The Penderwicks on Gardam Street (11 page)

In a moment, all was ready. There were two pieces of paper—each with one name on it, and folded so that no one could read it—and several chunks of dog biscuit, all mixed together in a bowl. Rosalind dumped the whole mess on the floor, Batty gave Hound an encouraging push, and when he headed for the biscuits, everyone watched closely, until his big nose bumped into one of the slips of paper.

“The winner!” cried Jane, scooping it up from the floor and waving it exuberantly. “The goer to Boston, the boon companion of Jeffrey and Churchie, the luckiest, most fabulous—”

“READ IT!” shouted Skye.

“Ah, yes.” Jane flourished the slip of paper once more, doing imaginary spells over it, then slowly unfolded it, read it, and smiled. The right name was on the paper, and she would not have to wait for eventually.

But before she read the name out loud, she looked up and the first thing she saw was Skye’s face, so anxious, so hopeful, with a faint trace of green Aztec makeup across her cheek. At the sight of that bit of green—only a smidgeon, really—one of Rainbow’s lines came to Jane, all unbidden.
“I will spill my blood to bring the rain to grow the maize to feed our people.”
What a tragically beautiful line that is, she thought, and before she knew what she was doing—

“Skye,” she said. “Hound picked Skye.”

Immediately Skye was aglow with joy, hugging everyone, even Hound, even Batty. In all the hugging, no one noticed when Jane left the kitchen. Especially Skye didn’t notice, for she had to call Jeffrey to tell him the good news, then call Churchie to thank her for the invitation, then call her soccer coach, for this meant she’d be missing the game on Saturday.

“And no dodging homework,” said her father after all the calls had been made. “Perhaps you should start getting ahead now.”

Even the idea of getting ahead in homework couldn’t dampen her spirits. She ran upstairs two steps at a time, burst into her room, and pulled up short. Jane was cleaning. Already she’d made her bed, and now she was dusting her desk. This was bad. For Jane, cleaning was worse even than crying. Skye could have kicked herself. She’d been so happy that she hadn’t given a thought to Jane’s disappointment.

“I’m sorry it’s me and not you going,” she said.

“I don’t mind,” answered Jane, dusting vigorously. “I’ll get to visit Jeffrey eventually.”

“Eventually” truly was a terrible word. Poor Jane—Skye wanted to make it up to her. “And I’m sorry I said those things about your play earlier. I didn’t mean them.”

“Really?” The dust rag slowed down a bit.

“All of your comments have been helpful. So I was thinking….” Skye summoned as much enthusiasm as she could manage. “I’d like to have my lines memorized before I go to Boston. That gives us five days to get in a lot of practice—that is, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Sabrina Starr never shirks her duty.”

“Because it really is a good play. It’s just me that’s bad.”

“I know,” said Jane, letting the dust rag fall unheeded to the floor. “Let’s get to work.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nyet!

R
OSALIND HAD FOUND
her favorite place in Quigley Woods long ago. She’d been taking a walk there with her mother, just the two of them. Skye and Jane had been—Rosalind couldn’t remember where they’d been. She could only remember how wonderful it was to have her mother all to herself. They’d followed the stream, talking and laughing, until they came upon a low stone wall. It had been autumn then, just like now, and her mother had brushed the fallen leaves from the stones so that they could sit and watch the stream burble along. Next spring, you and I will have a picnic here, Rosy, her mother had promised. But by the next spring—

Rosalind pulled herself up. She hadn’t come to her favorite place in Quigley Woods to feel sorry for herself. She’d been doing too much of that lately. No, she’d come here with Batty and Ben to get away from the house, for Jane and Skye were back there practicing
Sisters and Sacrifice
—and arguing about it—just as they’d been doing all week. It would be a great relief when Skye went to Boston tomorrow, because there’d be no talk of Aztecs for two whole days.

“Blood! Innocent blood! You try it, Ben.”

“Batty, don’t teach him that!” Rosalind crunched through the leaves to where Batty and Ben were trying to stuff Hound into the red wagon.

“But he needs a new word.”

“Not that word.” Rosalind picked up Ben and kissed his fat cheek. “Say ‘dog,’ Ben. Say ‘Hound.’ Say ‘Batty.’ But please don’t say ‘blood.’”

Ben said nothing at all.

“How about ‘Rainbow’? Say ‘Rainbow,’ Ben,” tried Batty.

“Not that, either.” Rosalind shook her head at Ben to discourage thoughts of Aztecs. He patted her face cheerfully, then pointed to the ground.

“He wants to get down,” said Batty.

So Rosalind put Ben down, went back to the stone wall, and opened a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. She had to memorize a poem to recite in English class, and she’d signed up for Shakespeare without realizing that most of his poems were about love. Like “Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,” and “That thou hast her, it is not all my grief.” As Rosalind had no intention of talking about love in public, she was looking for a sonnet that was confusing enough that no one would pick up on the love part. Rosalind flipped through the book. Here was a possibility: “Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak—”

She was yanked away from Shakespeare by Hound. He’d knocked over the wagon, and was crouched low in combat position, his nose pointed deep into Quigley Woods, away from Gardam Street. And he was growling.

“What is it, Batty?” she asked, for Batty and Ben were flat on the ground beside Hound, their noses pointed in the same direction.

“We hear someone coming. It’s probably Bug Man.”

Rosalind couldn’t hear anything. “Why don’t you and Ben worry about someone else for a while? Aliens from outer space, for example.”

“Because there aren’t any aliens from outer space on Gardam Street,” answered Batty patiently.

“And there’s no Bug—” Rosalind stopped, for now she did hear something. A pounding noise, the kind made by a lot of running feet. If that was Bug Man coming out of the deep Quigley Woods, he had to be at least a centipede. Unless he had a lot of other Bug Men with him.

Now she could hear chanting along with the pounding. She strained to pick out the words.
See something something. See eight something?

Hound had gone from growling to barking, and Batty and Ben had hidden behind the stone wall. Rosalind, though, wasn’t going to hide. She stood, hands on hips, next to Hound, ready to confront whoever was pounding past her favorite place. The chanters were coming closer now, and their words becoming more clear, and then Rosalind realized that they weren’t words at all—they were letters.

“C-H-S,” she said. “Cameron High School.”

Now a long line of tall boys in football uniforms came into view, running through the woods,
pound, pound, pound, pound.
Rosalind stepped away from the path, pulling Hound with her, for she had no need or desire to confront thirty or so high school boys in the middle of a training run. In fact, she wished now that she was behind the wall with Batty and Ben, just in case one of these giants in helmets was Nick Geiger and he was in the mood to humiliate her.

“ROSY!”

She groaned. Not only was Nick there, he was the first in line, and when he stopped in front of her, all the other football players stopped, too.

“Hi, Nick,” she said, blushing and hating it.

“Men! Take a breather!” Nick shouted. “And say hello to ROSALIND!”

Grunted greetings came from dozens of manly throats. Rosalind hoped a tree would fall on Nick’s head.

“What are you doing?” she hissed at him.

“Rough-terrain training. I’ve been trying out my theories about it on Tommy, and Coach was interested enough to let me use the whole team for research. As long as nobody breaks any limbs, he said.” Nick turned and shouted at the other players again. “Anything broken yet?”

More grunts, this time negative ones.

“Nick.” She spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a person who didn’t understand English. “I meant, why did you—and your team—stop here?”

“Because there you were, and I remembered that I need to talk to you in private.”

“Private!”

“Don’t worry about the boys,” Nick said blithely, taking off his helmet. “You’re in seventh grade. They barely realize you’re here.”

He was right. Not one of Nick’s teammates was paying the least attention to her, though several were playing with Hound. She relaxed a little. “What do you need to talk about?”

“The Tommy and Trilby situation.”

She knew what he meant, for Anna had been keeping her updated. Tommy and Trilby together in the cafeteria, in the library, in the gym. Tommy and Trilby sharing a lunch tray, exchanging romantic looks, holding hands. All nauseating behavior, in Rosalind’s opinion. “It’s none of my business, Nick.”

“But he needs help, Rosy. This Trilby’s telling everyone he’s her boyfriend. She calls him every night, sometimes two or three times, and here’s the worst—she goes to all of his football practices and cheers for him.” Nick pitched his voice high. “Go, Tommy, go! You’re the best!”

“I agree it’s disgusting, but what can I do about it?”

“Talk to him. I’ve tried, but he doesn’t listen to me.”

“He doesn’t listen to me, either, Nick. Besides, if I could stop people from going on dates just by talking to them, I’d start with Daddy.”

“Poor Mr. Pen. Has he had a second date with Marianne?”

“Not yet.” Rosalind put the emphasis on yet. Her father had said nothing about his plans for the weekend, and she feared the worst.

“Impending doom, huh? Sorry.” Nick did look sorry, for which Rosalind was grateful, but being sorry didn’t make him give up about Tommy. “Rosy, listen to me. Trilby wants Tommy to celebrate their anniversary. Their
one-week
anniversary. This is truly a sad comedown for a man and a Geiger. Please say you’ll talk some sense into him.”

“I can’t.” For what if Tommy got the idea that she cared one way or the other? Which she didn’t, of course.

“That’s your final answer?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced my hand,” he said, then called to the football players hanging around Hound. “Jorge, come here!”

One of the largest of the group lumbered over. “What’s up?”

“Tell Rosalind she must talk to Tommy about the Trilby situation.”

“You must talk to Tommy about the Trilby situation,” said Jorge from his great height.

“Thanks.” Nick sent Jorge away, then called over another colossus. “Lachlan, you’re next!”

Rosalind put up her hands in surrender. “Okay, Nick, you’ve won.” She knew he was capable of parading every one of the football players in front of her until she broke down.

“Excellent,” said Nick, waving off Lachlan. “Now, Rosy, promise that you’ll talk to Tommy about Trilby.”

“Under duress, I promise”—she said, glaring—“that I’ll talk to Tommy about Trilby. Happy now?”

“Delighted. I’m counting on your famous Penderwick Family Honor to make you put forth your best effort.” He jammed his helmet back on. “Say something in Russian to him. He likes that.”

“The only Russian I know is
nyet,
for ‘no.’”

“That’ll do. Just talk to him.” Nick turned and faced his team. “Break over! Forward, men!”

The line of football players took up their chanting again—“C-H-S! C-H-S!”—and pounded off down the path. When the last of them was gone and their noise had faded into the distance, Rosalind and Hound looked over the stone wall, and found Batty and Ben contentedly curled up together on a pile of leaves.

“It was only Nick and his friends,” Rosalind told them. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“We weren’t, were we, Ben?”

Ben yawned and beat his fists together.

“That means he agrees with me.”

“I think it means he’s hungry.” Rosalind picked Ben up and nestled him in her arms. What a comfort he was. “Let’s take him home.”

Batty climbed into the wagon, and the little group set off down the path. It was more trampled than when they’d come, for the football players had not gone through gently. The leaves were smashed, their lovely rustle flattened out of them, and here and there tree branches had been snapped off by linebackers with extra-wide shoulders. Quigley Woods had not been improved by rough-terrain training, and Rosalind had to wonder if the football team would be, either. Nick’s coaching theories were often like that—possibly brilliant and also possibly half-baked. What about his other theory, that Rosalind should discuss Trilby with Tommy? Definitely half-baked. Tommy hated being told what to do, a natural result of living with bossy Nick all his life. This talking-to was not going to be pleasant.

When they reached Iantha’s house, Rosalind brushed off the leaves and dirt that Ben had accumulated in Quigley Woods. This was the first time she’d had Ben on her own, and she wanted to bring him back in good condition. For extra measure, she brushed off Batty, too, and then Hound, and then herself, and only then did she ring the doorbell.

When Iantha opened the door, she was holding a red pen and had several more stuck behind her ears and in the pocket of her shirt.

“Are we interrupting?” asked Rosalind. She’d taken the little ones away to give Iantha a break, and to make up for all the afternoons Batty spent at her house, causing who knew how much chaos. “Did we come back too soon?”

“No, your timing is just right. I keep getting annoying phone calls from a disgruntled ex-colleague, and when I haven’t been arguing with him, I’ve been going insane reading my students’ papers. Apparently several of them think the Hubble Space Telescope is used to search the universe for hubbles. Come in, come in.”

Hound settled on the step beside the red wagon, hoping for a glimpse of his friend Asimov, and the rest of them went inside. It still felt strange for Rosalind to do so, as the previous owners had been unsociable people, especially when it came to children. Her few memories of the house were of a gray, dusty place with the blinds always drawn. It was nothing like that now that it was Iantha’s. All the walls were pale green or ivory, and there were no blinds at all, just gauzy curtains pulled back to let in the light. And it smelled nice, like—Rosalind sniffed—oranges, maybe?

While Iantha took Ben and Batty into the kitchen to get snacks, Rosalind wandered across the living room to look at a display of family photographs. There were several of Ben—as a chubby infant with just a dusting of red hair, as a chubby six-month-old with his funny grin already in full force, as a not quite so chubby one-year-old—and then there was one of Iantha holding hands with a tall blond man. Rosalind leaned closer to see it better.

“My husband, Dan.” Iantha was back with Batty and Ben and a plate of oatmeal cookies and—oh—orange slices.

“I’m sorry,” said Rosalind. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“You didn’t. Here, eat something.”

“He was handsome.”

“Yes, and even smarter than he was handsome. Do you know how he died? A drunk driver crashed into his car. It was six months before Ben was born,” said Iantha. “That’s the part I mind the most, that he never met Ben.”

“Do you—” Rosalind wasn’t quite sure how to ask. “Do you get used to it?”

“Yes.” Iantha smiled. “After a while.”

Ben and Batty drifted across the room to the window, where they whispered together while Asimov wove through their legs. Rosalind feared another Bug Man sighting, but when Batty did spot someone a few moments later, it turned out to be worse than Bug Man.

“It’s Tommy! Tommy’s home!” she called out. “Rosalind!”

“I heard you, Batty,” she answered, glad that the window was closed, or Tommy would have heard her, too, even from all the way across the street.

“Nice boy, Tommy. Good-looking, too,” said Iantha. “I think both the Geiger boys are. I do remember from my younger days, though, that adults never seemed to get that stuff right. What do you think?”