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then you can run free.” The commands that came with time limits had always been the worst; the more specific Mom got, the harder she was to ignore.
    I was stuck. Staring forward like a statue. Frozen in a savvy-powered time-out that did nothing to improve my mood, or my nervous jitters. Fixed in place, I could feel my own savvy start to build. Like an itchy foot inside a winter boot, it threatened to drive me mad.
    Â 
    After the I-do’s, but before the final just-kiss-the-bride-already smooch, Fish’s youngest sister, Gypsy, stood up in front of everyone. Gypsy Beaumont hadn’t changed much since I’d seen her three years before at her brother Samson’s savvy birthday. She was twelve now, almost thirteen like me. But Gypsy still looked like one of my sister’s dolls after six months’ play and make-believe: tangled curls pulled into a sizeable rat’s-nest puff on top of her head, cheeks pink, shoes gone missing.
    Gypsy stepped lightly, carrying an old glass jar toward one of the stumps, oblivious to the sharp meadow grass and prickly pine needles under her bare feet.
    I recognized the jar Gypsy set down next to the fast-forward flowers. I could see the faded, antique, red-and-yellow Peter Pan Peanut Butter label easily from where I sat. It had to be the oldest peanut butter jar ever. But there was something far more interesting inside this jar than a smush of crushed-up nuts. This was one of my grandma Dollop’s jars, the jar she and Grandpa had had at their wedding—practically a family heirloom.
    Gypsy gave the white metal lid half a twist. Instantly, music rose from inside the glass. Trumpets, violins, and whatnot filled the glade, crackling with the static of a classical radio broadcast captured over fifty years past. Every note had been caught inside that jar, pulled from the air by our grandma Dollop, then canned the way other grandmas might can string beans or salsa. Only Grandma had known how her savvy held the music inside those jars, but she wasn’t around anymore for us to ask.
    I wondered what Sarah Jane would think of Grandma Dollop’s jar if she saw it. I tried to turn to look for her again before remembering that I was still stone for ten more minutes. All I could see was the ceremony in front of me, the trees, the stumps, and Grandpa Bomba swaying his wobbling head to the music.
    As the canned orchestra continued to play and I continued to stew, a woman in a floppy, flowery hat turned in her seat in front of me. Great-aunt Jules had small, squinty eyes and arms so round her watchband cinched her wrist as tight as the twist in a balloon animal.
    â€œSuch a lovely tradition, my sister’s wedding jar. So many of us have used it. I can’t wait for the days when my own grandchildren ask for it.” She dabbed her squinty eyes with a tissue. “Dolly sure did have a savvy to hold on to!” Then Aunt Jules stopped sniffing. Tilting her chin in my direction, she eyed me like some sorry reject from the savvy factory.
    â€œIs it true nothing happened on this one’s birthday, Dinah dear?” she whispered loudly to my mom. It took all the strength I had not to say something rude. Dad gave a soft snort, covering it over quickly with a cough.
    â€œThat’s nothing you need to trouble yourself with, Aunt Jules,” Mom answered. I simmered in my seat, but Mom touched the back of my hand once lightly, as if to say: Ignore her, Ledge .
    I didn’t care if she was Grandma Dollop’s older sister; I glared at Aunt Jules, feeling a vague prickle run beneath my skin. Then I watched, helpless, as the woman’s wristwatch fell apart. Gears and pins and cogs flew everywhere. But Aunt Jules didn’t seem to notice. Issuing two tisks and a tut over my sorry lack of talent, she turned back around as the fanfare from the peanut butter jar wound down.
    â€œWatch it, Ledge!” Fedora leaned across my frozen leg to waggle a finger in my