It's Only Temporary (20 page)

Farolitos
were simple lanterns made with small white candles placed in sand-weighted brown paper bags, or–more recently – electric lights inside plastic “paper bags,” and they were a real New Mexico thing, especially in the winter. Skye's dad had told her once that the word “
farolitos
” meant “little lighthouses,” because that's what the finished lanterns kind of looked like. And that comparison had been perfect for her dream – because somehow, she just knew that those little lighthouses were guiding her. They were keeping her safe.

She'd been lost in her dream, but because of the
farolitos
, she had not been afraid as she wandered through the deserted town.

And in her dream, Skye could hear the floating, in-and-out
sound of people chanting and singing as she walked the empty streets, and the heartbeat of distant drums, and even though she couldn't find those people no matter which corner she turned, she knew they were nearby. She wasn't alone.

It had been so cool.

“Putting green chiles in the stuffing,” Scott reminded her in the new, painstaking way of speaking he had that made it sound as if the words were crawling into and out of his head one at a time. “
That's
the bad thing about Thanksgiving in a hotel.”

“They put green chiles in everything in this town,” Skye observed as she tried to sketch the sticking-up monument in the middle of the plaza. “But other people's stuffing always tastes wrong, in my opinion.”

Scott sighed and looked at his watch. “How long are Mom and Dad gonna be gone?” he asked.

“At least until three,” Skye said, shifting her bottom on the uneven wooden slats and leaning back against the ornate bench's cold, green metal sculptural flourishes. “It's supposed to be like a date for them, remember? The folk art museum, and then their own private romantic lunch. But we've got money for lunch, too – just as soon as I finish my drawing.”

“It's not gonna work,” Scott said gloomily.

“Well, I don't have a ruler,” Skye said, eyeing the tall, skinny monument with a frown.

“I meant their date,” Scott told her. “They'll still argue. They've always argued.”

Skye was silent for a couple of minutes as she drew. Scott was right, their parents
had
always argued, even before the accident. It seemed important to Skye that she remember this. “But we're us, not them,” she reminded her brother.

“I gotta move around, or my legs won't work,” Scott told Skye. “It's freezing.”

“Well, so move around, then,” Skye told him, because–did they have to do absolutely everything together? “Do a couple of laps around the plaza, and by then I'll be done,” she told him, softening her tone.

“I don't know,” Scott said reluctantly, scanning the crowded area.

Wherever she and Scott went, Skye had observed in the past two days, a weird sort of vacuum seemed to be created behind them as they walked, a vacuum that caused strangers' heads to turn as they nervously wondered what calamity had happened that had placed a sixteen-year-old kid behind a walker. Once, some little kids had mimicked him behind his back, and Skye wanted to scream at them.

That head-turning and mimicking would probably
happen in California, too, Skye thought – if the McPhees really moved there.

Scott stood up a little unsteadily and reached for his walker. “They'll still fight in Sierra Madre,” he told Skye, big brother to little sister.

“I know that,” she replied, not looking up from her drawing. “Moving wouldn't fix everything. But they think it would be a fresh start for everyone.”
Mostly you, Scott
, she added silently. “Dad might not even be able to get a job in Southern California,” Skye reminded her brother. “Or that tenant in Gran's rental unit might decide not to move out after all,” she added, trying not to think that far ahead, because – what was the point, when anything at all might happen to any one of them?

Skye had learned that the hard way.

But good things could happen, too. Just look at the friends she'd made and the adventures she'd had in all-too-real Sierra Madre!

She would always, always have to come up with her own plan, Skye decided as she drew, and then hope for the best. And as of right now, her plan was to stay in Sierra Madre with Gran until the end of the school year, at the very least, if she was allowed to. Or maybe even longer. And always to keep writing to – and loving – her brother.

Loving him forever.

“But there's good doctors in California, right?” Scott asked, shuffling his legs back and forth in an attempt to warm them up. “Right, Skye? Good doctors? In case we really do get to move?”

“That's right, Scotty,” Skye said, closing her sketchbook with a sigh. “They have really good doctors in California.” She got to her feet.

“Then I'm ready to move there,” Scott said quietly. “It'll be easier, 'cause this is me, now, Skye – only no one knows that in Albuquerque. In California, new kids can just like it or lump it when they meet me, instead of comparing me to my old self. Let's go,” he said, changing the subject. “Where d'you want to eat?”

“Somewhere close,” Skye told him, not knowing what else to say. “Only I want to stop by the library so I can check my e-mail.”

“You still think Hana will write?” Scott asked, teasing her.

Skye whirled to face him. “No fair using the private stuff we wrote each other against me,” she said.

“Not in real life,” Scott agreed, as hastily as he could. “Sorry, Skye.”

“And maybe
Maddy
wrote me, did you ever think of that?” Skye said, her voice still quavering as she thought about the girl who had taught her so much about loyalty –
and even bravery. “She's my friend now, too. Or maybe Amanda e-mailed me, or Pip, or maybe even Kee! Or maybe Hana
did
e-mail me, even though she hates writing,” she added. “But Hana probably wouldn't write a ransom note if she were kidnapped, so it's not exactly like my feelings are gonna be hurt even if she
never
writes. We were still friends, though. That was real.”

“I think it's usually the bad guy who writes the ransom note,” Scott said cautiously as they began their step-
bump
, step-
bump
, step-
bump
way across one of the plaza's diagonal paths.

“You know what I mean about private, Scott,” she insisted. “That's how it has to be, if we're going to be stick together.”

“Yeah, I know,” Scott said. “But I think Hana is still your friend,” he added shyly. “Anyone would want to be your friend, Skye.”

“Huh,” she said, feeling shy as well, but pleased.

Her big brother's awkward words were comforting to Skye, and she warmed herself with them as morning ended and she and Scott made their way across the ancient plaza, through the clear, cold light.

First, I acknowledge my indebtedness to Pasadena's former Neurological Learning Center, where some time ago I worked for a year with brain-injured young adults, assisting the art therapist and, later, teaching drawing. My time there left me with an awareness both of the devastating effects of these all-too-common injuries and of the hope that endures in the young people who suffer such injuries. I came away from that time with enormous sympathy and respect for that center's clients and their families. I hope those sentiments are reflected in this work.

Next, I give sincere thanks to three people at Curtis Brown, Ltd.: my agent Ginger Knowlton, her assistant Tracy Marchini, and foreign-rights agent Dave Barbor. I am grateful to all three for their invaluable support. I also once again thank Tracy Gates, my longtime editor at Viking Children's Books. I value her taste, humor, empathy, stamina – and her willingness to listen to my occasionally off-the-wall ideas. It is always a productive pleasure working with her. In addition, I thank Viking's art department, especially Nancy Brennan and Sam Kim for all their hard work on this challenging project.

Additionally, I thank Pasadena artist and musician Alex Twomey for creating the three “mystery drawings” for this book. I also thank a friend I've known since the day he was born, glassblower and future writer Evan Chambers, who shared the plan for his inspired Halloween costume with me and invited me to use it in this book.

Finally, I thank my great friend Debby Schwartz for her fierce and uncritical loyalty. I need it! And, always, I thank my husband, the writer Christopher Davis, for his unwavering support and for his open-hearted willingness to adopt and listen to my many chattering characters long enough for me to get the job done.