by Lynne Jonell
The zoom had not quite covered Lenny Loompski’s whole hand. With a snort of contempt, Lenny flicked the cow from him with all the impatience it was possible to put into two fingertips.
Danny made a small, wordless sound. He hurried to pick up the little cow, and cradled it against his chest. Then he turned with slow dignity to face the man.
“I think you mean something different from me. When you say love.”
He scrambled off the truck bed as Jake got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. Gus clapped an arm over Danny’s shoulder. “You come to us if you need a job, son. We could use a good helper.”
Danny, beaming, waved an enthusiastic good-bye and wandered off after Beth Adnoid. Christina watched as the truck began to roll away and took a last look at the petrified lump that was Lenny Loompski.
He had done terrible things to get zoom, and he had finally learned to use it to make fuel, but he had never understood its greatest secret. And now he sat in the back of the truck like a large and disgruntled lawn gnome, completely coated with the very thing that would have helped him get what he wanted most of all—if only he had known how to use it.
Christina could have told him, but she doubted he would even listen. And that was just fine with her.
She went to look for Taft, but found children from the town instead, playing a game with the orphans that Christina recognized as Chase and Tap. A sturdy redheaded boy ran over to Christina and stopped in front of her, breathless and laughing.
“My name’s Tommy. Are you one of the orphans?”
Christina felt a smile starting at the corner of her mouth. She had been half an orphan, without her mother. And she had been in danger of losing her father, too. But now—
She looked over her shoulder at her parents, standing hand in hand, and her smile curled up all the way. “No, I’m not an orphan. I’m Christina.”
Tommy stood with his hands on his hips and looked out at the chasing children. “Would you believe none of them knew how to play Tag? I had to tell them the rules!”
So that was what it was called! “Maybe they never had a chance to learn.”
“Yeah. I’m going to teach them every way there is to play it—Freeze Tag, Blob Tag, Kick the Can—except we don’t have a can—”
Christina unhooked the tin can from her belt loop and handed it over.
Tommy grinned. “Want to play?”
“In a minute,” said Christina, who had just caught sight of Taft standing alone a little ways off. She ran up to him. “Come on, let’s play Tag!”
Taft shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.” He tried to jam his hands in his pockets, but failed. Someone had lent him a shirt that was three sizes too large, and it hung down to his knees. He crossed his arms instead and looked moodily at the grounded planes. “Why don’t you activate the zoom, and we can fly for a while? I’m bored.”
He didn’t look bored, thought Christina. He looked worried, and one shoulder was starting to hunch again. “All right,” she said, wondering what was the matter now.
But her singing didn’t work at all. She couldn’t even get the zoom to glow.
“Is the tank dry?” Taft popped off the fuel cap and peered inside. “No, there’s plenty here.”
Christina gazed at the plane, puzzled. She had sung directly into the speaker-funnel. There was zoom in the tank. And she had been right on pitch.
“Let me try,” said Taft. “Sing that note again, will you?”
Christina sang a high G-sharp, and Taft matched it, singing along with her until he had it perfectly. Christina fell silent, but Taft kept right on singing, and suddenly the plane was glowing, rosy and pink in the bright morning sun.
She looked around her in confusion and saw her parents coming toward them. She turned back to Taft. “Why?” she demanded. “Why can’t I do it anymore?”
Taft shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe you need to fall from a tree and get scared all over again.”
Christina stared at him. He was right.
Every other time she had activated the zoom, she had been afraid—afraid of falling from the tree, afraid of the dark, afraid of a cave-in, afraid of Lenny Loompski. But she wasn’t afraid anymore. And without fear in her voice, a high G-sharp was just another note.
But if that was true, then what was Taft afraid of? They were safe. Lenny was taken care of. And now they could go back home—
Oh.
Christina looked from her parents to Taft in sudden comprehension.
Taft lifted his chin and looked away. He made a short, hard sound that might have been intended for a laugh.
“Listen, you can live with us,” she said in a rush. “We can do computer lessons together . . . I’m sure my parents will want you.”
“You don’t know that,” said Taft, with a smile that twisted at one side. “And I’m not leaving Danny again.”
“Don’t know what?” said Beth Adnoid, coming up behind them and laying a hand on Christina’s shoulder. “And Danny’s right here.”
“Oh, nothing,” mumbled Taft. He ducked into the oversized collar and lifted his shoulders, looking like a turtle. “We were just talking about doing lessons.” He gave Danny a half smile.
“Ah, yes,” said Christina’s mother. “I forgot that you would be in school together.” She smiled at her daughter. “I can hardly wait to see what you drew in the scrapbook about your first day of school. And I certainly hope your father took pictures! That was one day I really regret missing.”
“You haven’t missed it,” said Christina. “I’ve never gone to school yet.”
Her mother stepped back, startled.
Wilfer Adnoid hung his head. “I wanted to keep her safe, Beth. After you disappeared”—he cleared his throat. “She had an excellent education through her computer, though . . .”
Christina looked up at her father’s anxious face. Maybe he hadn’t chosen the best way to keep her safe, but he had tried his hardest, and he loved her. She leaned her cheek against his arm.
“I never went to school either,” said Taft, breaking the silence. “Not regular school. They had a few classes at the orphanage, and we could go if we’d done our chores.”
“I went to class, too,” said Danny. “When they let me, I did. I learned A . . . B . . . C.” He gave Beth Adnoid a singularly sweet smile.
“Next, you’re going to learn D,” said Taft firmly.
“D is for Danny,” said Christina, hoping to see his smile again.
Beth Adnoid looked at them all for a long, thoughtful moment. Then she put her free hand on Taft’s shoulder in sudden decision. “Wilfer,” she said, “this young man is Peter Taft. He’s John and Andrea’s son, and Danny is his best friend. I think they should live with us. That is,” she added quickly, “if you’d like to, boys.”
“Say yes, Taff! Say yes!” cried Danny, quickly for once.
Taft looked up at Christina’s mother. He seemed unable to speak. He swallowed twice.
Beth Adnoid’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “That’s settled then, dear. And I really think—don’t you agree, Wilfer?—that the children will be much happier at the elementary school in town.”
Christina felt something within her expand and expand, as if she were a balloon filling with joy instead of air. She wanted to whoop and pound Taft on the back and hug her mother all at once, but she settled instead for the biggest grin she could fit on her face.
Wilfer Adnoid took off his glasses, patted Danny on the shoulder, and peered at Taft with a kindly smile. “Why, this is a surprise, and a pleasure, too! You remind me so much of your parents! Tell me, my boy”—he polished his glasses and put them on again, looking suddenly alert and interested. “By any chance, do you like math?”
Christina was stricken with a sudden attack of coughing. She turned away, her shoulders shaking.
“Actually, yes,” said Taft, glaring at Christina, who was doubled over and red-faced with laughter. “I mean, yes, sir. It’s my favorite subject of all.”
Dr. Adnoid beamed and pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket. “You’re going to enjoy this problem, then. Say you had seven integers, three of which were divisible by two . . .”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many have helped in the making of this book, but special thanks go to:
My husband, Bill, my first reader, kindest critic, and unfailing support.
My agent, Stephen Barbara, partner and friend, who was at my shoulder the entire way, cheering me on.
And my editor, Reka Simonsen, who trusted me enough to say “forget the deadline, take the time the story needs.”
To everyone else who has given time and energy to assist—family, friends, DMLA, the entire team at Holt—you know who you are.
Thank you, all.
