“Your vision-face even makes Momma and Poppa laugh sometimes.” Tuck chortled. “But they said we have to be polite.”
I slipped lower in my seat and covered my face with my hands. It was no wonder Shelby Foster didn’t want to have anything to do with me: I twirled down grocery aisles, I stuck flowers in my hair, I tossed glitter around like a giddy fairy princess . . . and I stared at people. Making stupid, dopey faces.
“Only now you stop time instead . . . right, Gypsy?” Nola spoke slowly as she sussed out the details of our switched-up savvies. I could hear the disbelief beginning to fade from her voice, gradually being replaced by awe and wonder.
“Now, instead of seeing someone else’s past or future, you get trapped in the present. Wow!” Nola paused as she pondered the idea. “It’s like you get a single lasting moment that’s yours, and yours alone. That’s pretty cool.” Nola sounded like she was trying to be kind. Like she could tell I felt self-conscious about what Tucker and Samson had said about my face, and was applying a gentle Band-Aid over my embarrassment. I wondered if anyone had ever made fun of Nola and the way she wore her makeup.
“I bet you don’t look dopey at all when you stop time, Gypsy,” Nola said reassuringly. “How do you do that, exactly?”
I straightened up a little in my seat, listening to the steady thwap-wap rhythm of the windshield wipers.
“Um, I think I just say stop. Really loudly. Or over and over again, like: Stop-stop-stop-stop-STOP!”
I clapped my hand over my mouth, realizing what I’d just done. But this time, nothing happened. Everyone and everything kept moving.
Nola raised one eyebrow. “Okay . . . so, you just said stop, loudly and a bunch of times. Did time stop?”
“No.” I shifted uncomfortably. Why hadn’t it? I thought I’d finally gotten my new savvy scumbled. I thought it was all about finding the right words: stop to make everything freeze; Grandpa’s come what may to make things go again. Now I didn’t know what to believe.
“I guess I’m still working out the kinks,” I said. Then I chewed my bottom lip.
When Tucker booted the back of Nola’s seat again, she twisted around and scowled at him. “Hey, sprout! Stop with the kicking already!”
Tucker scowled back. “I’m not a sprout. I told you when you came over the first time, I can grow into a giant. Wanna see me try?”
“No, Tuck. She doesn’t,” Samson said. He reached into his pocket. “Want some Skittles?”
“Or a piece of taffy?” I said, pulling out my own supply of just-in-case candy. Both Samson and I had stocked our pockets before leaving Grandma’s house.
“Wait . . .” Nola narrowed her eyes again, looking suspiciously at little Tuck, then back at me and Samson. “You guys told me a person has to be thirteen to get a . . . a—”
“A savvy,” I reminded her.
“Now you’re telling me that the sprou—that Tucker has got powers too? Why would that happen if he’s only seven?”
Samson shrugged. “Unexpected things happen in our family.”
“And the switch made things even more unexpected—and unexplainable,” I added. “It made Tucker grow big.”
“How big are we talking?” Nola sized up my little brother.
“Really big!” said Tuck. “But only when I’m mad. I’ve been trying to make myself grow big other times too. I try . . . and I try . . . and I try”—he slapped his hands to his forehead, then spread his arms wide—“but all I do is fart.” Tucker chose that moment to demonstrate. He scrunched up his face and concentrated with all his might. The noise that ripped from his caboose could’ve put the World’s Largest Tuba out of work. And the smell?
“Whoa! Tuck, no.” Samson quickly rolled down all the windows, not caring about the snow. “Give us some warning next time, buddy.”
Nola waved one hand in front of her face and held her nose. “There goes the new-car smell.”
Tucker sighed in disappointment. “Someday I’ll learn to scumble,” he said. He looked so deflated, Samson and I each gave him a handful of candy.
When Nola heard the crackling sound of taffy wrappers, she said, “Remember! No messes, Tucker. My mom can’t know we took her car. Though, after that stink bomb you just dropped, there may be no way to hide it.”
“I won’t make a mess, Nola,” Tuck assured her through a mouthful of taffy and Skittles, spitting colorful bits of sweets everywhere. Already, there were sticky fingerprints on the inside of Tucker’s window and on the soft black leather seats, five Skittles and three taffy wrappers lay on the floor, and the back of Nola’s seat was covered in size-four boot prints. It was going to be hard to keep Mrs. Kim’s SUV looking—and smelling—shiny-new.
By the time we reached downtown Denver, it was 6:40. The SUV’s wiper blades worked overtime to clear the snow from the windshield as Nola gave Samson turn-by-turn directions. Directions that were mostly right.
“Turn left up ahead, Fire Guy. No, wait!” Nola grabbed Samson’s wrist and pulled down on it. “Go right instead! We’re nearly there. The bus station is just a few blocks ahead, but all these streets are one-way.” Clearly flustered by Nola’s back-and-forth commands, and by Nola’s fingers touching his wrist, Samson didn’t turn left or right. Instead, he held the steering wheel steady and kept driving forward. Running a red light.
Someone honked and Samson swerved. The SUV went sliding. Nola’s shopping bags tipped over in the cargo space behind me, spilling half their contents. A can of pop rolled out of one of the bags and crashed into the rear hatch. With a bang-pop-FIZZ the can burst open and began to spin like a lawn sprinkler, showering the back of the car—and the back of my head—with sweet-smelling orange soda.
Nola’s eyes were two dark wells of horror as she turned to look at the mess. Her dismay multiplied when a police siren chirped behind us.
THE PATROL CAR DREW up on our tail, lights flashing. Samson cursed under his breath and started scanning the street for a place to pull over.
“No, no, no,” I said, wiping orange soda from my cheek. “We can’t stop. We’re almost to the bus station!”
“It’s right there.” Nola pointed to an open plaza ahead of us. “The bus terminal is underground.”
Samson maneuvered into a loading zone. The police car parked behind us, blinding us with its lights. A couple of small, electric shuttle buses waited by the plaza. A trio of bearded men with cardboard signs and overburdened grocery carts sat beneath a shelter. The snow was already inches deep on the streets and sidewalks. People of all sorts rushed to and fro, moving up and down a nearby pedestrian mall, and going in and out of a small glass building at the center of the plaza: The entrance to the underground bus station.
My heart leaped. We were so close. I prayed we’d find Grandma Pat in the bus station, twirling in her boots and ball gown.
“Be cool, got it?” Nola looked at Samson, then glanced back at the cop car. “Don’t do anything too—too flamey. Just explain to this guy about Mrs. B. Maybe he’ll help us look for her, and not give you a ticket . . . or ask whose car this is.”
I couldn’t wait for the police officer, or sit patiently through explanations. I felt bad about abandoning Samson, but my brother was going to have to deal with the police on his own.
I raised the hood of my coat and opened my door. “I’m going to look for Grandma.”
“Wait for me!” Tucker snatched his coat and mittens. “I’m coming too.” Tucker and I jumped from the SUV and fled hand in hand through the snow. The entrance to the bus station stood fifty feet away. The patrol car’s lights dazzled the snowflakes.
“Gypsy, no! We need to stick together.” Samson climbed halfway out of the car to call after me. A glance over my shoulder showed me that my brother’s eyes were glowing ember-red. The falling snow melted and evaporated around him, leaving him bone dry.
“Gypsy!” Samson called
again, his voice miserable and exasperated. But Samson wasn’t the only one who was unhappy with Tuck and me for running off.
“Hey! You kids!”
I looked over my other shoulder and saw a square-jawed police officer. The officer circled two fingers in the air, then pointed them at Mrs. Kim’s SUV, like he was trying to round us all up with a single lassoing gesture. “Return to your vehicle!”
Tuck and I both hesitated, stopping midway to the bus station.
“We could really use some help, officer.” Samson raised both hands in the air, the way people do in police shows. “We’re looking for our grandmother. She’s—”
“Get back in your car, son. Then we’ll talk.” The officer cut Samson off before he could explain that our grandmother was sick and lost, and that we were desperate to find her.
Samson did as he was told. But before he got back in the car, he caught my eye and thrust his chin toward the station, mouthing the word GO. Apparently, Samson had changed his mind about us sticking together. He knew how important it was that we find Grandma Pat.
Gripping Tucker’s hand tighter, I broke into a run.
“You two! Come back here,” the officer called after us.
“Just give us a minute,” I turned to shout, trip-skipping backward toward the entrance. “My brother has to go to the bathroom.”
“No I don’t!” Tucker tried to pry his fingers out of mine as I tugged him in the direction of the sliding doors. “I don’t have to go, Gypsy.”
“Shh! I’m only pretending so the policeman will let us go.”
“Ohhhh,” Tucker exclaimed. “I get it. It’s a trick.” Mustering his most monumental voice, Tuck shouted: “Boy, oh boy! I have so much pee in me, I could fill a swimming pool.”
“Go for it, kid. Write your name in the snow,” one of the drifters under the shelter called out, rolling his cart of belongings out of the way to get a better view. “If you let loose right here, we might have ourselves a sunny-yellow skating rink by morning.”
Surely Tucker couldn’t grow big enough to make that kind of splash! But the thought left me wondering: Just how large could Tucker grow? I hoped I’d never have to find out.
Despite the cold and snow, people on the street were beginning to stop and stare. I knew my face had to be as red as my hood and coat. I didn’t like being on the other side of the peeking and the prying.
“Ha! That man was funny, Gypsy,” Tucker said, hopping at my side. I pulled my brother through the sliding doors, then onto the escalator that would carry us down into the underground terminal.
The bus station was filled with benches and clocks and shops, and every sort of person imaginable. I could hear the muffled rumble of engines beyond the loading gates, while a pungent potpourri of coffee, popcorn, sweat, and exhaust fumes made my nose twitch. The clocks all read 7:05. Passing a small convenience store, then a coffee stand, I turned around and around, scanning the crowd. I saw no tiaras. No poufy party dresses. No Grandma Pat.
Tucker tugged my sleeve. “Look, Gypsy! Kittens!”
“Wait, Tucker—no!” Tucker ignored me. He made a beeline toward a young woman with blond dreadlocks who was sitting on the floor behind a large cardboard box, directly across from the row of shops. Inside the box were four mewing kitties. The word FREE was inked on the outside in orange marker—the same color as the striped kittens.
Part of me wanted to run to the box of purrs and whiskers too. But I was on a mission.
Keeping one eye on Tucker, I zoomed inside the convenience store, hoping to ask the boy working behind the counter if he’d seen Grandma Pat. In my haste, I cut in front of two older kids—one skinny and white, one huge and black—who were also making their way into the store.
“Sorry!” I said. “Pardon me!”
The skinny boy just glared. His skin, spotted with pimples, reminded me of slippery cave-dwelling salamanders. The pale kid gave me the shivers. His chest was so sunken, it made me wonder if he was missing his front ribs, his sternum, or his entire heart.
“Yo, Del!” the spotty kid greeted the boy at the cash register, but the greeting sounded more like a threat than a hello.
Looking me up and down, Mr. Salamander snorted. Then he and his large friend ambled to the back of the store, picking up magazines and key chains and batteries—even perfume bottles from a dusty cosmetics counter—then quickly putting each item down again, as if everything bored them. The two older boys eyed me, then Del, like they were waiting for me to leave. Like they had some bad business to conduct with the boy behind the counter and didn’t want a witness.
Del didn’t look much older than me. He wore a gray hoodie over a blue button-up shirt, and sported a spiffy yellow bow tie. His thick puff of black twists made him appear taller than he was, but he was still short compared to the other boys. Del’s friends—if they were his friends—were in high school, I guessed. Like Nola and Samson.
“Can I help you?” Del said, barely glancing at me. He kept his eyes fixed on the older boys. Beads of sweat dotted his smooth brown forehead, like dew dappling a summer cattail.
“I hope you can,” I said. Then, checking to make sure Tucker was still squatting safely by the kittens, I explained why I was there.
“I’m looking for my grandmother. Maybe you’ve seen her? She would’ve been hard to miss. She’s wearing a party dress and a tiara. She’s not well.” My voice wobbled. “She . . . she thinks she’s going to a dance at Larimer High School tonight.”
As soon as I said the word tiara, I had Del’s full attention. His eyes widened, and he began to nod. He’d seen Grandma Pat, I could tell. But before he could say anything—
“Did I hear something about a dance at the old high school?” The spotty kid and his friend moved closer. Too close for comfort.
“A rave?” salamander-boy asked in a slippery voice. “Tonight? I like it! A party during a blizzard—I’m down for that.” The boy tugged one of my curls and let it spring back. Then he jumped up to sit on the counter. He grabbed a candy bar, tore off the wrapper, and took a bite. I wrinkled my nose; the older boy chewed with his trap open and talked with his mouth full.
“Who’s this, Del? Your girlfriend?” Chew, chew, chew. “Do you guys hang out? Gossip? Paint each other’s nails? Or do you two smoochy-smoochy whenever your uncle Ray isn’t around?”
On the other side of the counter, Del flinched. Then his expression grew stony mad. He squared his shoulders and stood tall. His hands curled into tight, tense fists. Whatever was happening, or about to happen, I didn’t want to get involved; I had a grandmother to rescue.
I backed up a step and ran into the larger boy, who was standing right behind me. “Oops!” I said. “Um . . . sorry.”
“No worries,” said the big kid, his voice so soft and quiet, I almost didn’t hear him.
He didn’t let me pass.
“You’re gonna pay for that candy bar. Right, Tripp?” Del said through clenched teeth. “Ray will be right back—he’s next door, getting coffee. Or should I call George over?” Del nodded in the direction of the bus station’s lone security guard. The man looked twice as old as Grandma Pat. He sat at a desk fifty feet from the shop, chin drooped against his chest. Snoring.
Tripp chortled, and took another bite of the candy bar. “Oh, Del,” he said, spitting pieces of chocolate and peanuts as he spoke, the way my seven-year-old brother was still learning not to do. “You make me laugh, dude.” Chew-chew-chew. “You’re not going to call George over. Or your uncle. Is he, B-Bug?”
I looked over my shoulder at the boy towering there. B-Bug shook his head slowly. With the exception of Tucker, B-Bug had to be the biggest kid I’d ever seen; his coat was six sizes too big for a grizzly bear. Yet somehow I was more afraid of Tripp. Tripp had meanness in his eyes, pure and simple.
“And why won’t Del call for help, B-Bug?” Tripp snickered. B-Bug di
dn’t answer. He just sighed. But he sighed softly, like he didn’t want Tripp to hear.
“That’s right!” Tripp went on, not needing B-Bug or anyone else to have a conversation. “Del won’t call for help, because I’ve got this.” He pulled a phone from his pocket and waggled it in Del’s face. “You, my young friend, are going to give me a permanent five-finger discount at your uncle’s store. If you don’t, I’m gonna make this picture I snapped last Sunday go viral. You’re just a few clicks away from everyone at school seeing this.” Tripp pressed a button on his phone, illuminating the screen. Shining its light directly into Del’s eyes.
Del’s nostrils flared. His jaw muscles tightened as he stared at Tripp’s phone. But he said nothing.
“Once this image gets around”—Tripp waved his phone in a tight circle—“you’ll never be able to show your pretty, pretty face at Park Hill Academy again. Either that, or I could just have B-Bug rearrange your teeth. Go ahead, B-Bug! Give Del a pop on the nose. Prove I’m not joking.”
After another almost-silent sigh, B-Bug stepped around me and advanced on Del.
Del looked anxiously at Tripp’s phone, then even more anxiously at B-Bug’s raised fist, which was roughly the size of a brick. “You aren’t really gonna hit me, are you, B-Bug?” Del said, his voice shaking with anger or dread, or both. “Your mom was friends with my gran, remember? Gran used to do her makeup here in the shop sometimes, when she’d get off the bus to go to work.”
“I remember.” B-Bug hesitated, but he didn’t lower his knuckles. Looking at his pasty pal, he rumbled, “Del’s an old friend of mine, Tripp. Are you sure you want me to hit him?”
Tripp exhaled sharply. “No, B-Bug, ya big doofus. I want you to give him a kiss on the mouth, just like that old lady in the ball gown did after she jumped into your arms and called you Cleavon. Ha! You should’a seen your face!
“Of course I want you to hit him!”
Old lady in a ball gown? Cleavon? These bullies had seen Grandma Pat.
“Wait!” I said, a million questions springing to the tip of my tongue. But none of the boys even looked my way. B-Bug was already reaching over the counter. With an apologetic look, he grabbed the front of Del’s hoodie. Then he pulled back his arm, aiming his knuckles at the smaller boy’s face.