Frogs rule, toads drool. Or, once a toad always a toad.
I promise I’ll never act so stupid again.
That done, she rolled the drawing and secured it with a rubber band, wrinkling her forehead in thought. Now, how did she get it to Chance? She could slip it into one of his pockets or leave it someplace he would be sure to find it. That way, if he didn’t like it or if he was still mad at her, she wouldn’t have to face him.
Skye shook her head. She was a lot of things, but a chickenshit wasn’t one of them. No, she would wait for the perfect moment to approach him. A moment when he was alone but not working, a moment when she didn’t think she would aggravate him. The moment when he would be most likely to forgive her. She would hand him the drawing and hope for the best.
That moment arrived two days later, at just past 7:00 a.m. Since the carnival didn’t open till noon on Sundays, most of the troupers slept in. But not Chance. She saw him leave the deserted mess tent, screwed up her courage and followed him.
“Chance?”
He stopped and turned to her. He didn’t look exactly pissed to see her, but he didn’t look happy, either. Her cheeks heated, even as she fought the urge to look away in total embarrassment.
She held out the rolled drawing. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“A drawing. I…” She stubbed her toe into the dirt, wishing she had taken the chickenshit way. “I acted really…dumb. I’m sorry.”
He unrolled the drawing, stared at it a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I’m the frog?”
She nodded, heart in her throat. “Len’s the toad.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “That’s cool.”
“Thanks. I just…I…” Her words trailed off. “Gotta go.”
She turned and started off, feeling like about the biggest nerd on the face of the planet. So much for their being friends. So much for—
“Hey! Kid? I have a question for you.”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “Yeah?”
“You really think I look like a frog?”
She didn’t know how to answer. She thought he was the coolest, cutest boy ever. But she couldn’t say that. She stared at him, cheeks on fire, totally, completely tongue-tied.
He grinned. “Lighten up, I was just teasing. I like the drawing. Thanks a lot.” He tucked it into his back pocket. “See you around, kid.”
Chapter Eleven
Skye awakened with a start. Heart pounding, disoriented, she moved her gaze over the dark bedroom. Something had awakened her, some sound. Like a person clearing their throat or a lock clicking into place.
“Mom,” she whispered. “Is that you?”
Silence answered her. Skye lay back against the pillows, drawing the sheet up to her chin. She had probably been awakened by a sound from the road just beyond the lot, or by a dream she had already forgotten. Sure. It had happened before.
Skye twisted to glance up at the window above her head. She had left it open to let in the nonexistent breeze; she saw that the nearly starless sky still wore the deep black of midnight. From outside came the sound of crickets and cicadas, but little else. It was late, so late that even the rowdiest of the roustabouts had gone to bed.
She lay back against her pillow once more. Go to sleep, Skye. It was nothing. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Even as she did, her head filled with thoughts: of Chance, of her mother’s jumpiness of late, and of what the end of summer would bring.
She rolled onto her side, then onto her back again, focusing on thoughts of Chance. She had been careful not to pester him. She would stop by to say hi, but she wouldn’t hang around offering advice and stuff. If he was busy, she left him alone. And she never tagged after him, though she had wanted to.
Little by little, things had changed between them. He didn’t get that annoyed look on his face anymore when he saw her; he had stopped telling her to scram. He even smiled at her, once in a while.
Not that she thought he really liked her or anything, but she didn’t seem to bug him anymore. She supposed he had just gotten used to her; maybe in the same way the other troupers seemed to have gotten used to him.
Secretly, she hoped he had decided she wasn’t a know-it-all, spoiled brat. Secretly, she hoped he did, at least, kind of like her. That, she had decided, would be about the coolest thing that had ever happened to her.
Skye sat up and turned on the bedside light. She retrieved her sketch tablet from the floor and flipped through the pages, stopping at the drawing of him she had done a week ago. Her favorite thing to do was sit and draw while he worked a game booth. She drew all sorts of things, but a lot of the time she drew him; this was the drawing of him she liked most.
In it, he looked out at the horizon, at nothing, yet the seriousness of his expression suggested he saw something, something important. She touched the drawing lightly, careful not to smudge the pencil. She traced her finger along the line of his strong jaw, then across his high cheekbone.
He liked her art. He thought she was good. Really good. He had told her so. And he hadn’t laughed when she told him she was going to be an artist someday, that she was going to be famous.
Skye’s cheeks burned as she remembered telling him that. Afterward, she had wished with all her heart that she could take the words back, but he had been really cool about it. He had told her to keep believing in herself. He had said that someday her belief in herself might be all she had to hang on to.
Skye drew her eyebrows together, recalling his expression. He had looked so determined. And so alone. Swallowing hard, she glanced back at the drawing of him and tilted her head to the side as she studied it. What was he looking at? she wondered. When he stared off in the distance that way, what did he see?
She would never know. Like her mother, Chance had secrets.
Chill bumps raced up her arms. Suddenly, the trailer was too quiet, the night too black. Suddenly, Skye was afraid. She moved her gaze around the room. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, fuller, as if they hid someone. Or something.
Something cold. Evil. Something that watched her.
With a squeak of terror, Skye threw aside her sketch pad, scrambled out of bed and out of the room. Her mother had taken the foldout that night. She would let Skye curl up with her; she would protect her from the dark things.
But her mother wasn’t there.
Skye stared at the empty couch, heart pounding. “Mom,” she whispered. Then louder, “Mom!”
Her voice resounded in the empty trailer. Her mother was gone.
She was alone.
The sound that had awakened her, Skye realized. The sound of their front door snapping shut. The sound of her mother leaving.
Her mother leaving. Skye thought of all the times they had picked up in the middle of the night and moved on. She thought of the things they had left behind each time—furniture, her toys, their food, no matter how full the refrigerator or pantry.
Maybe this time her mother had decided to leave without her. Maybe this time she had decided that it would be Skye she left behind.
Skye couldn’t breathe. She curved her arms around her middle, fighting hysteria. What did she do now? What did—
Her mother always took their clothes. Always. Heart in her throat, Skye raced back to the bedroom. She yanked open the narrow wardrobe, then each of the drawers in the built-in chest, riffling through the contents—her mother’s