I turned my brother around on my lap. “And you, Spinach,” I said, “you can’t put your trucks in the baby’s food. And I’ll keep my door shut, because Dad, what if you’re right about the Black Hole under my bed? What if things really do get lost forever there? How are we going to keep the baby safe—”
“Hold on, Sport, hold on,” my dad said. “We’ve got lots of time. The baby won’t really be motoring around and getting into anything for a good long time.”
“But, Dad, we’ve got to—”
“Your father’s right,” my mom said. “We’ve got a couple of years before we have to worry about all those things. Why, by the time the baby is walking, you’ll be ten. That’s plenty of time to get ready. But I’m glad to see what a good sister you’re going to be.”
All the rest of the things I had ready to say fell out of my head. “What did you just say? I’ll be ten?”
“That’s right,” my mom said. “By the time the baby is in any danger of walking into your room, you’ll be ten years old.”
“I’ll be ten?” I repeated. “Ten years old? Like Margaret?”
My parents nodded.
“I’ll be ten,” I said. I sat back to try to imagine that. “I’ll be bigger, you know,” I said.
“Gigantic,” my dad agreed. “We’ll probably have to cut a hole in the ceiling.…”
“Dad. Seriously. I’ll be bigger, you know. And I’ll be able to build lots of things.”
“Probably,” my dad answered. “A lot of things will be different.”
Zucchini slid down and ran over to his favorite cupboard and started pulling out the pots and pans.
I thought about how Margaret had changed when she turned ten. “I won’t turn into a makeup fiend,” I promised everybody. “In fact, I won’t change at all. I’ll just be me, but bigger.”
My parents laughed.
“Oh, you’ll change,” my mom said. “We’ll all stay the same in some ways, but we’ll all change, too. You kids most of all.”
My dad nodded and spread his hands out to the clutter of pots and pans my brother had made. “And it will feel crazy sometimes, and like it’s moving too fast. But it will be fine, we’ll adapt. Because this is how we roll, Clementine. This is how we roll.”
When I woke up Saturday morning, I saw it had snowed during the night. Usually I think it is unfair when it snows on the weekend instead of a school day, but today it seemed just right. My brother and I raced through our breakfasts, and raced into our snowsuits, and then raced out to where my dad was shoveling. I took the extra shovel and helped. My brother dove into the drifts and pretended he was a snow bomb.
When the steps and sidewalk were clear, I took Cabbage aside. “Dad’s going to turn around in a minute and say, ‘Whew, time to head in.’ When he does, you go sit on the shovel.”
Sure enough, my dad scraped up a few final loads of snow, then looked around at the nice clear steps and said, “Whew, time to head in.” I gave Brussels Sprout a little shove and he plopped down on the shovel, and I motioned for him to zip his lips.
Our father trudged around to the back of the building, dragging the shovel behind him muttering, “Hmmm…this shovel didn’t feel nearly this heavy when I started out. I must be really tired!” just the way he always used to with me. I stood on the street for a minute and watched before following them. I felt split exactly in two: half of the Clementine sections were sorry I was too big to ride on the shovel. And half of them really liked seeing my brother laughing into his mittens at the great joke he was playing on our dad.
When our dad gave me a wink as he passed by, the second half won.
Inside, we peeled off our wet snowsuits. I was just about to go and tell my mom about Cucumber riding the shovel when my dad touched my shoulder.
“Can you spare a minute?”
“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”
My dad nodded to the door. “Let’s step out into my office.”
I followed him into the hall and he closed the door behind us. “What I want to talk about is a secret from your mother.”
“Like your green pants?” I asked. “Are you going to wear them out again?”
“No, not like my green pants. This is something good. It’s a surprise for when the baby comes. To celebrate.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about something you said—about our table being wrong. You remember, because it has four sides, and how it’s perfect now because we each have a place but it won’t work when there are five of us. I think you’re right—that table won’t fit our family soon.”
“We could get another chair,” I said. “We could squeeze two on one side. I guess.” I didn’t feel great about that solution, but I added a cheerful smile anyway.
My father reached over and scrambled up my hair, which he does when he’s extra happy with me. “That’s a good plan, Sport,” he said. “And that’d be just fine for some families. But I know how to make furniture. And I have a daughter who wants to build something. What I’m thinking is that you and I should build our new family a new table. A round table, a table that all five of us can sit around. What do you think?”
I thought about that for a while, because I knew my dad was seriously asking me for my opinion. “Well,” I said finally, “a round table is a good idea. It would be just fine for some families. But you can make furniture. And I want to build something. So how about if you and I build a table that’s exactly right for our new family: a table with five sides, one for everybody?”
My father stared at me, with a slow smile sliding over his face. He nodded, then nodded some more. “Partner,” he said at last, “go get your tool belt.”
MORE HONORS AND PRAISE FOR CLEMENTINE
A New York Public Library Book for Reading and Sharing
A National Parenting Publication Gold Award Winner
“Sara Pennypacker has created that rare marvel—a book about a little girl…who is utterly charming and beguiling not just for parents BUT FOR KIDS THEMSELVES.… This is an amazing, engaging book and should be an instant classic. I wish I had written it.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean and Cage of Stars
“Frazee’s engaging pen-and-ink drawings capture the energy and fresh-faced expressions of the irrepressible heroine.”
—School Library Journal, starred review
“Pennypacker’s genius knack for tantalizing comic timing and expressive turns of phrase is augmented in no small way by Frazee’s equally comic, expressive illustrations.”
—The Toronto Star
ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR
Sara Pennypacker is also the author of The Talented Clementine; Stuart’s Cape and Stuart Goes to School; Dumbstruck; and Pierre in Love. She was a painter before becoming a writer, and has two absolutely fabulous children who are now grown. Sara lives on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.
Marla Frazee illustrated the second book in this series, The Talented Clementine. She is the author and illustrator of many picture books as well, including Walk On!, Santa Claus the World’s Number One Toy Expert, and Roller Coaster, and illustrated The Seven Silly Eaters and Everywhere Babies. Marla works in a small back ard cabin under an avocado tree in Pasadena, California.
Spring is a really big deal here in Boston, let me tell you. After all that snow and ice, the whole city goes a little crazy when the first warm weather shows up. So when my mother checked the thermometer on Sunday afternoon and announced it was time for our Annual Family Spring Walk Through Boston Common, I grabbed my sketchbook—I knew I’d see something interesting.
And I sure did, right away. At the “Make Way for Ducklings” sculpture in the Public Garden, where we always start our walk, I saw my friend Margaret standing over the last brass duckling. She was wearing big rubber gloves and slopping soapy water on him with a sponge.
“Margaret!” I cried, running to her. “What are you doing?”
Although I knew: Marga
ret gets extra Margaretty when the weather turns nice. She runs around scrubbing everything in sight until it sparkles, even things that don’t belong to her, like the elevator doors in our lobby and the parking meters on the street.
“Spring cleaning!” Margaret shouted, and somehow she made it sound like “It’s my birthday!” and “Free candy for life!” rolled into one. She went back to scrubbing Quack’s head.
My parents followed my little brother to the edge of the pond, and I sat down beside the ducklings.
“Your mother’s letting you do this?” I wondered if maybe Margaret’s mother had gone a little crazy with the great weather too. I looked around for her, because I would like to see Margaret’s mother going a little crazy.
Margaret pointed over her shoulder to a bunch of kids playing catch. “My mother went out to lunch with Alan. Mitchell’s in charge today. He said I could clean anything I wanted here, as long as I didn’t touch his baseball stuff.”
Margaret straightened up and shot a glare at her brother. From the way her fingers were twitching around the sponge, I could tell his rule was making her nuts. “Baseballs are supposed to be white, you know!” she yelled at him.
Mitchell pumped his glove in the air with a big smile, and went back to playing ball. Mitchell acts extra Mitchelly in the spring too. Not because of the weather, but because the Red Sox are back in town. According to Mitchell, the Red Sox are the greatest team in the history of the universe, and it’s just a matter of time before they ask him to play for them. He carries his new baseball bat around with him everywhere as if it’s a third arm, and he’s always grinning so hard, I think his cheeks will crack off.
“Never mind,” I said to Margaret. “The ducks look great, at least.”
She looked down at them. “They do, don’t they?” she said with a proud smile. “I think Mrs. Mallard must be really happy now. Doesn’t it look like she’s trying to lead them to the pond? She’s probably been wishing all these years she could just get her kids into the water and give them a nice bath, for heaven’s sake.”
I thought the story was more about her wanting to find them a home, but I didn’t remind Margaret of this. Instead I held up my sketchbook and offered to do a drawing of the statue. “I’ll put lots of sparkle rays on the ducklings to show how clean you got them. Maybe I’ll put in a cow, too. It could be admiring the ducks.”
“A cow?”
I nodded. “Farmers used to bring their cows here to the Common. I’m not even kidding about that, Margaret.”
Margaret yelped and checked the bottoms of her shoes with a panicky look on her face.
“Not now,” I explained. “In Ye Olden Times.”
Margaret’s face crumpled at the words Ye Olden Times. I knew what she was thinking about: our field trip to Plimoth Plantation coming up on Thursday. She spread a dry rag over Mrs. Mallard’s back and sank down with her head in her hands.
“They have dirt floors there, Clementine,” she mumbled through her fingers. “We saw a video Friday. Dirt! The Pilgrims swept them every morning, as if that would make them less dirty! Those Ye Olden Times people were insane!”
Margaret raised her head and gave me a hopeful look. “Hey! You like getting dirty. You be my partner on the trip. If we have to touch anything that looks filthy, you do it.”
“Oh, all right.” I said it in a draggy voice and added a tragedy sigh, although secretly I was happy—I do like getting dirty. “But then you have to protect me from the eating-sounds people.”
Ever since we had learned that the third and fourth graders were going to have lunch together on the trip, Margaret had been reminding me that the fourth graders didn’t allow any eating sounds. Every time I asked her what they did if someone made a noise, she turned white and began to quake, as if the answer was too horrible to say out loud. Which was enough of an answer for me.
Margaret thought about it. “If you make any sounds, there’s nothing I can do to save you,” she warned. “But I can teach you what to pack for lunch so you can do silent eating. Deal?”
I held out my hand so Margaret could air-shake it, the way she invented, so she wouldn’t feel crawly with germs.
Then Margaret pointed at my sketchbook. “You can do the drawing now. Extra sparkle rays. No cows.”
Just as I pulled out my pencils, though, my family came over.
Margaret gave my mother’s belly a suspicious look and took a step backward. My mother laughed and told her, “Don’t worry. Still a few months to go.”
No matter how many times we tell her it won’t happen, Margaret acts as if our baby could be born at any second, in a big explosion aiming right at her.
Margaret said, “Oh, phew, good,” but I noticed she didn’t come any closer. Even when my dad took a picture of her beside the shiny statue, she kept stealing nervous glances at my mom.
My parents took off after my brother again and waved for me to follow. “What are you so worried about anyway, Margaret?” I asked, as I collected my pencils.
“Babies wear diapers for a reason, you know, Clementine,” she answered. “And I don’t think they come with one on.”
I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I patted Mrs. Mallard’s head and said good-bye.
It was a pretty good walk. I kept an eye out for cows, in case some farmer realized, Hey, that was a good idea those historical people had. I’m going to be nice to my cows too, and let them have a stroll through the park! Boston Common is a lot more interesting now, and I bet the cows would enjoy it even more. And so would I. Cows on swan boats, cows relaxing on benches, cows using Porta-Potties—I would really like to see those things.
I didn’t, but there was a lot of other good stuff. We saw some kite fliers, and a woman on a unicycle, and about a million daffodils. Some workmen were jackhammering up a curbstone, which made my brother so excited he looked like he was being electrocuted. Mostly, though, what we saw were things that seemed to be in a big hurry to get growing. Pink flower buds were bursting out of branches. Neon-green grass blades were zipping up through last year’s tired brown stuff. And around each oak tree, dozens of little seedlings were shooting out of the acorns that had dropped in the fall.
And that reminded me: Last fall, I’d planted a couple of apple seeds behind our building. I hadn’t checked them since the snow had melted.
As soon as we got home, I went out back to the brick wall I’d built to protect my tree when it grew up. The ground inside was covered with leaves, but when I carefully brushed them away, guess what I found!
A sprout! A real, live sprout with two sets of leaves!
I ran inside. “It’s born! It’s born, it’s born, it’s born!”
My dad shot a worried look at my mom, and my mom clapped her arms over her belly, as if they were both afraid that whoever was in there would hear me and decide to get itself born now too.
“Who’s born?” they asked.
“Not a who,” I said. “Follow me!”
I grabbed my mom’s hand, and she grabbed my dad’s hand, and he scooped my brother off the couch. I led the family parade outside to my brick wall and swept my arms out. “Ta-da!” I cried. “My apple tree is born!”
My family clapped as if I had just performed an amazing magic act. Which, actually, I had.
“I’m going to water it, and take care of it, and it’s going to get really big,” I told them. “And then we can have apples any time we want to.”
I reached up and pretended to pick some fruit, and handed it out. Even Mung Bean got the joke and chomped down on his delicious pretend apple. And although my father insisted he found a worm in his, we all agreed they were the best we had ever eaten in our lives.
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Clementine and the Family Meeting Page 6
