Scumble Read Free Page B

stormy ocean, a boy on the deck—a boy who looked an awful lot like me, only braver.
    Not defective, not defective, not defective . I chanted the words to myself until I fell asleep, praying to God that they were true.
    Â 
    After my Knucklehead demolition in Sundance ten days later, I was sweating bullets. Riding in the suffocating van, I closed my eyes and hunched my shoulders, trying to think of nothing. Trying to ignore the feeling of my savvy building steam again as I fought to forget my most recent awful memories: the smell of spilled motor oil; a sound like a thousand steel cans hitting asphalt; the glint of chrome and metal under the noonday sun.
    â€œ You okay back there, Ledge?” Dad’s voice brought me back. I opened my eyes, meeting his look of concern in the rearview mirror. The mirror yawed and tilted . . . shook . . . then fell. Dad caught it easy. I clenched my fists. My savvy was as useless as a pogo stick in quick-sand, and I wasn’t the only one who could see that I was sinking.
    â€œIt’s getting worse, Dinah,” Dad said in an undertone as he handed the mirror to my mom. “I’m beginning to think this trip might’ve been a bad idea.”
    â€œWe’re almost there, Tom,” Mom answered, her own tone less than reassuring. She turned to me and forced a smile. “Just relax, Ledger,” she said. “You can control things a little longer.”
    â€œYou mean you can control things a little longer,” I muttered, too quiet for Mom to hear. As my fists uncurled and my muscles loosened, I wondered how long this latest round of enforced relaxation would last. The closer we got to Uncle Autry’s ranch, the more I hoped my parents weren’t both thinking the same thing: that it might be safer for everyone if they simply left me on the side of the road.
    Taking the second exit to the right and continuing straight on till nowhere, we reached Uncle Autry’s ranch. I was first to the back of the van to grab my bag. But when the hatch swung open and two green eyes met my gray ones, I almost sent that rear door into orbit.
    Sarah Jane was sitting in the middle of my family’s luggage.

Chapter 3
    F OR A MOMENT, STORIES OF MY cousin Mibs Beaumont’s thirteenth-birthday stowaway journey on a big pink bus flashed through my mind. Sarah Jane didn’t look any older than me. I wondered if it was a habit of teenage girls to run away and hide themselves in other people’s vehicles. For my sister’s sake, I hoped not.
    Sarah Jane held a finger to her lips in warning. Knowing that she was one of the few people who’d seen me wreck stuff in Sundance, I threw a picnic blanket over her before the rest of my family appeared to get their bags. I’d already pinched Fedora until she promised not to tell, but I couldn’t guess what this girl might blurt if Mom and Dad discovered her.
    â€œI’ll get our stuff!” My vocal cords stretched and snapped over the words like rubber bands pulled too tight.
    â€œLedge—” Mom began.
    â€œNo, really! I’m happy to get everything!” Untapped manners surfaced from some dark and dusty place as I herded my family away. Mom gave me a suspicious look.
    â€œLet the boy be, Dinah,” said Dad. “If Ledge wants to carry the luggage, more power to him. Don’t forget the cooler, son. Just . . . you know, try not to break it?” Dad’s words cut me to my sneakers, but I had bigger worries. As Dad nodded toward the cooler, I jumped to block his view of Sarah Jane’s green Converse low-tops jutting from behind it, hoping too that Dad wouldn’t notice the girl’s collection of papers where they lay next to our bags. I could see now that every sheet was a single-sided photocopy of a homemade newspaper, each with the same bold headline:
    SELMA WITZEL ABDUCTED AFTER BAKE SALE —
TRADES STRAWBERRY-RHUBARB PIE TO ALIENS FOR FREEDOM
    The words sparked