“Are you prepared to die, young alien?” he asked.
“Yes, I am reeking with death.”
“Excellent.”
“Can I do anything?” asked Wesley.
“Stand by,” said Ben.
“Stand by, please,” said Lydia. Ben didn’t need to say it to her or Alice anymore, but Wesley was a guest.
Ben ignored her—there was the thunder again.
“Alice,” he said, “you’re going to start on the other side of the gate, just inside the field. The sheep aren’t there, by the way. I checked.”
“They’re in the barn for the night,” said Alice, mistress of at least one of the sheep. “Duh.”
Ben ignored the “duh” also. It was beneath him, as a serious director. “When I start to roll, you stumble out of the gate. You’re exhausted, starving, you can barely stand up. You teeter, look up at the moon—your home is light-years beyond it—and then you die.”
“What do you want Hitch to do?” asked Wesley.
“Keep him out of the shot until Alice dies—please—then he should go to her, realize she’s dead, and be sad about it. Alice, take your place.”
Wesley repeated the instructions to Hitch, who listened carefully. But although the alien did her part perfectly, dying tragically, Hitch remained unmoved. Lydia wondered if Alice’s earlier owl and raven calls had turned him against her.
Again they went through the scene, with Ben keeping a careful watch on the clouds as they advanced steadily on the moon, and still Hitch had no interest in being Alice’s costar. Wesley commanded, Lydia begged, Ben kept shooting, Alice kept dying, and Hitch only yawned.
Alice sat up, and tried again to make Hitch understand.
“I’ve met no one on this planet. I know I’m dying and will never see my home again. Imagine how you would feel if you were stuck here and Wesley was up there, beyond the moon,” she said. “Wesley, do you think he gets it?”
He shrugged. “Hard to tell.”
“Alice, back to your starting position,” said Ben. “If this one doesn’t work, we’ll have to wrap for tonight. Ready? And…rolling.”
Somehow Alice managed to improve her performance. Her fall, her dying, were truly heartbreaking. There she lay, the broken alien who would never get home, whose family and friends would never know what fate had befallen her. So tragic was the scene that Lydia forgot she was watching Alice and felt a tear on her face. But no, it was a drop of rain, and then more drops, and more, splattering down on the tragically dead alien. And then, at last—though they’d all stopped expecting or even hoping he’d do so—Hitch got into character. He approached Alice, snuffled mournfully at her lifeless body, even tried to lick her woolen face to revive her. But he’d come too late and, realizing it, howled his grief up into the rain.
AT BREAKFAST, LYDIA AND Alice asked if they could introduce Hitch to Blossom. Wesley gave permission—he’d be busy again today, building benches and tables, and fixing his motorcycle when the clutch cable arrived.
“What happens if Lydia and I ambush the delivery truck bringing the clutch cable, and then you can’t fix it?” asked Alice.
“I’d order another.”
“Please don’t ambush the delivery truck,” said Cagney. “I’m too busy to bail you out of jail.”
“Well, at least you’re staying until tomorrow, Wesley. Thank you.” Alice hugged him enthusiastically. Lydia didn’t think she’d ever seen Wesley so surprised.
Hitch went outside with the girls but, like the day before, decided to stare into the chicken pen for a while. Cleopatra I, Nefertiti, Batgirl, and Cleopatra VII once again decided to hide in their house until he was gone. And Hatshepsut once again ventured out, where Hitch could see her, but this time flaunted her courage by climbing onto the chicken house roof, her eyes bright with challenge.
“Hitch wants her to come closer, I think,” said Lydia.
“She won’t.” Alice pulled out her mother’s phone and shook it, as if doing so would help it receive a message. “Still nothing from Jack.”
Ben had sent Jack a clip from last night’s death scene, along with a message from Alice: This is me in a brilliant film and you will never do better ever ever ever ever forever I am the champ. Love, Alice.
“He might not even have seen it until this morning,” said Lydia. “It’ll take him a while to top it.”
“He can’t top it. That’s the point. He should just admit defeat and surrender.”
The Jack familiar to Lydia—the one in photos—didn’t look like he’d admit defeat easily. But Alice was right. How could he possibly do better than the alien death scene?
“Hitch,” said Lydia. “You can come back to Hatshepsut later, but now we’re going to meet a sheep.”
“Much more fun than a chicken,” added Alice.
But he wasn’t ready to leave, and Lydia was getting impatient. Skye and Rosalind were arriving soon—and Alice had promised to watch for them from atop Blossom’s wall. Relief arrived via Nefertiti. Having forgotten about the dog, and wondering where Hatshepsut was, she blithely hopped out into the sunshine. Hitch woofed a happy hello, and Nefertiti descended into a hysteria so intense that Hatshepsut had to get off the roof, herd her back into the house, and stay there to keep her calm. Thwarted, but resigned, Hitch turned away from the pen, and the three companions set off.
Once they reached the gate, it took a while to convince him to look through it. He was too busy snuffling over the site of the previous night’s shoot, paying particular attention to where the alien had died. But when he did look up, he seemed pleasantly surprised to see Blossom and her sheep friends roaming the field. His snuffling took on a new urgency.
Now that Hitch was intrigued, the girls had to overcome Blossom’s probable unwillingness to meet the giant dog gawking at her through the gate. Alice would climb to the top of the wall, where she could both watch for Rosalind and Skye and perform a tae kwon do dance for Blossom, one that would demonstrate the safety and normalcy of the situation—that is, despite the dog. Meanwhile, Lydia would enter the field bearing both oats and Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, hoping this double treat would tempt Blossom once she’d been reassured by Alice’s tae kwon do dance.
“Ready?” asked Alice.
“Ready.”
“Initiate plan.” Alice headed toward the built-in ladder that would let her climb to the top.
Lydia said, “Hitch, I’m going through this gate, but you can’t yet. And back up a little, so that when I close the gate, I don’t smoosh your nose.”
Hitch blinked at her without backing up, then went back to staring at the sheep. Lydia slipped past him and closed the gate as carefully as she could—apologizing, since a little nose smooshing was impossible to avoid.
“Yoo-hoo, Blossom!” she called, throwing oats into the air. “Oats! Oats for you!”
Alice was already on top of the wall, confidently running back to just above where the gate was. “You didn’t tell me what color Rosalind’s car is.”
“Yellow.” Lydia opened the Alice book. Since they’d already finished with the sheep in the book, she was going to read her favorite part, about the mad tea party. “Hitch, this is for you, too, if you want to listen. ‘There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse—’ ”
“Blossom isn’t paying any attention,” said Alice. “Show her the oats again.”
“Oats, Blossom!” Lydia tossed another handful. “—‘a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head.’ ”
“That did it. She’s looking at us now,” said Alice.
“Are you remembering to watch for my sisters?”
“Yes. No yel
low car yet.”
“ ‘ “Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,” thought Alice; “only, as it’s asleep, I suppose it doesn’t mind.” ’ ”
“Now Blossom’s walking this way.”
“ ‘The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it. “No room! No room!” they cried out when they saw Alice coming. “There’s plenty of—” ’ ”
“Yellow car!” shouted Alice. “Yellow car, yellow car! You go! I’ll take care of Hitch!”
* * *
—
Rosalind stopped the car just as Lydia launched herself through the passenger window, landing on Skye. Her sisters dragged her the rest of the way in and stuffed her between them.
“Let me look at you,” said Skye.
Skye’s inspections were different from Batty’s, with less gazing into eyes and more action, like messing up her hair and poking her to make her giggle. It wasn’t the most intimate of greetings, but it came as a relief to Lydia. If this was an indication, getting married wasn’t changing Skye. Except that maybe she looked even happier than usual. Batty had once told her that Skye hadn’t always been so light-hearted, but in Lydia’s memories, Skye was usually smiling. If she wasn’t, it was because she was thinking about astrophysics, but that wasn’t a lack of happiness, just a seriousness of purpose.
“Dušek must truly be your destiny, Skye,” she said.
“What’s this talk of destiny? Is our Princess Dandelion Fire growing up?”
There was no easy answer for this question, as Lydia had never before grown up, so didn’t know what it felt like. But she figured that reading books to a sheep probably wasn’t a sign of impending maturity.
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Skye kissed her twice—once on each cheek. “We’re certainly not in a hurry for it, right, Rosy?”
“Right, because if Lyds is growing up, we must be ancient.”
“And feeble.” Skye sucked in her cheeks and hunched over, suddenly ancient and feeble.
“Now let me look at you.” Rosalind took Lydia’s face in her hands. “Iantha told me to make sure you’re not homesick.”
“I haven’t been homesick for even a minute. I told her I wouldn’t be.”
“I think she just misses you, Lyds,” said Skye.
“As does Dad,” said Rosalind. “I heard him calling the cat Lydia the other day.”
“Asimov probably didn’t like that,” said Lydia. Asimov had a strict sense of propriety.
“When Dad realized his mistake, he apologized profusely—Mihi ignosce, feles—and gave him an extra helping of cat food.”
Skye was hanging out the window, taking in Bobolink Meadow One.
“Rosy, wasn’t this all lawn when we were here?”
“Yes, don’t you remember? We’d just arrived, and Hound threw up on Jane’s sneakers, and Cagney appeared, pushing a wheelbarrow across the grass.”
“And you fell—kaboom—into a big old crush.”
“What?” Lydia had never heard anything about Rosalind having a crush on Cagney.
“Don’t believe Skye,” said Rosalind. “She was too busy getting Jeffrey in trouble to pay attention to what I was doing.”
“False,” said Skye. “Not the part about getting Jeffrey in trouble—I did that.”
“Cagney is Alice’s father.” Lydia thought her sisters must be talking about a different Cagney.
“We know, honey,” said Rosalind. “But he was only nineteen back then, and I was a dippy and over-romantic twelve, and he never knew, and he’s never going to find out unless someone opens their big mouth again.”
“I will be as a black hole, keeping secrets bound to me,” said Skye. “And we like Alice very much, yes?”
“Yes,” said Lydia. “Even Ben does.”
“High praise,” said Rosalind. “Skye, show Lyds that thing you have in the back.”
Skye reached for a plastic bag, out of which she pulled a piece of white tulle that seemed to go on and on, and then there was another piece of white tulle, and then Skye impatiently dumped the bag upside down and shook until the whole thing fell out—a bridal veil, layers and layers of the tulle attached to a tiara that was only slightly less garish than a child’s dress-up crown. She crammed the tiara onto her head, with the tulle going every which way, including into Lydia’s face, which made it difficult to see but not so difficult that she didn’t know this was the least Skye-like adornment she’d ever seen. Maybe getting married was going to change Skye after all, and not necessarily for the better.
“Gorgeous, right?” asked Skye.
Lydia pushed the tulle out of her eyes and turned to Rosalind for reassurance.
“Don’t worry—it’s a joke,” said Rosalind. “She found it at a thrift store and was wearing it when I picked her up at the airport.”
“You were almost fooled, Rosy,” said Skye.
“I wasn’t even the tiniest bit fooled.” Rosalind plucked the veil off Skye and tossed it aside.
“Did Jane tell you Mrs. Tifton thinks brides should wear veils?” asked Lydia.
“She does? In that case—” Skye put the veil back on. “So tell us, Lyds. We’re dying to hear how you managed to charm the woman.”
“Charm her! Who said that?”
“The word is that Mrs. T. doesn’t loathe you like she does the rest of us,” said Rosalind. “And we are amazed, and wonder how you did it.”
“I didn’t do anything. She got the wrong idea about me from the beginning.”
Skye flapped her veil. “That you’re nicer than the rest of us? That wrong idea?”
“Yes, that very horribly wrong idea,” said Lydia with finality. She didn’t want to discuss this anymore.
“We’ll stop teasing.” Rosalind kissed Lydia’s cheek. “We know and love you, Lyds, exactly the way you are.”
“Anyway, Jeffrey’s kept her away for days now, and we hope she won’t come back.”
“And how are Wesley and Hitch?”
“Hitch is, you know, adorable. And wait until you see what Wesley made for you, Rosy.” He’d given Lydia a peek into the bundle that contained Rosalind’s mobile. The flowers were just as endearing as Skye’s wooden star, and also as different from it as Rosalind was from Skye. “He’s making one for you, too, Skye, but he can’t finish until he goes west.”
“He didn’t need to give us wedding gifts,” said Rosalind. “I hope he knows that.”
Lydia thought that Rosalind should remember how difficult it was to figure out what Wesley did or didn’t know. “He likes to make things.”
“And imagine, Rosy,” said Skye, “if all the Penderwick ex-boyfriends gave us gifts. Jane’s alone would overwhelm us with swag. What do you think your Oliver would give us?”
“He’s not my Oliver.”
“I thought he gave people ugly flower arrangements,” said Lydia. That was the story she’d heard—part of the night she stabbed him with the quesadilla.
“Right. That wouldn’t do,” said Skye.
“And none of anyone’s ex-boyfriends are as nice as Wesley,” added Rosalind. “Skye, we need to ask Lydia our favor, so please get serious.”
“I’m too happy and excited to be serious. It turns out to feel good, this getting married thing.”
“Take off your veil, anyway. Maybe that will calm you down.”
“Veil off,” said Skye, whipping it from her head. “I’m serious now.”
Lydia couldn’t think of any favor her older sisters might ask of her. And when they did ask it, her mind went blank.
“What do you mean, choreograph the procession?” There had been no previous talk of a procession. “You mean for the wedding? The day after tomorrow?”
Rosalind nodded. “An easy routine, nothing too sophisticat
ed, since none of the rest of us can dance like you can.”
Sophisticated! With so little time to come up with a routine and even less time to teach it to her sisters, none of whom except sometimes Batty were good at listening to her. Or, in Skye’s case, listening to anyone.
“Rosy and I have picked out a song,” said Skye. “ ‘Dance Me to the—’ I hear the dogs.”
All three could hear the dogs. Someone must have told them that Skye had arrived—not the sister who loved them the most, but the sister who took them on the best runs—and they were effusive in their welcomes. Jeffrey, Jane, and Batty were trying to keep up with Feldspar and Sonata. Ben was outpacing them all, closing in on his favorite sister, armed with his camera.
Skye was already putting her veil back on.
“We haven’t finished asking Lydia—”
“Hold on!” Skye yelled out the window. “I’ll be right there!”
Jeffrey and Jane slid to a halt, which Lydia at first thought was a polite response to Skye telling them to hold on. But now she saw that wasn’t it at all. Jeffrey had a soccer ball, which he now triumphantly spun on his index finger, showing off like a basketball star.
“Skye!” he called. “Jane and I challenge you! Two-on-one slaughter!”
“Wait, Skye, don’t go yet,” said Rosalind.
But Skye was already out of the car and tearing away, her veil floating behind her. She flung herself first at Batty, for a long, joyous embrace, then at Ben, for a less demonstrative but still loving hug, then turned her attention to Jeffrey, who kicked the soccer ball to Jane, who trapped it and dribbled it away, shouting an interesting variety of threats and taunts. And the dogs raced circles around Skye, and Ben shot footage, and Batty laughed, and away they all went, up the lane and out of sight.
“I should have expected this. Instant regression,” said Rosalind. “So, Lyds, what do you think about choreographing the procession? Just the five sisters—Ben will be shooting the ceremony—and Dad, but he won’t come into it until the end.”
The Penderwicks at Last Page 16
