Scumble (15 page)

I couldn't believe the words emblazoned across the pages of
The Sundance Scuttlebutt
. No, actually, I
could
believe them. I did. And, for once, they were all true. What if Sheriff Brown read this stuff? My fear of being hauled to jail returned. Then a whole new worry hit me and my heart took a swan dive into my sneakers . . .

What if
Winona
saw it?

I'd never be able to show my face at the salvage yard again.

I'd already disappointed my dad. I didn't want to disappoint Winona too. Turning to the last page of Sarah Jane's paper, my breath caught, making me cough and sputter as I read the final headline.

“She didn't! She couldn't!” I cried aloud. Sarah Jane had taken one of the Alexandras! Didn't she know that the butterflies were endangered? Didn't she stop to think that my uncle might get in trouble for not protecting the butterflies from yet another smuggler—even if that smuggler was a sneaky thirteen-year-old girl?

I already knew that Sarah Jane was a thief, but this time I wouldn't allow her to get away with it. I crushed the newspaper into a tight ball. I may have been the first person to read the Super-Duper Humdinger issue of
The Sundance Scuttlebutt
, but I would also be the last.

“Hey! Get a wiggle on, Ledge! Marisol and Mesquite are looking for you.” I'd been so intent on Sarah Jane's paper, I hadn't seen Fedora march into the glade. Bitsy stood at my sister's side, tail wagging.

“Marisol and Mesquite want to get your scumbling lesson over early, before it gets too hot for us to—” Fe snapped her mouth shut quick, remembering not to give away any secrets. I didn't care. Right now, I had much bigger secrets on my mind—a whole newspaper full of them.

“Tell Marisol and Mesquite I'm busy,” I snapped, hiding the wadded ball of paper behind my back. “Tell them I don't want any more lessons. I'm done. Their lessons aren't helping.” I cringed at the memory of the fallen picnic table and the pieces of Autry's second phone. “Nothing's helping.”

“Hey, what'd you get in the mail, Ledge?” Fedora removed her helmet and set it on the ground, picking up the empty envelope I'd dropped. I grabbed for the envelope but missed, dropping the balled-up paper I clutched in my other hand. The humdinger issue bounced against my heel and ricocheted off one of the juniper stumps. I lunged for the paper, but only succeeded in batting it into the air between me and Fedora.

“What is that? Let me see!” Fedora scrabbled for the paper as it flew toward her. I swatted it away. Then Fe and I hacky-sacked the crumpled ball between us as we each tried to be the one to catch it. Bitsy joined the game. Wagging her whole body, the dog got in my way and I stumbled, pitching forward toward my sister.

“Ow! My eye!” Fedora cried, covering one eye like I'd jabbed her. “Eyes on safety, Ledge! Eyes on safety!”

Forgetting the paper, I leaned over her. “You okay, Fe? Let me see—”

“Ha! Gotcha!” As soon as I got close, Fedora gave me a hard push—hard enough to make me lose my balance. As I windmilled my arms, trying to stay upright, she bent down and grabbed the newspaper. Then she ran down the trail toward the one place she knew I couldn't follow.

I was down the path in no time, chasing after her. Bitsy ran next to me. But when we reached the door to the Bug House, we both stopped. My heart thudded inside my chest as I looked up at the building. Autry had told me that if I thought about what scared me, I'd take my first steps toward scumbling. But so far, thinking about everything that scared me hadn't helped anything.

I fought to calm my nerves, counting backward from ten to one—six or seven times—until I felt my pulse settle. All I had to do was make it in and out of the Bug House to get Sarah Jane's paper back from Fedora without knocking the entire place down.

Bitsy whined and lay down, her eyes darting between me and the Bug House, as if she, in all her doggy wisdom, understood exactly why I might be afraid.

“Stay, girl,” I commanded as I pushed in through the outer door of the conservatory. I paused briefly to wonder at the series of mirrors and fans in the space between the outer and inner doors, precautions to help ensure that no out-of-the-ordinary insects escaped to wreak havoc. The mirrors reflected my face back at me. In one glance, I could see myself from every angle—back, front, sides—making me feel strangely as though I were whole and broken into hundreds of pieces at the same time.

The air inside the Bug House was soupy with mist. Gently humming fans circulated soft breezes through the frondescent tangle of leaves, stirring up the smells of moss and peat. For a moment, the metallic tang I always tasted was replaced with the heavy flavor of moist, rich earth. I could almost forget the glass-and-steel roof over my head, crisscrossed with steam pipes and heavy cables supporting dense, flowering vines. It was easy to lose sight of the walls filled with nails and bolts, and the motors with their bazillion pieces that turned the blades of the fans.

I thought the Bug House was awesome . . . until I spotted things crawling. And things
were
crawling. Crawling everywhere. Crawling, flying, buzzing, chirruping, and droning. Suddenly, I got a rapid and ruthless case of the all-overs. The glass overhead rattled and the entire building shook as I moved farther inside, jumping and scratching with every step, certain I could feel the tiny pinprick of insect feet on my skin.

I looked around for Fedora, not sure how I'd ever find her in the jungle of the conservatory. But beneath the murmuring
shush-shush-shush
of the fans, I could hear Autry talking with Rocket at the far end of the building. The barn shook again.

Moving carefully, I concentrated on Rocket's and Autry's voices. I was determined to find Fedora, retrieve Sarah Jane's paper, then get myself back outside into Wyoming's dust and dry heat before anything ludicrously large decided to land on me, sting me, or crawl inside my shirt.

I moved beyond a twist of flowering vines filled with the flutter of delicate, paper-like wings. Dozens of butterflies hovered close or flitted down from dangling tangles of trumpet-like flowers. Some of the butterflies were large, some small, some nearly camouflaged—hiding their colors by closing up their wings, and making me wish hiding a savvy were as simple. Others were nonstop bright and brilliant and reminded me of Sarah Jane, which only made the roof over my head rattle worse.

I found Fedora hiding behind an enormous cluster of prehistoric-looking fern fronds while trying to straighten the pages of
The Sundance Scuttlebutt
. When Fe saw me, she squealed and tried to stuff the whole thing down her shirt. I stopped her, grabbing the paper, then put a finger to my lips.

Autry and Rocket were arguing.

I clamped a hand over Fe's mouth, restraining her in the crook of my arm as she continued struggling and grabbing for Sarah Jane's paper.

“I told you it was a bad idea to make me get the mail,” I heard Rocket say, unable to forget the way he'd jammed Sarah Jane's envelope down at me with a spark.

“Now, don't blow things out of proportion, Rocket,” Autry tried to soothe him. “It was a small accident.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, conscious of the way Autry endlessly forgave my smashups—big or small.

“These kinds of
accidents
aren't acceptable,” Rocket answered, his voice bitter. “Not anymore.”

I swallowed hard. I hadn't been at the ranch
that
long. I hadn't even been thirteen for a full month!

“A young man can't expect himself to be perfect, Rocket.” Autry's words backed me up.

“No, but that doesn't mean he can't be cautious or use some basic common sense!”

“Rocket.” Autry's sigh was audible. “You've got to realize that boys grow into men, and men choose to learn from their mistakes and move on . . . and, hopefully, someday,
out
.”

Rocket's answer came fast and sharp.

“I don't think this boy will
ever
learn.”

Feeling like I'd just been stung by the Asian Giant Hornet in a tank nearby, I let go of Fedora and took a step back. But as I turned and slipped, my right hand landed in a thick, sticky web—a web large enough to have been made by that Chihuahua-sized spider.

I leaped up with a shudder, every rafter shuddering with me. The entire structure of the Bug House began to buckle and heave as bolts spun loose and the walls began to lurch and sway. Not since the night of Fish's wedding had I felt my savvy come on so strong.

“Stop, Ledge! I don't have my helmet!” Fedora cried, wrapping her arms over her head. “Falling objects can be brutal if you don't protect your noodle! My noodle, Ledge! My noodle!”

“Ledge?” Autry shouted. “Ledger, are you in here?” I heard dampened footsteps heading my direction, but I was already moving toward the exit. If I stayed any longer I'd destroy the conservatory. So I did the thing I'd trained for most in my life.

I ran.

Things flew and hopped and skittered all around me as I made a beeline toward the door. Metal bolts rained down like hailstones and I wished in earnest that Fedora hadn't left her helmet in the glade.

Rocket was right. I would never learn.

I
HARDLY NOTICED THE CARS THAT passed me, or the heat radiating from the road as I ran east, tearing Sarah Jane's newspaper into shreds as I went.

Running straight into town, I passed a utility truck parked in front of the post office and slowed briefly to look up at the workman checking the transformer and the power lines overhead. The only other thing that curbed my speed was the new red-and-white foreclosure sign on the door of Willie's Five & Dime.

Just great. One more thing for Cabot to add to his collection.

Soon I was standing, out of breath and shaking, across the street from the Cabots' hulking house and its forbidding spiked, iron fence. I wasn't going to let Sarah Jane Cabot continue to ruin my life or threaten my family.

Trying to decide if I should knock or break down the door, I ducked into the shadows of a nearby shrub, keeping a safe distance between me and the mailboxes I'd leveled on my last visit. Though right now a “safe distance” might be somewhere in the eastern half of South Dakota, or the far side of the moon.

I stared at the fence surrounding the house and the forest of hodgepodge tree stumps inside its perimeter. The familiar metallic tang was in my mouth again, sticking to my tongue like I'd licked the iron posts.

My gaze settled on the single tall birch that leaned down to hug the house. I was surprised to find Sarah Jane beneath it. She lay on her stomach across a low marble bench, knees bent, ankles crossed behind her. Her hair hung free from its usual braids as she pressed her face against the cool stone, idly plucking at tufts of grass. Knowing Sarah Jane, she was probably dreaming up all new stories to further ruin my already wrecked-up life. I wondered if she had the butterfly chrysalis with her, or if it was upstairs in her room.

Moving out of my sheltered spot, I stepped onto the empty road. The thrum of grasshoppers on the hill behind the house sounded like the teeth of a thousand combs being dragged across cardboard. I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of Mr. Cabot—or of the bug-eyed housekeeper. I'd promised Autry that I wouldn't put a shoe inside the Cabot house. With Sarah Jane outside already, I wouldn't have to break my promise.

“Hey!” I shouted as I crossed the road, stopping at a distance from the fence. Sarah Jane looked up. She waved and smiled like I was her best friend forever, come over to jump rope and put the braids back in her hair. Slipping from the bench she strode toward me, still smiling.

“I knew I could get you to visit me again, Cowboy,” she said as she drew nearer, her hair a jumble in the breeze. “You got your mail?”

I balled my hands into tight fists, the truth dawning fast. Sarah Jane didn't have one of the Queen Alexandra's Birdwings. How could she? Autry or Gypsy would've seen right away that one was missing. They would've said something. I would've known.

“Y-you tricked me with that article!” I sputtered. “You don't have one of my uncle's butterflies, do you.”

“No, Cowboy. I don't,” Sarah Jane replied with at least enough decency to wrinkle her nose apologetically.

The girl would do anything to get a person's attention.

“Was the whole thing a trick?” I demanded, pulling a shred of the Super-Duper Humdinger edition of
The Sundance Scuttlebutt
from my pocket and holding it up. “Because you can't put out this paper!”

“Relax, Cowboy! I just had to get you here. I won't put out that paper . . . not if you tell me what I want to know.”

“Sarah Jane—”

“
SJ!
Remember?”

I let out a long breath, trying to stay calm. “Look . . .
SJ
, there are things I'm not allowed to talk about. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you at all! You're going to get me into trouble. You're going to get my whole family into trouble! Would you please just give me back the jar you took and promise me no one will see that paper?”

“Oh . . . I can't give you the jar back, Ledge,” Sarah Jane said with another apologetic nose wrinkle. The tree branches shook behind her like a gentle scolding. A tremor ran through the fence.

“Why can't you give it to me? Did you break it?” I moved two steps closer.

“No.” Sarah Jane grimaced. “I didn't break it. I . . . I kind of gave it to my father.”

“You did
what
?” I exploded, ignoring the full shudder that ran all the way around the fence. “Well, get it back!”