The Penderwicks on Gardam Street

  Rosalind thought the sobs would never stop, but at last Batty wore herself out and just lay there with her face damp and her eyes closed. By then her father had sent Anna home and told Skye and Jane to go to bed. Nick, though, had insisted on staying. It was his friends who’d driven the little dinosaur off the streets and into the bushes, and he refused to leave until he knew Batty was all right.

  Finally she stirred and opened her eyes.

  “Hi, Battikins,” said Mr. Penderwick. “How do you feel?”

  “All right.” One last tear slipped out. “I lost all my candy.”

  “You can have my candy,” said Rosalind. “Oh, Batty, I’m sorry I didn’t watch you every second.”

  “Can you tell us what happened, sweetheart?” asked Mr. Penderwick.

  “Bug Man was hiding behind the bushes, and I bumped him with my tail.”

  Rosalind was too upset to mess around with Bug Man stories tonight. “No, really.”

  “It was Bug Man, it was, but his ears were pointed and he was a sock.” Batty looked around now and noticed that Nick was there, too, and without any of his masks on, which was a relief.

  “Hi, Batty,” he said. “Excellent screaming.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go back to the part about the man being a sock,” said Mr. Penderwick.

  Batty frowned with concentration. “He—Bug Man—said he was a sock and then something about a prize.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Rosalind.

  “Maybe it does, though, if you think about the pointed ears,” said Nick. “I did notice some guy wandering around earlier dressed as a Vulcan.”

  “Batty, is it possible the man said that he was Spock?” asked Mr. Penderwick. “From the Enterprise?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What else did the man say?”

  “I don’t know.” Batty was drooping with fatigue. “He said he’d be vinchidated.”

  “Does anyone speak Vulcan? Rosalind?” asked Nick.

  She shushed him, but not severely, for she was too relieved to mind his silliness. Batty had been badly frightened, it was true, but this man—whoever he was—sounded more odd than dangerous. After asking a few more questions, her father obviously agreed, and soon sent Nick home with strict instructions not to hunt Spock down to punish him. Then, while he carried Batty upstairs to bed, Rosalind went to Skye and Jane’s room to let them know that the youngest Penderwick was safe and unscathed.

  Before she could say a word, though, she stumbled over a football helmet.

  “Bandits!” said Jane while Skye turned on the light.

  “It’s just me.” Rosalind kicked the helmet out of her way, not as gently, perhaps, as she would have had its owner been on Gardam Street that night where he belonged. “Sorry to wake you. I wanted to tell you that Batty’s okay. She was just startled by some man in a Spock costume.”

  “We weren’t asleep, anyway,” said Jane. “We’re going over lines for the play tomorrow.”

  “Skye, I’m sure you know your part by now,” said Rosalind with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  “Garghh.”

  “Come on, Skye, let’s go back to where Rainbow tells Grass Flower she’s going to take her place as the sacrificial victim,” said Jane. “Grass Flower says I cannot let you give your life for me, and then you shed a tear and say…”

  “I don’t want to say it. Oh, Jane!”

  “What good is my life, now that I know—go ahead, you can do it.”

  “What good is my stupid life, now that I know stupid Coyote loves you, even stupider Grass Flower?”

  Shaking her head, Rosalind slipped away, leaving them to it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sisters and Sacrifice

  SKYE STOOD AT THE WINDOW in her bedroom, staring out into the rain. It was a cold rain, perfect for the coldness in her heart. And the coldness in her feet and her hands and everything except her stomach, which instead of feeling cold, felt seasick. All this discomfort was because soon her father would be driving her to school, where Jane would help her don the Rainbow costume and makeup. And soon after that, she would be walking onto the stage, where she would proceed to make a buffoon of herself. No, she would be worse than a buffoon. She would be pathetic. The audience, all four hundred of them, the teachers, her family—they would all feel sorry for her. Even the rest of the cast would feel sorry for her. Already, that afternoon at the dress rehearsal, Pearson, who knew nothing about acting and cared less, had given her tips on line delivery. And Melissa! Skye was sure she’d seen a hint of pity in Melissa’s eyes. To be pitied by Melissa Patenaude was beyond mortification.

  Skye turned away from the window and fell onto her bed. Well, at least one person wouldn’t be there to pity her—Aunt Claire. A business obligation was keeping her in Connecticut that evening. She’d apologized on the phone to Skye, not understanding that Skye didn’t want anyone there at all, then even sent a large basket of flowers with a note: Sorry I’ll miss your play. See you tomorrow for the soccer game.

  Skye thought longingly of tomorrow and that soccer game. Even though it was with Melissa and her Cameron Hardware team, it would be heaven compared to tonight. And after the game would be anything she wanted for the whole weekend, and nothing at all to do with Aztecs or plays for the rest of her life. If only time travel were possible, she thought, she would jump right now to tomorrow’s soccer game, and to heck with the space-time continuum.

  How could such a simple thing as a play terrify her so? She’d never been this frightened, not when she was five and rode Tommy’s skateboard over the big ramps Nick had built. Not two summers ago at the beach when she took her raft so far past the waves that she had to be towed back to shore by the lifeguard. Not even dangling off the Quigley Woods bridge last spring with Jane holding on to her ankles so that she could retrieve a soccer ball stuck on the rocks below. She would do any of those things a hundred times and more if it would keep her from playing Rainbow.

  But nothing could keep her from playing Rainbow now. Unless—unless she lied and said she was too sick to go on. She did feel sick, after all. It wasn’t as though the play couldn’t go on without her. Someone could simply read the part in her place—they’d do a better job than she could, even after all her practice. Would it really hurt anyone if she stayed home? Would it be so wrong?

  There was a knock on the door, and her father came in carrying a tray of food.

  “I know you didn’t want any supper,” he said.

  “I don’t.” Nor had she wanted any lunch or breakfast. She hadn’t eaten since the night before, and felt so peculiar she thought she might never eat again.

  “Nonetheless, you could use some food before your big performance as Rainbow. By the way, have I told you how much I like that name? In Latin, it would be Pluvius Arcus, pluvius being an adjective meaning ‘rainy,’ and arcus meaning, of course, ‘curve’ or ‘arch.’ Pluvius, by the way, also made it into our language, as pluvial.” He stopped. “Sorry, you’re not in the mood for an etymology lesson.”

  “It was interesting, though.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Have some dinner, Skye. Food is good for nerves.”

  “I’m not hungry, honest.”

  “Then how about I leave the food here, and if you get hungry in the next few minutes, you try to stuff something down.” He put down the tray and turned to go.

  “Thanks, Daddy, but wait, I have a question. Is Marianne coming tonight?”

  “No, she isn’t. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “No, I’m glad.” This was the nicest thing she’d ever heard about Marianne. “I wouldn’t want this play to be the first impression she gets of me.”

  “Skye, I don’t think you’re going to be as bad as you think you are.”

  “You have no idea how bad I am. But I have another question.” She was grasping at her last straw. Her father was the most honest man she knew. If he would give her a loophole, however small, she would take it. ??
?Is deceit always dishonorable, even a tiny bit that doesn’t hurt anyone?”

  “Heavens, daughter, that’s a question for a philosopher, not a botanist.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “All right.” He thought for a moment. “No, deceit is not always dishonorable. For example, lying to save an innocent life can be honorable. Is there an innocent life at stake here?”

  “Besides mine?” She smiled to show she was kidding, but it wasn’t much of a smile.

  “Then I’d have to say, broadly, that even a tiny bit of deceit is dishonorable when it’s used for selfish or cowardly reasons. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes, I guess it does.” If the only loophole would be to act cowardly—and though, when it came to being Rainbow, she absolutely was a coward through and through—she wouldn’t give in to it. “Could you please tell Jane I’m almost ready to leave?”

  “That’s my girl,” he said. “Audaces—”

  She interrupted him. “Daddy, I love you and I appreciate your advice, but I just can’t bear any Latin right now.”

  “No, I don’t blame you.” He kissed her. “I’ll get the car ready.”

  Skye stuffed her Rainbow costume and makeup into a bag and followed her father downstairs. Her fate was sealed, and from that moment her determination to go through with the play wouldn’t waver. In the car, she clutched her bag and went over her lines and stage directions with Jane, speaking so quickly they finished the whole play and were starting again by the time they reached Wildwood. She kept it up, muttering maniacally as they dashed through the rain, into the school, and down the hall toward the auditorium.

  “Thank you, Coyote, for your gift of food. Because the rain will not come, we are close to starving. Ignore Melissa and look at Pearson. When he nods at me, point out toward the audience. What news do you bring from the outside world? Then he goes on and on about soldiers, and then I say—”

  “Look, the programs!” Jane waved several redcovered booklets she’d snatched from a table in the lobby.

  Mr. Geballe had mentioned there would be programs for that night, but Skye had been too anxious to worry about such details. Jane handed her one now, but Skye just stuck it into her costume bag and kept walking. “And then I say, Surely the soldiers won’t come to our little village looking for sacrificial victims. Melissa gasps with fear, and Pearson puts his hand on her shoulder.”

  “But don’t you want to see the Sisters and Sacrifice page?” Jane handed over another program, this one open to the middle. Here is what Skye read:

  SISTERS AND SACRIFICE

  An Original Play by Skye Penderwick

  “Jane!” She stopped dead, in the middle of the hall. “They put my name right there as the author.”

  Several cast members rushed by, giggling. Jane stepped in front of Skye to keep them from seeing the look of dread on her face. “Of course they put your name as author. What did you think?” she whispered, not adding that she’d give anything to have her own name there instead.

  “I didn’t think,” moaned Skye. “I just didn’t think. Deceit upon deceit, Jane. Deceit multiplied by the number of people who read this program. How much deceit does that make altogether? My honor will be lower than nothing. My honor will be in the negative numbers.”

  More cast members, including Pearson, appeared at the end of the hall. Jane looked around for a place to hide a disintegrating sister. There, just a few more steps and they could both disappear into the girls’ bathroom. Half shoving and half pulling, she managed to get Skye hidden before Pearson could arrive and see the grievous state of she who was soon to be Rainbow.

  Safely inside the bathroom, Skye slumped against the tile wall and dropped her bag on the floor. A black-yarn wig, crafted lovingly by the Sisters and Sacrifice costume committee, tumbled out onto the floor. Skye groaned at the sight of it and clutched her stomach.

  “Do you want me to cross out ‘Skye’ in all of the programs?” asked Jane. “I could change it to ‘Miss.’ ‘An Original Play by Miss Penderwick.’ That works, right?”

  “Even for you, Jane, that’s a stupid idea. Sorry, sorry, sorry. It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. If I’d done my own homework, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Swear we’ll never switch homework again. Swear!”

  Even in so dire a situation, Jane wasn’t going to swear to that. There were still years of school to get through, and she was counting on Skye for at least trigonometry and physics. “Try to get hold of yourself. Maybe you’ll feel better once you get to the dressing room and put on your makeup.”

  “The dressing room!” Skye grabbed Jane’s arm. “Listen to me. I’ll act in this play, which will possibly ruin my life, but I will not put on a costume and makeup in the same room as Melissa Patenaude. I’ll do it here instead. Go tell Mr. Geballe where I am, okay? And then come back to help me.”

  “I don’t know if I should leave you alone, Skye. You look a little weird.”

  “Of course I look weird. I’m close to a nervous breakdown. Now go! No, wait! I can’t remember my first speech.”

  “Yes, Grass Flower, though I wish we did not have to rush into marriage. Perhaps someday in the future, girls will be allowed to stay single—”

  “—for many more years or even forever without social opprobrium. I got it. Now go!”

  Jane went, and Skye staggered over to the mirror. She looked like death. She didn’t care. “However, since that day is not yet nigh, I am glad that I have found a boy to love, for then I will be happy in my marriage. Then stupid Melissa says: I, too, have found a boy to love. Who is yours?”

  She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a stick of red greasepaint. “I say, You tell me first, then Melissa says, No, you tell me first.” She drew a wavering line of red across her forehead. “Okay, I think I remember the rest of that scene. What is that line I have so much trouble with later? The one about innocent blood?” Another line of red, this one under her right eye.

  Skye blinked, for her image in the mirror was a little blurry now. “For I will spill my maize—no—I will spill my blood to bring the maize—no, the rain!” She needed a line of red under her left eye, but the blurriness was getting worse, and she was having trouble seeing what she was doing. “For I will spill my blood to—to—to…”

  Now there was a strange rushing sound in her ears. Suddenly dizzy, Skye clutched at the sink, but it managed to slip away from her. That’s odd, she thought, I seem to be falling down.

  Then all went black.

  Rosalind pulled on an old sweater with a small hole in one sleeve. She could have worn one of the sweaters Aunt Claire had given her, but this one was good enough for the Sixth Grade Performance Night. No one there would be looking at her, unlike last year when she’d been the maidservant in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Of course, the maidservant hadn’t had many lines, just lots of “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.” Anna had much more to say—and a great chance to scream—as Mr. Hyde’s first victim. Tommy had the most lines of all, for he was the star. What an excellent villain—

  She stopped, frowning, unwilling to give Tommy any praise, even for something that had happened long before his Trilby phase. He was as pond scum to her now, just as, apparently, she was as pond scum to him. Since their Trilby argument, he no longer even looked at her, let alone said hello—not at school, not on Gardam Street, and especially not when he was with Trilby. Perhaps pond scum was too good for him.

  Rosalind ran a brush through her hair, then headed downstairs. Her father, back from dropping off Skye and Jane, was helping Batty into her yellow raincoat and hat. Iantha was there, too, with Ben under one arm and his baby seat under the other, for they were riding along with the Penderwicks.

  “I’m going to walk to the school, Daddy,” said Rosalind, kissing Ben’s fat cheek.

  “Are we taking your spot in the car?” asked Iantha.

  Yes, it would be a tight squeeze in the car with two car seats, but mostly Rosalind loved walking in the rain. Grabbing her
raincoat and an umbrella, she left before anyone could argue with her, and swung cheerfully down Gardam Street, leaning into the wind, hearing the rain beat against the umbrella. By the time her father drove by a few minutes later, she was humming. What was it? Oh, yes. “Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven.” Her mother had sung it whenever she walked in the rain, and she’d do this funny little dance—step, step, hop, hop, slide, step, step, hop, hop, slide.

  Another car roared up beside her and stopped. The window was rolled down, and Nick grinned out at her. Rosalind wished she hadn’t been hopping and sliding right then.

  “Jump in,” he said. “We’ll give you a ride to the school.”

  Rosalind peered into the car—and there was Tommy next to Nick, staring straight ahead.

  “I like walking,” she said.

  “Come on, it’s pouring. As long as you don’t mind a detour. We’ve got to pick up Trilby.”

  Only then did Tommy turn his head, but his eyes slid past her, as though the most fascinating thing in the world was just over her right shoulder. Oh! How dare he ignore her, just as if they hadn’t known each other since they were in diapers! Rosalind angrily shook her umbrella, spraying rain all over Nick. “Why exactly is the magnificent Trilby blessing the Sixth Grade Performance Night with her magnificent presence?”

  “Nice attitude, Rosy,” said Nick, his grin getting bigger. “You’re not the only one with a sister in the sixth grade. Tonight you’ll be treated to the smooth sounds of Elena Ramirez’s saxophone solo.”

  “Oh.” She wished she were dead.

  “But you can still have a ride.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Rosalind watched the Geiger brothers drive away, then set off again toward the school, without humming and certainly without dancing. It seemed now like such a long walk to the school, and she wondered what was so great about walking in the rain, anyway. She thought, I am lower than pond scum, then at last there was the school ahead of her, and there—thank goodness—was Anna, waiting by the big front doors.