarily confused as she adjusted her kitten ears.

  Maddy was wearing a pink plush costume that looked like pajamas, if you didn’t count the tail, Skye observed, wishing now that she had time to change. She had chosen a costume that was the closest to invisible that she could come up with: scowly dark eyebrows, skinny black pants, a black shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck, and a fake orchid pinned to her chest. Anyone in Albuquerque or Santa Fe would know who she was supposed to be.

  “I’m Georgia O’Keeffe,” she told Maddy, sounding grouchy. “She was a famous artist who used to live in New Mexico. She always dressed in black.”

  “Why?” Maddy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Skye said, irritated by the question. “Because it was easy, I guess. At least her clothes always matched.”

  “Well, you certainly couldn’t go trick-or-treating dressed like that, or you’d get run over,” Gran said, bustling into the front hall holding her car keys. “But I guess it’s fine for a party. Maddy, you look darling,” she said.

  Maddy beamed and fiddled with her fuzzy ears again. “I’m really happy I was invited,” she said. “This is the best thing that has happened to me since forever.”

  Skye scowled, still worrying about her costume.

  Maddy cocked her head. “You really look like a ninja warrior when you make that face, Skye,” she said. “Maybe that’s what you should say you are, when we get to Amanda’s house, because more people would guess right than if you said you were Georgie Keef.”

  “Jor-ja Oh-Keefe,” Skye said, trying not to snap, because it was just plain weird for someone like Maddy – not that Skye meant anything bad by that! – to be so worried and protective about her, Skye McPhee. “Georgia O’Keeffe is extremely well known,” Skye said, softening her tone. “She painted orchids and bones and stuff.”

  “Why?” Maddy asked as Gran locked the front door behind them and they made their way toward the Toyota, Maddy’s pink tail swishing against the low bushes that lined Gran’s front path. “Why did she do that, Skye?”

  “I don’t know,” Skye said, nearly growling the words. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, Skye,” Maddy said, unperturbed – and prepared to have a wonderful evening – as long as there were no green peppers on any of the food.

  As it turned out, Pip was the only other kid who’d even tried for an art-related costume. “Who are you supposed to be?” Maddy asked, eyeing his curly blond wig, his polka-dotted dress, his skinny, twirling-up mustache, the cutout picture of a clock drooping over one shoulder, and his bulging chest with thinly disguised alarm.

  “I’m two people,” Pip said proudly. “I’m the surrealist artist Salvador Dalí, and I’m the country singer Dolly Par-ton. So I’m Salvador Dalí Parton.”

  “I think Pip’s going to win it for both guts and originality,” Amanda’s mother said, setting down a big box of Halloween decorations on the front porch.

  “Skye is Georgie Keef, who was a famous Mexican artist who painted bones,” Maddy announced uncertainly.

  “New Mexican. New Mexican,” Skye said, trying to be polite as she said the words. But it was hard not to sound snappish. New Mexico was famous, in New Mexico, anyway, and Albuquerque had a population of over half a million! But no one in Sierra Madre even seemed to know that Albuquerque existed, much less that New Mexico was part of the United States.

  Duh.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Berrigan said. “Georgia O’Keeffe. Very clever, dear. Now, listen, Amanda,” she said over her shoulder as her daughter – masquerading in a drooping tutu and lots of makeup as a bad ballerina, which Skye now wished she’d thought of herself – erupted onto the porch with Jamila and Matteo close behind. “No crepe-paper streamers, because the dew will make them sag by Halloween, which is not until Tuesday,” Mrs. Berrigan told them. “But everything else in here should be fine,” she said, patting the cardboard box she’d been carrying.

  And in no time, phase one of Amanda’s party began, and the art jerks were so busy making a scary masterpiece of the Berrigans’ front porch that everyone’s costume was forgotten, to Skye’s intense relief.

  “Step back a little farther, Skye, and tell us how it looks,” Amanda called from the front porch forty-five minutes later – kind of bossily, Skye thought, but in keeping with her bad ballerina costume. Amanda sounded just like Taylor Shuster-man, in fact.

  The Berrigans’ porch glowed like a stage set as Skye trudged across the wet lawn toward the street, which was dark on this moonless October night. Streetlights in the small foothill town were scarce among the narrow roads that crept rootlike into the canyons.

  “It looks good, Amanda,” Skye called out as convincingly as she could, though she thought they should have stopped decorating the porch fifteen minutes ago. Now, rubber bats hung from the porch ceiling, the Styrofoam tombstones – illogically dripping with pretend blood–leaned crazily against the light-festooned front door, pumpkins balanced precariously on the porch railing, and spiderweb strands had been tossed in large and unconvincing hunks o
ver absolutely everything. “It looks good,” Skye shouted again, wondering when their hamburgers would be ready. Her stomach growled.

  “I can barely even hear you – or see you, it’s so dark,” Amanda yelled back. “Pip’s coming out there to check, ’cause I have to go inside and help my mom. Hang on.”

  “I’m hanging, I’m hanging,” Skye muttered to herself. She shifted her feet in the soggy grass as Pip came toward her, his wig jammed low on his head and his temporarily enlarged chest leading the way.

  Pip turned and regarded the Berrigans’ porch for one long, considering moment. “It looks like a craft store exploded,” he finally said. “But Amanda likes it. And I definitely don’t wanna have to start again.”

  “I know,” Skye said, laughing. “If we say anything, we’ll never get to eat.”

  Pip tilted his head and looked at the porch again. “Maybe you can’t go too far this time of year,” he said, obviously struggling to turn his artistic opinion around.

  “Maybe not,” Skye agreed. “So let’s tell Amanda it looks fine, and then we can–”

  “Boo,” a voice behind them said. “Trick-or-treat!”

  14

  Trouble

  Skye whirled around, her heart seeming to leap into her throat, but Pip turned more slowly, as if he knew that the only thing awaiting him was trouble – because the jeering voice had belonged to Aaron Petterson. And looming behind him in the dark were Danko, Cord, and Kee.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Skye asked, struggling to keep her voice steady.

  “I live a block away,” Aaron told her. “Not that it’s any of your business.” He leaned forward and took a closer look at Skye. “It’s that girl from Mexico,” he told his friends. “That Skye-chick. And she’s gone all retro and Goth for that fat chick’s party.”

  “Skye’s from New Mexico,” Kee said quietly, reluctantly.

  “I’m supposed to be Georgia O’Keeffe,” Skye heard herself object in a quavering voice. “And Amanda’s not fat.”

  This was just too bizarre, Skye scolded herself instantly – and silently. She could not believe she was arguing with an eighth-grader about her Halloween costume and Amanda Berrigan’s weight, of all things – in temporary Sierra Madre, California, on a cold Saturday night in October. What had happened to her nice, ordinary life in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where the real people lived?

  And where were Amanda, Jamila, Matteo, and Maddy? Or Amanda’s parents, for that matter? Inside, probably, eating hamburgers and chips, and guzzling soda.

  “Whatever,” Aaron said, already losing interest. He shifted his attention to Pip, whose identity was still hidden by the darkness, by the blond wig that covered his hair–and by the two large and prominent bumps underneath his polka-dotted dress. The blond hair and the bumps were obviously what had attracted Aaron’s attention. “Who’s this?” Aaron asked, teasing, and he reached out to lift Pip’s chin a little so he could get a better look.

  It was obvious to Skye that Aaron thought Pip was a girl – because a guy wouldn’t dare touch another guy’s face that way.

  Pip swatted at Aaron’s hand and turned his head, but the unexpected result of this was that Aaron’s hand grazed Pip’s fake mustache. “Eee!” Aaron squealed, jumping back a little. “It’s a dude!”

  “No way,” Cord said. He reached forward, grabbed the end of Pip’s mustache, and gave it a tug.

  “Give that back,” Pip roared, reaching for the twirl of stiffened hair that Cord’s paw was now gripping. “I made that!”

  “Hey!” Cord shouted, shaking his hand as if Pip’s half-mustache was the world’s longest centipede. And seeing this, Skye couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Shut up,” Cord yelled at her.

  “’I made that,’” Aaron Petterson mimicked, concentrating on Pip, and he gave Pip a shove that sent him staggering back a step or two on the Berrigans’ lawn.

  Skye automatically reached out to grab Pip’s arm, but Pip brushed her away. “Leave me alone,” he shouted angrily, but Skye couldn’t tell whether he was talking to her or to Aaron – and she wasn’t about to ask.

  “It’s the pipsqueak pansy,” Aaron shouted, finally recognizing Pip, and he gave Pip another shove, knocking him to the ground.

  “Stop saying that!” Skye heard herself object loudly.

  “He tried to trick us,” Cord yelled, furious, and, eager to erase his earlier humiliation, he drew his leg back as if he were about to attempt to kick a field goal. And then–thud! Cord’s foot connected with Pip’s ribs.

  “Hey,” Danko and Kee objected simultaneously.

  “Uhh,” Pip groaned as the air was knocked out of him, and he tried to roll away from the blows that were sure to follow.

  “Stop that!” Skye cried, panicked.

  “Quit it, dude. You made your point,” Kee said to Cord, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from Pip.

  But it was Aaron’s leg that was going back for the kick this time.

  This was really, really happening, Skye told herself, stunned.

  “Hey,” a man’s voice shouted from across the street, and suddenly, the beam of light from a powerful flashlight swept across their faces. “What the heck is going on over there?”

  “They – they were beating my friend up for no reason,” Skye cried, her words tumbling out into the night.

  “We were not,” Cord said, sounding both innocent and outraged.

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. “And I live around here.”

  The flashlight beam rested on Aaron’s face for a moment. “Oh, it’s you,” the man said as he approached the group of kids, his voice flat and unsurprised.

  “Hi, Mr. Walters,” Aaron said with no change in his expression. “These kids were making a lot of noise, and we just stopped by to see if anything was the matter.”

  “You guys are what’s the matter,” Skye exclaimed, hoping like crazy she wasn’t about to start crying. “We were just standing here! Are you okay, Pip?”

  As Pip struggled to his feet, Skye could make out two orange balloons – Pip’s former Dolly Parton chest, she supposed – bouncing across the lawn like escaping ghosts. “I’m fine,” Pip said. He tried to stand up straight, but Skye could tell by the way he clutched his side that he was in pain.

  “Are you okay, son?” the man with the flashlight asked, echoing Skye.

  “I’m fine,” Pip said again.

  “See?” Aaron said to the man – in a tone of voice that was just this side of rude, in Skye’s opinion. “Everything’s great.”

  “Let’s go,” Kee murmured, taking a few steps back, and Danko and Cord stepped back, too. But Aaron didn’t move.

  “I’ll be keeping my eye on you, Mr. Petterson,” the man said to Aaron. “C’mon, kids,” he said, turning to Pip and Skye. “I’ll walk you to the Berrigans’ front door.”

  “Buh-bye,” Aaron called out after them, his voice fake-nice, cheerful, and threatening – all at the same time. “See you guys at school!”

  So much for being invisible, Skye thought, resigned to whatever was going to happen next.

  15

  Revenge!

  HI SKYE, HOW WAS THE PARTY LAST WKND? MOM AND DAD GO 2 CONSELING NOW THEY YELL ALOT, EVEN MORE THAN BEFOR. I HAF 2 STAYE IN THE WATING RM IT SUX BUT IT IS BETTR THAN A BABYSITR. JERMY CAME OVER IT WAS COOL AT FRST BUT WE RAN OUT OF STUFF TO SAY IT WS WERD. I WANT 2 MOVE AWAY FRM HERE. LOVE SCOTT

  Dear Scott, I am freaking out about Mom and Dad going in for counseling! They are fighting even more?? Doesn’t our family have enough problems??? That is so irresponsible of them!!!!

  I’m sorry you and Jeremy ran out of stuff to say to each other when he came over. It must have felt so strange, not that you guys ever used to talk all that much, as I recall. Not like me and Hana, who never e-mails me at all anymore, by the way.

  I am afraid things will just keep getting worse and worse for us art jerks. Those football guys basically crashed Amanda’s party last weekend and beat up Pip, or at le
ast they tried to – all because of his costume, which was really out there. But he was only trying to be super-crazy and make Amanda laugh and notice him.

  Love, Skye

  P.S. Guess what? I got a second mystery drawing in my locker, and I think I know who did it! (But I’m not 100% sure.…)

  “We gotta think of some way to get even with them, or they’re gonna keep going after us,” Pip said the following Thursday afternoon when Ms. O’Hare left the art activities room to take some papers to the office. “They think we’re easy targets.”

  “Oh, no,” Maddy murmured, her face losing its color. She was obviously imagining another so-called “collision,” Skye thought, biting her lip in sympathy.

  She didn’t know what to fear for herself.

  Ms. O’Hare’s art activities group had started meeting on Thursdays as well as Tuesdays, because work was piling up. Homecoming was in two more weeks, and there was still the thirty-foot-long banner to finish and the special Homecoming newspaper to assemble. “Amelia Earhart is gonna kick Thomas Alva Edison’s butt this year,” Aaron and his friends kept going around saying, to Skye’s secret delight.

  Matteo Molina shifted in his seat. “I dunno,” he mumbled. “What can we do?”

  “I didn’t even tell my dad what happened at the party,” Pip said. “He’d probably say it was my own fault for taking art. He says art is for girls. You better believe I had to sneak my Halloween costume out of the house that night!”

  “I used to get that, too – about art,” Matteo confirmed. “Until my uncle got a job in computer graphics and started making more money than anyone else in the family.”

  “The grown-ups at school don’t really care about what happens away from school,” Amanda informed everyone, “so you can’t tell them when something goes wrong. But bad stuff is going to keep on happening – at both places. To us.”