"But we did put fresh guest towels in the bathroom for you," Durinda said. "And pretty little soaps in the shape of seashells." Durinda reddened under Rebecca's glare. "I read somewhere that that's a nice thing to do for guests."
"I don't mean to rush anybody," Petal said, "but I am getting really worried here. Isn't it time we came up with a specific plan?"
"But shouldn't we all eat dinner first?" Mrs. Pete suggested gently. "I know I always think better with something in my tummy. Durinda, you didn't show me where the kitchen is. If you show me now, I can start supper."
***
"What an amazing house this is!" Mrs. Pete said a half-hour later, laying aside her napkin on the dining room table. "When I asked you to show me where the kitchen is so I could start supper, I didn't mean start to eat supper—I meant start to make it."
"But it wouldn't be right," Annie said, "to expect guests to cook for us."
"Besides," Georgia said, "Durinda rarely gets to cook for anyone other than just us."
"She probably considered it a treat," Rebecca said. "What cook doesn't want to just keep doing it and doing it?"
"Well, it was very good," Pete said.
"It was only spaghetti and meatballs," Durinda said modestly.
"Well, I would love your meatball recipe," Mrs. Pete said. "Simply marvelous—and those shapes!"
"Um, that was a mistake," Durinda said. "They were supposed to be round. I honestly don't know how they turned into squares and triangles and rectangles."
Jackie leaned in close to Mrs. Pete and winked. "You should see what Durinda can do with a chicken."
We all laughed at that.
In fact, Durinda had never made us chicken, and we had no idea what she'd do with one.
We thought maybe she didn't like the idea of eating birds since she was so fond of the carrier pigeons-friends of Daddy—who occasionally brought us notes.
Funny, we hadn't seen a carrier pigeon in a long time, not since the day back in April when a flock of them all delivered the same message: Beware the otherEights!
But we didn't want to think about that. We didn't want to think about anything bad or dangerous in that moment, because for once we had adult company other than Daddy Sparky and Mommy Sally at dinner, and it felt good.
"I hate to say it..." Pete said in a leading sort of way.
"You're right, of course." Annie sighed. "It's time we talk turkey."
Pete looked over at Marcia. "Well?" She continued gazing at her plate for the longest time before looking up and casting her eyes on Annie.
"Oh. I see." Pete gave out a low whistle. "So that's the way it is again. And that explains why Annie and not Marcia called me."
"Dessert in the drawing room?" Durinda said, breaking the tension. "Tonight I can offer you blue Kool-Aid and a choice of chocolate layer cake or pink frosting in the can."
***
We were in the drawing room, each enjoying his or her dessert of choice.
Pete knocked back a slug of blue Kool-Aid before addressing Annie. "On the phone, you said you needed us both to come to your house to stay for an unspecified amount of time. It's not that the reason matters, but we are curious: why?"
"Our neighbor the Wicket notified Social Services about us," Annie said simply.
Both of the Petes looked horrified.
"My, my," Pete said. "She really is an evil toadstool, isn't she?"
"Yes," Petal agreed with a vehement nod of the head, "she really is."
"So we need you to pretend to be our parents," Annie said.
"I'm sorry to have to disappoint you, lamb," Pete said softly. "But I don't think we can do that."
"Why ever not?" Rebecca asked in a harsher tone than she usually used around Pete.
"Because we don't look a thing like you," Mrs. Pete answered with a sad smile.
"Fine," Annie said. "Then we'll say our parents are both in France this time, and that you're our aunt and uncle who are taking care of us."
"That could work," Pete said thoughtfully. "After all, I've pretended to be your uncle many a time. Pete Huit."
"That's right," Durinda said.
"We'll have to train ourselves to always call you Uncle Pete," Zinnia said.
"I think I'd like that," Petal said.
"So would I," Pete said with a wink.
"And what shall we call you?" Annie asked Mrs. Pete. "We don't even know your first name."
"It's Jill," Mrs. Pete said. "So I guess now I'm Aunt Jill."
"Aunt Jill." Annie tried it out. "That's good."
"And that makes you Jill Huit," Rebecca said, and then she laughed. "You know, it sounds funny if you run it together like that: Jillwheat."
None of the rest of us laughed. We didn't like to laugh at the people who were saving us.
"I guess the only thing left, then," Annie said, "is for us to tell you all about ourselves so that you can answer any questions the Social Services person asks you—you know, the sorts of things a regular uncle and aunt would know. And then quiz you on all of it."
"Only don't tell the Social Services person about our powers, Uncle Pete and Aunt Jill," Petal said with a shudder. "I don't think that will help matters any."
So that's what we did: informed and quizzed.
"You've been unusually quiet this evening." Pete turned to Marcia when we were finished and felt that they knew everything they needed to know about us, including the time Georgia got caught in an avalanche and enjoyed it. "Have you gotten your power yet this month?"
"Oh, yes!" Zinnia answered for Marcia. "And it's a doozy."
"She can see through walls," Durinda said.
"She can see all the way to the Big City!" Jackie said.
"Seeing through walls—it's how she learned what the Wicket had done," Georgia said.
"Her cat, Minx, can see through walls and all the way to the Big City too," Zinnia said.
"This house is simply amazing!" Mrs. Pete said.
"But don't worry," Petal reassured both Petes, "neither Marcia nor Minx can see your underwear."
***
We wouldn't say that the next day, Friday, passed uneventfully. Rather, we would say it passed blissfully with our pretend relatives. Annie and Durinda had done their best these past months, but it was nice to have some adults around to tuck us in at night, kiss us on the foreheads, tell us everything would turn out okay.
But then Saturday came. Saturday, May 17. A glance at our calendar before going to bed the night before had informed us Saturday was Armed Forces Day ... whatever that meant.
And here, before we'd barely rubbed the sleep from our eyes, Marcia was racing through the house, shouting, "I see it! I see it!"
"You see what?" we all shouted, racing after her even though we had no idea what she was going on about.
"There's a car heading straight for our driveway and parking at the bottom of it!" Marcia yelled. "Now there's a man getting out of it and he's walking up the driveway toward our door!" she yelled louder. Then she paused before letting rip with the loudest yell of all:
"And on the pocket of his suit jacket, there's a badge that says Social Services!"
NINE
"What do we do? What do we do?" we all shouted.
"Quick, get dressed," Pete, who was thankfully already dressed, urged us.
We raced back upstairs.
That day as we dressed, we had the speed of Jackie. In fact, we changed so quickly that we were back downstairs when the doorbell rang, waiting all in a row, from oldest to youngest, like the family from The Sound of Music. Even the cats were lined up. Honestly, if we'd thought it would help our cause any, we'd have broken into song like that family from The Sound of Music. As it was, all we had to do was try to wait patiently as Pete opened the door.
"Hullo," he said good-naturedly. "Can I help you?"
We all craned our necks to see the man standing on our doorstep.
Huh. We'd expected someone from Social Services would look like the Face of Evil, bu
t this man looked so ordinary. He was medium old, medium height, medium build, with medium short, medium brown hair and perfectly regular brown eyes. Really, the only thing not medium was his suit, which was on the rather raggedy and rumpled side. But perhaps he wasn't getting paid enough?
"I'm here from Social Services," he said, extending a hand for Pete to shake. "My name is—"
But before he could finish, we saw a flash of red, white, and beige coming at us from our neighbor's lawn. Suddenly, the Wicket was standing at the man's side. Who knew she could move so fast? She wore her usual outfit of red shirt with white polka dots and beige pants.
Toadstool.
She shook the hand that the man had been holding out toward Pete.
"Helena Wicket," she introduced herself. "I'm the one who wrote you about these... children."
We didn't think anyone in the history of the world had ever invested the word children with quite so much venom.
"Yes, I recognize you," the Social Services man said, letting go of her hand as soon as was politely possible. "In addition to writing that letter, you also called us on the phone several times a day and came in person twice."
"Yes, well," the Wicket said, "I wanted to make sure someone got on the case in time. You know, I was just so worried about these poor abandoned... children. That's why I came over now: I wanted to make sure you got the truth about these... children."
The man turned to Pete, held out his hand again.
"I was just about to introduce myself. I'm from Social Services." He paused. "My name is Bill Collector."
There was a crash from somewhere down the line of lined-up Eights.
Poor Petal had fainted.
***
"Does that one do that often?" Bill Collector asked, indicating Petal, who was being fanned back into consciousness by Durinda and Jackie.
Petal was lying on the sofa in the drawing room, where we'd led Mr. Collector and the Wicket.
At least she hadn't brought a wretched fruitcake this time, we thought.
"Only every now and then," Mrs. Pete said. "Our Petal does have a bit of a nervous condition."
We thought that was a double nice touch: referring to her as "our Petal" and talking about Petal's condition as if she'd known us all her life. It made her sound like a real aunt.
"Sorry I have to ask this," Mr. Collector said to the Petes, "but who are you two? I can tell you're not the natural parents. You don't look a thing like these kids."
"I'm Pete Huit and this is my wife, Jill," Pete said. "We're the children's uncle and auntie."
"Auntie" was good too, we thought. Made it sound like we'd been related forever and not just since Thursday night.
"Nice place you have here," Mr. Collector said as he strolled around the drawing room, giving the suit of armor a tap with his pencil.
After the Petes had moved in, we'd taken the clothes off Daddy Sparky and Mommy Sally and returned Daddy Sparky to the drawing room and Mommy Sally to the upstairs. We'd figured that a dressed-up suit of armor and dressmaker's dummy wouldn't look right to nosy parkers once those nosy parkers were actually inside our house.
"Oh, all the decorating is my brother's doing," Pete said. "Robert's a model, you know, so he has great taste. As a matter of fact, that's where he is now, on an extended modeling trip to, er, France, and he took Lucy with him this time." Here Pete put a loving arm around Mrs. Pete's shoulders. "That's why we've come to stay with the kids. You know, until my brother and his wife come back."
"This man's last name isn't Huit!" the Wicket sputtered.
We were honestly surprised it had taken her so many minutes to say something awful.
"How do you know it's not?" Pete said cheerfully enough, as though the Wicket didn't scare him in the slightest. Well, we had seen him run Crazy Serena out of town. As far as we could tell, Pete was fearless.
"Because you're the town mechanic!" the Wicket cried. "Everyone knows who you are!"
"That's right," Pete said. "I am the town mechanic. I run Pete's Repairs and Auto Wrecking. My motto is If I Can't Fix It, I'll Wreck It for You. But have you ever seen a last name on anything to do with my business?"
The Wicket looked puzzled.
"No, of course not," Pete answered for her, "because there isn't any. Nor is there on my checks or my bills."
"You mean everything just says Pete?" Mr. Collector asked.
"Yes," Pete said. "I never have any trouble. They know me at the bank. They know me everywhere in this town. Besides, I'm the only Pete here, so it's not like anyone ever gets confused."
"But your last name is not Huit!" the Wicket insisted. "You are not Robert Huit's brother!"
"And why can't I be?" Pete said. "You think a mechanic can't be related to a model who lives in a stone mansion and has great taste? My, that's elitist of you."
"Elitist," Jackie whispered, "means the Wicket's a snob."
"Even if I'm not quite as trim or attractive as my model brother," Pete went on, "I clean up well enough."
"Well, even if I believe that you're who you say you are," Mr. Collector said in a tone that was agreeable enough, "I've still got to ask you some questions. The most important thing is that there are adults in this house supervising the kids and that they're being properly cared for."
"Ask anything you like," Mrs. Pete said. "We have nothing to hide."
"Let's see here..." Bill Collector pulled out the list. "The first thing to do is make sure that the children are healthy and well fed." He indicated Petal with his pencil. "Any health problems other than this one fainting?"
"Not a one," Pete said.
"How about food? Mind if I check your kitchen?" Before anyone could answer, he left the room. We heard him searching till he found the kitchen, then we heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening.
Thankfully, we'd had a word with Carl the talking refrigerator yesterday and told him not to say anything if any strangers opened his door. We'd also asked robot Betty to stay out of sight, and for once she was doing as asked.
"That's some well-stocked fridge," Bill Collector said, making a note on his list as he returned to the drawing room. "Looks like someone around here has done a big shop recently."
Out of the corners of our eyes, we glanced over at Marcia, grateful.
"Now then, you've got all that food," Mr. Collector said, "but who does the cooking?"
"I do," Mrs. Pete said. "Just last night I made spaghetti and meatballs. I shaped the meatballs like squares and rectangles and triangles."
"Interesting." Mr. Collector nodded his head appreciatively as he made another note on the pad. "I'd like to see the recipe that does that."
"Durinda?" Mrs. Pete said. "Could you get that recipe for Mr. Collector?"
In that moment, we loved Mrs. Pete a tremendous bunch. She was willing to lie if it meant saving us.
Durinda left the room and soon returned with the recipe.
"Are the girls going to school every day?" Bill Collector asked Pete.
"Oh, yes."
"Ever any problems in school requiring a parent?"
"I've been able to handle everything that's come up so far."
"Can you tell me a little bit about each girl?"
"Well, Annie tends to take charge; Durinda is very motherly; Georgia's been known to complain; Jackie's just an all-around great girl; Marcia has power issues when she's not busy observing things; Petal ... well, you already know about Petal. Rebecca can be rude, and Zinnia's always hoping for a present."
He did know us!
"Great stuff, great stuff," Mr. Collector said. He'd been busily taking notes all the while. "Now that that's settled, there's one other thing I'd like to ask you about."
"Yes?" Pete leaned forward.
"My car sometimes makes this pinging noise and—"
"That's it?" the Wicket shouted. "You're done asking questions and now you're going to have the man look at your car?"
"Well, what else is there?" Mr. Collector looked puzzled
.
"Just because they say the... children are healthy, well fed, regularly attending school, mostly behaving there, and they know one thing about each of the... children, that's enough for you?"
Mr. Collector still looked puzzled. "What else is there?" he asked again.
"Can't you see they're lying?" the Wicket said. "These people," she said, pointing at Pete and then Mrs. Pete, "only just moved in here. I'm sure of it. I wrote you—and called and came in—because I'm worried about the... children. It's not right for them to be here alone. They should all be moved to separate houses."
"But they have their aunt and uncle looking out for them," Mr. Collector said.
"And I keep telling you," the Wicket insisted, "these two aren't their aunt and uncle, and they have been living without adult supervision. As a matter of fact, I first wrote you because of what I saw."
"Which was?" Bill Collector prompted.
"I saw that one"—and here the Wicket's finger wavered uncertainly from one Eight to the next; she never could tell us apart— "driving a car!"
TEN
Oh, this was not good, not good at all.
The jig probably really was up now.
The Wicket had obviously seen Marcia driving the Hummer two weeks back.
"What exactly did you see?" Bill Collector asked.
"I saw that one." The Wicket's wavering finger still hadn't settled on any of us in particular. "She was wearing a ridiculous man's suit, a phony mustache, and an old-fashioned hat."
"Is this true?" Mr. Collector asked us gently.
In that moment, we all realized—even Petal—that there was nothing evil about this man. He was just an ordinary guy trying to do his job: keeping kids safe.
We opened our mouths to speak. We were about to admit the truth, that some of us had been driving.
But before we could say anything, Pete spoke.
"I think I can explain all this," he said, then he disappeared from the room.
We all waited in silence for him to return.
It felt like a long wait.
When he came back in, he had on the Armani jacket and wide tie we'd seen on him at other times. On his head was the fedora, and beneath his nose was the phony mustache.
Marcia's Madness Page 6
