Rosalind wandered over to the window and looked out. The rain had stopped, and the sky had cleared— the moon was riding high above the treetops. Rosalind pushed up the screen and leaned out the window. She'd calculated that by pitching herself at a certain angle and twisting a little to the left, she was pointed directly at Cagney's apartment and would even have been able to see its lights if those trees and the hedge hadn't been in the way.
“Wow, you girls look great.” That's what he'd said. Once in a while she allowed herself to pretend he'd been talking only to her. “Wow, Rosalind, you look—”
She jumped, hitting her head on the bottom of the screen. Somebody was knocking on her bedroom door.
“Rosalind? Are you in there?”
It was Skye. Rosalind quietly pushed the screen into place and opened the door. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. Why does something have to be wrong?” said Skye. She came in and sat down on the bed.
“Fine, nothing's wrong. You always lock yourself in your bedroom for hours, then act like a grumpy bear at supper.”
“Was I that bad?”
“Yes.” Rosalind sat down, too, and waited. It was usually easier to let Skye go at her own speed.
She took a while. First she looked all around the room, swinging her legs, and then she stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. Finally she said, “Do you ever lose your temper?”
“I yelled at you about those cookies you burnt when we first got here.”
“No, I mean really, really lose it and go kind of nuts.”
“When Tommy Geiger dumped my book report in a mud puddle on purpose, I called him terrible names and everything.”
“Rosalind, that was years ago! Like third or fourth grade!”
“Well, that's the last time I can remember.”
Skye went back to looking at the ceiling. Rosalind's patience was running low. If she didn't push Skye a little, they could be sitting here all night.
“Did you lose your temper today?”
“Yes, how did you know? I lost my temper at Mrs. Tifton. I said things—” Skye stopped. “But the things she said first. Terrible things. I couldn't help it.”
Rosalind was sure that she should reprimand Skye. Penderwicks didn't lose their tempers at adults, especially after they'd promised to behave well to those very same adults. But the idea of Mrs. Tifton saying terrible things sent a chill down her back. She had to ask.
“What terrible things?”
“About Mommy.”
It was like a slap in the face. Rosalind gasped and glanced over at the photograph of her mother on her bedside table. Her beloved mother, worlds and universes better than Mrs. Tifton. “How could she? What does she know about Mommy?”
“Nothing. She was all wrong and I told her so.”
“Good for you.”
“So you don't think I was wrong to lose my temper?”
“Well—” Rosalind struggled with herself.
“Because she said terrible stuff about the rest of us, too. She said that I was sneaky and sarcastic and that Batty's odd and that you follow Cagney around like a lovesick puppy and someday a man will let himself be caught and that'll be the end of your innocence.”
“The end of my—” This was worse than a slap. This was like having a pail of slimy, rotten garbage dumped over your head. Rosalind flung herself down and buried her face in the pillow.
Skye was aghast. Was there no end to the damage she could do with her big mouth? “I'm sorry, Rosalind. I should have kept it to myself.”
“No, you were right to tell me. But please go away now I need to be alone.”
“But—”
“Go.”
You can't lie here forever, Rosalind told herself. Oh, yes, I can, she answered back. I can lie here for as long as I want, which is until it's time to get into the car and drive home to Cameron. That way I never have to see anyone from Arundel ever again. It probably isn't just Mrs. Tifton who knows what a fool I've been. Churchie, creepy Dexter, Harry the Tomato Man. Maybe even Cagney.
Rosalind shifted restlessly on the bed. She had been lying there for two hours, doing nothing but listening to her thoughts go around and around. When Mr. Penderwick had come in to say good night, she had pretended to be asleep while he covered her with a blanket and turned out the light. She had never done that to him before. It seemed deceitful. Was that what being in love did to people?
Was she in love? She had asked herself that many times in the last few weeks. Anna's mother said you're in love when you feel like you've been hit by a truck. Rosalind felt bad enough for a motorcycle, maybe, but not a truck. Anyway, could you be in love with someone who didn't love you? And more important, someone you'd never kissed? Anna said no. Rosalind wasn't sure. She knew that you could kiss without being in love. She had certainly not been in love with Nate Cartmell when he kissed her at the Valentine's Day party or with Tommy Geiger when she pecked his cheek after losing that bet to Anna. But those had been passages from her childhood, she thought. Kissing Cagney would be very, very different.
Kissing Cagney Just thinking those words made Rosalind blush and feel confused and giddy. This is awful, she thought. I'm turning into one of those girls at school who thinks only about boys. She sat up abruptly and tugged hard at her curls. I need some fresh air, she thought, something to clear my brain.
It was pleasantly wicked to be outside at midnight without anyone knowing where she was. Rosalind skipped through the still-wet grass, her face raised to the moon. How glorious and mysterious was the moon, hanging forever in the heavens. What was Mrs. Tifton and her nasty little mind compared to the moon? Nothing! Rosalind twirled around, as though she were again young and carefree.
She wanted to see the Arundel gardens one last time before she went back to hiding in her bedroom. She ran along the hedge, plunged through the tunnel, raced around the marble thunderbolt man, and came to a sudden halt, struck by the beauty of the place. The moonlight had turned the gardens into a fairyland, magnificent and mysterious. Fairyland? First twirling, then fairyland. What was wrong with her? Was she turning into Jane? Rosalind sprinted off at top speed. She must need more exercise.
By the time she got to the lily pond, she was out of breath. She flung herself down on a large rock that stuck out into the water and rolled over to look again at the sky. A million stars were twinkling down at her. She wondered what it would be like to be looking at the stars with Cagney there beside her. What would they talk about? Constellations? Rosalind had learned the constellations in fourth grade but could only remember Orion's belt. But maybe there would be no need for talk. Maybe they would hold hands and—
The fantasy vanished in a flash. Rosalind had heard something, and it wasn't one of the lily pond's frogs. It was a giggle.
She turned over and looked for the giggler and right away wished she had stayed hidden in her room. Across the pond stood two people gazing into each other's eyes. They hadn't been there a minute before. Rosalind prayed that they would go away, but no, there they stayed, aware of nothing but each other. Then Rosalind prayed that the tall boy in the baseball cap wasn't who she knew he was. The girl, a teenager with long red hair, Rosalind had never seen before and hoped never to see again.
I'll be okay, thought Rosalind, if only he doesn't kiss her.
He kissed her.
Now Rosalind felt like she had been hit by a truck. She needed to get out of there. Away, away, back to her bed and under the covers now, immediately. Without a sound, without breathing almost, she crept backward along the rock. One inch, another. Oh, no! She was too late. They had stopped kissing and were turning toward her. And here she was, pinned on top of this rock, shining in the moonlight like a giant white spider. She had to do something. If they saw her, her life was over. Maybe if she slithered down the side of the rock toward the water, she wouldn't be so obvious and they wouldn't see her. Slide, slither, slide, still unseen. Slither, slide, then—
“Oh, no!” yelped Rosalin
d, losing her balance. She fell with a loud splash into the lily pond.
“Is she all right?” This was a girl's voice that Rosalind had never heard before.
“She must have knocked her head pretty hard against the rock when she fell. We've got to try to keep her warm.” Rosalind knew this voice. It belonged to a boy whose name she didn't want to remember right now She felt him wrap something soft and dry around her. Only then did she realize that she was lying on the ground, that she was wet and cold, and that her head hurt like crazy.
“Do you know who she is?” said the girl.
“Rosalind, the oldest of those Penderwick sisters I told you about. Oh, man, she's starting to shiver.”
“She's kind of pretty, don't you think?”
“I don't know, she's just a kid,” said the boy. “Look, do you mind staying here with her for a few minutes? I've got to get Mr. Penderwick.”
Rosalind stirred and groaned. She wanted to tell them not to bother her father, but when she opened her mouth, she said, “Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia.”
“What the heck does that mean?” said the girl.
“I think she's delirious. Rosalind, can you hear me?” said Cagney, for of course that's who the boy was. Why couldn't a passing stranger have pulled her out of the pond?
She opened her eyes and commanded her brain to function properly. “Don't bother Daddy,” she said.
“You hit your head,” said Cagney.
“I'm okay, really,” she said, and tried to sit up. She saw that she was covered by a Red Sox sweatshirt.
Cagney gently pushed her back down. “You shouldn't move yet.”
“I want to go home,” she said, and, to her disgust, started to cry.
“Then I'll carry you.”
“No, no, I can walk,” Rosalind protested, but Cagney scooped her up, Red Sox sweatshirt and all, and cradled her in his arms. She peeked over his shoulder at the redheaded girl. She's beautiful, thought Rosalind, and felt like a bedraggled sack of potatoes.
“This is Kathleen,” said Cagney.
“Hi,” said Rosalind.
“Sorry about your accident,” said Kathleen.
Accident! Rosalind's whole summer felt like an accident right now.
“Okay, Rosy, hang on,” said Cagney. “Here we go.”
For many years afterward, Rosalind wouldn't be able to see a Red Sox sweatshirt without remembering that long, long trip back to the cottage. Kathleen chattered away about friends she and Cagney had in common—whom Rosalind had never met—and about a movie they'd seen together—a love story Rosalind had never heard of—and dates they'd been on before and dates they would go on later. Cagney threw in a comment here and there, but as for Rosalind, she didn't say anything, not one word the whole time. What could she say? That this was all unbearably humiliating, and that she hadn't known they would be at the lily pond, and that if she had known, it was the last place on earth she would've gone? No, she couldn't say any of those things, and she knew now that constellations and Orion's belt were much too stupid to mention. So she closed her eyes and rested her head on Cagney's shoulder—there was nowhere else to put it, and it did hurt so badly—and let the tears slide silently down her cheeks.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Shredded Book
“DO YOU WANT TO TELL ME about last night, Rosalind?” said Mr. Penderwick.
“There's nothing to tell, Daddy, really. I needed some air, so I took a walk, fell into the lily pond, and hit my head on a rock.” Rosalind looked at him pleadingly. He had been so kind the night before, not asking any questions when Cagney delivered his oldest daughter, half drowned and with a nasty bruise on her forehead. Was he going to want confessions this morning? She had already confessed it all to herself, tossing and turning on her bed all night. How she'd been a fool, giving her heart to someone who thought of her as a little kid. How she would wait years and years before even thinking about a boy again. Her family, her friends, school—those would be her only concerns from now on.
“But why were Cagney and that girl—”
“Kathleen.”
“Ah, yes, Kathleen. Why were they there to rescue you? A mere coincidence?”
“Sort of. I mean, yes.”
“And it had nothing to do with the fact that Skye came home dripping wet earlier yesterday? Is Jane next? Will each of my daughters be delivered to me, one at a time, as from the briny deep?”
“Oh, Daddy.”
Mr. Penderwick looked around the kitchen as if for help. “Rosalind, you're getting older now There are things about young women that I simply don't understand. If only your mother—” He stopped. Rosalind's eyes filled with tears. This was worse than confessions. Mr. Penderwick turned back to her. “Tell me this, Rosy. If your mother were alive, would there be anything about last night too shameful to explain to her?”
“No,” said Rosalind positively.
“Then I won't worry,” said Mr. Penderwick.
“Embarrassing, maybe, but not shameful.”
“Don't confuse me.”
Skye burst into the room. “Has Jeffrey shown up yet?”
“No,” said Rosalind.
“Wow.” Skye recoiled at the sight of Rosalind. “What happened to your head?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing? That looks even worse than the bonk I gave Jeffrey when I first met him.”
“Nothing means she doesn't want to talk about it,” said Mr. Penderwick.
Next came Jane. She was dancing and waving a blue notebook in the air. “I've done it! I finished my book! I woke up this morning and the whole ending was right there in my brain—I just had to write it down. Daddy, may I type it on your computer today?”
“Slow down a minute. How do you feel?” said Mr. Penderwick.
“I feel fine, just a little sniffy.” Jane illustrated by sniffing loudly. “Finishing my book healed me.”
“In that case, certainly you may use my computer. Then will we be allowed to read this masterpiece?”
“Of course, Daddy,” said Jane. “Rosalind! Where did you get that bruise?”
“She's not telling,” said Skye.
“Why not?”
“Because she chooses not to,” said Mr. Penderwick.
The telephone rang. Rosalind dove across the kitchen to where it hung on the wall and picked up the receiver. “Hello? Oh, hi, Churchie. Yes, she's here.” She turned to Skye and said, “Churchie has a message for you.”
“It has to be from Jeffrey.” Skye eagerly grabbed the phone.
She was no longer eager, however, when she hung up.
“What happened?” said Rosalind, appalled at the misery on Skye's face.
“Mrs. Tifton and Dexter took Jeffrey to Pennsylvania yesterday,” she said.
“Pennsylvania!” cried Jane. “That means Pencey Military Academy!”
“Oh, no.” Rosalind dropped into a chair. Her troubles paled in the face of Jeffrey being dragged off to Pencey.
“What fresh mystery is this?” asked Mr. Penderwick.
It took a while to explain everything to him. The three sisters tried to start with Pencey, but to make sense of that, they had to go back and tell about General Framley and West Point. And then, Dexter's loathsome role in everything had to be explained, along with the small bits and pieces they knew about Jeffrey's father. When all of this was done, Skye suddenly blurted out what had happened with Mrs. Tifton the day before in the music room. Or most of it, anyway She left out what Mrs. Tifton had said about their mother and, to Rosalind's lasting gratitude, what she'd said about Rosalind and Cagney.
“Mrs. Tifton's a mean, awful person,” said Jane when Skye had finished.
“And I don't know if Batty's gotten over it yet,” said Skye.
Mr. Penderwick looked out the window to where Batty was playing vampires with Hound. Hound was on his back, trying to wiggle out of the black towel Batty had tied around his neck. Batty was leaping over Hound's water bowl, shrieki
ng, “Blood, blood!”
“She looks all right,” he said. “But I'll talk to her later.”
“But what about Jeffrey?” said Jane. “Do you think they're locking him up in that horrible school right at this actual minute? Will we ever see him again?”
“Churchie didn't know,” said Skye. “When they left yesterday afternoon, the only thing Mrs. Tifton said is that she'd be back sometime this afternoon or evening. She only mentioned Pennsylvania at the last minute, and Churchie didn't get a decent chance to talk with Jeffrey. He barely managed to whisper a message before he was dragged off. ‘Tell Skye it's not her fault.' That's all he said.”
“Churchie must be really upset,” said Rosalind.
“Poor Churchie. Poor Jeffrey,” said Jane.
“You're all certain Jeffrey doesn't want to go to Pencey?” said Mr. Penderwick. “And that he has no interest in a military career?”
“We're positive,” said Skye.
“And he's explained this to his mother? For parents almost always want what's best for their children. They just don't always know what that is.”
“He's tried to explain, but she won't listen,” said Rosalind.
“That's not good.” Mr. Penderwick looked around at the girls. “I hope I always listen. I do try.”
“Daddy, don't be silly!” Jane threw herself at him from one side while Rosalind hugged him from the other.
“Well,” said Skye. “There was that time you and Mommy made us be flower girls in Uncle Gordon's wedding even though I said over and over I didn't want to.”
“Skye, that was six years ago,” said Rosalind.
Skye plowed on. “And I had to wear a pink frilly dress and that stupid hat with bows all over it.”
The Penderwicks Page 14
