by Ingrid Law
Behind me, someone cleared his throat.
“That’s some progress, I suppose. At least the barbed wire’s still intact.”
I turned my head slowly. Across the road, Rocket leaned against the side of his truck, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. I hadn’t heard his old F-1 arrive, or the squeaky sound of the truck’s door opening or closing. I wondered how long my cousin had been watching me.
A trio of noisy choppers sped up the road between us. Rocket rubbed his shaggy beard with one thumb, gazing after the bikes as they passed into the distance. Then he turned his electric blue stare back at me and I guessed that I was done for. I might’ve been better off if Hedda the Horrible had called the sheriff to come and lock me up.
“So. Got it all out yet?” Rocket asked, his voice surprisingly calm, like he was asking me if I was done throwing up. Stomach churning, I thought I might start. Before my cousin had the chance to electrocute me on the spot, I rose to my feet and tried to make a break for it.
“Ledge!” I heard him call as I stumbled up the road on my sore ankle. “Ledger! Hold up!” I already knew what Rocket thought of me. I wasn’t going to stop now just so he could say it to my face.
But I did stop—fast—when a crack of blue sparks lit the air, and a single serrated line of electricity blocked my path in a lingering bolt, cutting through the air in front of me and hanging there, filling my ears with static and making my hair stand on end. I turned to break left, and another crackling blue current reined me back. In every direction I turned, Rocket constructed a grid of jagged, glowing lines, boxing me into his very own savvy-powered electric fence.
“LET ME GO!” I dropped to my knees. “Just let me go!” My shoulders slumped and began to shake. I didn’t want my cousin to see me cry, but tears dripped down my nose before I could stop them.
As soon as Rocket let his electric snare drop with a sizzling hiss, I tried to make another break for it, scrabbling feebly on hands and knees. Exhausted, I didn’t stand a chance.
“Ledger, just stop,” Rocket said as he grabbed the collar of my shirt, dragging me backward and holding fast. I struggled, shouting wordlessly until Rocket got me pinned, one arm wrapped around my neck in a half-brotherly, half-nelson kind of way.
“I told Autry I’d find you and bring you back,” he said, not letting go. “What happened, Ledge? Why’d you take off like that? You’re always running!” He shifted his grip on me, but didn’t let go. “Look, I don’t care if you and Sarah Jane Cabot are pen pals—I don’t care if the two of you are planning a trip to Mars to get married—but if Autry knew, he would care. It was a good thing I got the mail today, even if I did take out a transformer. There would’ve been some dark swarms over the ranch if Autry had seen—”
“That’s not it,” I cut him off. “I didn’t take off because of the mail. I mean, that was part of it, but I . . . I . . .”
“You . . . you . . . what?”
“I know what you think of me,” I spluttered. The conversation I’d overheard inside the conservatory still stung. I swiped drips of sweat and snot from the end of my nose before blurting, “You think I’ll never learn to scumble!”
“What’re you talking about, Ledge?” Rocket huffed.
“I heard you!” I shouted at him. “I heard you talking with Uncle Autry in the Bug House. You said this boy will never learn.”
“What? You idiot!” Rocket rubbed his knuckles hard into my scalp, then released me abruptly. He settled down in the dirt next to me, running both hands through his hair with a crackle of static.
“I wasn’t talking about you, numbskull! I was talking about me.”
“You?” I stared at Rocket as his words sank in.
“Yes, me.” Rocket held his hands up in fists, then thrust all of his fingers straight. Ten thin fountains of sparkling blue electricity plumed from his fingertips, each sparking jet towering a dozen feet or more into the air before subsiding again with a sharp snap.
“Autry sent me into town to get the mail and I took out the power for five blocks around the post office! I’m a human firework, Ledge.”
“Yeah, but you’re . . . cool.”
“Y’think?” my cousin snorted. “I’ve done my share of damage, believe me. And not just to the Sundance post office after seeing mail arrive for you from a Cabot. I’ve made a mess out of power grids from Mississippi to Kansas. I can’t even begin to tell you how many lightbulbs I’ve blown apart since the day my savvy hit. My momma used to keep a dustpan in every room in the house. I nearly thought I killed my poppa once, and I—” Rocket stopped. I watched him curl his hands back into tight fists. “I really did hurt someone else once, Ledge,” he said, then added quickly, “Unintentionally, of course. Not on purpose. Not ever. I wouldn’t do that. But still, I hurt someone I cared about.” He rubbed the back of his left hand as if the memory of someone else’s pain burned him there. I hung my head, thinking of the mark the flying fence posts had left on Sarah Jane.
“I hurt someone too,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt Fish, Ledger,” Rocket tried to reassure me. “I’ve been trying to talk to you about that for weeks.”
I hung my head lower yet. The gouge I’d left on my cousin had been an accident; I hadn’t meant to destroy the barn and send all that shrapnel flying. But back at the Cabots’, when SJ got hurt, I’d been angry. I’d been trying to make an impression. Just not that kind of impression.
“Who did you hurt?” I asked Rocket tentatively. “Were you a kid when you did it?” Sitting in the dirt next to me, Rocket rested his elbows against his knees, once again rubbing his thumb absentmindedly against his beard. Behind the scruff, his face looked pained.
“It was a long time ago,” he answered. “But I was still old enough to know better. I was showing off . . . for a girl.” He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth turned up a little in an embarrassed half smile. I squirmed.
“All this time, I thought you hated me,” I said, glancing nervously at my cousin.
“Hated you?”
“Yeah. I kind of thought you wanted to kill me.”
Rocket grimaced. “Sorry, Ledge. I didn’t realize I was making you that uncomfortable. It’s been hard to watch you struggle.”
“So, does anything help you not zap stuff?” I asked, feeling braver now that I knew Rocket had no immediate plans to electrocute me.
Rocket snorted. “Apparently, hiding. At least, that’s what our uncle claims I’m doing by living on the ranch so long.” He picked up a twig and began breaking it into pieces, tossing them over his shoulder one by one. “I guess it runs in the family.”
“What? Hiding?”
“ Haven’t seen too much of Samson since you got here, have you?” Rocket raised his eyebrows.
“No . . . because he’s invisible.”
“Sure. But he doesn’t have to be. In fact, I think the whole world’s better—stronger—when he joins in. Just look at Grandpa Bomba! It’s like he’s ten years younger whenever my brother casts a shadow next to him. When he actually shows up . . .” Rocket whistled and trailed off. I wasn’t entirely certain what he meant, but I felt better knowing that I’d seen Samson after all, that I hadn’t been imagining things.
“So why doesn’t Samson just stay visible all the time?”
Rocket considered for a long time before answering. “It can take a lot of strength to show up and be yourself . . . don’t you think?”
I shrugged, not sure what I thought. I’d spent the last years trying to show up and be the kid my dad wanted me to be. Rubbing my sore ankle, I frowned, noticing how worn down the tread on my shoes had become. It was no wonder I’d slipped and tripped. Maybe it was time to slow down a little. Or put on a different pair of shoes.
I laughed once—a short, sharp burst of air through my nose. “I run. You and Samson hide. We’re like outlaws,” I said. “Fugitives.”
“Fugitives,” Rocket repeated. “That sounds about right.
Ever on the run from our own savvy talents.” Rocket smiled and punched my arm, careful not to shock me. It was the first real smile he’d given me since I’d arrived in Wyoming, but the expression was short-lived. His face grew dark as he looked up the road beyond me, his voice dropping to a low growl.
“I think we outlaws and fugitives had better keep our cool, Ledge, ’cuz it looks like the sheriff is headed this way.”
Chapter 24
WATCHING JONAS BROWN’S TRUCK APPROACHING FAST, I scrambled to my feet and stood next to Rocket, wondering if Mr. Cabot had called the sheriff after all.
Sheriff Brown pulled over when he saw us, his truck repaired—door skillfully reattached. Stepping out of it, the sheriff placed a straw Stetson on his head, straightened his sunglasses, and hitched his gun belt higher. I half expected to hear the clink of spurs on pavement as he moved toward us.
“You fellas all right?” Brown asked. “Is there a problem here?”
“Everything’s swell, Sheriff,” Rocket answered, sounding overly chipper as he shoved both hands into his pockets. “Right, Ledge?” He bumped me with his elbow and I nodded.
“I thought I told you to fix the brake on that old rust-bucket of yours, son.” Sheriff Brown pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peered over them at Rocket.
“Not a problem, Sheriff,” Rocket replied, pulling one hand from his pocket to point over his shoulder. “My truck’s not going anywhere, sir.”
“Have you told that to your truck?” Brown tilted his head down the road. The old Ford was already fifty feet away and gaining ground, wandering off like Bitsy in search of a better spot of shade.
“Whoa! Get back here, you!” Rocket shouted, giving chase. Catching up to the truck, Rocket jogged alongside it. He leaped onto the truck’s sideboard. The truck rolled faster. Even from a distance I could hear Rocket cuss as he tugged on the sticky door handle.
The truck veered right, toward the steep irrigation ditch next to the road. Rocket gave up on the handle. He hoisted himself headfirst through the open window, struggling to get both shoulders into the narrow opening. I could hear the steel of the truck humming in my ears, mumbling rusty secrets.
“The cable’s busted,” I said aloud, my voice sounding like it came from someone else—someone older.
“Might be.” Brown nodded. “It could also be a rusted actuator.”
“No. It’s the cable,” I insisted, not having a clue how I knew it. It was the same feeling I got whenever I helped Winona with the Knucklehead—I could see the problem clearly in my mind. The cable was definitely busted. Rocket needed to turn himself around. He needed to get his boot down on the foot brake fast, or the Ford was going to flip down the bank of the ditch. And if the truck rolled, Rocket was going to roll with it. He’d get crushed. Or drown in slow-moving water. Trapped beneath tons of steel.
“Rocket! Son! Get out of there!” the sheriff shouted, suddenly seeing the same fatal future. I yelled too. But Rocket didn’t hear.
Sheriff Brown made tracks. He ran after the truck like his gone-to-Jell-O muscles had the strength to stop it.
If only Marisol and Mesquite were here! They might have lifted the truck up and set it down someplace safer. Or Autry! He could’ve built a barricade of bugs, or instructed spiders to spin a safety net over the water.
The sheriff would never get to Rocket in time. I couldn’t either, no matter how fast I ran. I squeezed my eyes shut. All I could do was wish and hope and pray the truck’s brake cable would fix itself.
The squeal of tires made me open my eyes—just in time to see the truck lurch to a stop at the edge of the ditch.
Letting out all the breath I’d been holding, I watched Rocket pull himself the rest of the way into his truck, twisting to get himself right side up in the driver’s seat. I jogged quickly to join the sheriff, ignoring the stiffness in my ankle. Sheriff Brown was already busy chewing Rocket up and spitting him back out. Behind the wheel, my cousin sank lower in his seat with every word. Eventually, Brown finished shouting, saying, “You go straight to Neary’s place right now, son. No detours! I don’t want to see this truck on the road again until it’s fixed!”
“Yes, sir,” Rocket answered. “Neary’s. Got it.”
Rocket held tight to the steering wheel, letting the truck idle at the side of the road as he watched the sheriff leave. Then he turned the Ford around and headed for Neary’s Auto Salvage Acres, one thumb tapping anxiously against the wheel as he glanced from the brake lever to me.
Still tense after the near-accident, neither of us spoke. As Rocket drove up the road, the wind carried the smell of sun-warmed sage and cow pies through the truck’s open windows. It billowed hot air through our hair, and puffed up our T-shirts like balloons. Soon we both began to relax.
The interior of Rocket’s old Ford was plain. Like the exterior, he hadn’t done much to fix it up. He’d added a couple of rubber floor mats and a rubber steering wheel cover—simple precautions lacking free electrons to help protect the truck from any electric outbursts. But the only personal item inside the truck was a single faded photograph stuck to the dashboard.
The picture was old. Bent. Faded by the sun. The girl in the photo was pretty, with hair a darker shade of blond than Sarah Jane’s and bangs that hung low over her eyes. The girl’s smile, frozen in time, was playful and snarky, like she’d been joking around when the picture was taken.
“Is that the same girl who . . . you know? The girl you mentioned before?” I asked, nodding at the photo. I thought she might be the same girl in the photograph on his wall back at the ranch—the one with the gum bubble in front of her face. Looking down at the photo, Rocket drummed his thumb faster against the wheel. Then he pulled the picture off the dash, leaving a pink nugget behind; Rocket had used a chewed-up piece of bubble gum to stick the photo to the dash.
My cousin stared at the picture in his hand for the length of a heartbeat. Then, folding it once, he stuck it in his pocket and nodded, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Yeah, that’s her.” He answered lightly, but I didn’t miss the way his hands gripped the steering wheel even tighter.
“So . . . what happened?”
“It was a stupid mistake, Ledge, that’s all.” At first I thought that he wasn’t going to say anything more. Then the words started spilling.
“I went back home after my first few months here. I was still a teenager—though barely—and I was sure I’d gotten a handle on my savvy. Bobbi said—”
“Wait,” I said. “Bobbi? You mean Will Meeks’s sister?”
He shrugged. “Technically, his aunt. But that’s another story. Do you want to hear this one, or not?”
I zipped my lip.
“Anyway, Bobbi said she wished she could know what it was like to be able to harness lightning or shoot sparks. We’d known each other for a while—we dated—so she knew all about our family and what I could do.
“We were goofing around and I was feeling indestructible, forgetting that she wasn’t. I thought I could show off. I thought I could handle my savvy well enough to pass a bit of electricity from my hand through hers—you know, to let her shoot a few sparks of her own . . .” He trailed off, once more rubbing the back of his left hand.
“Did it work?”
The muscles in his jaw tightened. “Oh, Bobbi shot sparks all right. She also got burned. Badly. She could’ve been killed.”
Thinking of SJ’s arm, I wondered, “Did she forgive you?”
Rocket took his time before answering. “Yeah. She forgave me. She even tried to convince me it was half her fault. But I’ve never forgiven myself. After that, I figured her life might be better if I kept myself out of it. We’ve both moved on.”
Maybe Bobbi’s moved on, I thought, looking at my cousin. But Rocket’s still anchored in place.
My cousin was quiet again until we reached the salvage yard. But instead of turning immediately onto the access road to Neary’s, he pulled the truck over and parked in front of t
he foreclosure sign, killing the engine. Rocket turned in his seat and looked at me with a sigh.
“My mom paints.”
“Uh . . . yeah. I know,” I said. “Your mom sent me a painting for my birthday.” Aunt Jenny was perfect and had been since the day she’d turned thirteen. The last thing I’d ever be was perfect. Why was Rocket telling me this now?
My cousin must have sensed my confusion.
“Did you know that the word scumble is a painting term, Ledge?”
I shook my head.
“Momma could explain it to you better,” he went on. “But the way I understand it, scumbling is a technique painters use to tone down a color so bright it jumps right off the canvas—so intense it takes over—making it hard to notice anything else about the painting. Scumbling doesn’t get rid of that bright color, it blends it better with the rest of the picture. It evens everything out. That way the painting feels more balanced.”
“Balanced?” I echoed. Rocket chuckled.
“Do you feel very balanced right now, Ledge? Or does your savvy feel like it’s going to take over? Like it’s too intense to let you pay attention to anything else?”
I nodded, starting to understand.
“Think about it like this,” he went on, growing animated. “If you compare scumbling a painting with scumbling a savvy, you have to imagine that you are the painting, the whole painting. The people and the world around you are not the painting. Scumbling is not about you trying to fit in with the rest of the world; it’s about making your savvy fit in better with you. It’s simply learning to balance all the different parts of yourself so that you don’t let the one thing that feels most out-of-control take over and rule your life. Get it?”
“Simply?” I snorted. “Did you really just say simply?” I raised an eyebrow at my cousin. Rocket caught my expression and laughed out loud. The sound filled the truck’s cab and spilled out the open windows.
“I suppose I’m the last person on the planet who should be giving you the ‘scumble talk,’ Ledge.” Rocket sighed. “I’m just passing along what I’ve been told. What I’ve been told over . . . and over . . . and over again.” As he said it, Rocket radiated a faint blue glow, painting everything inside the truck’s cab blue as well—even the dried-up bit of bubble gum that was fixed to the dash like a hardened memory he’d never fully pry loose.