The Penderwicks in Spring Page 4

  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.

  FIRST THING EVERY FRIDAY 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.

  Oh Shenandoah,

  I long to see you,

  Away, you rolling river.

  Oh Shenandoah,

  I long to hear you,

  Away, I’m bound away,

  ’Cross the wide Missouri.

  “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.

  “Thank you, girls. I think I’ve had enough of rivers for now. What other songs have you been working on?” She read from a list on a music stand. “ ‘All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,’ ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen,’ ‘Swanee River.’ They all seem to be about rivers.”

  A helpful boy in the front row explained. “Mr. Rudkin thought we could learn geography while we were singing.”

  “How much geography have you learned so far? That’s what I thought. Forget rivers. We will begin with a song that teaches you nothing.”

  The remainder of the class sped by. Mrs. Grunfeld started them off with a deliciously silly song called “That’s Amore.” After that they sang “Twist and Shout”—for which Mrs. Grunfeld demonstrated how to do the dance called the twist, explaining that some music was inextricable from dance, and here was a good example. By this time, the boys who had been forbidden to sing were showing signs of regret, tapping their feet along with the music, and when at the end of the class Mrs. Grunfeld was leading the group in a rousing rendition of “I Go to Rio,” all four were singing along. Henry had in fact been the first to politely ask if they could do so.

  The mood of the students filing out of the auditorium was very different from when they’d come in. Everyone was crazy about the new teacher. One girl did protest that the twist was a dance for grandparents, but when Vasudev asked if she wanted Mr. Rudkin back, that was the end of complaints.

  Batty was preoccupied with why she, Keiko, Melle, and Abby had been asked to sing together.

  “What do you think Mrs. Grunfeld was listening for?” she asked Keiko.

  “Our dulcet tones.” Keiko was working on her twist moves. “Why don’t you ask her? She’s coming over here.”

  Mrs. Grunfeld was indeed making her way toward them. Batty froze, suddenly more wild deer than fifth-grade girl. Mrs. Grunfeld said hello and asked for Batty’s name. Since Batty was still frozen, Keiko answered.

  “She’s Batty Penderwick.”

  “Thank you. But she’s not mute, is she?”

  Keiko nudged her friend. “Say something, Batty.”

  “I’m not mute.”

  “That’s good,” said Mrs. Grunfeld, smiling. “I wonder if you would mind stopping by the music room at the end of classes today.”

  “Yes, all right. I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind.”

  Mrs. Grunfeld moved away, and Batty grabbed Keiko for support.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “I don’t think so,” answered Keiko. “She smiled at you.”

  “She could have been smiling to soften the blow.”

  “Teachers only do that while they’re delivering the blow, not five hours before the blow. Speaking of which, you didn’t happen to write a book report last night, did you?”

  “Rats, no.” Batty hummed a little Marvin Gaye. “I guess I forgot again.”

  Ms. Rho’s book report chart hung directly in Batty’s line of sight, a constant reminder of her ongoing failure. By shifting a little sideways she could avoid seeing it, but then she was pointed right at Henry, who made faces at her, and she couldn’t help laughing. Then Ms. Rho would tell her for the hundredth time to face forward, and there, again, was that awful blank line next to B. PENDERWICK. Only one other student had a blank line, Vasudev, and he didn’t provide any comfort, since he’d already written the required ten but kept forgetting to turn them in. Most of the rest of the class had around five stars on the chart, one star for each book report. Keiko had eight. And then there was Ginevra Santoleri, who already had fourteen and this morning popped up with another two. Ms. Rho made a great display of taping an extra piece of paper to the side of the chart to accommodate the overflow of stars.

  Today, though, the chart had, for Batty, lost its usual sting. She was too busy thinking over the wondrous surprise of Mrs. Grunfeld and, mostly, why she wanted to meet Batty after school. This thinking lasted through lessons on clouds, exponents, and the effects of global warming on the Greenland tundra. It wasn’t until they were in the midst of ancient Egypt that Batty thought she’d found her answer. She must have been playing her imaginary piano while singing in chorus, and Mrs. Grunfeld had noticed and now wanted to ask her to accompany the chorus on the piano. If this was so, Batty knew she was much too shy to play in front of the entire fifth grade. She would tell Mrs. Grunfeld no. But also thank her for “I Go to Rio,” because that had been great.

  After the last bell, Batty had to collect Ben before heading over to the music room. He was too young to walk home by himself, especially since the first rock he came across would distract him, and the next thing would be that no one knew where he was and the Penderwick family would go into a panic. When she reached the second-grade hallway, she found what seemed to be a huge exploded map of the United States. Large white cutouts of states were scuttling here and there, the biggest ones so big that they overwhelmed the second graders carrying them. Oregon was spinning in circles, unable to get its bearings. Alaska had bumped into the wall, New York had crashed into Nevada, and Mississippi was tripping Texas, who dropped her lunchbox.

  Batty picked up the lunchbox and handed it back to Texas.

  “Thank you, Batty.” This was Remy, who had been friends with Ben way back when they were both at Goldie’s day care.

  “You’ve got a big state there, Remy,” she said.

  “All the little states were taken first. I would have liked Delaware. My aunt Courtney works at a museum there.” Remy shifted Texas to a more secure position and wandered off, narrowly missing Iowa.

  Now Batty was accosted by Minnesota and Florida, also known as Ben and Rafael. Ben was excited to have Minnesota. He peered at Batty—just barely—over the northern edge and explained, “We get to decorate these with stuff from the state, and Ms. Lambert says that Minnesota has lots of rocks.”

  “Every state has lots of rocks,” said Batty. “Rocks are everywhere.”

  “But Minnesota is special. Ms. Lambert said so.”

  “I took Florida because of the alligators,” said Rafael. “And also because the rocks there grow right out of the ground. It’s the only state where this happens. Something in the soil.”

  Batty had learned long ago not to try to straighten out Rafael’s wild imaginings. Any attempt just sent him further from reality.

  “Ben, we have to go,” she said.


  He turned solemnly to Rafael. They had special ways of parting, including using codes and salutes, but Batty was too eager to get to Mrs. Grunfeld to wait for all that to happen. She took hold of Ben and pulled him and Minnesota toward the music room.

  “Where are we going?” he asked when they veered past the hall that led to the school entrance.

  “I have to stop by the music room.”

  “You’re going to see Mr. Rudkin?” Even the second graders disliked him.

  “No, he’s gone. There’s a new teacher, and she wants to talk to me.”

  “Why? Are you in trouble?” This was even stranger than choosing to see Mr. Rudkin. Batty never got into trouble in school. “Is it about your book reports?”

  Ben knew about Batty’s unwritten book reports and expected her to be thrown in school jail any minute.

  “It can’t be that. Music teachers don’t care about book reports,” answered Batty.

  When Batty knocked on the door with MUSIC on it, Mrs. Grunfeld opened it right away, smiling.

  “Hello again, Batty. Thank you for coming. You and whoever is behind Minnesota.”

  “That’s my brother, Ben, and he can wait out here.”

  “Is Batty in trouble?” asked Ben.

  “Of course not,” answered Mrs. Grunfeld. “You may come in with her if you’d like.”

  But Ben preferred to stay in the hall and ponder the glories of a state with lots of rocks, and Batty went in alone. She was glad to see a piano in the corner. It bore out her theory about being an accompanist.