Sunshine Picklelime by Pamela Ferguson Page A

choice.
    “Wouldn’t you prefer white trim, PJ?” asked her dad.
    “No way,” PJ said, sweeping the roller up and down. She didn’t want white trim or ledges, because they would show webbed bird footprints too clearly. But she didn’t tell her dad that. “Dad, thanks,” PJ said. “This’ll be like living in a sunflower.”
    “Sounds nicer than living in egg yolk,” he said.
    Later, when everything was dry, they moved the furniture back and PJ reorganized all her pastel drawings in sequence on the corkboard opposite her bed. The yellow wall was the perfect backdrop to the array of drawings of birds, moons, gardens, the tree house, Ruth, and sunsets on display. It was getting quite crowded.
    PJ lit some sandalwood incense, a gift from Mrs. Patel, to mask the paint smell, even though they were careful to buy a nontoxic variety. She was so excited abouther new room, she hopped on her bike in her paint-spattered jeans and T-shirt, now covered in yellow, and cycled over to Ruth’s house to tell her and to share the news about Pete and Tweety’s departure. She also wanted to find out how Squirt was doing alone since the birds had found new homes.
    Ruth’s street was blocked by cars.
    Puzzled, PJ dismounted and pushed her bike the rest of the way. People she didn’t know or barely recognized were going in and out of the gate. Then she spotted Mr. Splitzky with Blossom on the sidewalk. He had tears in his eyes.
    “Oh, PJ, I’m so glad to see you. We’re all heartbroken about Ruth.”
    “Heartbroken? What’s happened?” PJ asked.
    “You haven’t heard? Your parents didn’t tell you?” Mr. Splitzky looked distressed.
    “Heard what? Is Ruth sick?” PJ parked her bike at the curb.
    Mr. Splitzky couldn’t speak for a moment. He turned away and looked down, as though studying his feet. “PJ, I hate to be the person to share the news with you. There isn’t an easy way of telling you. Your wonderful friend Ruth is no longer with us.”
    “You mean she left town?” PJ looked confused. “Was she kidnapped? Is that why there’re so many cars here?”
    Mr. Splitzky shook his head. “PJ, Ruth died earlier today.”
    “Died?”
PJ’s voice rose. “Mr. Splitzky, that’s
sooooo
impossible. We were in your barn a few days ago talking about owls!”
    “PJ, hold Blossom for a moment,” he said.
    PJ bobbed down and buried her face in Blossom’s golden fur.
This isn’t real
, she thought. Children didn’t die just like that. Ruth wasn’t even sick! “Did she have a bike accident? Did a car hit her? Did she fall out of the tree house?” she asked.
    Mr. Splitzky shook his head. “They’re still trying to figure out what happened,” he explained. “One of those rare things, PJ. Hard to tell so early. Hard for any of us to understand. No advance warning. She felt this strong pain and died in the ambulance.”
    “There was nothing
wrong
with her, Mr. Splitzky. This can’t be true!” More cars wove by, hunting for a parking space. Families got out, heads bowed. “Are you sure it wasn’t her
great-grandmother
who died?”
    “I’m so sorry, PJ, but no. Come, let’s walk home together. This isn’t the best time for you to see her family.”
    “But Squirt the squirrel’s in the tree house at the back …,” PJ began, pointing toward the sprawling live oak branches she could see sticking out above the roof. “I need to go there.”
    “Tomorrow, PJ. Let Josh take care of things like that right now. They’re all in shock.”
    PJ held both hands on Blossom. The dog’s soft fur, rhythmic breathing, and warm body comforted her. Children didn’t just die. Something was horribly wrong. After a moment, PJ lifted her hands off Blossom, reached for her bicycle, and followed Mr. Splitzky home. “I want to see Ruth,” she said.
    “That’s not a good idea, PJ. Doctors are still examining her to find out exactly what went wrong. And then there’s the Jewish ritual of wrapping the body, done by experts who