“Right, Skye, and besides, maybe what’s wrong with the car is a computer glitch, anyway, and they’re hard to see.”
“Yes, a computer glitch is possible, like with a bad sensor.”
Their father was still trying to get to the hood. “When did you two learn so much about cars?” He got past Skye, only to run into Jane.
“Magazines,” she said wildly.
“What magazines?”
Rosalind, right behind Iantha, knew that Jane was close to breaking. Next she’d be nattering about who knows what and their father would get suspicious and the plan would fail. But Iantha was almost in place. If she would only speak before Jane got going. Say something, Iantha, prayed Rosalind, please say something.
“Hello, Martin,” said Iantha. “What’s the trouble?”
He turned toward her. The car keys fell out of his hand. Skye dove for them and shoved them deep into her pocket, but she needn’t have bothered hiding the keys. As Jane said later, Daddy had stopped noticing anything but Iantha in her dress. And Iantha, seeing him notice her so completely, had gone so still and quiet that she might have been a statue.
“Daddy, is it true that the car won’t start?” Rosalind gently hinted when the silence had gone on for too long.
“No. I mean yes,” her father answered, like he was coming out of a dream. “The girls tell me it could be a computer glitch.”
“Ah, a computer glitch,” breathed Iantha, clearly having no idea what she was saying.
Rosalind tugged on Batty’s hand. They’d given her yet one more line, even though it was a vital one, because fewer suspicions would be aroused if Batty said it.
Batty knew what the tug meant. She stood tall and spoke proudly.
“Iantha,” she said. “Could you take Daddy in your car?”
Iantha murmured something, and their father murmured something else, then he held out his arm to her—like a true and honorable gentleman, his daughters agreed later—and she shyly took it. And then together, after only vague good-byes to their children, they drifted back over to Iantha’s house and got into her car.
“Phase Two complete,” said Rosalind, picking up Ben. “Let’s get some supper.”
When supper was over, and Rosalind was in the bathroom with Ben, washing applesauce off his face and hands and out of his hair, Batty went to her bedroom to get ready for her very first almost-sleepover. She wished Ben could stay the whole night, but even so, it was terribly exciting just to have him fall asleep in her room, and she wanted it to be just right for him. She took all of her stuffed animals off the bed and piled them in the corner, since no one likes sleeping with someone else’s stuffed animals. She made sure the closet door was shut, just in case Ben was afraid of monsters. And finally, because it was a special occasion, she selected her favorite ties from the ones Jeffrey had given her and wrapped them around her waist, then wrapped several of her not-so-favorites around Hound’s legs. In the meantime, Hound went on with his own preparations—unearthing the bone he’d left under the bed a week ago, just in case Ben was the type of boy to steal a dog’s bone.
Now Batty and Hound were both ready. Side by side, they waited patiently until Rosalind carried in a clean and sleepy Ben, his red hair sticking up in damp spikes.
“Time for a story,” said Batty.
“What do you think Ben would enjoy?” asked Rosalind.
Batty had thought long and hard about this, and had decided that he’d probably most enjoy a story about Batty. “Let’s tell him about when Skye dropped me in the waves at Cape Cod and I almost drowned.”
“I’m not sure that’s the most soothing bedtime story for a little boy.”
“He wants to hear it, don’t you, Ben?”
“Duck.”
“See, Rosalind, that means yes. Once upon a time there was a brave little girl named—”
“Duck,” said Ben again. “Duck, duck.”
“You mustn’t interrupt,” said Batty. “Once upon a time there was a—”
“DUCK, DUCK, DUCK, DUCK!”
“—BRAVE LITTLE GIRL NAMED BATTY—”
“Stop shouting, Batty,” said Rosalind. “Ben’s crying.”
It was true. He was crying and rubbing his eyes with his fat fists. Rosalind rocked him, and Batty patted him on the head, feeling like her sleepover was getting off to a bad start. She felt so bad about it that she took—not Funty, because Funty didn’t feel safe with anyone but Batty or Hound—Sedgewick the horse from the corner and handed him to Ben, but Sedgewick only made him cry more. So she tried Ursula the bear, but Ursula was no better than Sedgewick, and then at last Batty figured it out.
“He must want one of the ducks from his room.”
Rosalind looked into the bag that Iantha had sent along and brought out the red duck and the yellow duck, but neither of them stopped his tears.
“Your white duck?” Batty asked him.
He nodded vigorously and clung to her as if to a life raft in a cold sea.
“He needs his white duck,” she told Rosalind.
From long experience with younger sisters, Rosalind knew there was no point in arguing. If Ben needed his white duck to go to sleep, she had to go next door to get it. “All right,” she said. “You two stay here. I’ll send Skye in to help with stories.”
But when she got to her sisters’ room, Skye was out on the roof with her binoculars.
“Tell stories? Are you kidding?” she said when Rosalind leaned out the window and asked for her help.
“It’s just for a few minutes. Anyway, you’ll be the OAP, so you have to.”
OAP meant Oldest Available Penderwick, and carried with it great responsibilities. However, Skye stated emphatically that she didn’t consider storytelling to be one of those responsibilities.
Rosalind turned next to Jane, who was at her desk, writing.
“Jane, Jane,” she said. “JANE!”
Jane tore herself away from her blue notebook. “Listen to this. Rainbow and Sabrina Starr joined hands across the centuries, two brave and bold spirits sworn to—sworn to—rats, what are they sworn to? Uphold something or the other.”
“Jane, could you tell stories to Batty and Ben while I go next door for a duck?”
“All right.” She stood, taking her blue notebook with her. “I’ll read them my new book. They’ll enjoy that.”
“Thank you,” said Rosalind.
She put on a jacket before going outside, for the daylight was long gone now, and Gardam Street was dark and chilly. It was the kind of delicious chilliness, though, that was good for thinking about how winter wasn’t far away, and snow, and Christmas. Rosalind shivered pleasurably, and thought about all that, and thought, too, before she could stop herself, about how much fun it would be to buy Christmas presents for Ben. And then she did stop herself, for who knew what would happen with her father and Iantha. If tonight went badly, they might never speak to each other again, and then there’d be no Ben at Christmas. Oh, please don’t let it go badly, she whispered into the darkness.
And back from the darkness came not an answering whisper but an orange cat streaking wildly across the grass before disappearing into the forsythia.
“Asimov!” she called, but she knew him well enough to know that if he didn’t want to come, no calling would change his mind. Rosalind frowned, not from worry, for the silly cat always came home, but because it made no sense that he’d managed to escape. Had Iantha left a window open or had Asimov actually learned to open the front door? If Rosalind had been a nervous person, this would have made her nervous, but a moment later she’d forgotten about Asimov, because all of her attention was being used up on pretending she didn’t notice the Geiger brothers driving up Gardam Street and pulling into their driveway. She pretended so well not to notice that she would have sworn it never happened, but all the pretending fell apart when Tommy ran across the street and stood in front of her. And looked at her, even.
She looked back at him.
Then he even
talked to her.
“I want to tell you something. You don’t have to listen, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” He had a football with him, which he was anxiously tossing from one hand to the other—back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, until Rosalind took it away from him.
“I can’t listen while you do that.” She tucked the football under her arm. “Now what?”
“What?”
“Tommy!”
“Oh, sorry.” He gulped a few times, then calmed himself by fixing his gaze on the football. “Trilby and I broke up today. That is, I broke up with her, because—never mind why.”
“Why?”
“I said never mind why.”
“Fine. I don’t care anyway.”
“Because she was boring. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell her that, so she may have gotten the idea that I broke up with her because of you, even though I definitely told her that you’re just my neighbor, and even though you’re prettier now than you used to be, I hardly ever notice and—”
Rosalind interrupted him. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I guess so, I mean, Nick says so. Actually, a lot of guys say so, and don’t ask me what guys.”
“All right. Good grief.”
“So that’s all I wanted to tell you. I’ll leave now.”
Rosalind was certain that she shouldn’t let him go without saying something kind about Trilby and the breakup, though she didn’t know why she was certain, and she didn’t know what to say even if she knew why. She puzzled over it for what seemed a long time, while Tommy kept his gaze on the football. Finally she said, “I’m glad you broke up with her. I mean, not because I missed you or anything.”
“You didn’t miss me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Gosh, no. Maybe a tiny bit, but no, probably not.”
“Of course, I didn’t expect you to miss me.”
“No, of course you didn’t.” Rosalind shook her head to emphasize how little anyone would have expected that of her. “I’m sorry, but I’d better go. I have to get a duck.”
If Tommy had hoped for more than that, he didn’t let on. He took his football and walked away, and Rosalind was once more alone in the chilly night. She shivered again, not so pleasurably as before, and reached for Iantha’s doorknob. Before she could turn it, though, the door flew open on its own.
What was this? Was Iantha home already? How could that be? But no, it wasn’t Iantha who had opened the door. It was a man Rosalind had never seen before. A not very big man, but a grown-up man nonetheless, with large glasses. He must be a friend of Iantha’s, she thought, or why would he be coming out of her house? Oh!—and this explained about Asimov.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly. “I guess it was you who let Asimov out.”
“Who’s Asimov?” he asked, shoving something under his coat as though to keep her from seeing it, but since it didn’t fit all the way under his coat, she saw it anyway.
“Iantha’s cat, of course,” she said politely, because she still wasn’t suspicious. “But why are you hiding her computer under your coat?”
“It’s my computer,” he said.
“With duck stickers on it?” The man looked scared, and for a moment Rosalind felt sorry for him, because he was a pathetic little person. But then, at last, she understood that this was no friend of Iantha’s, and her pity turned to anger. People didn’t steal from each other on Gardam Street, pathetic or not. “Give it to me.”
“I won’t.”
“You have to.”
She reached out, and he pulled the computer out of his coat as though he would comply. But it was a trick, for instead of handing over the computer, he thrust it at her so hard that she stumbled backward and fell, since even pathetic little men could be stronger than twelve-year-old girls. And then he was running away, taking Iantha’s precious computer with him. Rosalind scrambled to her feet. She would rush after him, the creep, and exact her revenge—Iantha’s revenge—though she wasn’t quite sure how she would do that on her own.
But she didn’t have to do it on her own, because here came sailing through the air a football, aimed not at a leaping wide receiver who would carry it triumphantly over the goal line but at the little man who was running for his life. Rosalind, delighted, watched as—touchdown!—the football made contact, and the man stumbled, slowing down just enough to be caught up to and tackled by Cameron Middle School number 86. For the second time in two days, Rosalind’s world up and shook itself, and when it had settled down, everything was different again. She knew now how blind and stupid she’d been about Tommy. How could she have been so annoyed with him? He was old Tommy, always had been, always would be, and that was just right for her.
“Nice tackle!” she told him ecstatically.
He stood up and brushed off his pants. “Now tell me whether you missed me, Rosy.”
“Oh, Tommy, I did miss you. I missed you this much,” she answered, her palms six inches apart.
The man on the ground tried to sit up, and Tommy pushed him back down. “How much?”
“Okay, this much.” She resisted throwing her arms as wide as they could go.
“Maybe you and I can date when we’re older,” said Tommy, trying to look nonchalant and failing horribly. “Like when we’re fourteen.”
Fourteen now seemed like a long time to wait. “Thirteen, I think. January for me, and April for you.”
Now the man snorted sarcastically, but they didn’t notice, for Tommy was too busy grinning like a fool at Rosalind, and she was too busy enjoying him doing it, and they were both ridiculously happy. They could have kept that up forever if eventually they hadn’t begun to wonder what to do about their captive. Neither wanted to leave the other alone with him to go for reinforcements, and they had their first argument since their reconciliation, but it wasn’t a true argument, and they made up just as the noise of the Penderwicks’ front door slamming echoed through the neighborhood.
“My sisters are coming,” said Rosalind to Tommy.
He leaned down and bravely kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t forget. You’re waiting for me until we’re both thirteen.”
She just as bravely kissed him back. “I won’t forget.”
And then Skye arrived. If she’d noticed the kisses, she was for once diplomatic enough not to mention it. “I saw it all from the roof! Great pass, Tommy!”
“Thanks. I broke up with Trilby last night.”
“Good work. Welcome home.” Skye put her foot on the man’s neck, for he’d made signs of trying to get up again. “Don’t move, jerk.”
Next to come was Jane, with Ben riding piggyback on her shoulders. “Who is this villain?” She looked with scorn on the fallen.
“We don’t know yet. He was trying to steal Iantha’s computer,” said Rosalind, plucking Ben off Jane. He was wearing one of Batty’s sweatshirts over his pajamas, and a pair of her kangaroo socks. Not only did he seem to have forgotten his missing duck, he looked delighted. He’d never had an adventure like the one he was having tonight.
Last came Batty and Hound, their neckties streaming. Hound took his natural place by the man’s head and bared his teeth alarmingly. Batty crouched down next to Hound and looked at the man—and he looked back at her.
He spoke first. “You again! You’re everywhere.”
“Hello, Bug Man,” she said.
“Batty, how many times do I have to tell you that there’s no—” Skye stopped midsentence, her mouth open. Was it possible that Bug Man wasn’t just a figment of Batty’s imagination?
“Batty, is this really Bug Man?” asked Rosalind.
“He doesn’t look like much,” said Jane.
“He’s scarier with his sunglasses on.” Batty didn’t want anyone to think she was a coward.
“Excuse me, I’m right here,” said the man.
“Don’t interrupt the ladies,” said Tommy. Hound barked menacingly, too, for good measure.
“So this guy reall
y is Bug Man.” Skye was still doubting.
“Also Sock Man,” said Batty.
“Spock, not Sock, you annoying child. But actually, I am Norman Birnbaum.” He said it like he was saying “Albert Einstein.”
The name Norman had caught Jane’s attention. She turned to the others. “Now I know who he is! He’s the nut that thinks Iantha stole his research! That’s why he took her computer. He was stealing her research so that he could pretend it was his. Nasty thief.”
“I am neither a nut nor a thief, and Iantha did steal my research, and I have been trying for weeks to find the right opportunity to take it back. I will be vindicated. You know nothing about it, so don’t argue with me.”
Skye leaned down and looked him full in the face. She understood now—this guy was just weird enough to actually be Batty’s Bug Man. “We won’t argue with you. I will simply tell you this. Iantha is a genius. She doesn’t need to steal from pinheads like you. So not only have you been stalking my neighborhood and frightening my baby sister—”
“I’m not a baby!” interrupted Batty.
Skye plugged on. “—you’re also making disparaging remarks about a woman who is on a first date with my father, a date that we worked very hard to make happen. I myself had to steal a car battery, and that’s not as easy as people make it sound.”
“You see, Mr. Bugbaum,” said Jane. “Iantha is a Potential Penderwick.”
“As is this handsome baby,” said Rosalind, and kissed Ben’s cheek for good luck.
Skye jerked her head up, for she hadn’t thought of that, and grimaced at Ben, who waved happily back.
“So, team,” said Tommy. “What are we going to do with Norman here?”
“Let me go, of course,” he said. “I’ve done nothing wrong, and you are mere children.”
“Mere children, ha!” said Jane. “I say we tie up the knave and then discuss his fate.”
Since everyone thought this a good idea, Batty and Hound donated Jeffrey’s neckties, and soon Bug Man, aka Sock or Spock, aka Norman Birnbaum, was bound hand and foot. Jane, Batty, and Hound then took a few minutes to be Aztec priests calling for blood, until Rosalind quieted them down. Norman was slime, but that was no reason to terrify him.
The Penderwicks on Gardam Street Page 20
