The Penderwicks in Spring (21 page)

Batty wouldn’t go to her special place by the willow, not this morning. It was too forlorn and empty without Hound, and not far enough from home. But what if she crossed the creek into the wilder half of Quigley Woods? She’d been there several times under Rosalind’s protection, though never on her own. The rules of Gardam Street forbade it for anyone under twelve, and those who didn’t care about rules were usually discouraged by rumors of quicksand.

Today Batty didn’t care about rules—or rumors, either. She followed the nearest path to the creek, then determinedly set off upstream to where it widened and ran shallow enough for fording. She could have headed downstream instead, to the small wooden bridge, which would have been safer—and had always been Rosalind’s choice—but Batty wasn’t in the mood for
safe.
And when she reached the shallows and waded across, she was almost pleased that the water wasn’t quite shallow enough for her boots, which needed to be emptied when she reached the other side. The way on from here required climbing a hill that turned out to be steeper than it had looked, and
after several slips backward, Batty took off the boots and went on with bare feet. By the time she made it to the top, her pajamas were torn and muddy, and her feet and ankles scratched, grim marks of her struggle. She didn’t care.

The woods were denser and darker on this side of the creek, and the paths less defined. Sometimes there were no paths at all, just areas with slightly less underbrush. Nevertheless, Batty put her boots back on and tromped into the trees, soon surprising a red fox out for a morning amble. Neither knew who was more startled, but the fox broke eye contact first and slid away into the shadows.

Maybe because the fox was the same color as Ben’s and Lydia’s hair, or maybe because, in her troubles, Batty had forgotten how to be sensible, she decided to follow the forest creature. She struck out in the direction it had gone, although it was already out of sight—and whatever would she do with a fox if she managed to catch up with it? But she didn’t think of that until there had been nothing that looked like a path for five minutes. And then she remembered the quicksand—that would suck her in and never let her go—and how, if it lay in wait anywhere, it would be off the paths. Forgetting the fox and also that quicksand can’t actually chase people, Batty panicked, racing through the woods until she tripped over a fallen log hidden under years of dead leaves.

She thought about crying then, but managed to
fight it off by concentrating instead on standing back up, only to discover that she’d wrenched her ankle. Not so badly that she couldn’t walk, but enough so that she’d never make it back down the big hill to the creek. Which really didn’t matter anyway. Chasing the fox had befuddled her sense of direction, and she no longer knew how to find the hill again.

Batty looked around for something to head toward. There, over to her left, she caught a glimpse of white, far off through the trees. That was as good a choice as any. Limping, she pushed her way toward the white, which turned out to be a birch tree, then she picked a pile of gray boulders to head toward, and from there, she reached a small clearing, and on and on, until with great luck she managed to stumble upon a path that took her out of the woods and back to the real world—that is, to an unfamiliar backyard with a sliding board and battered swing set.

Batty dragged herself over to the swings and lowered herself onto the one that looked the sturdiest. It was still quite early—no one was around to mind her resting there while she figured out how to get home from wherever “here” was.

But it turned out there
was
someone there, peering at her over the top of a bush. No, wait, two someones. Batty blinked, wondering if her misery was producing double vision. But when the someones crept out to see her, they stopped being hallucinations and became a set of twins, identical in looks and dress, nervously
holding hands. She recognized them now—they were kindergartners at Wildwood.

Batty realized how peculiar she must look to them, with her huge sweater and boots and her poor, wretched pajamas. And what about her hair? She reached up to check.

And with hair a gigantic mess, full of twigs and leaves, and with a face that possibly reflected the desolate truths she’d learned in the last dozen hours.

“I hope you don’t mind that I sat on your swing,” she said. “My ankle hurts.”

“Do you live in the woods?” asked one twin.

“We’re not allowed to talk to strangers,” said the other.

“I’m not a real stranger. My name is Batty Penderwick, and I go to Wildwood, just like you do.”

The twins turned to each other, communing wordlessly before facing Batty again.

“You’re Ben’s sister,” said one. This seemed to make them think Batty was safe to talk to and also added to her stature in their eyes.

“He’s in second grade,” said the other. “And he’s friends with Rafael.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Batty. “Do you know where we are? What your address is?”

“Massachusetts.”

“Anything more? Your street?”

They didn’t know their street, but they thought that their mom would know it. And also, their names
were Tess and Nora, and could Batty please say hello to Ben for them when she got home? When she promised, reluctantly, they took her inside, where their mother politely hid her shock at the sudden apparition of a bedraggled fifth grader. More important, she told Batty the street address.

Now Batty knew where she was and how to get back to Gardam Street. Not through Quigley Woods—she’d only get lost again—but along the roads. It was quite a long walk, though, much too long for her in this state, especially with a sore ankle.

She had to call someone, wake up whoever it was, and expose her pathetic adventure. Not Iantha or her dad, who would need explanations she couldn’t give, and not Rosalind, who would need almost as many explanations, and who, besides, probably would bring Oliver along. And not Jane, either, because if she called Jane, Skye would find out. And Batty didn’t want to see Skye, or for Skye even to know anything about all this.

So when the twins’ mother handed her a phone to call home, Batty pushed up the sleeve of the ancient, wrecked sweater, and instead dialed the number still written on her arm.

Ten minutes later, Batty was climbing into Nick’s truck, laden with drawings Tess and Nora had made for Ben, folded up into tight little squares for privacy. Nick hadn’t been happy with her when she’d called, and he wasn’t happy now.

“When I said you could call me for an emergency, I didn’t mean that you should create one of your own. What made you think it was a good idea to take a dawn stroll through Quigley Woods?”

“I guess I didn’t really think.”

“You
guess
? And you crossed the creek! Do you know how dangerous that is?”

She fought back. “Well, I didn’t get stuck in quicksand!”

“Of course you didn’t!” He shook his head. “I made up the quicksand a long time ago to discourage Tommy from following me.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t so dangerous.”

“You could have broken a leg and no one would have known where to find you.” He glanced at her, then went on more calmly. “Are you all right? Because you look terrible.”

“My ankle hurts a little. I tripped over a log.”

He pulled over the truck and made her take off the boot so that he could inspect her ankle, bending it gently this way and that. “Doesn’t seem too bad. I’ll give you an ice pack for it when we get back.”

He started up the truck again. “Did Oliver upset you? Is that why you ran off?”

She shook her head, wishing she could pin everything on Oliver. “Don’t ask me any more, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Whether or not you talk about it, your family is going to know something’s wrong. Because it’s written all over your face.”

“I’ll change my face!” she cried. “And they won’t notice. Oliver will distract them.”

“Finally, a use for Oliver.” He concentrated on driving while she stared out the window at the spring morning, bleak and meaningless like everything else in her life. “Batty, I can’t help being concerned about you. I’ve known you for too long.”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

He frowned. They both knew she wasn’t telling the truth. “I’ll stop asking questions if you promise to stop running around the wild parts of Quigley Woods by yourself until you’re older, and I mean much older, not just eleven.”

“I promise I won’t cross the Quigley Woods creek by myself until I’m at least twelve.”

“I guess that’ll do for now.” They pulled onto Gardam Street and then into the Geigers’ driveway. He told her to stay where she was while he put together an ice pack for her. Staying in the truck was easy. Batty wished she could hide there for the rest of her life.

He came back with a plastic bag full of ice cubes. “Put this on your ankle, and with a little rest, you should be fine.”

“Thank you, Nick. And for rescuing me.”

“You’re welcome. Wait, before you go, one more question. Don’t give me that look. This is a good question. What do you want for your birthday?”

Her birthday! How had she managed to not consider
her approaching birthday? Suddenly she couldn’t bear the idea of celebrating that day in May, almost eleven years ago, when she’d come into the world and her mother had started to leave it. The birthday that was supposed to have been so much fun, a triumph of surprises, had turned into a nightmare.

The anguish that Batty had been trying to outrun caught up and took over. She slumped in her seat, and the tears she’d fought off poured out of her, buckets and rivers and oceans of tears. If only Nick would have gotten out of his truck and left her alone, she could have cried forever. But there he was still, waiting patiently.

“I’m sorry,” she gulped when she could get herself under control.

“You
will
tell me what’s upsetting you before you get out of this truck.”

“It’s nothing. I just don’t want anything for my birthday. Maybe I won’t even have a party.” She wiped her nose and eyes with her father’s holey sweater. “And don’t tell anyone about this morning, or about me crying, or about anything. Please, Nick, please. Not my parents or my sisters. Nobody. Please.”

Nick refused to make promises, and Batty refused to explain her tears. It was a standoff, and soon there was nothing left but for Batty to get out of his truck and sneak back into the house. She used the kitchen door and saw no one but Lydia, perched in her high chair, happily moving spoons around.

“Lydia loves Batty,” she said, waving one spoon in greeting.

This got Batty crying again. She ran upstairs, stuffed the most obvious evidence—sweater, boots, the twins’ drawings—into her closet, and threw herself into bed between Funty and Gibson.

D
REAMING
, B
ATTY WAS IN
M
AINE
. Hound was chasing a flock of cardinals across the beach, bright flashes of red against gray rocks and blue water. And Skye was there, too—no, an older version of Skye whom Batty knew and yet didn’t know. There! The cardinals were safely away, and Batty reached for Hound—

“Wake up, honey, please.”

With a sickening lurch, she crashed awake. No ocean. No Hound. No mother.

“No,” she said into her pillow.

“Batty? Are you all right?”

Batty rolled over, blinking away her sleep. The person talking to her was Rosalind, but a different Rosalind from the one Batty had last seen, the one to whom she could tell anything. All that was changed
now. Batty shut her eyes tight, stuffing her sad secret back into its box, way down deep.

“Do you realize it’s afternoon already? Every time we looked in on you, you were out cold. Do you feel sick?” Rosalind put her hand on Batty’s forehead. “No fever.”

Batty restlessly jerked her head away. “No fever.”

“Your stomach?”

Batty gently kneaded her stomach. Yes, the giant knot was still there. “It’s okay.”

“You must be hungry, though. You slept through breakfast and lunch. Should I make a sandwich for you before I leave? Eggs and toast?”

“No, thanks. I’ll get something later.” She was hungry—the stomach knot hadn’t affected her appetite—but first she needed to be left alone to deal with her ankle and the dirty, ripped pajamas.

“Do you know that Jeffrey went back to Boston?” Rosalind asked.

“Yes.” Batty waited for Rosalind to say more, like that she knew how much Batty must mind, or simply to reassure her that everything would work out. But now Oliver appeared in the doorway, looking pointedly at his watch.

“Rosy,” he said. “Time to go. Long drive back to school.”

So now he was calling her Rosy. That was a name for family and close friends only. Batty had a quick fantasy of Rosalind standing up to him, telling him never to call her that again.

“Just a few more minutes, Oliver.” Rosalind once again put her hand on Batty’s forehead. “You’re sure you’re okay? I don’t like going away with you not feeling well.”

“I feel fine.”

“We didn’t get our chance to talk, I know, but I’ll be home again on Saturday. Iantha’s going to drive down to bring me and my stuff back,” said Rosalind. “Only six days. Barely enough time for a new countdown!”