The Penderwicks in Spring (12 page)

“I guess I could tell you about school today,” she said. “Ginevra turned in three more book reports and Ms. Rho just about fainted with happiness. Also, Vasudev finally remembered to turn in all of his, so now I’m the only one with no stars. I guess I really do need to write a book report one of these days.”

Duchess had no reply, being too consumed with forward motion to think about book reports.

“I passed the test on clouds, so that was good. Then, at recess, Melle and Abby demonstrated how to tango. Keiko wants to learn—just in case she ever gets a crush on a boy who can tango, though who that could possibly be I don’t know, certainly not Henry or Vasudev. Maybe Eric the sixth grader knows how to tango.”

They’d now reached the Penderwicks’ house. Batty paused, in case Duchess needed a break, but the little dog forged on.

“Tomorrow is Tuesday, which means Mrs. Grunfeld will be at school. I’m going to go in early to talk to her about singing lessons. Keiko says I should just ask Mrs. Grunfeld to teach me, but that seems awfully bold, so I think I’ll show her the twenty dollars I’ll get from Mr. Ayvazian and ask her if it’s enough. And then I hope she’ll say ‘Twenty dollars a week is just right, and I will be your singing teacher. No need for you to meet someone new who might make you belt.’ Then I’ll say ‘Thank—’ Oops, Duchess, are you all right?”

The dog had stumbled, but not until they were well past the Penderwicks’ house and the next house, too. Batty gave her some water and sat down on the curb for a few moments of rest. A warm breeze was blowing, and in the sky, fluffy clouds—cumulus!—formed and re-formed into fantastic shapes, a celestial zoo of imaginary animals. Batty thought about songs that had animals in them. “Teddy Bears’ Picnic” was a good one.

She started to sing, then stopped abruptly, almost certain that Duchess was trying to sing along with her. “What are you doing?”

Duchess thumped her skinny tail.

“All right, I’ll try again,” said Batty, and did. “Good grief, you
are
singing along!”

It wasn’t exactly singing, more like a soft, happy whining, but Duchess was clearly proud of her attempt. Her brown eyes were bright, and her tail was now going like crazy. Batty pondered this new development. Hound had always been happy to listen when Batty sang, or talked, or whistled, or anything, but he hadn’t tried to chime in.

Batty leaned over to talk face to pointy face. “Let’s try the key of C.”

Duchess gave her an exuberant dog kiss, but Batty pulled away, unwilling to be too easily charmed, and began the labor of loading dog into wagon. It turned out to be much easier than with the stroller. With the wagon tipped just so, Duchess could roll on—then, with Batty leaning heavily on the opposite side, the wagon righted itself, now full of dog. It was a minor triumph for both girl and beast, which they celebrated with a few bars of “Run the World (Girls).”

When they’d gone around the cul-de-sac and back down Gardam Street, they found Mr. Ayvazian outside, waiting for them.

“She walked a little further today,” said Batty, tipping Duchess out of the wagon. “And she’s still alive.”

“Of course she’s still alive,” he answered, and handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then, won’t we, Duchess?”

Duchess yapped cheerfully, and Batty set off home with the money she’d earned, her first solid step toward those all-important voice lessons.

She was on her way to her bedroom—to stow the money in an envelope she’d already prepared, with
PWTW
written on it in large red letters—when a song exploded out of nowhere. It was that wretched sprite again, bursting out with Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.” Batty dove through the nearest door, which happened to take her into Rosalind’s bedroom, fell onto the bed, and stuffed her face into the pillow.

Batty was getting used to her sprite, and had decided that it looked Tinker Bell–ish, all sparkly and too pleased with itself. She’d gained little control over it, however. That day at recess, during a game of dodgeball, she’d just barely managed to stop herself from singing after hitting Henry with the ball. True, it was the first time in her life she’d handled a ball that well, but that was no excuse for trying to sing “We Are the Champions” in front of the entire fifth grade.

“Stop, stop, stop!” she pleaded with the sprite, still working on “9 to 5.” “Humming is okay, but humming only, please. And a calmer song would be better.”

The sprite cycled willfully through several more songs before settling on a Mozart sonata, calm enough to let Batty get off the bed and wander around Rosalind’s room while she hummed, though she just couldn’t help doing dance steps as she went.

When Rosalind left for college, she’d bravely offered to give her room away to whoever needed it the most, but the family had voted to keep it as hers at
least for the first year. Batty was glad they had, glad she could come here to visit. The matching striped bedspread and curtains, the tidy desk and bookshelf, the bulletin boards full of snapshots—all were redolent of Rosalind, as though she could appear at any moment. (Only nineteen more days!)

One bulletin board had been taken down and put in a corner facing the wall. Batty turned it around to look, though she knew what she’d find. Here were photos of Tommy from over the years, starting long ago, when he was still just the goofy kid across the street. Here he was jumping into a kiddie pool with Skye, and here he was, so little he needed two hands to hold his football, and here, going down a sliding board, and here, in his costume for the sixth-grade play. As the photos went on in years, they slowly introduced romance. First Tommy was shoving Rosalind, then holding her hand, then putting his arm around her, then they were all dressed up and ready for prom.

Batty turned the bulletin board back to the wall. At least Rosalind still had it. That gave Batty hope for their getting back together.

Batty drifted over to look at the framed photo on the bedside table. It had held pride of place there for as long as Batty could remember, and had only been left behind because Rosalind had taken a smaller version along with her to college, not wanting to subject the big one to the rough-and-tumble life of a
college dorm. The photo showed Rosalind as a very tiny baby being held by her mother—Batty’s mother, too, that is. Rosalind looked like most babies, all fat cheeks and no hair, but their mother, how pretty she’d been, so young and happy.

Here’s where Skye had gotten her blond hair and blue eyes, the only sister to have them. All Batty’s life, she’d heard about how much Skye looked like their mother. And it had been true. But as Skye grew older, it had gotten even more true, until the similarity—at least to this one photo—was startling. If Batty squinted a little, she could almost believe that she was seeing Skye holding a baby.

“Of course,
I
have our mother’s name,” she told the sort-of-Skye in the photo.

Because Batty was just a nickname. Her real name was Elizabeth Penderwick, just like her mother’s. Batty thought it an excellent name for a professional singer.

B
EN WAS IN HIS ROOM
gluing rocks to his giant cardboard Minnesota. His mom had helped him mark where all the mountains would go, and these rocks were for the Mesabi Range. Ms. Lambert had said that they could just draw on their states, but it seemed to Ben an opportunity too good to miss for showing off some of his rocks. Plus, Rafael was using pieces of sponge on his to represent swamps, and was even trying to figure out how to keep the swamps wet without them falling right off Florida.

In between gluing rocks, Ben looked out his window at the strange new car, Flashvan, that had arrived the night before. Jane and Skye thought it even more hideous than the photograph had shown, but Ben thought it stunning. Rafael said that when they became famous movie directors, they would ride
around in driver-less cars, except when they were in their private helicopters. Until then, though, Ben was delighted with Flashvan.

“Ben!” Batty was outside his door. “Time to walk to school.”

Ben looked at his clock. They always left the house at exactly 8:20 a.m. and it was now 8:04 a.m. “No, it’s not.”

“I need to be there early. Let’s go.”

Ignoring her, Ben glued another rock to Minnesota. Never had homework seemed so much like play, though he had to admit he wasn’t as interested in the cities and lakes as he was in the mountains. The mountains in Minnesota had such great names, like Disappointment Mountain, Toad Mountain, Ghost Hill, and Pilot Knob.

Batty shoved open his door, knocking over two hangers plus a pile of small rocks he’d added for extra security.

“If we leave right now,” she said, “I’ll carry your backpack to school.”

Here was a powerful incentive. “And you’ll carry it home, too? Even if I put in rocks I find at recess?”

“Yes, well, up to three rocks, anyway, and not huge ones. Now hurry.”

With Ben hurrying, Batty was able to get to school with a precious fifteen minutes to spare for talking to Mrs. Grunfeld. She sent him to Ms. Lambert, headed to the music room, and found Keiko waiting for her outside the door.

“I thought you might need hand-holding,” she told Batty.

Batty gratefully took Keiko’s hand. “I’m determined to go through with it.
Musica anima mea est.
”

“Right,” said Keiko, and knocked on the door.

Mrs. Grunfeld opened the music room door with a smile. “Batty, good morning! And—”

“Keiko Trice,” said Keiko. “I’m just here for moral support.”

“Mine?” asked Mrs. Grunfeld, surprised.

“No, Batty’s. She’ll explain.”

So Mrs. Grunfeld took Batty into the room. “Why do you need moral support?”

“I’ve decided I want voice lessons after all.” Batty took the twenty-dollar bill from her pocket. “Here’s some money I’ve earned, and I’m going to be getting another twenty every week from now on.”

“Good for you, coming up with both the resolve and the money! I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Batty waited for Mrs. Grunfeld to offer to be her teacher. Maybe twenty dollars wasn’t enough. “Do lessons cost more than this?”

“That depends on the teacher you choose. I could put together a list of teachers for you, ones I’m familiar with. Would you like that?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Come see me on Friday, then, and I’ll have it ready for you.”

Batty thanked her again and walked out, defeated.

“What did she say?” asked Keiko.

“That she’d put together a list of singing teachers for me.”

“But what about
her
? Oh, Batty, you didn’t even ask, did you?” Keiko knocked on the door again and, when Mrs. Grunfeld opened it, took matters into her own hands. “Batty is too shy to tell you that she wants
you
to be her singing teacher.”

“My goodness, that didn’t even occur to me.”

Keiko pushed Batty back into the room and closed the door behind her.

“I understand if it’s because I don’t have enough money,” Batty told Mrs. Grunfeld.

“My dear, it’s not the money. I’m simply not a professional voice coach, just a generalist, at best. And, besides, as soon as school is over, I’m going on a tour of the great opera houses of Europe. I’ll see
Così fan tutte
at La Scala and
Fidelio
at the Vienna State Opera. Doesn’t that sound marvelous?”

Batty felt herself folding up inside, like an accordion. “Yes, I guess so, but you wouldn’t let me belt like the people on television.” Tears were starting to come, though Batty fought them. “And another teacher might not like my voice.”

“That last part is impossible.” Mrs. Grunfeld went into her desk and came back with a box of tissues. “Here, wipe your eyes and let me think.”

Batty sat down on the piano bench to get out of the way. Mrs. Grunfeld’s thinking seemed to include doing little dance moves while softly humming. When
Batty listened closely, she recognized “Plant a Radish” from
The Fantasticks,
which gave her hope, because she loved
The Fantasticks.

Mrs. Grunfeld got all the way to the part about planting beanstalks before stopping in front of Batty.