know what to do!”
When Tommy blew his whistle—softly this time, and pointed away from Rosalind—the girls took off around the yard. Skye got hungrier and more annoyed with each lap, but the exercise seemed to cheer up Rosalind. She cheered up more when the laps were over and she joined the drills, especially after tackling Tommy and knocking him down. She didn’t even lose her good mood when Tommy tackled her back and knocked her down, though Nick made them each do ten squat thrusts for it, since they were supposed to be doing drills for passing, not tackling.
He’d worked them through some standard pass patterns, and had just moved on to his own personal creation—the do-si-do, with lots of weaving, spinning, and fake hand-offs—when a new player suddenly appeared, a streak of orange flying after the ball that Jane had just fumbled. Tommy blew the whistle, and everyone stopped to watch as Asimov the cat dove onto the ball, bringing it to a stop.
“Interference,” said Jane, not pleased that a cat was a better ball handler than she was.
“Who’s this?” asked Nick.
“He lives next door,” said Batty, crouching down to stare curiously at Asimov, who stared just as curiously back.
“I’ll take him home before Hound realizes he’s here,” said Skye. She was by now hungry enough to do anything to get out of the drills, even pick up Asimov.
“Hound’s in the house,” said Nick.
“He could bust out through a window if he smells cat,” she improvised. “Really, Nick, this is an emergency.”
Before Nick could come up with another argument, Skye scooped up Asimov and crashed through the forsythia. Her first instinct was to dump him there in his own yard and leave, for she still wasn’t feeling intelligent enough to talk to Iantha, especially one on one. On the other hand, the longer she spent on this side of the bushes, the fewer drills she’d have to do.
“What should I do?” she asked Asimov.
“Mrroww,” he said. Skye got the uncomfortable sense that not only was he judging her, she was falling short.
“All right, you win,” she said. “I’ll take you to your house.”
“Mrroww,” he said again, less sternly this time.
“Stupid cat.” But Skye scratched him under the chin while she carried him to Iantha’s front door.
She rang the doorbell, and a moment later the mail-slot flap flew open. Skye leaned down—for it was set in the door at knee level—and saw Ben peering out at her.
“Duck,” he said.
“Duck yourself,” said Skye. “Where’s your mother?”
He swung up out of sight, and now the door opened, and there was Iantha. She was holding Ben and smiling in a way that made Skye forget to worry so much about feeling intelligent.
“Why, it’s Skye, the second Penderwick sister. And you’ve brought Asimov back—how nice of you. Ben keeps letting him out. Don’t you, Ben?”
Ben had been intently studying Skye. “Pretty,” he said.
Iantha almost dropped him. “What did he say? Did he say you were pretty?”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” said Skye, making ghastly faces at him to prove that she wasn’t.
“No, no, he said ‘pretty’! How wonderful! Say it again, Ben.”
“Duck.”
“Well, he did say it once. You must be a good influence, Skye.”
The last thing Skye wanted was to be a good influence on a baby. She put Asimov down. As he stalked—ungratefully, Skye thought—into the house, there was a sudden increase in the clamor coming from the Penderwicks’ backyard. It sounded as though everyone was shouting and blowing whistles at once.
“Football drills,” she said, just now realizing how loud they’d been. “I hope we haven’t been bothering you.”
“No, I like it,” said Iantha. “Your father was a football player?”
“Daddy? Good grief, no. He played squash and chess.”
The clamor next door increased even more, with cries of “PIZZA, PIZZA, PIZZA!” added in. Which meant that dinner must have arrived, and the football
When Tommy blew his whistle—softly this time, and pointed away from Rosalind—the girls took off around the yard. Skye got hungrier and more annoyed with each lap, but the exercise seemed to cheer up Rosalind. She cheered up more when the laps were over and she joined the drills, especially after tackling Tommy and knocking him down. She didn’t even lose her good mood when Tommy tackled her back and knocked her down, though Nick made them each do ten squat thrusts for it, since they were supposed to be doing drills for passing, not tackling.
He’d worked them through some standard pass patterns, and had just moved on to his own personal creation—the do-si-do, with lots of weaving, spinning, and fake hand-offs—when a new player suddenly appeared, a streak of orange flying after the ball that Jane had just fumbled. Tommy blew the whistle, and everyone stopped to watch as Asimov the cat dove onto the ball, bringing it to a stop.
“Interference,” said Jane, not pleased that a cat was a better ball handler than she was.
“Who’s this?” asked Nick.
“He lives next door,” said Batty, crouching down to stare curiously at Asimov, who stared just as curiously back.
“I’ll take him home before Hound realizes he’s here,” said Skye. She was by now hungry enough to do anything to get out of the drills, even pick up Asimov.
“Hound’s in the house,” said Nick.
“He could bust out through a window if he smells cat,” she improvised. “Really, Nick, this is an emergency.”
Before Nick could come up with another argument, Skye scooped up Asimov and crashed through the forsythia. Her first instinct was to dump him there in his own yard and leave, for she still wasn’t feeling intelligent enough to talk to Iantha, especially one on one. On the other hand, the longer she spent on this side of the bushes, the fewer drills she’d have to do.
“What should I do?” she asked Asimov.
“Mrroww,” he said. Skye got the uncomfortable sense that not only was he judging her, she was falling short.
“All right, you win,” she said. “I’ll take you to your house.”
“Mrroww,” he said again, less sternly this time.
“Stupid cat.” But Skye scratched him under the chin while she carried him to Iantha’s front door.
She rang the doorbell, and a moment later the mail-slot flap flew open. Skye leaned down—for it was set in the door at knee level—and saw Ben peering out at her.
“Duck,” he said.
“Duck yourself,” said Skye. “Where’s your mother?”
He swung up out of sight, and now the door opened, and there was Iantha. She was holding Ben and smiling in a way that made Skye forget to worry so much about feeling intelligent.
“Why, it’s Skye, the second Penderwick sister. And you’ve brought Asimov back—how nice of you. Ben keeps letting him out. Don’t you, Ben?”
Ben had been intently studying Skye. “Pretty,” he said.
Iantha almost dropped him. “What did he say? Did he say you were pretty?”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” said Skye, making ghastly faces at him to prove that she wasn’t.
“No, no, he said ‘pretty’! How wonderful! Say it again, Ben.”
“Duck.”
“Well, he did say it once. You must be a good influence, Skye.”
The last thing Skye wanted was to be a good influence on a baby. She put Asimov down. As he stalked—ungratefully, Skye thought—into the house, there was a sudden increase in the clamor coming from the Penderwicks’ backyard. It sounded as though everyone was shouting and blowing whistles at once.
“Football drills,” she said, just now realizing how loud they’d been. “I hope we haven’t been bothering you.”
“No, I like it,” said Iantha. “Your father was a football player?”
“Daddy? Good grief, no. He played squash and chess.”
The clamor next door increased even more, with cries of “PIZZA, PIZZA, PIZZA!” added in. Which meant that dinner must have arrived, and the football
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