While Tripp and the old veterans rested on the wooden bleachers, and Privates Casey and Anderson, and Lance Corporal Parker, all boogied on their own, I let myself take it all in. Until—Mew! Mew!—Captain Stormalong Fuzzypants rubbed up against my leg, trilling and mewling and being button-cute.
I put my glasses back on and picked up the tiny kitten. I had no doubt that Cap’n Stormy was now a permanent part of the family. In fact, I suspected we might return home to Kansaska-Nebransas with not just one cat, but two. If Tucker had any say in the matter, the growly old cat that sunned itself on Grandma’s stoop would probably be coming with us as well.
I wished we could take Del and Nola home with us instead. After everything we’d been through together that night, I’d miss my new friends when we left Colorado.
“Hey, Gypsy!” Tucker hollered, snapping my attention back to the present in time to watch Vasquez spin him around in a swing-dance pretzel. “Aren’t you going to keep dancing with the rest of us?”
I laughed, knowing that I would keep twirling, now and forever. Nothing would ever switch that up again.
IT TAKES TIME TO recover from a storm. Days, even weeks, may pass before the sun comes back, warm and bright, melting the ice and snow of an unexpected blizzard. Sometimes the fingers, toes, and hearts of the storm-struck stay cold and numb forever. Other times, clear blue skies return faster than expected, leaving everything glistening and serene. Leaving us standing stronger for having made it through rough weather.
Poppa got to Evergreen a day later than expected. But he got there. Once he heard about Grandma Pat’s great escape, and the madcap adventure my brothers and I went on to rescue her, the world would’ve had to break in two to keep him away.
“What were you kids thinking?” Poppa asked, after giving each of us a big, long hug as soon as he arrived. But after Samson and Tucker and I took turns telling him our tale, after we explained every crazy choice we’d made, and exactly why we’d made it, Poppa rubbed his knuckles against the scar on his bald head, and said:
“I’m very proud of you all.”
When Tucker and I grinned, and Samson’s eyes glowed crimson with pride, Poppa’s face grew stern again. He quickly added, “Let’s just hope none of you have to do anything like that again.” Then he hugged us all a second time, and a third. He hugged Captain Stormalong Fuzzypants, and when Grandma woke from her nap, Poppa hugged her too. To my surprise, she let him.
“My baby boy has come home,” Grandma Pat cried, pinching my father’s cheeks.
“I’ve come to bring you home, Mother,” said Poppa. “You’re going to live with us now.”
Grandma wrinkled her nose in distaste. “With you and that so-called perfect woman you married?”
I glanced at Momma, waiting for her to trip, poke herself in the eye, or fall face-first into a piece of cake. But Momma didn’t do any of those things. She simply laughed, and her laugh was like church bells ring-a-ding-dinging on a daffodil-spring morning.
She said, “I don’t think you need to worry about that ‘so-called perfect’ woman anymore, Patrice. I’m not sure that woman will ever be returning.”
As far as any of us could tell, the switch was a permanent phenomenon. “Do you think Grandma Pat has a savvy after all?” I asked Momma quietly as Poppa settled Grandma back in her recliner. “Do you think Grandma has the power to change people? Could that be why our savvies got switched up?”
Momma wrapped one arm around my shoulders as she thought about my questions. “Maybe, sweetheart, when faced with a situation we can’t change, we find extraordinary ways to change ourselves instead.”
I squinted at her, unsure how being less-than-perfect could ever be extraordinary.
Momma chuckled when she saw my doubtful expression. “If I can learn to laugh at my mistakes, Gypsy, my new talent for blunders guarantees I will never, ever stop laughing. A sense of humor can work wonders when it comes to softening the harder parts of life.”
Unfortunately, a sense of humor alone wasn’t wondrous enough to fix Mrs. Kim’s annihilated SUV. Momma and Poppa were a thousand times more understanding about our misadventure in the city than Nola’s parents were. But just because we Beaumonts had been dealing with savvy marvels and mishaps for years and years, that didn’t mean my brothers and I were off the hook. Like Nola, we had to face the consequences of our actions. Even though the Kims’ insurance helped cover the cost of replacing the SUV, we had to make amends for destroying it.
Before leaving Colorado, Nola, Samson, Tucker, and I faced a tribunal of parents. The four of us sat across from the four of them and pled our case:
“We were trying to save Mrs. B.!” said Nola.
“We didn’t mean to cause so much damage,” Samson mumbled, working hard to keep his cool in front of Nola’s parents, now that his fiery savvy had begun to rekindle.
“We aren’t a fiendish horde of rabble-rousers,” I said. “We’re—”
“We’re heroes!” Tucker crowed, interrupting me. “Really big heroes. Wanna see how big?”
“No, Tucker, they don’t!” everyone shouted at once, startling poor Mr. and Mrs. Kim, who were already looking at my family like we were a herd of neon-green elephants.
Samson had asked Nola to keep our secret from her parents; then he blew our cover himself by standing in Nola’s front yard and drawing blazing hearts in the air, in the middle of the night, not realizing that Mr. and Mrs. Kim were both home and watching him through the window.
After squirming in our seats for an uncomfortable length of time, we were told that each of us would have to choose our own penance. Each of us would have to pick a way to show how remorseful we were about the past, and how responsible we could be in the future.
Nola immediately offered to do volunteer work at the local hospital. “I’ll also wait until I’m seventeen to get my driver’s license,” she added quickly, beefing up her punishment without even being asked. After steering her mom’s SUV over an embankment and into an icy creek, Nola was in no hurry to get behind the wheel of a car again anytime soon.
I expected Samson to choose a quiet and solitary task for his act of atonement, like shelving books in the shadowy stacks of the public library. He surprised me when he said, “I’ll contact the explorer program at the fire station when we get home and see if they’ll take me on as a junior firefighter.”
“Yeah, and I promise to send Mr. and Mrs. Kim every piece of candy I get the next time it’s Halloween,” Tucker said, nodding solemnly as if he was making the biggest sacrifice of all.
Remembering all of the old photos and mementos I’d sorted and packed at Grandma’s house, I knew right away what I wanted to do.
“I’d like to help Grandma decorate her bedroom in Kansaska-Nebransas—to make the future she has left as nice as it can be. I want to create a memory album for her too, so she can look at the scenes and the people from her past that she can’t remember anymore.”
No one objected to any of our plans.
My wild ride through the stormy streets of Denver had taught me a lot about scumbling my new abilities. I looked forward to stopping the clocks when we got home again. I’d be able to pet newborn fawns in springtime without frightening the does. I’d be able to freeze the firework finale on the Fourth of July, so that I could enjoy it longer. I’d even be able to stop time just to dance a hundred merry, barefoot circles around Shelby Foster and her new friends if I wanted to.
And yet, there were nineteen million people I couldn’t forget about. Nineteen million people who shared my birthday. A Dutch boy in Holland, a tour guide on the Great Wall of China, twin girls who took dance lessons in Denver . . .
None of those people knew about twirly-whirly Gypsy Beaumont from Kansaska-Nebransas, and her time-stopping savvy.
But one boy did.
One sweet and funny boy, who had a remarkable talent for transforming ot
her people and helping them see the best in themselves. Just like he’d done for me. Antwon Delacroix had told me I was razzle-dazzle super-Specs-tacular just the way I was. And I believed him.
Before saying our good-byes in Denver, Del and I had made a solemn vow to remain friends—and Timeless Crusaders—for as long as there were clocks on walls, and people who needed rescuing. I told him to call on me whenever he needed time to stop for a little while, and he promised he would.
Occasionally, I thought back to the first, swirling-whirling savvy premonition I’d had on the morning of my thirteenth birthday. I had seen . . .
Tucker.
Older.
Blowing out thirteen candles on a cake, and then—Gadzooks!
If my vision of Tucker’s thirteenth birthday came to pass, the way the rest of my savvy visions had, Tucker’s savvy was destined to switch again. Maybe Tucker would still be able to grow big-Big-BIG in the future. But the moment he blew out his candles, he would also be able to become SMALL-Small-small.
In just over five years, Tucker was going to shrink down to the size of one of his plastic army men and ride off on his own adventures astride Cap’n Stormy, chasing mice and squirrels and bullies and bad guys. Both imaginary and real. Proving once again that time brings unexpected and extraordinary changes for everyone.
A week after we moved Grandma Pat to Kansaska-Nebransas and got her settled into Grandpa Bomba’s old room, Momma and I took her with us to Flint’s Market. We needed to restock the pantry. We also needed to get Grandma away from the clamor of drills and hammers. Carpenters and electricians were still working to repair the giant Tucker-shaped hole in the front of the house, and the racket was too much for Grandma to bear. Momma hoped the familiar aisles of a grocery store might put her at ease.
Mr. Flint’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he spotted us. But he softened when he saw me holding the arm of a frail old woman wearing a flannel nightgown under her winter coat, and he didn’t bar us from the store. Mr. Flint didn’t even kick us out when Momma tripped and fell, knocking over a towering display of tissues.
After helping Momma pick up all the tissue boxes, I led Grandma to the floral department, where bright clusters of balloons floated above the flowers and the potted plants. Mr. Flint had taken down the winter holiday decorations, at last. “The Little Drummer Boy” no longer rum-pa-pummed over the loudspeakers. Now love songs filled the air, and everything was decorated in Valentine’s Day pinks and reds, reminding me of the way Samson and Nola had secretly kiss-kiss-kissed behind Grandma’s house, right before we left Evergreen. Since we’d gotten home, every day had become a lovey-dovey, broody-moody sweetheart’s day for my older brother. He’d even started writing poetry.
Buoyed by the sights and scents around me, I sighed happily. I almost wished I’d run into Shelby Foster again inside Mr. Flint’s store, just so I could tell her that I didn’t give a flying fig about what she thought of me or my silly, dancing, flower-picking ways. I didn’t care what she’d think about me having a grandmother who wandered through the grocery store in a nightgown, either.
“What are we doing here?” Grandma asked as I held up different blooms for her to smell and touch and see—a rose, a lily, a carnation. Even a bird of paradise.
“You never got to buy a boutonniere for Cleavon,” I told Grandma. “You wanted to get him a flower for his lapel, remember? I thought you might want to pick out a special posy now—something to remember him by, even though the dance has come and gone.”
“Dance? What dance?” Grandma scowled and waved one hand dismissively. “I don’t know what you’re nattering on about, girly. What . . . what are we doing here?”
“We’re here to buy tuna, Grandma,” I told her simply, thinking tuna fish was something she might remember and understand. But Grandma’s eyes grew cloudy and confused.
“Tuna? Do I like tuna?”
Instead of answering, I reached up and stuck a spray of baby’s breath into her white curls. Then I plucked the biggest, brightest yellow daisy I could find, and tucked it into my own ringlets. One blossom quickly led to dozens more, until Grandma and I looked like we’d had our hair done by a fanatical frenzy of flower fairies.
Gently, I took Grandma Pat’s hand and raised it high, hoping she would twirl beneath my arm. She planted her feet instead—stubborn to the end. Life with Grandma Pat was going to be hot and cold, and as blustery and changeable as the wind, for as long as she was with us.
“Take it moment by moment, Gypsy,” I reminded myself.
When Mr. Flint suddenly loomed large before me—scowling at the ten acres of garden in my hair—I closed my eyes and whispered, “Stop, stop, stop.” Stubborn or not, this moment with Grandma was one I intended to enjoy a little longer.
Nowadays, my thoughts turned immediately to Del whenever I stopped time. If Del had been with me in the grocery store, he might’ve made a mad dash for the toilet paper aisle, then the cosmetics aisle, bent on giving Mr. Flint a masterful mummy makeover. I considered doing the same thing myself, just so I could laugh with Del about it later. But mummies and makeovers were Del’s style, not mine. Instead, I removed a red rose from behind my ear and stuck its stem between Mr. Flint’s front teeth.
“Humph.” Grandma peered at the store owner and huffed in disapproval. “This sour-looking man could use a bit of sparkle, don’t you think?”
I beamed at her, and said: “Yes, Grandma. I do indeed.”
A thousand heartbeats and two bottles of glitter gel later, I stood tall and strong, ready to let time loose again. Ready to let time dance and spin along its natural course . . .
Come what may.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank my editor, Kate Harrison; my publisher, Lauri Hornik; and my agent, Daniel Lazar, for their invaluable insights and their patience. Time is precious. Thank you all for understanding that, and for giving me such unceasing and boundless support. Kate, this book wouldn’t be what it is without you. In fact, if it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be lost somewhere in Georgia, and the freezer aisle in Flint’s Market might still be filled with gnomes.
Many thanks to Regina Castillo, Jasmin Rubero, and Kristin Smith, who contributed their talents to the design and edits of this book, as well as to everyone at Dial Books for Young Readers, Puffin, and the entire team at Penguin Young Readers Group. Brandon Dorman, thank you for another stellar cover.
For giving me valuable advice, feedback, support, or information, I extend my gratitude to the following people: Sean and Matt Morris, Fio, Christine Ambrose, Derek Ward, and Kappie & Randi at HearthFire Books in Evergreen, Colorado. Also to G.K.S. and D.E.M.—and anyone else whose names or initials I’ve forgotten to mention here.
For always being at the other end of an email or Skype chat, for reading early drafts, and for never failing to cheer me on, I send only the most magical acorns and the deepest red Twizzlers to Deborah Kovacs and Linda Urban (my very own Myra).
Thank you Ellen Oh, for being willing to read my manuscript at the drop of a hat, and for sharing your thoughts. And thank you to the community of kid-lit writers in Colorado and places more distant, for giving me such a lovely and talented group of friends.
There are people in this world who make you more courageous just by knowing them . . . my sprog, you’ve made me braver. Never forget how loved you are.
Final notes: I would love to take credit for having thought up the song “Red Eye Gravy & Poi,” but I did not. It is a real and utterly delightful song sung by Melveen Leed. Inspiration for this book came to me from many places; the late Barbara Park will never know the importance of the role she played in its creation. Nor will the countless other people who wrote books, filmed documentaries, and created websites about children and teens dealing with grandparents suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s. Mine is a fantasy story—a work of sheer fiction—but there are many young people who have their o
wn stories to tell, stories they need to tell. Let’s not forget to listen.
About the Author
INGRID LAW (www.ingridlaw.com) is the New York Times bestselling author of two other books for young readers, Savvy and Scumble. Her books have been placed on more than thirty state reading lists, and have earned accolades from Publishers Weekly, Oprah’s reading list, the Today Show’s Al’s Book Club for Kids, and the Smithsonian. Savvy was named a Newbery Honor book in 2009. When she’s not reading, writing, or creating new stories, she can usually be found in a movie theater, listening to music or audiobooks, or walking around her favorite lakes and ponds. Ingrid lives in Lafayette, Colorado.
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
Ingrid Law, Switch
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends