my old age I might go up there and root through the old furniture and keepsakes, and get a laugh out of your antics. I never expected you to be perfect, Cassie Ann and Polly Sue. God knows I wasn’t. The thing is, if you’re going to spy, you shouldn’t
get caught
.”
All I was seeing was everybody’s feet. I felt about two inches tall. I heard my sister speak.
“Does . . . does Papa . . .”
“Papa knows nothing. You know Papa loves you more than anything in the universe. And you know he doesn’t notice a lot of things. He thinks different from us, and he couldn’t imagine that you would betray him. If he understood that you had . . . well, we all know how much it would hurt him.”
My face felt hot enough to melt.
“Ease up a little, Podkayne,” Travis said.
I looked up, and he was holding his palms out as if expecting a blow from Mama. Say what you want about Mama Podkayne—and I’ve said plenty over the years—there is no mama bear in the forest who would fight more fiercely for her daughters. And that includes unwanted parenting advice. Travis had always steered clear of it, in her presence, though he would sometimes give us a wink or sneak us a treat when we were banished to our room.
I was expecting more fireworks, but this time she just sighed.
“Maybe you’re right. I couldn’t take the chance, though. When I needed to talk to him about things these little monsters shouldn’t hear, I took him to the music room.” She glared at us again. “Which I checked very carefully for bugs.”
Another heavy sigh. We were such a trial for her, I admit it.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’ve already learned more than I wanted you to know. There’s not much point in keeping you from hearing the rest of it, whatever it is. And it might be very bad, you understand that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“I guess it’s time I started treating you as adults. Trying to, anyway, though it would help me out if you would every once in a while
behave
like adults. Got it?”
“Got it,” Cassie whispered, and I nodded, unable to speak.
“Okay. Let’s go see your father.” She started off, then turned around quickly and glared at us once again. “Go clean up. You’re filthy.” Then she grinned, slowly. “And when we’re through here, you’ve brought it to my attention that the attic hasn’t been cleaned up since shortly after you were born. While you’re up there dismantling your spy equipment, later, I want you to make it sparkle. I’ll be inspecting it with white gloves.”
She turned away too fast to hear our a cappella groans.
—
Papa has his little laboratory out back, Mama has her music room.
Their bedroom is at the back of the house, up against a low hill. Like everything else in the interior, the hill is fake. It conceals the lower level, which is reached by a door in their bedroom that leads to eight steps going down and a soundproof door at the bottom. Beyond the door is Mama’s recording studio and the bulk of her collection of musical instruments.
She started it when she got rich. I doubt she has an example of
every
kind of instrument there is, but she has a lot. There’s everything from harmonicas (about fifty of them) and ocarinas, all eight kinds of saxophone (soprillo, sopranino, soprano, alto, tenor, baritone, bass, and contrabass, as we learned one day), violins, violas, a cello and a stand-up bass, hundreds of percussion instruments, and two Steinway concert grand pianos. She can at least make a creditable sound on almost all of them. She’s best on keyboards, which she has been taking lessons on since before we were born.
A small part of her collection, what she likes the best, became the bedroom theme when she was decorating. Her prizes are either in display cases or mounted on the walls. It’s pretty to look at; musical instruments have their own strict logic but are also works of art in themselves. There is an electric guitar once used
get caught
.”
All I was seeing was everybody’s feet. I felt about two inches tall. I heard my sister speak.
“Does . . . does Papa . . .”
“Papa knows nothing. You know Papa loves you more than anything in the universe. And you know he doesn’t notice a lot of things. He thinks different from us, and he couldn’t imagine that you would betray him. If he understood that you had . . . well, we all know how much it would hurt him.”
My face felt hot enough to melt.
“Ease up a little, Podkayne,” Travis said.
I looked up, and he was holding his palms out as if expecting a blow from Mama. Say what you want about Mama Podkayne—and I’ve said plenty over the years—there is no mama bear in the forest who would fight more fiercely for her daughters. And that includes unwanted parenting advice. Travis had always steered clear of it, in her presence, though he would sometimes give us a wink or sneak us a treat when we were banished to our room.
I was expecting more fireworks, but this time she just sighed.
“Maybe you’re right. I couldn’t take the chance, though. When I needed to talk to him about things these little monsters shouldn’t hear, I took him to the music room.” She glared at us again. “Which I checked very carefully for bugs.”
Another heavy sigh. We were such a trial for her, I admit it.
“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You’ve already learned more than I wanted you to know. There’s not much point in keeping you from hearing the rest of it, whatever it is. And it might be very bad, you understand that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“I guess it’s time I started treating you as adults. Trying to, anyway, though it would help me out if you would every once in a while
behave
like adults. Got it?”
“Got it,” Cassie whispered, and I nodded, unable to speak.
“Okay. Let’s go see your father.” She started off, then turned around quickly and glared at us once again. “Go clean up. You’re filthy.” Then she grinned, slowly. “And when we’re through here, you’ve brought it to my attention that the attic hasn’t been cleaned up since shortly after you were born. While you’re up there dismantling your spy equipment, later, I want you to make it sparkle. I’ll be inspecting it with white gloves.”
She turned away too fast to hear our a cappella groans.
—
Papa has his little laboratory out back, Mama has her music room.
Their bedroom is at the back of the house, up against a low hill. Like everything else in the interior, the hill is fake. It conceals the lower level, which is reached by a door in their bedroom that leads to eight steps going down and a soundproof door at the bottom. Beyond the door is Mama’s recording studio and the bulk of her collection of musical instruments.
She started it when she got rich. I doubt she has an example of
every
kind of instrument there is, but she has a lot. There’s everything from harmonicas (about fifty of them) and ocarinas, all eight kinds of saxophone (soprillo, sopranino, soprano, alto, tenor, baritone, bass, and contrabass, as we learned one day), violins, violas, a cello and a stand-up bass, hundreds of percussion instruments, and two Steinway concert grand pianos. She can at least make a creditable sound on almost all of them. She’s best on keyboards, which she has been taking lessons on since before we were born.
A small part of her collection, what she likes the best, became the bedroom theme when she was decorating. Her prizes are either in display cases or mounted on the walls. It’s pretty to look at; musical instruments have their own strict logic but are also works of art in themselves. There is an electric guitar once used
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