The Penderwicks in Spring (6 page)

“Thank you, girls. I think I’ve had enough of rivers for now. What other songs have you been working on?” She read from a list on a music stand. “ ‘All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,’ ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen,’ ‘Swanee River.’ They
all
seem to be about rivers.”

A helpful boy in the front row explained. “Mr. Rudkin thought we could learn geography while we were singing.”

“How much geography have you learned so far? That’s what I thought. Forget rivers. We will begin with a song that teaches you nothing.”

The remainder of the class sped by. Mrs. Grunfeld started them off with a deliciously silly song called
“That’s Amore.” After that they sang “Twist and Shout”—for which Mrs. Grunfeld demonstrated how to do the dance called the twist, explaining that some music was inextricable from dance, and here was a good example. By this time, the boys who had been forbidden to sing were showing signs of regret, tapping their feet along with the music, and when at the end of the class Mrs. Grunfeld was leading the group in a rousing rendition of “I Go to Rio,” all four were singing along. Henry had in fact been the first to politely ask if they could do so.

The mood of the students filing out of the auditorium was very different from when they’d come in. Everyone was crazy about the new teacher. One girl did protest that the twist was a dance for grandparents, but when Vasudev asked if she wanted Mr. Rudkin back, that was the end of complaints.

Batty was preoccupied with why she, Keiko, Melle, and Abby had been asked to sing together.

“What do you think Mrs. Grunfeld was listening for?” she asked Keiko.

“Our dulcet tones.” Keiko was working on her twist moves. “Why don’t you ask her? She’s coming over here.”

Mrs. Grunfeld was indeed making her way toward them. Batty froze, suddenly more wild deer than fifth-grade girl. Mrs. Grunfeld said hello and asked for Batty’s name. Since Batty was still frozen, Keiko answered.

“She’s Batty Penderwick.”

“Thank you. But she’s not mute, is she?”

Keiko nudged her friend. “Say something, Batty.”

“I’m not mute.”

“That’s good,” said Mrs. Grunfeld, smiling. “I wonder if you would mind stopping by the music room at the end of classes today.”

“Yes, all right. I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”

Mrs. Grunfeld moved away, and Batty grabbed Keiko for support.

“Am I in trouble?”

“I don’t think so,” answered Keiko. “She smiled at you.”

“She could have been smiling to soften the blow.”

“Teachers only do that while they’re delivering the blow, not five hours before the blow. Speaking of which, you didn’t happen to write a book report last night, did you?”

“Rats, no.” Batty hummed a little Marvin Gaye. “I guess I forgot again.”

Ms. Rho’s book report chart hung directly in Batty’s line of sight, a constant reminder of her ongoing failure. By shifting a little sideways she could avoid seeing it, but then she was pointed right at Henry, who made faces at her, and she couldn’t help laughing. Then Ms. Rho would tell her for the hundredth time to face forward, and there, again, was that awful blank line next to
B
.
PENDERWICK
. Only one other student had a blank line, Vasudev, and he didn’t provide any
comfort, since he’d already written the required ten but kept forgetting to turn them in. Most of the rest of the class had around five stars on the chart, one star for each book report. Keiko had eight. And then there was Ginevra Santoleri, who already had fourteen and this morning popped up with another two. Ms. Rho made a great display of taping an extra piece of paper to the side of the chart to accommodate the overflow of stars.

Today, though, the chart had, for Batty, lost its usual sting. She was too busy thinking over the wondrous surprise of Mrs. Grunfeld and, mostly, why she wanted to meet Batty after school. This thinking lasted through lessons on clouds, exponents, and the effects of global warming on the Greenland tundra. It wasn’t until they were in the midst of ancient Egypt that Batty thought she’d found her answer. She must have been playing her imaginary piano while singing in chorus, and Mrs. Grunfeld had noticed and now wanted to ask her to accompany the chorus on the piano. If this was so, Batty knew she was much too shy to play in front of the entire fifth grade. She would tell Mrs. Grunfeld no. But also thank her for “I Go to Rio,” because that had been great.

After the last bell, Batty had to collect Ben before heading over to the music room. He was too young to walk home by himself, especially since the first rock he came across would distract him, and the next thing would be that no one knew where he was
and the Penderwick family would go into a panic. When she reached the second-grade hallway, she found what seemed to be a huge exploded map of the United States. Large white cutouts of states were scuttling here and there, the biggest ones so big that they overwhelmed the second graders carrying them. Oregon was spinning in circles, unable to get its bearings. Alaska had bumped into the wall, New York had crashed into Nevada, and Mississippi was tripping Texas, who dropped her lunchbox.

Batty picked up the lunchbox and handed it back to Texas.

“Thank you, Batty.” This was Remy, who had been friends with Ben way back when they were both at Goldie’s day care.

“You’ve got a big state there, Remy,” she said.

“All the little states were taken first. I would have liked Delaware. My aunt Courtney works at a museum there.” Remy shifted Texas to a more secure position and wandered off, narrowly missing Iowa.

Now Batty was accosted by Minnesota and Florida, also known as Ben and Rafael. Ben was excited to have Minnesota. He peered at Batty—just barely—over the northern edge and explained, “We get to decorate these with stuff from the state, and Ms. Lambert says that Minnesota has lots of rocks.”

“Every state has lots of rocks,” said Batty. “Rocks are everywhere.”

“But Minnesota is special. Ms. Lambert said so.”

“I took Florida because of the alligators,” said Rafael. “And also because the rocks there grow right out of the ground. It’s the only state where this happens. Something in the soil.”

Batty had learned long ago not to try to straighten out Rafael’s wild imaginings. Any attempt just sent him further from reality.

“Ben, we have to go,” she said.

He turned solemnly to Rafael. They had special ways of parting, including using codes and salutes, but Batty was too eager to get to Mrs. Grunfeld to wait for all that to happen. She took hold of Ben and pulled him and Minnesota toward the music room.

“Where are we going?” he asked when they veered past the hall that led to the school entrance.

“I have to stop by the music room.”

“You’re going to see Mr. Rudkin?” Even the second graders disliked him.

“No, he’s gone. There’s a new teacher, and she wants to talk to me.”

“Why? Are you in
trouble
?” This was even stranger than choosing to see Mr. Rudkin. Batty never got into trouble in school. “Is it about your book reports?”

Ben knew about Batty’s unwritten book reports and expected her to be thrown in school jail any minute.

“It can’t be that. Music teachers don’t care about book reports,” answered Batty.

When Batty knocked on the door with
MUSIC
on it, Mrs. Grunfeld opened it right away, smiling.

“Hello again, Batty. Thank you for coming. You and whoever is behind Minnesota.”

“That’s my brother, Ben, and he can wait out here.”

“Is Batty in trouble?” asked Ben.

“Of course not,” answered Mrs. Grunfeld. “You may come in with her if you’d like.”

But Ben preferred to stay in the hall and ponder the glories of a state with lots of rocks, and Batty went in alone. She was glad to see a piano in the corner. It bore out her theory about being an accompanist.

“I’ve asked you here so that you could sing for me,” said Mrs. Grunfeld.

“Sing!” Batty almost turned to leave. She couldn’t sing alone, here, in front of this person who knew so much about music. “Why?”

“This morning in chorus I thought I heard—” She paused. “I’ll know better after you sing.”

“But I never sing for anyone except my sister Lydia, who’s two years old and doesn’t count.”

“Would it help if I closed my eyes? Or we could both close our eyes, and then you will sing.” Mrs. Grunfeld closed her eyes. “You see. I am no longer here.”

“Mrs. Grunfeld, please don’t make me.”

She opened her eyes. “My dear, I wouldn’t dream of making you sing. I’m just hoping you will do so, as a favor to me.”

A favor? What kind of teacher was this? “I guess I can try. What should I sing?”

“Anything except ‘Shenandoah.’ ” Mrs. Grunfeld closed her eyes again, waiting.

Batty searched her memory, but her entire repertoire was gone, fled, vanished. Maybe it was the stress of standing here on display, out in the middle of the room. Batty looked longingly at the piano bench.

“Maybe I could manage if I sat at the piano,” she said.

“Do you play? Excellent. Go ahead, dear, and open yourself to the music.”

Batty sat and let her fingers rest on the white keys. The feel of the piano gave her courage, and now a song came creeping back into her mind. It was on one of the albums Jeffrey had given her, with lyrics set to music by Chopin. Tentatively, Batty picked out the melody—having her back to Mrs. Grunfeld helped, no matter whose eyes were closed—then dropped her hands into her lap and started to sing.

“I’m always chasing rainbows, watching clouds drifting by. My schemes are just like all my dreams …”

She had chosen well. Chopin’s exquisite melody pulled her in, letting her forget herself, until all at once she came to the end and was jolted back into the Wildwood Elementary School music room with a teacher she’d just met that morning. She swiveled around on the bench, with no idea of what to expect. Mrs. Grunfeld still had her eyes closed.

“That was the key of G, Batty? Try it in C.”

Surely it was time for explanations. “But—”

“And a little more slowly this time. Larghetto.”

So Batty sang “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” again, more slowly and in the key of C. Halfway through, she realized that this was a much better key for her and that larghetto gave her the time she needed to appreciate Chopin’s melodic intervals. Huh, she thought. She’d never bothered to consider such things in terms of singing.

This time when Batty finished and turned around, Mrs. Grunfeld’s eyes were open and she looked pleased with herself.

“Thank you, Batty,” she said. “I was correct this morning. You have a beautiful voice. Rare and beautiful.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t agree?”

Batty didn’t agree or disagree. Music for her was the piano. “I just never thought about it.”

“And your family. They don’t sing?”

“No.” Batty didn’t want to mention that they sounded like depressed sheep. “Mrs. Grunfeld, are you sure? That I can sing, I mean?”

“Yes, quite sure.”

Batty slid back and forth on the piano bench, trying to let this all sink in. It was true that lately her voice had felt richer, like molasses instead of maple syrup, but she’d paid no attention, thinking it was just part of growing older.

Mrs. Grunfeld said, “Since this is news for you, I can assume you’ve had no voice training.”

“You mean lessons?”

“Yes, lessons. When and if you do decide you want training, you must choose a teacher who won’t make you do that awful belting everyone is being taught these days. People see it on television and think it’s the correct way to sing.” Mrs. Grunfeld stretched out her arms and sang, loudly, with an extra tremor in her voice that could have been dramatic, but just sounded silly.

“I
have
seen people sing like that on television.” Batty was increasingly impressed with Mrs. Grunfeld’s breadth of knowledge.

“Very bad for children’s voices, too.”

“I won’t belt, I swear,” said Batty, surprised to find herself promising not to do something she’d never considered doing. “Not for years and years, if ever.”

“Excellent.” Mrs. Grunfeld nodded, pleased. “If you ever have questions about singing, come to me. Yes? I will be here every Tuesday and Friday.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Grunfeld.”

“You’re welcome. And thank you for singing for me. It was an unlooked-for treat, like finding an orchid blooming in a daisy field.”

Batty left in a daze. An orchid in a daisy field! Her father would love that description.

“What happened?” asked Ben. “I heard someone screeching.”

“That was Mrs. Grunfeld belting.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.” A story Batty wasn’t yet ready to tell Ben. It was only right that she tell her father and Iantha first. “So never mind, and promise you won’t mention it at home or to Rafael or anybody.”

“Okay.” He didn’t think some lady screeching was interesting enough to repeat.

“Penderwick Family Honor!”

“Okay! Penderwick Family Honor. Will you carry Minnesota home for me?”

Hidden behind Minnesota, Batty imagined her father’s face
—all
their faces—when she sang for the family, the surprise and pride. “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” would be a good song to begin with, and then maybe a Beatles song. Her father loved the Beatles.

But then she thought of Rosalind. She really should wait until Rosy got home. Could she keep such an excellent secret for so long, twenty-two days now? And—oh!—if she could wait that long, she should wait just one extra day and sing for the whole family on her birthday. As an extra-special birthday present for herself.

She and Minnesota abruptly stopped dead on the sidewalk. “Jeffrey’s coming tomorrow!”

“I know that,” said Ben. “Skye said he’d bring me a Celtics T-shirt. They just beat the Knicks. Rafael says there’s also a Celtics team in Scotland, but they play
soccer. And that someday the two Celtics teams will play each other, but in a game neither play, like ice hockey or cricket.”

Batty had stopped listening when Ben began quoting Rafael, diving deep into plans of her own. Jeffrey’s coming this weekend was perfect timing. He could help her put together a singing concert for her birthday. They’d done little concerts before, including one when she was five and just learning the piano. This, though, this would be the best ever. The Grand Eleventh Birthday Concert! And Keiko could help her figure out what to wear—something serious and dignified, yet creative and glamorous.