Scumble (18 page)

“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.”

W
ATCHING 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 the 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.

S
COWLING PAST THE FORECLOSURE SIGN, ROCKET steered the truck into the salvage yard. But when Winona stepped out of the shop, he hit the brakes. Winona wore her gray-green coveralls, as usual. She also had on a pair of heavy leather gloves and a welding mask tipped back on her head. I grinned. Fedora would've appreciated the safety gear.

“That's not Gus,” Rocket said as he watched Winona remove her gloves, his thumb now tapping a rapid short-long-short, Morse code SOS against the steering wheel. After learning about Bobbi, I understood why Rocket stayed so shy. From things Mom and Uncle Autry had said, I knew Rocket had been brushing off goggling girls for years. Even so, I guessed that Winona was like no girl Rocket had ever met.

“Gus is in Vegas,” I told him as I opened my door. “That's Winona, Gus's daughter. Don't worry, she knows her stuff.”