The Penderwicks at Point Mouette

by Jeanne Birdsall

  “Hurry, Skye,” said Jeffrey.

  “Okay, I’m ready. Do your chanty thing, Jane.”

  “Fire, Moon, Sand, and Sea,

  Listen now and hear my plea.

  Humbly do I ask of thee,

  Please bring what I wish to me.”

  Skye tossed her bit of hair just as Alec arrived. She wished that all the others’ wishes would come true. Except for Batty’s piano.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Seals, and a Kiss

  AS A FUTURE ASTROPHYSICIST, Skye didn’t believe even the slightest bit in a Firegod who could grant wishes. Nevertheless, when no piano magically appeared over the next few days, she was glad she’d countermanded Batty’s request for one. There would have been no room for it in Birches, and besides, she was sure that Batty would soon forget about pianos and go back to wanting only stuffed animals and Rosalind.

  As for Batty, it was possible that someday she would forget about pianos, but it wasn’t going to happen soon. Because now Jeffrey and Alec were teaching her how to play. A little here and a little there, and when they weren’t teaching her, she was watching and listening while they played, and when she grew restless from sitting too long, Turron took over and made up games with his drums to teach her about whole, half, quarter, and eighth notes; and three-four time and four-four time; and even syncopation. It was Turron, too, who had the idea of Batty and Jeffrey giving a concert for the others on the last night of their stay, although he himself was leaving before then and so wouldn’t be there to see it, and soon Jeffrey and Alec had picked out the perfect song for them to perform and started working on an arrangement. Batty blissfully soaked it all up and didn’t tell anyone in her family what she was doing, not Aunt Claire or Jane, or even Rosalind when she called, and especially not Skye. She did talk to her new friend Mercedes about it, because Mercedes would never say that Batty was too little for music or that she couldn’t be a musician because Penderwicks never were. Mercedes only said that she wished she could learn to play the piano, too, so Batty told her about wishing to the Firegod, but when she couldn’t remember Jane’s chant, Mercedes gave up on the piano and went back to trying to ride her bike without falling down.

  As a future—and current, though not recent—writer of novels, Jane was able to believe just a little bit in a Firegod who granted wishes. And perhaps she was right, because for the same few days that the piano wasn’t appearing, Jane’s wish was coming true. Her wish? To finally have enough research material for her Sabrina Starr book. She hadn’t suggested how this should happen, but the Firegod was no dummy. He used the most direct method, having Jane herself fall in love—and with the most logical candidate. When she went to sleep the night of the marshmallow roast, Dominic wasn’t much more than a skateboarder with a dazzling smile. When she woke up the next morning, he was the love of her life. And as time went on, her adoration for Dominic grew and grew, all without the slightest encouragement from him.

  Occasionally he zipped by on his skateboard, and once he slowed down enough to hand Jane a wooden Popsicle stick, still damp from the cherry Popsicle he’d just finished, and once he told her that she looked better now with her bandage gone and her nose almost back to normal, but that was obvious, and there were no love notes, gifts, or flowers, and no more meetings at French Park. Jane didn’t need any of it. Thinking about Dominic, dreaming about Dominic—this was enough to keep Jane in raptures, in fact too much so to risk talking about her feelings to anyone, and especially not to Skye.

  Nevertheless, Skye knew that something was odd about Jane. Her giddily high spirits and the way she always seemed to be gazing off into the distance with an enigmatic smile—these were clues. And now when Jane talked in her sleep, Dominic’s name popped up among the usual Sabrina Starr wanderings. Although concerned, Skye held off asking Jane about it all, because she believed in privacy, and also because she couldn’t stand the idea of hearing about how much Jane liked Dominic. But then came the Popsicle-stick incident. Not the actual receiving of it—Skye had been there for that, and though she saw Jane blush and tuck the stick into her pocket, that wasn’t too bad. Maybe Jane didn’t want to litter. No, it was much worse than that. One evening Skye walked into their portion of the screened porch and caught Jane dancing with the Popsicle stick, dancing and humming, and even murmuring to it. Skye heard only one word, which was, naturally, “Dominic.”

  “What are you doing?” she barked, horrified that a Penderwick would sink so low.

  Jane dropped the stick and casually covered it with her foot. “Nothing,” she said. “Just dancing.”

  “Dancing with—” Skye couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

  Jane burst out with more humming, swaying back and forth. “Isn’t life just wonderful, Skye? Magnificently wonderful. Fabulously and wonderfully magnificent.”

  “Not right this minute it isn’t. Jane, I know what you’re standing on.”

  “You do?”

  “And I have to say that you seem a little wacko to me. I mean, maybe if that stick had belonged to, say, Einstein, but …” Skye let her voice trail off. No one got crushes on Einstein. Even she knew that much. “I wish Rosalind were here. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, no, Skye, you’re a brilliant OAP! Glorious and wonderfully fabulous!”

  “But, Jane—”

  “Don’t fuss over me, Skye. I’m just happy!” Jane picked up her Popsicle stick and beamed. “Someday it’ll happen to you, too, when you meet the right boy, and then you’ll understand.”

  Skye managed to get off the porch and outside without punching Jane in the nose and making it swollen all over again, and she was quite proud of that, at least. But now she was really concerned. How could she protect Jane from this idiocy? Wondering what Caesar or Napoleon would do in this situation was worthless. Skye needed a tree to kick, now, immediately. Poor patient birch trees—this wasn’t the treatment they deserved. But kicking them calmed Skye down a little, enough to help her realize that she did after all have someone she could talk to about boys, crushes, and dancing with Popsicle sticks. Aunt Claire, of course. Skye apologized to the birch trees and began to plot how to broach these painful subjects without giving away Jane’s secrets.

  The next morning, Skye waited until Aunt Claire was alone in Birches, working on yet another jigsaw puzzle from Turron. This one showed the Grand Canal in Venice, and Aunt Claire was trying to find one final piece of a gondola.

  “Help me,” she said when she noticed Skye lurking. “I don’t know if I can’t find it or if Hound ate it. He was looking guilty earlier.”

  Skye found the puzzle piece under the couch, and indeed it was a little wet, as though it had been sucked on and spit out by a certain dog.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t swallow it, for once,” said Skye, sticking the piece into its rightful place. “Aunt Claire, may I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away, young Jedi.”

  “When you were young and—”

  Aunt Claire interrupted. “I am not yet old.”

  “Sorry, younger. When you were younger, did you ever keep stuff that boys had given you? Weird stuff?”

  “You’re not writing a book about love, too, are you?”

  “No!”

  “That’s a relief.” Aunt Claire poked around the jigsaw pieces, looking for the gondolier’s hat. “When I was in college, a really cute ice hockey player gave me one of his shin guards. Is that weird enough? I kept it until—probably until I started dating Micah, the chemistry major. You wouldn’t think a chemist would be the jealous type, but he hated that shin guard.”

  “Did you ever talk to it?”

  “Talk to what?”

  “The shin guard.”

  Aunt Claire squinted at Skye as though trying to recognize her. “What’s this about?”

  “Nothing, really. Just a hypothetical.”

  “You’re sure? Then no, I don’t remember talking to the shin guard.”

  “Or dancing with it?” />
  “Honestly, Skye, you have to give me more to go on here. Should I be concerned? I can’t even imagine you dancing, let alone with weird stuff from a boy.”

  “I’m not!” Stung that anyone could think she’d be so foolish, Skye was still too loyal to tell Jane’s secrets. “Never mind. This is all just something I’ve been wondering about. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “So you’re all right?”

  “Fine.” Skye wandered over to the refrigerator and bent down to look at the postcards of England and New Jersey. She bet no one in either of those places had ever dreamed of dancing with Popsicle sticks.

  “I did know a girl in middle school who made hand puppets from her boyfriends’ socks,” said Aunt Claire. “I don’t know if she talked to the puppets, but she did make the puppets talk to her. Does that help?”

  “A little bit.” And it did, because that poor girl had been much worse even than Jane. “If I ever do anything that idiotic, lock me up. Promise?”

  “I promise. Penderwick Family Honor.”

  Making hand puppets from boys’ socks! Horrified, Skye went outside and glared at the ocean. She was starting middle school that September. If she discovered that kind of nonsense going on, she would drop out and go live on a mountaintop all by herself.

  There was a great deal of raucous noise coming from the beach—what sounded like a circus. That wasn’t what was supposed to be happening. What was supposed to be happening was soccer drills. Jane had announced them, Jeffrey had agreed to take some time away from the piano to join her, and since Jeffrey was going, so was Batty, and wherever Batty went these days, there went Mercedes.

  Normally Skye would run down and throw herself into the fray, but only if there was actual soccer going on. She dropped down and slithered across the lawn until she could peek over and see what was happening without being seen. Yup, a circus. Jane, Batty, and Mercedes were leaping, spinning, shouting, and kicking the ball only when it occurred to them. Adding to the mayhem were Hound and Hoover, their leashes tied together, which turned them into a kind of manic ball-hungry Cerberus. Only Jeffrey was attempting to maintain some order, but Skye could tell that his endless patience was being tried. Skye knew she should go down to the beach to liberate him, but hardening her heart, she instead crawled back to the house, grabbed Death by Black Hole, and found a shady spot in the grass where she could stretch out and read.

  She’d reached the section called “When the Universe Goes Bad” and was finding it most soothing. Killer asteroids, a frozen Earth, the end to humanity—all this was much easier to handle than a besotted sister. Down she dove into exploding stars and stray comets, and there she stayed, happily reading on and on until she was distracted by one of the last things she wanted right then, a bag full of golf balls floating above her.

  “For Batty’s collection,” said Turron, the person at the other end of the bag.

  “More golf balls!” said Skye, pushing them aside and sitting up. Lately everyone except Aunt Claire and Skye herself had been hunting golf balls for Batty. “What is she doing with them all?”

  “No one knows,” said Alec, who was there, too.

  “We just find them for her. We are her humble servants.” Turron winked at Skye.

  She couldn’t help winking back—Turron had that effect on people.

  “The golf balls aren’t why we’re here, Skye,” said Alec. “My friend is letting me borrow his boat today. Are you ready for that boat ride now?”

  Skye knew all about this boat—how fast it was, and how it had plenty of room for passengers. When Alec had mentioned the possibility of a ride a few days ago, she hadn’t been sure they should go. She’d managed to keep Batty from drowning so far. Why risk taking her out onto the ocean in a small boat? But now perhaps the risk would be worth it, just to put as much distance as possible between Jane and Dominic. Even he couldn’t ride a skateboard on water.

  Alec went on. “Mercedes’s grandmother has said that Mercedes can go, and Turron is kindly going to keep Claire company at Birches.”

  “Because I’m terrified of boats,” added Turron.

  “You weren’t supposed to say that, moron,” protested Alec. “Skye is very safety-conscious.”

  “Right,” said Turron, grinning. “I’m staying with Claire because I’m leaving Maine tomorrow and would rather spend my last day with her than with any of you.”

  “I promise the boat won’t blow up, Skye,” said Alec. “Batty will be safe.”

  And Jane would be safe, too, with all that open water between her and Dominic. “Okay,” she said. “A boat ride would be great.”

  “Good. Meet me at the dock in a half hour. Make sure Jeffrey remembers his clarinet, and don’t ask me why. It’s a surprise.”

  Thirty minutes later, four Penderwicks (including Hound), one Tifton, and one Orne ran down Ocean Boulevard to the dock across from Mouette Inn. It was a long dock, stretching out into the ocean, with fat seagulls perched along the railings like an honor guard. Skye led the way onto it, and with the creak of the dock’s wooden planks under her feet, the seagulls comically flapping away two at a time, and the vast blue sea ahead, her burden of responsibility started to lift. By the time they’d reached the end of the dock and run down a ramp to where boats could tie up, Skye was almost as carefree as the others. And when Alec and Hoover arrived in the speedboat, she was the first to jump on board.

  The boat was called the Bernadette, and it was silver, with green racing stripes, an impressive set of controls and dials, and a Maine state flag fluttering on a pole. There were also enough orange life jackets for everyone, which Alec insisted they wear, thrilling Batty—at last she wasn’t the only person dressed like a pumpkin. Jeffrey stowed his clarinet case, then sat up front beside Alec; the four girls settled along the wide bench at the back; and the dogs claimed the space in between, with Hound exploring a million unfamiliar smells and Hoover licking the face of anyone who couldn’t avoid him.

  Alec started the engine and Jeffrey pushed off. The Bernadette moved out slowly, picking up speed after they cleared the dock, and then more speed and more, and soon they were flying across the ocean, everyone’s nose pointing into the wind, the thrum of the engine beneath them, the salty spray flaring out behind them. It was glorious, and when Jane shouted nonsense about trimming mainsails and hauling jibs, the others shouted along with her, even Alec, even Skye.

  They were heading northeast, which took them past Gandy Island. Alec slowed down to show them the island’s one little house, lonely on its patch of green lawn. No one cared much except for Jane, who stood up to stare at it and kept staring until they were long past and the house and then the island were just specks in the distance. And still Jane hadn’t had enough—she muttered something about Dominic and a hammock and tried to climb onto the bench to stare some more, but Skye yanked her down and kept a good hold on her. By now, they were in open water, and the Bernadette raced on and on for a wonderfully long time, until another island came into view. Larger than Gandy Island, it was all gray rocks and pines, with no small houses or any other signs of people.

  Alec cut the boat’s engine. “Everyone keep your eyes open.”

  “For what?” Skye asked.

  “Just look,” he said.

  Jeffrey already knew what they should be keeping their eyes open for, but the girls had a wide range of places to look, scanning the island and the horizon, gazing deep into the sea, squinting up into the sky, all the while throwing out a clamor of questions and comments. It was Batty who finally noticed that some of the smaller gray rocks on the island were oddly shaped—like gigantic sausages that narrowed and came to a point at one end. Then Batty shrieked, Hound and Hoover barked, and one of the giant sausages was shaking its pointy end and sliding off the rocks and into the water.

  “Seals!” shouted Mercedes. “They’re seals, Batty!”

  Seals they were indeed, a few dozen big fat ones, calmly sunning themselves on rocks just as gray and fat as they
were.

  “We won’t go in any closer, out of respect,” said Alec. “But Jeffrey and I do have something special planned just for them. This is one of my family’s traditions—a McGrath tradition—that my brothers and I started back when we were teenagers, anytime we could get hold of a boat.”

  While Alec talked, Jeffrey had been removing his clarinet from its case and putting it together. Now Alec reached down and pulled out a larger case that no one had noticed before and took out his saxophone.

  “Ladies and dogs,” said Jeffrey, “we are about to perform ‘Fanfare for the Uncommon Seal.’ ”

  “With apologies to Aaron Copland,” added Alec, locking eyes with Jeffrey, who put his clarinet to his lips. Together they nodded out the count—one, two, three, four …

  From Jeffrey’s clarinet poured a haunting, stirring melody, a soaring string of notes that floated out over the ocean. All alone Jeffrey played, his eyes closed in concentration, until it seemed that the song was ending. But then Alec’s saxophone joined the clarinet, and together the man and the boy again played the heart-stopping tune, note for note. The girls clung to each other, each one feeling as though she’d never really heard music before, and although the splendor of the music was almost too much, the players began yet once more, this time in rich harmony, finally ending with a flourish so thrilling that when the music stopped, it seemed for a moment as though the world had to stop along with it. No one knew what to say. Skye helplessly turned to Jane, but Jane shook her head, for once without words.

  Mercedes broke the spell. “I wish I could play an instrument,” she said with great despair.

  This made everyone laugh, but kindly, because who wouldn’t feel the same way? Jane gave Mercedes a sympathetic hug, and Batty handed over the harmonica so that she could at least try to play. Mercedes dedicated her few notes to the seals, but they paid no more attention to the squawking harmonica than they had to the sweet-toned clarinet and saxophone.