The Penderwicks in Spring (31 page)

“Hmm?”

“Didn’t Rosalind know that you were coming over here?”

“She was busy helping Dad with you by then. Nick caught me once, though.”

“Nick!” So it was a habit of his, catching Penderwicks.

“He told me that I should never come back because there was quicksand, but I researched how to
survive quicksand. You’re supposed to do this”—Skye spread her arms wide—“and shout for help. It sounded so interesting, I was always a bit disappointed not to fall into any.”

“Nick told me that he made up the quicksand.”

“He did? Good old Nick.” Skye reeled in Duchess, who thought she’d smelled a fox and was itching to go say hello. “So, Batty, I’ve got some apologies, too.”

“You don’t have to.” Batty curled up a little inside.

“Yes, I do. Like about making Jeffrey go away. Dad told me about you trying to get to Boston.”

“Yes.”

“That was pretty brave.”

“And stupid.”

“And stupid,” agreed Skye. “Batty, I know that’s hard on you, not seeing him—it must be, or you wouldn’t have tried so hard. Why did you—I mean, what do you talk about when you’re with him, anyway? Just music?”

Batty tried to think. She could talk to Jeffrey about everything and anything, but their conversations always came back to music. “Mostly.”

“When he talks about music to me, my brain turns to mush.” Skye leaned down to scratch Duchess’s ears. “Too bad you’re not my age. He could have his dopey crush on you and leave me alone.”

“Well, I’m not your age.” Batty wasn’t ready for any dopey crushes.

“That’s true. Here’s the other apology.” Skye took
a deep breath. “I’m also sorry I’ve never been a very good sister to you. Or even nice to you, I guess.”

“Don’t apologize about that! Please.”

“Why not? Good grief, don’t cry.”

“You weren’t nice to me because you didn’t like me. You were
honest
.”

“Honest. Yes, I’m always that, even when I shouldn’t be.” Skye went back to Duchess’s ears. “I’ve been trying to remember how it felt, you know, losing Mom. I think—I
thought
—I was her favorite. I thought that I was more
hers
than Rosy and Jane were because I looked so much like her, I guess, and they looked like Dad. And then you were born, and Mom died.… I don’t know, maybe if you’d had blond hair and blue eyes, I would have felt closer to you. But Rosalind fell so in love with you, and Jane always had her crazy imagination to keep her company, and even Hound started spending every minute with you. You know, I used to think I was
his
favorite, too, before you came along. Sounds like I was a conceited child, doesn’t it, seeing myself as everybody’s favorite. Compared to me, Lydia’s humble, right?”

Batty was too lost in her thoughts to answer. That photo in her father’s box of pictures—the one in which a blissfully happy Skye was holding the puppy who became Hound—no wonder Batty hadn’t wanted it upstairs with the other Hound photos. Because it had made her jealous of Skye. Skye, who had known Hound from the beginning of his life, and who had
been Hound’s favorite until she could no longer
drag him away
from her new baby sister.

“I took Hound from you, too,” she said to Skye. “I can’t believe you don’t hate me.”

“You didn’t take Hound from me, Batty. You were a tiny baby.”

“I took Mom from you, and then I took Hound from you, and then I couldn’t even take care of him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about—you know, you know. I didn’t take good enough care of Hound and he died!”

“Wow.” Skye stood up, walked Duchess around in a circle, then came back to Batty. “Here’s what I know. Not even I, Skye Magee Penderwick, can come up with one reason to blame you for Hound’s death. And if
I
can’t, no one can.”

“But I should have—”

“You should have what? Slept next to him every night on the floor when he got too weak to climb onto your bed? Coaxed him to eat by letting him lick food off your fingers, a tiny bit at a time? Held him, talked to him for hours? You did all that. The rest of us helped, but you did most of it. Don’t you remember? Holy bananas, use some logic. And close your mouth. You look goofy.”

Batty closed her mouth, which had fallen open in shock.

“That’s better,” said Skye. “Now let’s go back.
Rosalind said I could make your cake as part of my expiation of guilt.”

Skye loathed baking and was terrible at it, but Batty’s world had been turned upside down too many times—she no longer knew what to believe. “Really?”

“No, not really, you nutburger. I’m not going to wreck your cake for you.”

The cake was delicious. All the food was delicious. Batty’s birthday presents were lovely. Tommy did come—and everyone liked watching how he and Rosalind kept careful track of each other while pretending not to. But it was impossible that the party could be anything other than sad, because Nick was packed and ready to leave as soon as it was over. Batty tried to be cheerful. Everyone did. Mr. Geiger and Jane made the best job of it, throwing dumb jokes back and forth. Tommy helped by laughing at the dumb jokes and putting his arm around his mother each time she started to cry. Only Ben couldn’t manage any cheer at all, weeping openly off and on during dinner and birthday cake.

Toward the end of the party, when Lydia was toppling over with sleepiness, Batty watched as Nick slowly made his way from one Penderwick to the next, getting and giving hugs and letting those who needed to cry do so on his shoulder. He stayed for a long time with Ben, crouched next to him, talking softly. Jane would be next, Batty knew, and then Batty herself,
except that she didn’t want to say good-bye to him. Maybe she would just sneak away into the evening shadows. Nick wouldn’t notice. There were, after all, so many Penderwicks.

She should have known better.

“Running away again?” he asked, finding her around the side of the house.

“No,” she answered. “Yes.”

“I’ll be back before you know it, annoying you all over again.”

“Yes,” she said. “I mean, no, you don’t annoy me, Nick.”

“Sure I do. Now listen up. I have some orders for you before I go.”

“Choose a sport.”

“Yes, that.” He nodded his approval. “But also, I want there to be a dog in this house before I come home next time. Long before.”

She looked at him with dismay. “I’m not ready—you know that.”

“But you’re getting closer.”

Batty thought about that, and about what Skye had told her that afternoon in Quigley Woods.

“Nick, Skye said it wasn’t my fault that Hound died.”

“Of course it wasn’t your fault. Who ever said it was?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, so you’re getting closer to being ready for a new dog, Ben’s been ready for a while, and Lydia could use the competition.
Battikins, you don’t have to love a new dog as much as you loved Hound. You don’t have to love it at all. Just let it live here.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it. Promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I promise.”

“And no more running away. Promise that, too.”

Batty was crying too hard now to say anything, but Nick seemed satisfied. As he kissed her cheek, Batty squeezed her eyes shut, not able to watch him leave.

A few minutes later, Rosalind found Batty, sat down beside her, and waited patiently until she’d stopped crying.

“Did Nick say good-bye to you, Batty?” she asked then.

“He told me to stop running away.”

“That was good advice. Will you listen?”

“Yes.” Noticing that there were words written on Rosalind’s arm—words that hadn’t been there before—Batty pushed up her sister’s sleeve to get a better look. “ ‘Choose wisely.’ Did Nick write that?”

“He said it was either that or ‘Dear Tommy, I adore you and want you back.’ ”

“You do want Tommy back, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do, but since I don’t know what he wants, I decided not to have my adoration brazenly advertised.”

“Um, Rosy—” Batty tried making “be quiet” faces
at Rosalind, but they must not have been good ones, because Rosalind didn’t get even a little quieter.

“On the one hand, I don’t want to make assumptions or put pressure on him, and on the other”—Rosalind held up her left hand and stared at it, still missing Batty’s attempts to silence her—“I don’t want to discourage him by being too cool and distant.”

Giving up on subtlety, Batty waved at the person walking toward them. “Hi, Tommy.”

Never in Batty’s life had she seen Rosalind blush so quickly and thoroughly. Nor had she ever seen that particular expression on her oldest sister’s face—combined pride, embarrassment, and out-and-out love.

“Hey, Batty,” answered Tommy, and he, too, had a new expression on his face—equal parts hope and caution. “Rosy, I need to go home to see Nick off and be with my parents for a while, but maybe later you and I could talk?”

“Maybe,” said Rosalind, desperately trying to control her blush.

“She doesn’t mean maybe,” cried Batty as Tommy’s expression turned into disappointment.

“What does she mean, then?” he asked.

“Choose wisely,” Batty whispered to Rosalind.

“I mean, Tommy,” said Rosalind slowly, “that I would like to talk with you later.”

His irresistible Geiger grin broke out. “I’ll come back over when I’m sure my mom’s okay. And no
changing your mind, Rosalind Penderwick, or I’ll hunt you down and talk to you anyway.”

“Tough guy.” Rosalind’s face now mirrored his, and glowed with happiness. “Leave us.”

As Tommy sauntered away, Rosalind watched him, enrapt, and Batty watched them both, wondering at these strange rites of teenage-dom. Keiko might understand them better, and she would certainly be fascinated, but this was one romantic scene Batty would keep to herself. It was too private to share, even with Keiko.

“Do you think I was cool and distant with him?” Rosalind asked Batty when he was out of sight.

Hardly, thought Batty. “Nope. You were just right.”

“Thank goodness.” Rosalind dug into her pocket and brought out a little box that she handed to Batty. “Here’s something for you.”

“Another present?” Rosalind had already given her one gift, a pretty top to go with a skirt Jane had made for her.

“This is special. Open it.”

It was a necklace, a thin chain with a tiny squiggle of gold hanging from it.

“A note on a chain!” said Batty.

“A note of music,” agreed Rosalind. “Just right, don’t you think?”

Batty dove into her oldest sister’s arms.

A
FEW HOURS LATER
, Batty was back in her room, lying on the floor with Funty and Gibson—she was weary of being in bed after all those days spent there—and thinking. She had some decisions to make. Not yet, though, not yet. She needed to try just one more time.

“Stand up, Batty,” she said, doing so, “and open yourself to the music.”

Two deep breaths, and then just like every other time she’d tried in the last few days, all she got was that gruesome croak.

“Okay, I get it.” She went back to lying on the floor.

Her voice, her orchid in a daisy field, was gone and seemed to have no intention of coming back. Batty
had briefly considered the notion that it had been her imagination—part of the strange dreams she’d suffered through—and even asked Keiko if she’d gone cuckoo and made up Mrs. Grunfeld and her enthusiasm over Batty’s voice. Keiko had told her not to be a dope. So that was a relief.

But still, she couldn’t sing. She would have to get used to that, somehow.

It helped that she’d kept her voice secret from her family. They need never know what she’d been given for a brief time, what she’d lost. And Jeffrey! Thank goodness Nick had stopped her from going to Boston. Her voice had already been missing then, but because the missing hadn’t yet seemed final the way it did now, she might have gone on and on about Mrs. Grunfeld and singing and touring Europe with Jeffrey and his father. And now she’d be stuck telling Jeffrey that it was over, and he’d be disappointed for her. Batty thought she could learn to bear her own disappointment but not anyone else’s.

There was a knock on her door—that is, three quick knocks and a slap.

“Come in, Ben,” she said.

Ben opened the door but didn’t come in. “Can I have another piece of your cake? Dad said I should ask you.”

“Yes, but leave some for me.”

“Okay.” He closed the door again.

In the end, what had she lost? Nothing real—just
a brief fantasy. She would rededicate herself to the piano, and maybe she would indeed someday take up a second instrument, just like she’d told Iantha. Not the clarinet, though. The cello, maybe. Or the double bass! What a good idea. Double basses were often included in jazz combos—so she could still tour with Jeffrey and his dad. It would be much better than singing, because the bass is always at the back of the stage, and the player is practically hidden behind it anyway. Much better for a shy girl than singing at the microphone, front and center.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another knock, or rather an erratic pounding, by what sounded like suspiciously small fists. Batty sprang up and rushed to open the door before Lydia had time to do heaven knows what out there in the hall. But she was safely ensconced in her mother’s arms, scrubbed and ready for bed.