Sarah Jane held up a rusty key and backed away, moving just beyond my reach.
“I’ll let you go, Cowboy,” she said, all traces of remorse long gone, “as soon as you tell me what I want to know.”
“What do you want to know?” I asked, working hard to keep from getting angry.
“Ev-er-y-thing,” she answered.
I squirmed, torn between keeping my mouth shut, breaking free and running, and blurting out everything as fast and as loud as Big Mouth Brody. I’d been keeping so many secrets—I was dying to tell someone something.
I struggled for a moment longer, then threw caution to the Wyoming wind.
“All right, I’ll tell you,” I said, preparing to break all the rules now, not just the one about staying away from the Cabots. I’d gotten so good at breaking stuff, why not add a few rules and promises to my list?
Taking a deep breath, I started talking: about me, my uncle, Rocket, the twins, Samson. I skipped over the part about thirteenth birthdays—I didn’t want to relive my own—but I still had plenty to tell. I even told her about Eva Mae. Sarah Jane stayed quiet, listening to my words like they were water and she’d just crawled out of the desert.
“My grandma captured the music in that jar,” I told her, nodding in the direction of the white lid nestled in the grass. “It’s full of radio waves she pulled out of the air. There used to be a whole bunch of jars like that. But I broke them all. All but the one you took. That’s why I’ve got to get it back. It means a lot to my grandpa, and Grandpa’s not . . . he’s not going to be around much longer.”
I waited for Sarah Jane to roll her eyes and laugh in my face. Or worse, to pull out a brand-new pad of paper and start taking down detailed notes, ready to call the Associated Press and syndicate the story in newspapers across the country. But she didn’t do any of these things. Instead, she narrowed her gaze and said slowly:
“Prove it.”
Flashing a quick, wry grin, I canted my head toward the rusty shackles. With a click and a rattle of iron against iron, the antique cuffs slipped from my wrist and slid down the post to land on the ground in pieces. Puffed up with pride at this bit of control, I looked from the busted cuffs to Sarah Jane.
“How was that?”
Sarah Jane prodded the mangled manacles with the toe of one green sneaker, kicking at the scattered, twisted links of chain.
“How did you do it?” she asked. “Precisely.”
“Precisely?” I shrugged. Then, with a grimace, confessed, “I—I don’t know. Usually it happens when I’m cranky.” But looking at the fallen shackles, I knew it wasn’t anger or frustration that had forced the cuffs open. This time, I’d made the choice to do it.
“Cranky?” SJ lifted an eyebrow. “Judging from the wreckage I’ve seen, Ledge, you must be the crankiest guy around . . . or the second-crankiest,” she amended with a grimace of her own.
A Cranky Cabot is bad for Sundance. I cringed. I didn’t want to be like Noble Cabot.
“I didn’t used to be this way,” I muttered, shuffling my feet as I thought back to better days—days before I’d turned thirteen. I shrugged again. “It’s not just when I get cranky. Sometimes it happens if I get startled, or hurt. But I think I’m finally getting better at controlling it,” I added quickly, looking again at the busted cuffs.
Sarah Jane squinted at me again; I could see her brain working.
“Do something else!” she commanded.
“I’m not your trick pony!” I snapped.
“Those shackles were old. They probably just fell apart,” she snorted. But her face was watchful now—curious—and her eyes never left me for a second.
Without missing a beat, I snorted right back. “They did just fall apart. That’s what I do. Haven’t you been listening?” The bars of the fence shivered. Was she trying to upset me?
Yes, I realized. She was. I’d just told her all the things that triggered me. I breathed in through my nose, held the breath, then let it out slow, wondering why Sarah Jane had to be so stubborn.
“Do something else,” she repeated. “Do whatever it is you do again and I promise I’ll give you this jar.” We both glanced down at the jar, its familiar white lid blinding in the sun.
“Okay,” I said at last. “But if I show you one more time, you have to promise not to tell anyone about me or my family and destroy all traces of your humdinger paper. You have to promise! Really promise.” I knew I was digging myself deeper into trouble by the second. But for some reason, I couldn’t stop shoveling.
“Eyes, needles, death, you got it!” Sarah Jane crossed her heart. When I frowned at her flimsy oath, she crossed her heart again, then put her hands together. “I promise, Ledge! I do!” Then she asked excitedly, “What are you going to do this time?”
“Just watch!” I raised my voice in exasperation, but I was more eager now than angry. Now that I wasn’t keeping secrets, I wanted to do something cool. I flexed my fingers once or twice and puffed my chest up even more.
What could I do that would really impress SJ?
Something in my gut flip-flopped. At what point had I started wanting to impress Sarah Jane? If Josh were here now, he’d be laughing his head off . . . or maybe he’d give me some advice. I was beginning to think girls were as hard to figure out as a new savvy. But Josh understood way more about girls than I did. He knew that Misty Archuleta would like that necklace with the M on it before he gave it to her at the planetarium. Remembering that, I got an idea.
Taking another deep breath, I wrapped my hands around the two closest fence posts and concentrated on the bolts and weldings that held them in place, trying to repeat my recent display of control. Repeat it, and, if possible, improve on it.
In seconds, things began to shift. The iron posts began to move and jerk, bending and twisting the same way the steel bracers of the windmill had done, only less out-of-control crazy. Quickly, I let go and stepped back, realizing that I didn’t have to hold on, that I could feel my connection to all the pieces through the earth and the air between me and the fence. I let my vision blur, seeing only the shapes I wanted in the fence, imagining the ants under my skin crawling into the exact same patterns. The broken links of chain from the cuffs jumped at my feet like popcorn, and the spiked posts shimmied and began to snake into new shapes.
When I stepped back to look at my handiwork, the tips of my ears began to burn. Yet Sarah Jane’s green eyes were bright as they reflected the twisted metal between us.
“Are those supposed to be my initials?” she asked with a grin.
Cramped and crooked, the letters S and J were bent into the fence, decorated with contorted curlicues and droopy flower shapes. All the picture needed was a lopsided heart with an arrow stuck through it, and my everlasting embarrassment would be welded in place forever. Half of me wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. The other half was kinda proud. Crooked or not, I’d love to see Josh top that.
Sarah Jane was still smiling. I smiled back. Next to the house, the branches of the birch tree swayed in the breeze, its leaves shimmering like green glass in the sun. If a tree could laugh, I thought, this one was certainly doing it.
As Sarah Jane took a step back from her newly monogrammed fence, she accidentally kicked Grandma Dollop’s jar, knocking it on its side. I looked down at the jar through my haze of embarrassment and pride, my brain slow to register what was wrong with the label.
The blocky yellow letters that spelled out Peter Pan Peanut Butter were missing. The label on this jar read: Elmer Mann’s Famous Pickled Herring.
I looked back up at Sarah Jane, dumbfounded.
It wasn’t Grandma Dollop’s jar at all. This jar didn’t contain any radio waves. This jar was full of nothing more magical than the lingering smell of fish.
Chapter 22
I SET MY JAW, THE CALM I’d felt gone. I’d told Sarah Jane everything! I’d broken family rules and embarrassed myself for her. And she’d conned me—again. Bent out of shape and seething, I was o
nce again riding the storm on that boat in Aunt Jenny’s painting. Only now that I was steering, I’d show Sarah Jane.
The Ledger Kale spectacular wasn’t over yet.
Without lifting a finger or saying a word, I raised the fence in a tidal wave of iron, driving the force of my anger around the perimeter. Sarah Jane drew her arms up to shield her face as her initials fell between us, the bars of the fence toppling one after the next.
It was the sound of the screen door crashing that brought me to my senses. Hedda the Horrible stepped out onto the porch, a fireplace ash pan in one hand and a dry mop in the other, looking like she thought armies of aliens might be attacking. As soon as I saw the housekeeper, I reined in my savvy, shutting it down before Hedda could mistake me for an extraterrestrial and clean my clock.
Sarah Jane lowered her arms, running her fingers along a four-inch scrape below her elbow where a fence spike had grazed her skin. The scratch wasn’t deep. Not even bleeding. But my mind flashed back to the night of the wedding and the gash left on Fish’s face after I destroyed the barn. Rocket had warned me then. He’d told me to be careful.
What use was the control I’d shown today if I couldn’t use it to control my own reactions?
I took a step toward Sarah Jane. Her eyes went wide as she looked at me—no, as she looked past me.
Behind me a car door slammed shut.
Slowly, I turned. A long black Lincoln was parked next to the curb. White-walled tires pristine. Black exterior spotless. Noble Cabot—red-faced, cranky Noble Cabot—was coming toward me.
“What in John Brown’s britches is going on here?” he shouted. His eyes followed the line of fallen fence posts, then returned to focus, hawk-like, on me. “You again!” he shouted. His cane was a jackhammer pummeling the ground. “I thought I told O’Connell to keep you and everyone else like you away from my daughter!”
Cabot rapped the side of my leg with his cane as he hollered. It didn’t hurt. Not really. But it did make me mad. And I couldn’t afford to get any angrier than I already was. In hindsight, destroying the fence might not have been the best choice.
“Are you responsible for this . . . this mess, young man?” Mr. Cabot dropped his voice to a low growl. He pointed his cane at my chest. The movement was so sudden it scared a stream of cuss words out of me. The grill on Cabot’s Lincoln shuddered. The rims of the headlamps rattled.
Cabot glanced behind him at the noise. Turning back to me, he raised his cane even higher, until the tip was less than an inch from my nose. I stared at it cross-eyed. I was caught. Just like one of Elmer Mann’s pickled fish.
“Shall I call the sheriff, Mr. Cabot?” Hedda the Horrible called from her defensive position on the porch.
“No, Daddy, don’t!” cried Sarah Jane, jumping over fallen fence posts to shove her father’s cane aside and step between us.
“This doesn’t concern you, Sarah Jane. Go inside!”
“It does concern me!” she answered. She pushed her long hair from her face. “None of this is Ledge’s fault. It’s—it’s . . . it’s mine!”
Cabot’s whole body convulsed. He took an involuntary step back, a sudden panic painting his features.
I stepped back too, equally surprised.
“What did you say?” Cabot and I asked Sarah Jane at the same time.
“I told you. It’s my fault!” SJ stood tall, chin raised. “I knocked down the fence, Daddy! I—I have secret magical powers that break things. I just look at things and they fall to pieces. Like . . . like this! Watch!”
Mr. Cabot turned to face his Lincoln as Sarah Jane held her arms out toward it.
“KA-POW!” she shouted, thrusting out her fingers. Naturally, nothing happened. Sarah Jane took a breath as if she was about to try again. Only this time when she shouted KA-POW! she stomped her heel down on my foot.
I bit back a cry as she smashed my toes with her shoe, but I couldn’t stop the pain from triggering my savvy—just as she’d known it would. Less than a second after Sarah Jane’s second ka-pow, the Lincoln’s front fender was on the pavement, the radio antenna was an arrow in the sky, and Mr. Cabot was ducking to avoid the hubcap that was sailing toward his head.
“See, Daddy?” Sarah Jane crossed her arms, ignoring the way I hopped around behind her. “I’m extraordinary. More extraordinary than anything in that room of yours. You just haven’t been paying attention! Y-you should’ve read my papers!”
“I’ve read all of your papers, Sarah Jane,” Mr. Cabot answered. “And I thought I told you not to make those copies at the five-and-dime.” He looked from the fender to the fence posts, then back to his daughter, obviously confused.
Sarah Jane went pale at the mention of the five-and-dime. Her voice went from a whisper to a wail as she stammered, “I-is that why you foreclosed on Willie’s? Because Willie let me use his copy machine?”
“Of course not!” Her father stood up taller. “I foreclosed because I own his deed and he owed me money!”
Sarah Jane shook her head.
Cabot looked at me, spluttering, “This—this is your fault!” His face grew mottled and splotchy. I felt mottled and splotchy too. What was SJ doing? Why was she taking the credit for my damage instead of handing me over like a trophy to her father? Trying to follow Sarah Jane’s thinking was like trying to follow a spinning top down a road full of hairpin turns. Every time I started to think I had her figured her out, she’d change direction.
“This is your fault,” Cabot repeated, glaring at me again. “Yours and your uncle’s. You don’t know how hard I’ve worked to keep my daughter from becoming like—”
“It’s NOT his fault!” Sarah Jane screamed. Having exhausted every last shade of red and purple, Cabot’s face went white. He gripped his cane, staring past Sarah Jane. Staring past me. Letting his gaze settle into the high branches of the tree next to the house.
“Hold your tongue, Sarah Jane.” Mr. Cabot was no longer shouting, but his voice still held a dangerous, simmering rage. “You know nothing about what you’re saying.
“You,” he said then, flicking his eyes away from the birch tree to level them again at me. “Leave now. Or I’ll have Hedda call the sheriff to escort you back to . . . back to that ranch,” he spat. “Sarah Jane, go to your room. I have things to take care of.” He indicated the jumble of fallen fence posts. “Lots of things.” Cabot shot me another dangerous look.
It was a look I didn’t like. Not one bit.
I tried to swallow, but my voice was tight with dread.
“Mr. Cabot, I—”
“The SHERIFF, boy! I WILL CALL THE SHERIFF!” He didn’t need to tell me again. I took off running. Away. Fast. Before any more pieces could fall off Cabot’s car.
Chapter 23
IF I COULD’VE RUN AND KICKED myself in the head at the same time I would have. The gray matter inside my brain was unraveling, and my eyeballs felt sharp and treacherous, as sharp as the barbed wire that ran between the wooden fence posts along the road outside of Sundance. Wouldn’t my own dad be proud? I thought as I split town. These days, I was always running. Running away. Disconnected and undone, I stumbled and tripped along the road.
A mile outside town, an old slug-bug Volkswagen full of teenage girls rattled up the road behind me, music cranked and thumping. I jumped as they laid on the horn, and their 2CUTE4U South Dakota license plate fell off and flip-flopped into the ditch at the same time the rear bumper clattered to the ground. The girls drove on, oblivious. I didn’t know if I’d made the bumper fall off, or if the punch buggy was simply ripe and ready for the salvage yard. But I did know that the time for that kind of sloppiness was over. It was just like Rocket said: I couldn’t let stuff like that happen anymore.
Glancing down at the bumper as I jogged past it, my shoe hit the edge of the pavement wrong and I twisted my ankle, taking a classic Ledger Kale dive.
Lying on my side until my ankle stopped throbbing, I stared at my reflection in the chrome bumper. It was like looking into a fun
house mirror. But instead of being reflected into infinity as I’d been in the Bug House mirrors, in the bumper I was stretched out and squished—flattened sideways like a pancake. My nose was too long. My eyes bulged and colliding. My mouth a slanted comma.
“What happened to you?” I asked my distorted mirror image. “Did you get caught in the doors of an elevator?”
No. My reflection shook his head. Just caught between crazy Sarah Jane Cabot and her father.
With nobody else there to do it for me, I picked myself up. Testing my ankle, I found that I could put my weight on it without too much pain. I dragged the fallen bumper from the road. Its edges were sharp and it was grimy with dirt and oil. But it was surprisingly light.
I hefted the unwieldy bumper over my head.
Then I clanged it down against the nearest wooden fence post.
Over and over, I smashed metal against wood, feeling the sharp edges of the chrome bite into my flesh and the vibrations in the metal ripple up my arms. I roared like a knight swinging a broadsword, fighting the windmills of frustration, venting my anger without unleashing my savvy for the first time since my birthday. Why couldn’t I have done that back at SJ’s? Why have control now, when I didn’t even need it?
I thought about the way Sarah Jane had tricked me, and the way she hadn’t ratted me out to her father. I also thought about the way her hair looked all loose and jumbled in the wind—shiny and wild. Thinking about Sarah Jane made my head a mess. But I found that as long as I pictured the bumper staying strong and straight, the thing didn’t twist or bend, no matter how much I raged.
When I couldn’t lift the bumper one more time, I dropped it.
Absolute silence had fallen around me as the earth waited for me to finish my tantrum. Then, as though some silent word sped out across the landscape that I’d run out of strength at last, a cricket chirped and the hum and drone of insects returned. Birds chittered back and forth like television news anchors reporting from the scene. Somewhere close by, a prairie dog barked out small, rodent alerts, warning its friends that there was a lunatic kid on the loose.