The Penderwicks in Spring (5 page)

And greeted the pictures she kept there of Hound. None of them were much good, mostly fuzzy and out-of-focus snapshots, as if he’d always been dashing away from or toward the camera. It was her fault, Batty knew, that she’d never thought to get a better one while he was still alive. Occasionally she was haunted by a vague memory of one framed picture that had captured his essential Hound-ness, his empathy and intelligence, but she’d searched for it through the entire house and had found nothing. Probably she’d made it up.

“Hi, sweet dog,” she said, this time with no reply.

Okay, book reports. She bent down to look at the bottom shelf, where her least favorite books ended up. She pulled out one that she’d managed to get through, about an interesting kind of magic but with a lot of extra-silly stuff about groundhogs thrown in. If she could stand thinking about it again, she could possibly squeeze a book report out of it.

But the bookcase was near the window, and the window was open, and in through the window wafted the heady scent of damp earth and fresh green growing things, drawing Batty like a siren song. And soon the groundhog book had dropped to the floor and Batty was leaning out the window, breathing in spring.

Now, what was this? Teenagers in the yard? Couldn’t they be content taking over the inside? Must they be outside, too? These were Skye’s friends, kicking around a soccer ball, calling softly to each other. Batty recognized most of them—Pearson, Katy,
Molly, Asante—and there was Skye, her blond hair shimmering in the deepening dusk. Batty couldn’t remember a time when Skye wasn’t constantly doing soccer drills, and Jane, too, though Jane never worked as hard as Skye.

Molly was the first to notice Batty up there in the window. “Hey, Batty. Come down and play?”

“No, thanks.” Batty had known Molly for years and wasn’t shy with her. It wasn’t just shyness, though, that kept Batty from wanting to join them at soccer but also her complete lack of talent for kicking, throwing, or catching balls of any size or shape. Although she didn’t mind, not really, it was impossible not to have some envy for Skye’s strength and grace, her relentless pursuit of perfection.

Now Molly was down there trying to convince Skye that they should once again try to teach Batty some rudimentary skills.

“There’s no point,” Batty heard Skye say. “She’s hopeless at sports.”

“I am hopeless, Molly!” Batty called down. “It’s true!”

Skye looked up at her sister. “That reminds me—Jeffrey’s visiting this weekend. He said I should let you know he’ll be here on Saturday.”

Batty almost fell out the window with excitement. “When? When on Saturday?”

But Skye had already turned away, dribbling the ball back into the game.

Well, Saturday was good enough, no matter what
time he arrived. Jeffrey! Jeffrey, Jeffrey, Jeffrey! A teenager, yes, but one of the few outside Batty’s family that she was always delighted to see. Indeed, he wasn’t truly outside the family, having been brought in as an honorary member one summer years ago when the four original Penderwick sisters first met him. They would have gone further if they could, adopting him even, to get him away from his selfish and awful mother, but because such matters are more easily dreamt of than done, the second choice—making him an honorary Penderwick—had been settled upon. And so Jeffrey had remained all these years, even after he’d found his missing—and quite wonderfully unselfish—father, making life much nicer for both of them.

But for Batty, Jeffrey was even more than an honorary brother. That first summer—she’d been little, only four years old—he’d rescued her twice, first from being stomped on by an angry bull, and again when she was about to run in front of a speeding car. Some of the family (Skye, for example) had thought that Batty shouldn’t have put herself into situations from which she needed rescuing, but others felt that Jeffrey’s selfless courage had bound him more closely to the family, which made the rescues a good thing. Mr. Penderwick even said that because Jeffrey saved Batty’s life, he would forever own a piece of her soul. Batty hadn’t understood what that meant when she was four, and she still didn’t, but she liked it nonetheless.

Jeffrey and Batty had another special bond not
shared by the rest of the Penderwicks—music. A brilliant and dedicated musician, he’d been the first to recognize that Batty, too, had musical talent, the first to teach her the piano, the first to believe she might someday be as brilliant and dedicated as he was. It was Batty’s dream to make this come true.

And now he was visiting! It had been too long since he’d come—weeks and weeks. He would drive his little black car out from Boston, where he was in boarding school, and they would play the piano together and talk about music—or at least they would do as much of that as Batty could manage, since he would also want to spend time with everyone else in the family, especially Skye. They all loved him, and he was Skye’s best friend.

His upcoming visit called for celebration! For music!

On Batty’s desk was an old-fashioned record player that Iantha had found for her several years ago at a garage sale. It was one of Batty’s most prized possessions, along with the ever-growing collection of secondhand albums she played on it. Many were of classical music, and also musicals—Batty adored musicals—plus a trove of Frank Sinatra, Lena Horne, and Judy Garland albums that Jeffrey had found in his mother’s attic and passed on to Batty. And sometimes he would send her records, discovered in vintage shops, by all sorts of artists, like Johnny Cash, Joni Mitchell, and the Beatles, and lots of Motown. He’d promised that when
she turned twelve, they’d start on a serious history of rock and roll, and when she was fourteen, he’d move her on to jazz, but for now, he wanted her listening to anything and everything and soaking it in.

What was just right for tonight? Batty flipped through her pile of favorites. Here was what she wanted: Marvin Gaye and her very extra-special favorite Marvin Gaye song, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” She slipped the album out of its sleeve, set it on the turntable, and carefully set the needle down on the song’s first groove. The opening notes came, the rhythm, the shake of the tambourine, and Batty snatched up Funty and Gibson and spun them around the room, the groundhog book and its unwritten book report completely forgotten.

F
IRST THING EVERY
F
RIDAY MORNING
, before Ms. Rho had time to go over the awful book report chart, Batty and the rest of the Wildwood Elementary fifth graders gathered to sing. This would have been an enjoyable break from normal classroom labors if the music teacher hadn’t been dull and pompous. Batty had long suspected that Mr. Rudkin knew nothing about music. Keiko went further, saying he would be better off teaching raccoons than children.

So there was a lot of interest this morning in the rumors flying around that Mr. Rudkin was gone. As Batty and Keiko joined the line of students snaking into the auditorium, they heard several possible explanations. That Mr. Rudkin had bored himself to death was the cruelest, that he had run away to marry a rock star the least likely.

“And Henry said that Mr. Rudkin’s gone into hiding because the FBI is after him,” Keiko told Batty as they made their way up to the stage.

“Henry’s nuts.” He was one of their classmates, and prone to exaggeration. Still, Batty couldn’t help hoping it was true about the FBI. A public elementary school is not a good place to hide from the government. Maybe Mr. Rudkin would disappear forever.

The fifth graders crowded onto the risers higgledy-piggledy. Mr. Rudkin had never bothered to sort them into any order, so each week was a free-for-all of trying to be close to your friends and far from your enemies. Keiko and Batty always stood next to each other and, if they could manage it, behind someone tall enough to block them from Mr. Rudkin. Today they chose a spot on the fourth riser behind the basketball-playing Wise twins, then wished they hadn’t when the school principal arrived—definitely without Mr. Rudkin, but instead with a short woman with lots of wavy gray hair and impressively large eyeglasses. To get better views, Batty leaned one way and Keiko the other.

“Who do you think she is?” asked Keiko.

The school principal raised his hand in the air, the Wildwood signal for silence, and all the students had to raise their hands in the air, too. The gray-haired woman did not, which gave Batty a twinge of optimism. Mr. Rudkin had usually spent half of class with his hand in the air, making it difficult to get much singing done.

“Good morning and hands down, fifth grade,”
said the principal. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that a medical condition will keep Mr. Rudkin from us for the rest of the year.”

An arm shot up again from the midst of a cluster of boys that included Henry the FBI insider. This was not a request for silence but a request to interrupt.

“It’s Vasudev,” Keiko whispered to Batty, who already knew that, since he was in their class. Keiko was keeping close tabs on several boys—Henry, Vasudev, a sixth grader named Eric, and a movie star named Ryan. She hadn’t yet committed to the idea of having a crush, but thought she should know who was worthy, just in case she suddenly felt the need to give away her heart.

The principal pointed to Vasudev. “Yes?”

“What kind of a medical condition?”

“Nothing life-threatening—and more important, none of your business.” The principal rubbed his forehead, which he often did in the presence of the fifth grade. “We have, however, found a substitute for you. Let’s give a round of applause to Mrs. Grunfeld for stepping in on such short notice.”

As it sank in that Mr. Rudkin was really and truly gone, the applause grew increasingly enthusiastic, until the principal again raised his hand for silence. He issued a few dire warnings about what would happen if they didn’t behave, then made his escape, and the students were left alone with Mrs. Grunfeld.

“According to Mr. Rudkin’s lesson plans, you’ve
been singing ‘Shenandoah.’ Now you will sing it for me,” she said, taking a pitch pipe from her pocket and blowing into it. “That is your starting note. One and two and three and four—”

The fifth grade had never done a good job with “Shenandoah” for Mr. Rudkin. Neither he nor they had cared enough to find the charm in the old folk song. But today it sounded absolutely ghastly. Batty knew what was going on, because it had happened before. Several of the boys were singing off-key on purpose. Mr. Rudkin had never been able to figure out who was making the awful noise—those were the classes during which everyone spent lots of time with their hands in the air for silence.

They’d barely gotten through the second line about longing to see Shenandoah when Mrs. Grunfeld made a slashing gesture across her throat.

“Cut,” she said quietly but with such authority that everyone stopped singing, even the off-key singers, whom Mrs. Grunfeld now pointed to, one at a time. “You, you, you, and you, move to the first row, where you will stand quietly while the others sing. You’ll be allowed to rejoin the singing only when you request it. Please note that I didn’t say
if
you request it, but
when.
And I believe
you
will be the first to request it, Mr.…”

“Lowenthal,” said Henry. He couldn’t believe they’d been caught.

“Good. Now the rest of you must move, too. Those
who can sing without sending dogs into fits, stand on the left, and those who think you are a little better than that, move to the right. And if the tallest stand at the back and the shortest at the front, I will be able to see all your faces.”

The next few minutes were a confusion of giggling and pushing as everyone sorted themselves out according to their perceived abilities and relative heights. Batty and Keiko moved together to the far right and down to the second row, because Batty wasn’t tall and Keiko was a little shorter. To Keiko’s regret, many of the boys ended up on the left, probably hoping that they might later be tested against a dog.

“Now let us try again,” said Mrs. Grunfeld. “And please, everyone, stand up straight. Your lungs can’t work when you’re slouching like teenage reprobates.”

The fifth graders straightened up until they were more telephone poles than reprobates.

“Cut,” said Mrs. Grunfeld.

This time there had been no misbehaving boys, and Batty thought that Hound, at least, would not
have been sent into fits. She was curious to see what this interesting teacher would do next.

“Second row, just the four girls at the end, please. Start again.”

The four at the end were Keiko and Batty, and two girls from a different class, Melle and Abby. They all exchanged nervous looks—none liked being the center of attention. Batty liked it least of all. She bent her knees to look shorter and shook her hair in front of her face.

“Now, please.” Mrs. Grunfeld blew into her pitch pipe again.

The girls got through two entire verses before they were cut off. In silence they waited for a verdict, but to their collective relief, none came. Mrs. Grunfeld simply smiled and went on.