The Penderwicks

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “I loved that hat!” said Jane.

  “And all the grown-ups kept leaning down and telling me how cute I was.” Now Skye was finished.

  “I do apologize, Skye. That must have been difficult,” said Mr. Penderwick. “I promise I'll never ask you to be a flower girl again.”

  “Thank you.” Skye said it with great dignity.

  “But we're too old—” protested Jane.

  Rosalind interrupted her with a frown and changed the subject. “Back to Jeffrey and Pencey.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Penderwick, trying not to smile.

  “What can we do to help him?” said Skye.

  “I don't know if we can help him,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Right now all we can do is wait until he gets back from Pennsylvania.”

  “If he gets back,” said Rosalind.

  “Oh!” said Jane.

  And depression settled over the kitchen like a wet fog.

  Guilt was not a familiar emotion to Skye, but she was feeling it today. Jeffrey could leave a thousand messages about all this not being her fault, and she still wouldn't believe it. If only she hadn't been wrestling with Jeffrey in the music room—if only she hadn't yelled at Mrs. Tifton—if only she weren't such a hotheaded loudmouth—

  She was lurking in the Arundel gardens, peering around the edge of a rose arbor, just as she'd been for the last hour or so. During that time, nothing at all had happened. Mrs. Tifton's car was still gone. No one had returned from Pennsylvania. Even Cagney seemed to be nowhere. It was like the place was under a terrible spell, like in dopey Sleeping Beauty, she thought, or dopier Snow White, or one of those other fairy tales Jane knew by heart.

  She'd brought along her math book, and now she plunked down on the bench at the back of the rose arbor and opened it. Maybe working on problems with two variables would distract her. If a 14-foot piece of wood is cut into two pieces in a ratio of 3 to 4, how long is each piece?

  “Make one piece x and the other y,” she said while she scribbled. “So x plus y equals 14. And the proportion is hmmm, hmm, and cross-multiply, then— aha!—substitute. Now 4x equals 3 times 14 minus x. x equals 6 and y equals 8. Big deal.”

  Skye skipped several questions to find something harder, but the math book didn't seem to hold its usual charm. This was the most frustrating day she had ever lived through, and it wasn't even dark yet. Besides the bad news about Jeffrey, her sisters had deserted her. Rosalind was hiding in her bedroom writing a letter to Anna—was she explaining to Anna about that bruise?—and Jane was taking all day to type her Sabrina Starr book into the computer. Even Batty wasn't interested in doing anything. Not that Skye had wanted Batty's company, of course. It wasn't like they'd actually become friends during that walk home in the rain or anything.

  So Skye had spent the morning shooting arrows at the Dexter target, but how much fun was that when there was no one to compete with? And then, after lunch, she'd kicked the soccer ball around, but soccer was even worse than archery for doing alone. Finally when she couldn't stand it anymore, she'd come over here and hidden in the rose arbor nearest the driveway. If she was going to be bored and lonely, she might as well watch for Jeffrey at the same time.

  Except that now all of a sudden her stomach was rumbling ferociously. She'd long since devoured the tomato-and-cheese sandwich she had brought for provisions, and there was nothing more to eat. Great. Now not only was she bored and lonely—and feeling guilty!—she was hungry.

  “Sabrina Starr reporting for duty.” Jane's head popped around the side of the rose arbor.

  “I thought you were typing,” said Skye, trying not to look as relieved as she felt.

  “I finished, and Daddy read it. He said it was very good, better even than Sabrina Starr Rescues a Groundhog,” said Jane. “And then we ate dinner. Daddy sent me to give you a food break, and he says to tell you it's spaghetti, in case you argued with me.”

  “Why does everybody think I argue? I never argue.” Skye hesitated. “Or at least, I'm not going to argue as much anymore.”

  “That would be a miracle.”

  Skye chose to pretend she hadn't heard. “Now, Jane, your mission is just to watch and gather information. If they come home, wait until they're inside, then run right back to the cottage to tell us whether or not they brought Jeffrey with them.”

  “I know all that,” said Jane.

  “You're sure? You'll remember not to let any grownups see you?”

  “Skye!”

  “All right. I'll be back after I eat.” She picked up the math book and zoomed off toward the tunnel.

  Jane settled down on the bench and prepared herself for a long wait. She had brought along a box of tissues for her lingering sniffles plus two books. One was Magic by the Lake. She'd just gotten to the part where Katharine was stuck in the oil jar in Ali Baba's cave, and although this was the fourth time Jane had read the book, she was excited to read what came next. This is what made a book great, she thought, that you could read it over and over and never get tired of it.

  But as much as Jane wanted to read about the genie showing up to get Katharine out of the oil jar, the second book she had brought along—thirty neatly typed pages in a red binder—interested her more. Jane stroked its cover and wondered if anyone would read this book more than once. Or if anyone other than her father would ever read it at all. But no, it was too bad to think that a book could be written with such sweat and joy, then be left to lie alone on a shelf. You deserve attention, dear book, thought Jane, and, with great ceremony, opened the red cover and read the title page:

  SABRINA STARR RESCUES A BOY

  by Jane Letitia Penderwick

  “That looks wonderful.” She turned to the next page and started to read. “Chapter one. The lonely boy named Arthur stared sadly out the window, never dreaming that help was on the way. Unknown to him, the great Sabrina Starr—”

  Jane paused. A car was coming. She peeked through the roses. It was Mrs. Tifton's! Now Jane would have some news about Jeffrey. Would he be in the car? Or had they left him behind in Pennsylvania?

  The car came to a stop. Jane tried to count the number of people inside, but the evening sun was shining on the windows, and even squinting, she couldn't see a thing. The driver's door opened, and out climbed Dexter. He walked around to the passenger's side and opened that door. Mrs. Tifton emerged, wearing a blue dress that matched her car. The two of them turned toward the house, and in that moment Jane was plunged into despair. They had left Jeffrey behind at Pencey He was even now having his head shaved, locked in a dormitory with a hundred boys who didn't care anything about music.

  Then the back door opened, and out came Jeffrey. Jane silently applauded and wiped her imagination clean of Pencey nightmares. Thank goodness he was back. But how was he? Jane couldn't see his face to tell—his camouflage hat was pulled down too low. Well, at least he wasn't wearing one of those dreadful military uniforms yet. There was still hope. Maybe Pencey had rejected him.

  Jane watched as Jeffrey trailed Mrs. Tifton and Dexter into the house. She gathered up her books and got ready to run back to the cottage with the news. She would wait two minutes until the coast was clear. She counted the seconds. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand. The door opened again, and Dexter came back outside and opened the trunk. Oh, the luggage, thought Jane, and knew that she should wait another moment until Dexter was gone.

  If only she had waited, sitting quietly on the bench and reading Magic by the Lake. But optimistic Jane still clung to her theory that Dexter might have a good side, though she'd been careful never to mention this to her sisters or Jeffrey. For deep down, she knew they would explode the theory and, with it, her hope that the good Dexter—Mr. Dupree—would help with her book.

  Jane picked up Sabrina Starr Rescues a Boy and clutched it to her heart. There he was, Mr. Dupree the publisher, just thirty feet away. Should she call out to him? Skye had told her not to let the grown-ups see her. But what if he published her book and
sold the movie rights, and Jane made enough money to build Skye her own science laboratory in the basement at home? Would that make up for wrecking the mission? What to do? What to do? Dexter was closing the trunk. In a few seconds, she would have missed her opportunity But what if—? But what if not—? Jane's mind whirled. She couldn't decide.

  Her nose decided for her. For just as Dexter picked up the suitcases and started toward the house, a monster tickle attacked her right nostril. She ducked back into the rose arbor, gasped, held her breath, stuffed her hand over her mouth, but it was no good. She exploded with a gigantic sneeze, big enough—she told Skye later—to blow down a dozen rose arbors. And certainly big enough to catch Dexter's attention.

  He turned around and yelled, “Who's there?”

  This was it, thought Jane. The fates had decided. Gathering up all her courage—and a tissue in case she had to sneeze again—Jane marched out of the rose arbor and across the driveway and said, “Hello, Mr. Dupree. It's me, Jane Penderwick. I brought you my book.”

  He didn't look happy to see her. “What book?”

  Jane held up her precious red binder. “The book I wrote. You said you'd look at it when it was done and give me some pointers.”

  “You Penderwick kids are unbelievable. This is a joke, right?”

  “No, it's not a joke,” said Jane, her heart sinking into her shoes. Where, oh where, was nice Mr. Dupree? “I've been working so hard.”

  Dexter dropped the suitcases and took the red binder from Jane. “I'll take a look at it, but then you have to leave before Brenda catches you trespassing again and has a stroke.”

  Jane held her breath. This was it. Her whole future was about to be decided. Dexter glanced at the first page of chapter one, flipped to the middle of the book and skimmed another page, then slapped it shut and handed it back to Jane. “You spelled helium wrong.”

  “But what about the story? What about my writing?” gasped Jane.

  “What did you expect me to say? It's lousy. Now go away.” He picked up the suitcases and strode into the house.

  Jane tore page eight out of the red binder, shredded it into little bits, and tossed them onto the floor of her bedroom, where they joined hundreds of other little bits of paper. She tore out page nine and did the same.

  “Hello, Jane, are you in there?” It was Skye, knocking on the door.

  “Go away,” said Jane.

  “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Jane tore out page ten and shredded it.

  “Rosalind told me that you saw Jeffrey. We've got a plan, but I can't shout it at you from here.”

  Jane got up from the bed, went to the door, and opened it a crack. “Tell me.”

  “You and I are going over to the mansion later to climb the rope ladder and talk to Jeffrey. Rosalind will stay here and cover for us. I'll come get you after Daddy goes to sleep.”

  “Okay,” said Jane.

  “Why can't I come in?”

  “Because I said so,” said Jane, and closed the door. She sat down on the bed again and tore out page eleven.

  When she had gotten to page twenty, there was another knock on the door. “Jane?” It was Mr. Penderwick.

  “Please go away, Daddy. I want to be alone right now.”

  “I'm worried about you.”

  “I'm fine.”

  “I do have one important question, but I can ask it from out here,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Are you dry?”

  Jane got off the bed and opened the door so that he could see her. “Of course I'm dry. Why did you ask that?”

  “So many daughters have come home wet lately.” He looked past her at the paper all over the floor. “What are you doing?”

  “If you must know, I'm destroying Sabrina Starr Rescues a Boy and then I'm quitting writing. I'm no good and it's time I faced up to it.”

  “Why, Jane, that's simply not true. You're a superb writer and your new book is a tour de force. That scene where Arthur threw the bread and water back at Ms. Horriferous and said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death'? Excellens, praestans.”

  “You're just saying that because you're my father. Professional people know better.”

  “What professional people?”

  “Dexter, and he's an actual publisher. I showed him my new book, and he told me the truth. He said it was lousy.” Jane ripped out another page.

  “But my sweet, mad daughter, Dexter doesn't publish books. He publishes a magazine about cars.”

  Jane stopped tearing. “Cars?”

  “It's called Lines on the Road, of all things. For all we know, he knows as much about real books as Hound does.”

  “Are you making this up to make me feel better?”

  “Of course not. Cagney told me last week while he was showing me how to propagate Anemone hupehensis.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” said Jane, looking around at the scraps of paper on the floor.

  “That wasn't your only copy, was it?”

  “It's still on your computer. I was going to erase it tomorrow.”

  “Well, instead, let's print it out again and keep it forever.”

  “Are you sure? You really like the scene where Ms. Horriferous shakes her fist out the window at the hot-air balloon?”

  “Yes, I loved it.”

  “And when Sabrina made an emergency landing in Kansas during a tornado?”

  “It was perfect.”

  Jane gazed yearningly up at him. “You're absolutely positive I'm a good writer?”

  “Good?” Mr. Penderwick took her face in his hands. “Jane-o, you're much better than good. You have a rare and marvelous gift for words. And your imagination! Do you remember what your mother used to say?”

  “That my imagination is the eighth wonder of the world.”

  “And your mother was a wise woman, wasn't she?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, daughter. Now clean up this mess and go to bed. Great authors need their rest.” And he went out, quietly closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Runaway

  SKYE WAS LYING ON HER TUESDAY-Thursday-Saturday bed, listening to the opera music coming through the floor from her father's room, right below hers. A man was singing—in Italian, Skye thought—and he sounded awfully sad.

  “… come sei pallida! e stanca, e muta, e bella

  Skye wasn't crazy about opera. All that screeching and why people couldn't sing in English was beyond her. But her mother had loved it. Daddy must be thinking about her, Skye thought, and wished for the tenth time she'd socked Mrs. Tifton in the nose when she had the chance. Anyone who could say those things about Elizabeth Penderwick deserved a broken nose. Then Skye reminded herself—also for the tenth time—that she shouldn't be fantasizing about socking Mrs. Tifton. Yelling at her had been bad enough. She sat up and swung her arms around wildly. This controlling her temper wasn't going to be easy.

  The music stopped. A few more minutes and her father would go to sleep, and then she and Jane could finally go see Jeffrey. Skye got off the bed and looked out the window There was plenty of moonlight—she and Jane wouldn't have any trouble climbing the rope ladder tonight.

  But what was that? Someone or something was moving through the trees. Was it Hound? No, Hound was asleep in Batty's room. Skye strained to see through the shadows. There it was again! It looked like a person, but with an odd shape. A hunchback? Who was it? And now he was lifting something up. Thwonk! A rubber-tipped arrow hit the screen right in front of her face.

  “Jeffrey?” she called softly.

  Jeffrey stepped out into the moonlight. He was wearing his camouflage hat and a backpack and was carrying a bow. “Let me in.”

  “I'll be right down.” Skye ran out of her room and down the hall to Rosalind's room.

  Rosalind peeked out. “Ready to go?”

  “Change of plans. Emergency MOOPS. Your room. Back in a minute,” Skye whispered, then went quietly down the steps and out the front door
. “What are you doing here? We were just about to come see you.”

  “I'm running away.” Jeffrey put down the bow.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “If you'd seen Pencey—”

  “Oh, Jeffrey.” Skye felt like crying, which never happened to her. “This is all my fault. I should never have said those things to your mother.”

  “Didn't Churchie give you my message? It wasn't your fault. Besides—” He looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. “You stood up for yourself. You have courage.”

  “It's not courage. It's just temper.”

  He looked up again. “It is courage, but let's not argue. I want to tell you and your sisters what happened in Pennsylvania and where I'm going. Can I come in?”

  Skye took his hand, and together they crept back into the house and up the stairs to Rosalind's room. Rosalind and Jane were sitting on the bed, waiting for the MOOPS to begin. They weren't expecting Skye to have someone with her.

  “Jeffrey!” said Rosalind.

  “He's running away,” said Skye.

  “Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Jane. “Jeffrey, are you sure?”

  “Yes, I'm sure. Pencey—”

  “Wait a minute, Jeffrey,” said Rosalind. “We'd better make this official, just in case you tell us anything we have to keep secret. Do you mind waiting out in the hall for a minute?”

  “He doesn't have to. He already knows about Penderwick Family Honor,” said Jane. “We told him after he rescued Batty from the—”

  “Rosebush,” said Skye.

  “All those thorns,” said Jane.

  “All right,” said Rosalind, looking from one fibber to the other. “Then let's get started. MOOPS come to order.”

  The closet door swung open and out sprang Hound, his tail wagging furiously. He jumped on Jeffrey and licked his face. Next through came Batty in her pajamas, holding Funty.

  “You woke up Hound,” she said. “Hi, Jeffrey.”

  “Hi, Batty. Where are your wings?”

  “I take them off to sleep, silly.”

  “Batty, go back to bed,” said Skye.

  “No,” she said, cuddling up next to Rosalind.