Durinda's Dangers
Authors: Lauren Baratz-Logsted
The Sisters Eight Book 2
Durinda's Dangers
Lauren Baratz-Logsted
Table of Contents
With Greg Logsted & Jackie Logsted
Illustrated by Lisa K. Weber
H
OUGHTON
M
IFFLIN
H
ARCOURT
B
OSTON
2008
Text copyright © 2008 by Lauren Baratz-Logsted
Illustrations copyright © 2008 by Lisa K. Weber.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Sandpiper,
an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
Boston, Massachusetts.
For information about permission to reproduce
selections from this book, write to Permissions,
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
SANDPIPER and SANDPIPER logo are trademarks of
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
The text of this book is set in Youbee.
Book design by Carol Chu.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Baratz-Logsted, Lauren.
Durinda's dangers / by Lauren Baratz-Logsted ; with Greg
Logsted and Jackie Logsted.
p. cm.—(The sisters eight ; bk. 2)
Summary: One month after their parents' disappearance,
the third-grade Huit octuplets deal with a malfunctioning
refrigerator and try to win the love of the only boy in
their class at Valentine's Day, while Durinda discovers
her special power and gift.
ISBN 978-0-547-13347-8 (hardcover edition)
ISBN 978-0-547-05339-4 (pbk. edition)
[1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Abandoned children—Fiction. 3.
Valentine's Day—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction. 5. Refrigerators—
Fiction.] I. Logsted, Greg. II. Logsted, Jackie. III. Title.
PZ7.B22966Dur 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008013305
Printed in the United States of America
MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Merie Kirshner & Jackie's class
at the Wooster School
Thank you for so enthusiastically
listening to book one. We hope you enjoy
book two even more.
PROLOGUE
The story always begins the same ... until it changes.
Once upon a time, there were eight sisters who would all one day be eight years old.
At the same time.
They were octuplets, you see.
Their names were Annie, Durinda, Georgia, Jackie, Marcia, Petal, Rebecca, and Zinnia. They were each born a minute apart on August 8, 2000. All eight had brown hair and brown eyes. And although they were all the same exact age, give or take a few minutes, each was one inch taller than the next, with Zinnia being the shortest and Annie the tallest.
On New Year's Eve 2007, their parents disappeared, or died. Their mother went into the kitchen for eggnog, their father went out to the woodshed for firewood, and neither returned.
Now the Eights must figure out what happened to their parents while keeping the outside world from discovering that eight little girls are home alone.
At the beginning of their first adventure, also known as
The Sisters Eight, Book 1: Annie's Adventures,
the girls became aware of the disappearance of their parents, and they found a note hidden behind a loose stone in the wall of the drawing room of their magnificent home. The note read:
Dear Annie, Durinda, Georgia, Jackie, Marcia, Petal, Rebecca, and Zinnia,
This may come as rather a shock to you, but it appears you each possess a power and a gift. The powers you already have—you merely don't know you have them yet. The gifts are from your parents, and these you must also discover for yourselves. In fact, you must each discover both your power and your gift in order to reveal what happened to your parents. Have you got all that?
The note was unsigned.
During the course of
Annie's Adventures,
Annie discovered her power: the ability to be as smart as an adult when needed. She also discovered her gift: a lovely ring with a purple gemstone in it.
And what
did
happen to their parents? Well, we don't know that yet, do we? If we did, then this would be the end of our story, not the continuation...
CHAPTER ONE
It was the first week in February, and it wasn't like our lives were getting any easier.
Our parents, having disappeared on New Year's Eve when Mommy went to the kitchen to get eggnog and Daddy went out to the woodshed for more firewood, were still missing. Or dead.
We still hadn't found a way to get into the home of our evil neighbor the Wicket so we could find out what she had stolen from Mommy's Top Secret folder.
And we were still in the third grade at the Whistle Stop, a private school running from kindergarten through twelfth grade, where we were forced to wear ugly yellow plaid uniforms.
We were at the Whistle Stop that morning. Our only classmates were Will Simms, a towheaded boy we liked, and Mandy Stenko, a redheaded girl we didn't. Our teacher, Mrs. McGillicuddy, known to us Eights as the McG, was going on and on about something.
The McG was a tall blonde with a long nose, on the bridge of which perched horn-rimmed glasses. On this particular morning, the thing she was going on and on about was hearts.
"The heart," the McG said, "is the organ that pumps blood through your body."
"I'm pretty sure we knew that already," Georgia said.
"Is there going to be a test on this?" Petal wanted to know.
The McG ignored us.
"The heart," the McG went on, "is also one of four symbols on playing cards, the other three being the club, the diamond, and the spade."
"Does this have anything to do with your giving Will soccer trading cards for his birthday last month?" Durinda asked.
"Will doesn't even like soccer," Rebecca pointed out, forgetting how Annie had encouraged us to pretend he did on the day the McG had given Will the cards.
The McG glared at us.
"Sorry," Jackie said with a peacemaking shrug. "We thought you'd want to know."
The McG ignored us some more.
"There are several holidays in the month of February," the McG went on. "Some are national, like Presidents' Day; one has to do with predicting the weather for the next six weeks; and the third is of a far more important nature. Does anyone know the most important holiday in February?"
"Groundhog Day?" Marcia suggested. Then she observed, "It should be. The weather is very important to farmers, not that we know any farmers."
"Do we get presents on Groundhog Day?" Zinnia asked, her eyes lighting up.
We could be wrong about this, but we were pretty certain the McG was getting frustrated with us.
"No, of course it's not Groundhog Day!" the McG practically shouted. "How could it—?" She shook her head, as though refusing to travel down a particular conversational road with us for fear of what it might do to her brain. She forced a sweet smile. "Anyone else have any ideas?"
Mandy Stenko raised her hand eagerly. You'd think she had to go to the bathroom or something.
That was Mandy all over. The rest of us never bothered raising our hands before saying what was on our minds.
Mandy squirmed in her chair until we all started thinking she really
did
have to go to the bathroom. But the McG finally called on her and Mandy stopped squirming.
"Yes, Mandy?"
"Valentine's Day!" Mandy burst out. And once the cork had been taken out of the Mandy bottle, there was no stopping her. "Valentine's Day," she continued breathlessly, "is the holiday that occurs each year on February fourteenth. My mother says it's a day when people should give other people flowers or candy or gifts. My father says it was invented by the greeting-card companies and that it is a poor trick to play on husbands who shouldn't be expected to know the exact right gift without someone telling them first."
"That's a rather...
novel
interpretation," the McG said. "But you left out one important thing in your recitation."
Mandy looked at the McG, puzzled.
Okay, we'll admit it: we were all puzzled.
"You left out
romance,
" the McG said, a wistful expression overtaking her usually stern face. "You left out
Love.
"
What was the McG talking about?
Romance?
Love?
Had Principal Freud's forcing her to be our teacher since last September caused the McG to lose whatever was left of her tiny little mind?
"The heart of something," the McG said, "can be said to be the center of that thing. And the heart itself, that organ that beats in your chest at the average rate of seventy-two beats per minute, can be said to be the center of love." She removed her glasses. Then she wiped a tear from her eye, replaced her glasses on her nose, and went on. "When you give your red folders to your parents this week, be sure they look at them very carefully."
Every Tuesday, red folders containing Important Papers were sent home. It was Annie's job, since it was her power to be as smart as an adult when she had to be, to go through the red folders. Now that our parents were gone, she made sure that everything was done as it should be and nothing aroused the suspicions of the People in Authority.
We may not have had parents anymore, at least not anywhere we could see them, but we did have Annie.
We were confident Annie would never make a mistake that would land us in the stew.
"This week's red folders," the McG went on, which we thought was silly since she'd just told us to have our parents look at them very carefully, "will contain special information about our upcoming celebration of Valentine's Day, the holiday of love. It is critical that all instructions be followed to a T."
"Why do people always say 'to a T'?" Will asked.
Eight heads, ours, swiveled to look at Will.
"I mean," Will went on, amiable as always, "I don't want to be difficult, but why isn't the phrase 'to an A'? Or 'to a D' or 'to a G' or 'to a J' or 'to an M' or 'to a P' or 'to an R' or 'to a Z'? It just seems to me that every time one of you educators or parents uses that 'to a T' phrase, you run the risk of making all the other letters in the alphabet feel bad."
We suppose we should have paid more attention to the McG's Special Instructions Regarding Valentine's Day.
We definitely should have read the contents of the folder more carefully. The two-sheet printout, stapled together at the top, said: "Valentines: You will need to make or buy one for each of the following classmates so that it will be
fair
and
everyone
will have a
good
time. Please keep this handy checklist with you when you do your shopping and fill out your valentines because it is
critical
that
no one
feel
Left out
(but of course don't make one for yourself because that would be silly, also it would look like you perhaps like yourself a bit too much):
