“Me neither,” he said. “Why are you staring at me?”
“I’m making sure you’re still you.”
“And?”
“You are. What a relief.”
Lydia wriggled to get Jeffrey’s attention back. “Goldie put Frank in a box.”
“No, Lydia, we’re done with Frank,” Batty told her.
“But who is he?” asked Jeffrey.
“A dead guinea pig. Change the subject.”
“Okay, what about you? Written any of those book reports yet?”
“Ugh, no. Change the subject again.”
“What about the ongoing research into crushes? Have you and Keiko made any progress?”
“That’s Keiko’s research, not mine. She’s still working on it, but she did drop Ryan the movie star.”
“I never thought he was right for her. What else, Batty?”
“Talk to me about music!”
“You want to hear about the Boston Symphony Orchestra?”
“No,” said Lydia.
“Yes,” said Batty. “Please!”
Jeffrey had been at Symphony Hall that past week to see the Boston Symphony Orchestra perform Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, which he could describe to Batty in detail, and with such passion and excitement that even Lydia sort of listened. He demonstrated part of the second movement on an imaginary clarinet—and Batty scolded him for not bringing his actual clarinet along. From Berlioz he went on to the local bands he kept track of, the music he was writing, and then to news of his dad, whom Batty knew well and loved, too. A professional saxophone player, he lived in Boston near Jeffrey’s school, and they often worked on their music together.
“And, Batty, I’ve started playing clubs with him, just the small ones, but still. Dad said that when I’m older, we can tour together, even go abroad. He’s told me about playing in Germany, how they love jazz over there. Can you imagine how great that would be?”
Batty could imagine that and more. She already saw herself as the singer on their tour.
“And I’ll go, too,” she said, without thinking.
Restless from lack of attention, Lydia tried to stick her head through the steering wheel, which made her crown fall off, scattering limp dandelions onto Jeffrey and his car. There was a great deal of drama getting her head back out and the dandelions back onto the crown and the crown back onto her head.
“Life will be much easier when she gives up on the crown,” said Batty.
“Yet I remember someone who wore butterfly wings when she was even older than Lydia.”
“That was different.” The wings had been Batty’s. “I think.”
“Little Bunny Foo Foo,” said Lydia.
“Oh-ho!” Jeffrey reached into the backseat and produced a large pink stuffed rabbit. “Little Bunny Foo Foo!”
Jeffrey burst into the song, hopping the pink rabbit around the car and sending Lydia into joyful squeals. Batty sang along in a voice as silly as his, though more Viennese opera than Italian, and was so happy that she wished she could take these moments and store them away to be brought out and relived whenever she wanted.
When they’d gone through all the “Bunny Foo Foo” verses—and they were legion—Jeffrey reached again into the backseat. This time he brought back a record album, Kiss Me, Kate.
“Here’s some Cole Porter to keep your musical taste sharp and sophisticated. Make sure you listen to ‘So in Love,’ one of the truly great love songs of the twentieth century. What? Now, why are you looking at me?”
“Just, you know, love songs.”
“You’re scolding me about Skye, aren’t you?”
“Sort of. Anyway, thanks for this. You spoil us.” She hugged the album. “I have something important I need to tell you.”
“Is it about love? Skye’s found a boyfriend who isn’t me?”
“If she doesn’t want you for a boyfriend, why would she want anyone else?”
“What would I do without you, Battikins?”
“You’d miss me terribly. And the something important I need to tell you is about me and it’s a special topic and it’ll take time and we need to be alone. Also, Jeffrey, I know what you are now! You’re my mentore!”
“I like that. What made you think of it?”
“That’s part of what I need to tell you.”
“How about we go out to breakfast tomorrow morning, just you and me? Sylvester’s?”
“Yes!” Sylvester’s had the most delicious pancakes, almost as good as her father’s.
“Okay, good.” Squinting into the tiny mirror over the dashboard, he tried unsuccessfully to smooth down his hair. “I guess I’d better go forward into battle. Do you have any tips for me?”
“Musica anima mea est.”
“Yes, there is that. Anything else?”
Batty shook her head. What else was there, really? “Well, you’re arriving in the middle of a basketball game.”
“I can handle basketball.” That was true. Nick had taught him, too.
“And stay away from Oliver—”
“Who is not Skye’s new boyfriend?”
“Try to concentrate. Oliver is an annoying person that is supposed to be attractive because of cheekbones. He likes Rosalind and lectures everyone about movies. So stay away from him, and, Jeffrey, do your best not to talk about love to Skye. You know how she is when she doesn’t want to talk about stuff.”
“Yeah, I know.” He made one last attempt with his hair but gave up in disgust. “I guess I’m ready. You two have to walk—no car seat for Lydia. And, Batty, breakfast tomorrow, because we’ve got a date, right?”
Batty nodded, too full of happiness and excitement to speak, too close to letting her sprite burst out into song. After Jeffrey drove up the street, she hustled Lydia and her new pink rabbit back home for a nap and then shut herself up in her room, planning what she’d say to Jeffrey the next morning, and what she’d sing. And she listened carefully to Kiss Me, Kate, coming to the conclusion that “So in Love” was indeed a good song, but she preferred the funnier ones. She had “Brush Up Your Shakespeare” memorized by the time she left to walk the dogs.
WHEN BATTY GOT BACK HOME from walking the dogs, there were teenagers lounging all over the place, some left over from the basketball game, some arriving for the birthday dinner, some who fit into both categories. For once, she hardly cared, too delighted to see that Oliver’s sleek car was no longer in the driveway. Hoping that he was gone forever, she rushed into the house and ended up in the kitchen, where dinner preparations were in full swing. Mr. Penderwick was chopping up vegetables for quesadillas, Rosalind was pulling a cake out of the oven, Jeffrey was shredding cheese, and Iantha was cooking up small, plain cheese quesadillas for Lydia, who was to be fed before the big dinner got rolling. Then there were the nonworkers: Lydia in her high chair, wearing both her crown and her lamb bib, her new pink rabbit beside her; Jane sitting cross-legged on the floor, in everyone’s way; Ben, strutting around, showing off his new Celtics T-shirt; and Asimov, sticking close to Jeffrey, hoping for falling cheese.
Batty sidled up to Ben and whispered, “Where’s Oliver?”
“He left,” Ben whispered back.
“For good?”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Rats. But even for a brief time, it was a treat to have Rosalind on her own, just like it used to be. Batty nuzzled up to her, forgiving the earlier disappointments. “Maybe we can talk sometime before you go. Just the two of us.”
“I would love that, Battikins. We’ll find time tomorrow,” said Rosalind. “Honey, what?”
“Nothing,” said Batty, whose singing sprite had just made a mad breakout attempt. She grabbed a piece of cheese from Jeffrey and stuffed it into her mouth, hoping the sprite didn’t like cheese. “I mean, the cake smells yummy.”
Penderwick birthday cakes were always deliciously homemade and from scratch. Cake from a mix or, even worse, store-bought birthday cake, would have been a sign that
the world was coming to an end. Each sibling had her or his own special cake, ritually chosen at the age of five, which the first Mrs. Penderwick had declared the age of reason, at least when it came to cakes. Rosalind’s was angel food with strawberry icing; Skye’s, chocolate with raspberry icing; and Jane’s, lemon with lemon icing and chocolate sprinkles. Those three recipes were all carefully recorded in their mother’s handwriting. Batty’s recipe, in Rosalind’s round, thirteen-year-old handwriting, was for spice cake with cream cheese icing, and Ben’s, written down by Iantha, was double chocolate with vanilla icing. Lydia didn’t yet have a special cake, not having reached the age of reason.
“I’m starving,” said Skye, wandering into the room. “When’s dinner?”
“Go away! You can’t be in here!” Rosalind flapped her hands at Skye, sending her out of the room. Tradition had it that Skye shouldn’t see the cake until it was iced and decked out with burning candles.
She retreated to the doorway and leaned there, sniffing avidly. “Just pretend I’m not here.”
“Lydia,” said Jeffrey, energetically keeping up his cheese-grating. “Is Skye here?”
“Sí,” said Lydia.
“Oh, no, she’s not! We can say anything we want about her.”
“Lydia,” said Skye. “Tell Jeffrey he’s a cabeza de plátano.”
“¡Cabeza de plátano!” shrieked Lydia.
So Jeffrey must be behaving himself, thought Batty. Skye would be calling him something much worse than a banana head—in either Spanish or English—if he’d been talking love to her.
The back door opened and in strolled Nick, holding a bunch of dandelions. Now, thought Batty, we’re all here, which she shouldn’t have, because it made her singing sprite want to pop out again. She grabbed something else to stuff into her mouth, this time a cherry tomato.
Nick kissed Iantha’s cheek, then Rosalind’s—but that was mostly an excuse to look at the cake—and waved cheerfully to the rest.
“Fresh supplies?” asked Mr. Penderwick, nodding at the dandelions.
“I thought Lydia might like to be spruced up for the party,” answered Nick. “What do you say, Princess Dandelion Fire?”
“Lydia loves Nick,” she answered.
“And me, too, right?” asked Ben, stopping in mid-strut.
“Of course you love Ben,” said Batty. “Don’t you, Lydia?”
“Okay.” But Lydia’s attention was now all on Nick and his bright new dandelions.
“So, Rosy,” he said while pulling old flowers from the crown and weaving in the new. “I noticed that the Oliver-mobile isn’t in the driveway. Have you sent him away?”
Batty nudged Ben.
“Of course not. He’s just gone on an errand. I think he’s picking up a gift for Skye.”
“A car just like his, I hope,” said Skye. “That would be a good present.”
“Nick, do you think Rosy should send Oliver away?” asked Jane from the floor, her gimlet eye expression taking over her face.
“Don’t encourage Nick, Jane,” said Rosalind. “I don’t care what he thinks.”
“I care,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Nick, would you like some pretzels?”
“Daddy!” Rosalind elbowed her father, protesting.
“Nick, if you’re done with that crown,” said Iantha, coming to the aid of her eldest, “give this quesadilla to Lydia.”
Nick put it on Lydia’s tray. “Here you go, Lydia-McBydia-Bob, eat, eat, it’s good for you.”
“Gracias,” said Lydia, and took a big chomp.
“But back to Oliver,” said Nick. “I think he’s a show-off.”
“What?” Rosalind exploded, and Skye and Jane exploded with her—the three were a team for this.
“You, Nick Geiger, dare call someone a show-off?” Jane asked while Skye howled with laughter.
“I am not a show-off,” he replied. “I simply can’t help being good at everything. A show-off is—”
Skye had abruptly stopped laughing and was waving her arms frantically at Nick, trying to shut him up. Not just Nick, but the entire kitchen went silent, staring at her, because she seemed to have gone mad without any obvious explanation. And now she was flattening herself against the doorjamb, making way for a tall copper vase loaded with—it took a while for Batty to identify what the vase held. Bare branches, several plumes of dried grass, a peacock feather, and was that a bird’s nest on one of the branches?
“A still life for Skye’s birthday,” said Oliver, handing over the gargantuan thing to Skye, who disappeared behind it. “I was going to get her flowers but wanted something less ordinary.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Oliver,” said Iantha, stomping on Nick’s foot to keep him quiet—Batty saw her do it—and putting her arm around Rosalind, who had gone a bit red in the face.
“I have two more in the car, one for you, Iantha, because you’re such a kind hostess, and one for Rosalind, because she’s Rosalind.” Oliver left again.
“I don’t understand,” said Ben.
“It’s supposed to be like art,” explained Jane. “Sort of.”
“I mean the part about Rosalind being Rosalind.”
“Later, son,” said Mr. Penderwick.
“Jeffrey, are you laughing at me?” Skye was trying to peer around the peacock feather, but the branch kept jabbing her in the face.
“Never,” he said, though he had been. “Would you like help with your present?”
“It’s just that this feather—” Skye blew on it.
Which was a mistake, because the resultant fluttering caught Asimov’s attention. He made a flying leap across the kitchen and onto Skye, attempting to scale her to get to the—wait, a feather and a bird’s nest? Asimov had never experienced such riches here in his own kitchen. When Skye’s yelps of pain didn’t discourage him, Jane and Jeffrey raced across the room to peel him away, but only after they’d bumped into each other. Using the uproar as cover, Ben stole a fingerful of the cake icing, and Batty blocked Lydia, just in case Asimov came flying in a different direction this time.
But Lydia was undisturbed by the bedlam.
“Another quesadilla,” she said.
“Say please,” replied her mother automatically, plopping one onto Lydia’s plate. “The rest of you, pull yourselves together. Ben, stay away from the icing. Jeffrey, help Skye put that down in the dining room, then go with Oliver to bring the other … still lifes inside. Martin, looks like we’ll need yet another leaf for the dining room table to make space for them, and, Nick—”
“Yes? Anything, Iantha.”
“Please don’t tease Rosalind anymore tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And help Martin with the dining room table. Rosalind, you and I can figure out how to organize the table. Go, all of you. Jane, Skye, go.”
As all the grown-ups and teenagers scattered, Iantha herding them ahead of her like a flock of naughty chickens, Batty sent out a silent apology to Ginevra for ever considering her a show-off. Even fifty book reports—even one hundred—wouldn’t be as obnoxious as three massive and probably expensive bunches of weird stuff.
“Do you understand that part about Rosalind being Rosalind?” Ben asked Batty.
“I think Oliver was saying how much he likes her.”
“Yuck.” Ben swiped another taste of icing to get over that bad news. “I wish she would send him away, like Nick said.”
“I know.”
“Uh-oh,” said Ben.
“What?”
Batty turned to follow her brother’s gaze—and there was Oliver coming back into the kitchen with a handful of roses. What was he doing now? With only the three youngest Penderwicks in the room, who would he be giving—
“For the crown,” said Oliver, advancing determinedly on Lydia, who looked up from her quesadilla, startled.
“Non,” she said.
Both Ben and Batty overcame their distaste for Oliver enough to grab at him on his way to Lydia, but he easily
shook them off and kept going.
“Roses are better than dandelions.” He brandished them like a sword.
“Non, non,” yelped Lydia, stuck there in her high chair, unable to get away from the unwanted roses.
Batty and Ben went for Oliver again, and Jane, attracted by Lydia’s cries, rushed back into the room, but no one was quick enough to stop the first of Nick’s dandelions from being yanked and dropped to the floor.
“No me gusta, no me gusta,” sobbed Lydia, ducking and weaving. And when she couldn’t avoid Oliver, she fought back with the only weapon she had, smashing the remains of her second quesadilla onto his heretofore spotless shirt.
Pandemonium erupted, with people running in and out of the room, some trying to clean up Oliver, who could only stare down in disbelief at his cheese-smeared shirt, and some trying to calm Lydia, who was now wailing about both the insult to her crown and the loss of her quesadilla.
Batty was not one of the people concerned with Oliver’s shirt. If she had disliked him before, now she loathed him.
“Maybe I should take Lydia upstairs,” she told Iantha.
“Batty, Batty,” wailed Lydia, holding out her arms to her sister.
“Would you, honey? That would be very helpful.” Iantha was hauling Lydia out of the high chair. “Shh, sweetheart, you’re safe. Oliver didn’t mean to upset you.”
Batty thought that was much too generous. Oliver may not have meant to upset Lydia, but he didn’t seem to care that he had. But then Iantha hadn’t seen his attack on the crown.
“Mom, I’ll put her to bed and stay with her,” she said.
“And miss the dinner? You wouldn’t mind?”
Batty would mind. She’d planned to find a quiet corner from which to watch the crowd and the gaiety—and Jeffrey. But her loyalty was to Lydia, whom she should have better protected from Oliver and his roses.
She retrieved the fallen dandelion from the floor, tucked it into the crown, then took Lydia from Iantha. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll bring some dinner for you when I come up to say good night to her.”
The part about not minding became truer when Rosalind ran into the hall to catch Batty and Lydia before they could start up the steps.