The Penderwicks at Point Mouette

  Skye turned her back on him. Any minute now he was going to make her lose her temper or start laughing, and she didn’t want to do either.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You come to the pinewood now, and afterward we’ll play soccer on the beach.”

  She pointed to Jane, who still hadn’t moved. “What about her?”

  “I’ll ask if she wants to come with us.” But Jeffrey was soon back, and without Jane. “She says she needs to stay where she is for now, and you can stop spying on her because she’s fine.”

  “So she says.” But Skye was wavering. The sun was bright, there was a soft breeze off the ocean, and the tide was low. Perfect for soccer on the beach. “You mean real soccer, with no crazy stuff like dogs and Mercedes, right?”

  “Right.”

  Then Hound arrived, carrying one empty bucket in his mouth, and Batty came after him with another two, and without exactly agreeing to anything, Skye found herself taking one of the buckets and setting off for the pinewood to collect more stupid golf balls. She allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder at Jane, then told herself not to be ridiculous. They wouldn’t be gone longer than a half hour. What could happen to Jane in a half hour?

  It was an excellent question, and one that would eventually become a Penderwick family joke, a teasing shorthand for “You haven’t thought this through properly,” and no one would laugh at it more than Skye, except for Jane. But for Skye on that morning in Maine, halfway up a pine tree and reaching into a bird nest for a golf ball pretending to be an egg, it was suddenly a very real question. Off in the distance, someone was shouting her name.

  “Did you hear that?” She slid and jumped her way down the tree.

  Jeffrey straightened up, his hands full of balls he’d found hiding under pine needles. “Is it Jane?”

  The voice came again. “Skye, Skye, where are you?”

  “It’s Mercedes,” said Batty.

  Skye knew immediately that something had happened to Jane. She tossed aside the golf balls that had lured her away from her duty and sprinted off in the direction of the voice, her head full of horrifying visions of Jane broken on the rocks, bitten by sharks, hand in hand with Dominic. Down through the pinewood she dashed, ignoring the branches that whipped at her, mocking her, and slowing down only when she found Mercedes stumbling through the trees.

  “Where’s Jane?” cried Skye.

  “On the beach. Oh, Skye—”

  But Skye was already running again, too impatient to wait for any explanations. The distress on Mercedes’s face had been enough to intensify Skye’s fears. Jane was now dead on the rocks, eaten by sharks, or eloped with Dominic, each fate worse than the others, and all of them Skye’s fault for leaving Jane alone.

  And now Skye reached Birches and was throwing herself down the stone steps, and now she was on the beach, skidding to a stop beside Jane, who wasn’t dead or even dying, but upright and without any visible bloodstains. Nor was Dominic anywhere to be seen. It was a bit odd that Jane was staring fixedly into the marshmallow-fire pit while fussing with a pair of scissors, opening and closing them, snip, snip, snip, snip, but certainly that couldn’t be enough to throw Mercedes into a tizzy, right? Silly Skye, she told herself, for not bothering to ask Mercedes what was happening. Good leaders don’t jump to conclusions.

  She leaned down, hands on her knees, to catch her breath. “Hello, Jane.”

  “Hello,” said Jane, though still not looking at her sister. “Please don’t be furious.”

  Skye straightened up so quickly she almost went over backward. The last time Jane had told her not to be furious was when she’d just smashed her nose to pieces.

  “What’s going on, Jane? What are you doing with the scissors?”

  “Not much, just making more wishes.”

  With a jerky abruptness, Jane turned to face Skye. The curls on her left side had been chopped off almost to her ear.

  Skye shrieked, just as she had with the nose, and stomped around in the sand like an enraged bear. What could happen to Jane in a half hour? What could happen to Jane in a half hour? Other than losing her mind and giving herself a haircut worthy of a two-year-old?

  The others were arriving now—Mercedes panting and frantic, Jeffrey with Batty bouncing along on his back, and Hound barking TROUBLE TROUBLE because he’d heard Skye’s shriek and knew what it meant.

  “What’s wrong? Who did that to Jane’s hair?” Jeffrey asked Skye, who was trying to stop stomping.

  Jane answered him. “It was me. I lost my temper. Skye, you would have been impressed.”

  “You got mad at your hair?” asked Batty, sliding down from Jeffrey’s back. This she understood, much better than dying for nodes.

  “Not exactly.” Swiftly, before anyone could think to stop her, Jane cut off another piece of hair and tossed it into the circle of rocks, and now everyone noticed the pile of curls already there, limp and dark on the sand.

  “Oh, no, we’re back to the Firegod,” said Jeffrey, because Jane was chanting:

  “Fire, Sun, Sand, and Sea,

  Listen now and hear my plea.

  Humbly do I ask of thee,

  Please bring what I wish to me.”

  “That’s what she keeps doing,” said Mercedes. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Has she gone crazy?” asked Batty, holding on to Hound for moral support.

  “Yes,” answered Skye bleakly, “and it’s all my fault. Jane, hand over the scissors.”

  “No.” But before she could use them again, Jeffrey had snatched them away.

  “No more cutting,” he said. “And, Skye, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have convinced you to leave her alone.”

  “I shouldn’t have listened to you. It was my responsibility.”

  “I am my own responsibility, thank you. And if you won’t let me cut any more hair, I’ll make do with what I have.” Jane took a box of matches from her pocket. “You should be pleased that I didn’t light the fire while I was alone, Skye. So responsible of me, right? But now that we’re all here, I’ll do it, just a little fire—and then my wishes will be official.”

  “No fire,” said Skye, and Jeffrey took away the matches, too.

  Jane made a feeble attempt to get them back, but it was clear that her heart wasn’t in it, for the anger was quickly leaking away, and soon she’d sunk into Jeffrey’s arms, beaten, with tears pouring down her miserable face with its fringe of butchered hair. Batty and Hound circled protectively, and Skye turned to Mercedes.

  “Now. Tell me what happened, quickly.”

  “Dominic told me to give Jane back that poem she’d written—”

  “Dominic! I knew it,” growled Skye.

  Mercedes hung her head. “I’m ashamed to be an Orne.”

  “Never mind that part. Tell me about the ode—the poem.”

  “So I came over and gave it to Jane, and I didn’t know it, I swear, but Dominic had written a note on the back. When Jane read his note, she was really quiet for a while. Then she said that we should make wishes to the Firegod, and she went to get the scissors and matches and she explained to me what to do, and I cut off a tiny bit of my hair and wished—um, Jane said I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone what I wished, but it was to stop falling off my bike.” Mercedes glanced at Batty, who nodded. That was a good wish.

  “Go on,” said Skye.

  “Jane took the scissors and cut up her poem and threw it into the rocks, and she cut off a big chunk of her hair and threw that in, too, and she was sort of yelling, and when she did it again, I went to find you.” Mercedes stopped to gaze mournfully at Jane, still sagging in Jeffrey’s arms. “I think her heart is broken.”

  “Not my heart,” sobbed Jane. “It’s my pride that’s broken. I am a fool and a chump. A dupe and a ninny and—”

  Jeffrey cut in. “That’s enough of that. Can you stand up by yourself?”

  “Of course I can.” And she did, with as much dignity as one can must
er in such a situation. “How bad does my hair look?”

  “Awful,” said Batty.

  “We just need to even it out a little,” said Skye. “Well, a lot.”

  Jane tentatively poked at what was remaining of her curls, and a few more tears rolled down her face. “Give me back the scissors and I’ll do it.”

  “Not now. Good grief.”

  What Skye wanted most in the world right then—wanted it so much she thought about wishing to the Firegod—was to knock down Dominic Orne and make him crawl and beg for forgiveness. And after the crawling and begging, he’d have to perform some specific act of contrition. Like cutting off his own hair. That was it! Skye’s fingers itched to grab the scissors and go hunt him down.

  “Concentrate,” said Jeffrey warningly.

  He was right, as usual. She would have to wait for revenge. Her job now was to get Jane safely to Aunt Claire. Aunt Claire knew more about hearts and hair than Skye ever would. So she and Jeffrey helped Jane away from the beach and up to Birches, where Aunt Claire was just coming out onto the deck.

  “Aunt Claire, we’ve had an incident,” said Skye, following up with a series of violent faces that meant Please don’t react too much to what you’re about to see, namely Jane.

  Miraculously, Aunt Claire did understand, and other than fumbling with a crutch and swaying dangerously until Jeffrey caught her and lowered her into a chair, she managed to stay calm.

  “An incident,” she repeated, her voice only a little higher than usual. “Yes, I see.”

  “I chopped off my hair,” said Jane. “My one beauty.”

  “Your hair’s not your only beauty, but I don’t understand—” Aunt Claire stopped and looked around at the others. “Did anyone else cut their hair? Hound, even?”

  “Just Jane,” said Batty, and patted Hound to reassure him that they wouldn’t cut his hair.

  “And it was my fault,” added Mercedes. “Because I’m an Orne.”

  Jane shook her head. “It was no one’s fault but my own. Skye tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen. I was a nincompoop. A moron. A block—”

  “Don’t,” said Jeffrey.

  “—head.” She started to cry again.

  Aunt Claire held out her arms. “Jane, come sit on my lap, sweetheart. Tell me what you’ve been a nincompoop about.”

  Jane went to her, sobbing, and kept sobbing until Aunt Claire looked up to Skye for a hint.

  Skye made a few awkward dance moves and said, “Shin guard.”

  Somehow Aunt Claire understood that, too—at which Skye decided she was the most brilliant aunt who had ever lived—and stroked Jane’s hair and murmured to her.

  “Honey, do you remember all those Bills I told you about? The ones I fell in love with? What I didn’t tell you was how badly one of them hurt me.”

  Jane’s sobbing slowed down a little. “I thought my heart was singing, Aunt Claire, I really did. But it was humming, or maybe it was just speaking. And all the time that treacherous Dominic … Oh, I can’t stand it!”

  “You know what’s best for this kind of situation, Jane, is to tell the story from the beginning. Like one of your books.” Aunt Claire looked up at Skye and cocked her head toward the seawall.

  This time it was Skye who understood. Jane would more easily tell her tale if they weren’t all there, hovering. She led Hound and the others off the deck and to the seawall, where they perched in a row, thinking various unhappy thoughts. Occasionally a spurt of talking would break out—like when Batty asked Jeffrey about nodes and he tried to explain, and when Jeffrey asked about the dancing shin guard and Skye tried to explain, but mostly there was pained silence. So it was a relief when Alec arrived, because he wasn’t miserable, and because he was inviting them over for a movie that evening—which sounded pleasantly normal, not at all like when people chopped at their own hair. But after they’d thanked him about the movie, he couldn’t help noticing Jane and Aunt Claire in a huddle on the deck. He asked what was wrong, and Skye and Jeffrey gave him a brief explanation, leaving out the ode, only hinting at Dominic’s role, and shushing Mercedes and Batty whenever they tried to add anything.

  “How bad is Jane’s hair now?” asked Alec when they finished.

  “Nightmare bad, like she lost a fight with a lawn mower,” said Skye. “It should look better after we even it out.”

  “Do you know how to cut hair?” asked Alec. “Or does your aunt?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Because it just so happens that I need a haircut myself. I could take Jane along for repairs.”

  “To a real hair salon?” This seemed like an excellent idea to Skye. “But you don’t actually need a haircut.”

  “No?” Alec ran his hand over his hair, which looked fine.

  “No,” said Jeffrey.

  “Then I’ll get my beard shaved off. I’ve been meaning to.”

  “Good,” said Batty. “I don’t like beards.”

  Alec laughed. “There, it’s settled.”

  Much cheered, Skye waited until she was certain that Jane had finished telling Aunt Claire the whole gruesome tale, then ran up to the deck to tell them about Alec’s offer. Aunt Claire gratefully accepted, and Skye bundled Jane into a big hat, plus a pair of sunglasses for added moral support.

  “I’m sorry,” Jane said to Skye from under her disguise. “I haven’t been much of a backup OAP.”

  “That’s okay.” It was true that since Jane had fallen for Dominic, she had been about the worst backup OAP imaginable. But that didn’t let Skye off the hook. She should have stayed with Jane, not deserted her in her hour of need. No good leader would. Would Caesar have gone off looking for golf balls when his soldiers were at their breaking point? No.

  And neither would he let a wounded soldier be carried off the field alone.

  “Funny,” she told Jane. “I’m suddenly in the mood for a haircut myself.”

  “No, Skye, you don’t have to.”

  But Skye did have to—it was the very least she could do, she realized—and it turned out that Batty and Mercedes were suddenly in the mood for haircuts, too. While everyone agreed about Batty, especially those who’d tried to brush her hair lately, they explained to Mercedes that she couldn’t just get a haircut without permission, so she called her grandmother, who said yes. After making certain that Jeffrey and Aunt Claire didn’t need haircuts, too, Alec herded the four girls over to his house and into his car.

  As they drove away, Jane whispered to Skye, “Promise me you won’t do anything crazy like beat up Dominic.”

  “May I cut off his hair?”

  “No, please, no. Promise you’ll leave him alone. I’m humiliated enough without that.”

  Although Skye reluctantly promised, just thinking about humiliation made Jane start crying again, and she cried all the way to the hair salon.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Thunderstorm

  BY DINNERTIME, Jane had gone two entire hours without crying. Then she made it through dinner, too, despite her tuna noodle casserole—she’d insisted on taking her turn at cooking, although everyone offered to do it for her—which was mysteriously soggy in some places, burned in others, and boringly bland overall. After cleanup, she thought she might have a relapse when Aunt Claire, Jeffrey, and Skye got ready to leave for movie night at Alec’s house, with a rented movie and lots of popcorn, but Jane managed to hold back her tears. After all, she told herself sternly, it was her own choice to stay back with Batty and Mercedes. They were having their first sleepover together and were practically expiring from the thrill of it.

  “Jane, are you sure?” asked Skye, lingering after Jeffrey helped Aunt Claire and her crutches out the door.

  “Yes,” she answered nobly, trying to ignore the hysterical laughter coming from Batty’s room.

  “There’s a thunderstorm coming. You won’t let anyone get struck by lightning, right?”

  “No.” It was a ridiculous question, but Jane knew she deserved to be treated as a nea
r imbecile after all the havoc she’d caused that day.

  “Or blown up, right?”

  But even in her current mood of deep humility and penance, this was too much for Jane. “Skye, no one except you believes in the possibility of Batty blowing up.”

  “You saw it on the list,” said Skye. “It was right there.”

  “Just go watch the movie and have fun. We’ll survive.” Jane pushed Skye out of the house and shut the door behind her.

  Now that Jane was alone, would she cry again? She blinked experimentally and, when no tears came, decided she might be safe for at least a few more hours. Maybe if she could make it through the whole evening without crying, she would be safe altogether. As long as she didn’t think too much about Dominic or that he’d sent back her precious “Ode to a Kiss”—that was the title she’d given it after much deliberation—or mostly if she didn’t think too much about the note he’d scribbled on the back of the ode.

  There! Already she was thinking about it. To distract herself, she decided to visit Batty and Mercedes. She could pretend it was an official visit.

  “Any trouble in here?” she asked brightly, swinging open the door.

  “No,” said Batty. “We don’t need you.”

  “We’re making signs for the sale tomorrow,” added Mercedes more politely, showing Jane a large piece of paper with GOLF BALLS scrawled across it. “And Batty’s been telling me about how Jeffrey is going to show her the moose babies someday and how he’s going to marry her when they grow up.”

  “Batty, how do you know you want to marry Jeffrey?” asked Jane, snatching a red marker out of Hound’s mouth just before he bit it in half.

  “I just know.”

  Her certainty dug into Jane’s unhappiness. “I should have given you my Love Survey.”

  Batty ignored her, but Mercedes’s sensitive heart reached out. “I’m sorry about my brother,” she said. “But your hair looks beautiful, Jane.”

  “Thank you, Mercedes. Yours looks beautiful, too.” Jane left them alone and went outside onto the deck, to breathe in the salty air and not think about Dominic.