“Twenty-four, twenty-five.” Jane collapsed. “She’s Princess Dandelion Fire.”
“Princess Dandelion Fire!” repeated Batty. “That’s perfect for you, Lydia. Say thank you to Nick for decorating your crown.”
Lydia kissed Nick’s cheek. “Lydia thanks Nick.”
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” finished Skye, stubbornly doing more than Nick had asked for. “And Skye doesn’t. Batty and Lydia, make sure you never, ever let Nick start you on a fitness regimen.”
Nick, Batty, and the dogs soon set off, leaving Jane and Skye still recovering, and Lydia again dancing, waving her arms as she thought a princess named Dandelion Fire would. At the edge of Quigley Woods, Nick took Cilantro’s leash from Batty and set off with his swift stride. Batty and Duchess had to run to keep up.
“Not bad, Batty,” said Nick after a while. “Maybe running is your sport. Come out with me one of these mornings and see how you like it.”
“I. Don’t. Want.” She slowed down to catch her breath. “A. Sport.”
Nick and Cilantro pulled out ahead. Duchess would have stayed with them—her little legs going a million miles a minute, her tongue hanging out—but Batty kept her back.
“You have to slow down,” she said. “Come on, let’s just walk for a while.”
Duchess was willing to reduce her speed to trotting, but any slower than that she wouldn’t go. One more example of dogs not listening to Batty.
“I don’t seem to have any natural authority,” she said. “Ben and Lydia don’t see me as a boss, either.”
Spring had found its way into Quigley Woods. The first shimmer of lemony green was on the trees, clumps of wild grass pushed up through last year’s dead leaves, and here and there an early violet showed itself, a purple glow amid the less regal greens and browns. And on top of all that beauty, the air was sweet, the sun warm.
Batty was happy—Jeffrey was arriving the next day, and Rosalind only seven more days after that—and her sprite was happy, too, coming out with “Tomorrow” from Annie.
But in the meantime, Duchess was suddenly on the brink of exhaustion. She’d tried to sing along with Batty, and that, on top of the trotting, had been too much for her.
“Duchess is going to have a heart attack!” shouted Batty.
Nick doubled back to meet them. Duchess fell over onto her side while Cilantro snuffled anxiously at her.
“See, you’ve pushed her too hard,” said Batty.
“She just needs a rest.” Nick handed Cilantro’s leash to Batty, then swept up Duchess and slung her around his shoulders. Yet more proof that she’d lost weight—the tubbier Duchess would have simply slid off. “Come on. We’ll follow the creek, then circle back around. Run!”
It was when they were circling back that Batty heard someone calling her name. She knew it was an older sister, apparently one who’d revived from the workout. Knowing that whoever it was would probably try to hand off Lydia, Batty wasn’t in any hurry to reach her. But the voice didn’t go away, and all at once Batty knew that it wasn’t Skye or Jane out there, but another sister entirely, the one Batty had been missing so very much. Here came her sprite again, wanting to burble whole songs, albums, orchestras full of music, and now Batty was throwing Cilantro’s leash at Nick and bolting through the woods, herself a greyhound, until she’d burst out of the woods and found herself wrapped in Rosalind’s arms, laughing and asking a million questions. What felt like a joyous miracle turned out to be a normal occurrence—Rosalind had been offered a ride home for Skye’s birthday and couldn’t resist.
“And Jane told me you were out here, so I came right away—” Rosalind broke off, mid-explanation, her face changing from surprise to pleasure to shyness. “Tommy?”
Batty turned around to look, though she already knew it wasn’t Tommy. “That’s Nick.”
But Rosalind had already started forward. “Nick! Of course it’s Nick.”
She ran at him full tilt, hesitating only at the last second, when she couldn’t figure out how to hug him with a dachshund draped around his neck. So instead she just cried into his shirt.
Nick shook his head and grinned at Batty. “The rest of us are over this part.”
“Well, I’m not.” Rosalind sniffed and let Duchess lick away the rest of the tears. “I get to cry the first time I see you in months and months, even if you are wearing a dog.”
“That’s Duchess, one of the dogs I’m walking,” said Batty, “and the other one is Cilantro.”
Cilantro had his head buried in a bush, unaware that the rest of him was out in plain sight for all to see.
“His IQ isn’t his strong point,” said Nick. “Unlike you, Rosy, except for when you were dumb enough to let my brother go.”
“Nick, you know you’ve got it backward. He let me go. And the last time I heard, he was seeing some girl named Theresa.”
“She was a mere stopgap, a pale substitute. Anyway, that’s over and done with. Tommy’s down there in Delaware moping for you.”
Rosalind tucked her arm through his. “Batty, tell Nick he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Ha, like he listens to me.” Batty took Cilantro’s leash and dragged him out of the bush. “It’s Rosalind, Cilantro! She’s my best sister, and you will like her very much.”
As they all made their way down Gardam Street, Batty almost danced with happiness. Not just Jeffrey now, but Rosalind, too. Rosalind! How fun, how lucky, how magnificent, how—
“Well, well, well,” said Nick.
“Don’t, Nick,” said Rosalind. “Just don’t.”
Bewildered, Batty looked around, and then saw him.
“Rosy, who’s that man?” she asked.
He was leaning against a car in the Penderwicks’ driveway, giving off an aura of ownership, not only of the car but of all he surveyed. The car, low-slung and gleaming white, was parked behind poor Flashvan, which looked suddenly embarrassed by its own vulgar racing stripe. As for the man himself, he was dressed from head to toe in black, carefully rumpled in all the right places, looking like a picture in a magazine.
“That’s Oliver, and he’s not a man. I mean, I guess he’s a man—he’s a junior, anyway. He gave me the ride home.”
“Nice car,” said Nick.
“Behave.” Rosalind squeezed his arm. “I’ve known Oliver for only a few weeks, so this isn’t a big deal. Right, Duchess?”
Duchess licked Rosalind in sympathy, but Batty thought it was a big deal, as did Cilantro, who was trying to head back toward Quigley Woods.
She wished she could let him—her old shyness had descended, boom, and she felt five years old again—but the man had walked to meet them, and Rosalind was happily making introductions.
“Oliver, my sister Batty,” she said.
“Hello.” He nodded and smiled.
Batty nodded back—it was the best she could do. Speaking to such a man was out of the question. Cilantro saved her by tuba-ing. If he couldn’t get away from this person who could possibly be a moving trash can, he would bark at him.
“Down,” said Nick. Cilantro unwillingly lowered himself to the ground.
“And, Oliver, this is Nick.” Rosalind beamed, wanting them to be friends.
Oliver reached out to shake Nick’s hand, which forced Nick to unwind his arm from Rosalind’s.
“So how did you two meet?” Nick asked.
“Film class,” said Rosalind.
“Semiotics and Narrativity in Cinema,” said Oliver. “I fell for her when she admitted she hadn’t seen any Buñuel.”
“Buñuel?” asked Nick. “Plays for the Mets, right?”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes at Nick, silently scolding him for something that Batty didn’t understand, while Oliver looked satisfied, as though he’d set up a test for Nick and Nick had failed. Batty hoped she wouldn’t be the next to be tested. Like maybe this Boonwell guy played for the Yankees instead of the Mets. Baseball players were definitely not one of her strengths.
<
br /> Rosalind was back to smiling. “Oliver, Nick is the one who taught me how to play basketball, years and years ago.”
“My best student, except for her jump shot. Rosy, how’s your follow-through these days? Remembering to snap your wrist?”
“My follow-through has always been excellent. You just needed some reason to criticize me.”
Oliver didn’t seem to enjoy their banter. “Still play ball?” he asked Nick.
“These days I just mess around a little.”
Batty considered “messing around” an inaccurate description of Nick’s approach to basketball, or to any other sport. Just the day before, she’d seen him shooting hoops with some of his old high school friends and he’d looked as good as ever.
Cilantro started to pull again, demanding Batty’s attention. When she could turn back to the people, she saw that Oliver had somehow shifted things around. Nick was separated from Rosalind, and now it was Oliver who had possession of her, his arm around her shoulder. Batty wished she’d seen him do it, so she could describe it to Keiko. It was like a stealth ninja move, but for boyfriends. And one Batty hoped never to have done to her.
She left soon after that, needing to get away from this man who made Cilantro tuba so sadly. Nick and Duchess came with her.
“Well, well, well,” Nick said again when they were out of earshot of the others.
“I didn’t understand all that about the baseball player. Boonwell somebody?”
“Luis Buñuel. He’s not a baseball player. He was a Spanish filmmaker, a long time ago.”
“So you were—”
“Messing with Oliver, yeah. The guy’s a pretentious jerk, exactly the type freshman girls tend to fall for.”
“I didn’t fall for him.”
“No? You’re not blown away by his smoldering gaze and sculpted cheekbones?”
“What do cheekbones have to do with anything?” She’d have to tell Keiko.
“What do I know? I’m just repeating what I’ve been told. Some girls swear that my cheekbones are the key to my rugged handsomeness.” Nick stood still to let Batty inspect his face. “What do you think?”
“I guess they’re all right.” Batty was more concerned with Oliver than with Nick’s cheekbones. “Do you think he’s staying with us?”
“Probably. Don’t worry about it, though. He won’t be around for too long.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m Nick. I know everything. Besides, any woman who’s loved a Geiger has been spoiled for other men.”
Batty hoped Rosalind had been spoiled for other men, though without Tommy around, it couldn’t be proven. But she trusted Nick. However annoying he could be, he was also practically always right.
The Ayvazians were delighted to see Nick, and pulled him into the house, determined to ply him with coffee and cake. But before Batty could leave with Cilantro, Nick borrowed a pen from Mrs. Ayvazian, rolled up one of Batty’s sleeves, and wrote his phone number on her arm.
“If Oliver annoys you too much—starts quizzing you about semiotics, say—call me.”
“I don’t know what semiotics are.”
“I have only the vaguest idea myself, but I’ll make something up for you.”
“I can call you anytime?” She pulled her sleeve back down, hiding it.
“Yes, but only if it’s an emergency, since I’m sharing this evening with a beautiful woman.”
“Who?”
“None of your business.” He relented. “One of my old girlfriends from high school. I hope to spend time with as many of them as I can get hold of, plus a few new ones.”
“Spoil them all for other men.”
“You got it.” He faked a punch at her nose. “But I’ll be at Skye’s birthday party tomorrow night, so you’ll have me for backup then. And Jeffrey’s still coming tomorrow, right? Skye hasn’t blown him off again?”
“He’s still coming.” Batty knew because she’d asked Jane and Jane had said yes, she was certain, because she’d made Skye promise she wouldn’t tell him to stay away. And whatever problems Skye had with communication, she never broke promises. But if Skye knew when Jeffrey would arrive, she hadn’t told even Jane. Jane said they were probably still negotiating, whatever that meant.
“Sometime,” she added.
“He’ll get here. The lure of the Penderwick sisters, et cetera. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
“I guess so.” Batty pulled her sleeve back up, making sure the number was still safely there on her arm. “Thanks, Nick.”
THE FIRST TIME ROSALIND CAME HOME from college for a visit, she and Batty set up a ritual that they’d stuck to ever since. As soon as Rosalind had given hugs and hellos to the rest of the family, she’d take Batty upstairs to her room, just the two of them, for a catch-up talk while she unpacked. Batty loved these private times, and often found herself telling Rosalind things she hadn’t realized she’d wanted to talk about, matters she’d been keeping to herself, fretting over them in secret.
But since Rosalind had never before come home for a surprise visit—and she’d certainly never come home with a surprise guest—Batty didn’t know if this time would be like the others. She hoped so, yearning to tell Rosalind about the strangeness and discomfort of walking Duchess and Cilantro—the disloyalty she felt, and the terrible risk that once again she wouldn’t take good enough care of creatures under her protection.
When she got back to the house, Jane, Skye, and Artie were outside with Rosalind and Oliver, and from the gaga look on Jane’s face, Batty suspected that Nick had been correct about cheekbones and the other thing—oh, right, smoldering gaze. Skye didn’t seem to be overwhelmed by Oliver’s looks, but she was listening intently while he told her about taking time out of a Switzerland ski trip to visit the Large Hadron Collider. Batty was pretty sure that Skye didn’t care about skiing, so it had to be the Large Hadron Collider, whatever that was, that had her so interested. It did sound science-y.
Batty lurked, half hidden behind Artie, who now seemed wonderfully normal and familiar. Rosalind and Oliver were pulling their suitcases out of the trunk of the car—so he was staying there with them—somehow managing to do it with Oliver’s arm still around Rosalind. Then they started toward the house. If Rosalind was going to follow the usual ritual with Batty, this would be when she’d turn and ask to meet her upstairs in her bedroom.
And Rosalind did turn and, spotting Batty, smile, but before she could say anything, she was swept into the house with the others.
For five minutes Batty waited, in case Rosalind popped out again and summoned her for their private talk. But the only person to appear was Jérôme, wandering up the driveway in search of Jane.
Batty ran away, back to Quigley Woods and solitude.
After an hour or so of sweet calm in Quigley Woods, coming home again was a shock for Batty. The front hall was full of people, like a packed elevator. It took her a while to sort them out. In the center were Oliver and Rosalind, his arm again—or still—around her. Ben, back from Rafael’s, was next to Oliver—oh, dear, had Oliver managed to charm Ben? By giving him a magic rock or something? Skye was sitting on the steps with Katy and Molly. Jane, Artie, Jérôme, Pearson, and a Donovan were jammed in around Oliver and Rosalind. On the outskirts were Batty’s parents—what was going on, anyway? Even Lydia was there, blissfully dancing through the crowd, her dandelion-bedecked crown bobbling past people’s knees.
Batty slid around the mob to get to her parents, safe and stable, and tried not to listen as Oliver spoke.
“I always say that the world exists only to end up in a good film. Not that I can take credit for that statement. Rimbaud said it first about books.”
“Excuse me, but it was not Rimbaud, but Mallarmé,” murmured Jérôme politely. “ ‘Le monde est fait pour aboutir à un beau livre.’ ”
Oliver looked like a mosquito had just buzzed past his ear. “Rimbaud? Mallarmé? Does it really matter who said it?”
Batty thou
ght that it might matter to Rimbaud and Mallarmé, whoever they were. At least this time she could be pretty sure they weren’t baseball players. And she decided to be fond of Jérôme, and hoped he would continue to keep watch over Oliver. But he’d gone back to staring at Jane, which was mostly what he seemed to do these days.
Rosalind had spotted Batty and was waving to her across the multitudes. “Oliver is taking us all out for Chinese food. Come with us, okay?”
Had Rosalind gone insane? She should have known that Batty would rather do anything—walk on broken glass, even—than go out to dinner with all those people.
“Can I go, too?” asked Ben. “I love Chinese food.”
“Sorry, Ben,” answered his dad. “It will be too late a night for you and Lydia.”
“Obviously it’s too late for her.” Ben was appalled to be categorized with Lydia, who happened to be going past him, waving her arms enthusiastically in his face. “Leave me alone, Lydia.”
“We’d take good care of Ben, Mr. Penderwick,” said Oliver easily.
“And it will be educational, too, Daddy,” Ben pleaded. “Oliver’s going to teach me about movies.”
Batty blanched. So that’s how Oliver had gotten to her little brother, by talking about movies. Would Ben soon start talking about Buñuel and—what was that other word—semiotics?
“Definitely educational,” said Oliver. “I can tell Ben about the Kubrick course I took last year. Everyone knows that he directed 2001: A Space Odyssey, but his early career is where the interesting contradictions lie. He went from Spartacus in 1960 to Lolita in 1962, and though both movies are about power and the dangers of extreme subjugation—”
Iantha interrupted. “Yes, thank you, Oliver. That is indeed interesting.”
“Ben, you are staying home,” added Mr. Penderwick.
“But—”
“No buts. Pater sum.”
All of Mr. Penderwick’s children could translate Pater sum into “I am the father.” But they also knew that in this house it really meant that further arguments were pointless and could lead to unpleasantness.
The Penderwicks in Spring Page 12
