The Second Spy: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 3 by Jacqueline West
Authors: Jacqueline West
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neighbors peered out from their windows and porches, their once friendly faces now watchful and wary. By the time the trio had reached Morton’s tall gray house, the sinking feeling in Olive’s stomach had turned into the kind of watery tornado that forms around the drain of a very full bathtub.
Morton was seated on his porch railing, trying to keep his balance while kicking his legs and rocking back and forth. When he spotted the three of them, he froze so abruptly that he almost slid off the railing into the tulip patch. As they got closer, Olive could see that Morton had put on the big T-shirt she had used to carry the torn papers over the top of his nightshirt. The T-shirt belonged to Mr. Dunwoody. I’ve got logarithm, said the front. Olive knew that if Morton turned around, she would see the words Who could ask for anything more? printed across his shoulder blades. But Morton didn’t turn around. He stared directly at his three visitors as he teetered forward from the railing onto the lawn. Then he shuffled very slowly toward the sidewalk.
“Hi, Morton,” said Olive. Her heart gave a little leap—whether from nervousness or hope, the rest of Olive wasn’t sure. “I brought you something. And I didn’t need three whole months to get it either.”
Morton stopped a few feet away. He stared up at the two painted people. Their smiles were fixed in place. Their mismatched limbs hung stiffly at their sides.
“Here’s Morton,” Olive told them.
Mr. Nivens’s face seemed to be fighting against itself. “Arrrr,” he said. But his mouth didn’t move the way an ordinary mouth would. Instead, it twitched sideways, while the teeth remained clenched. “Raaaa. Ara. Reeeee.”
“Mmmmmm,” said the painting of Morton’s mother. It looked as though she was trying to speak with her lips closed. “MmmmmMMMMmmmm.”
Olive glanced back and forth between the three family members. Her painted people looked just as they had a moment ago: like two figures from a wax museum who had been briefly microwaved.
Morton, on the other hand, looked horrified.
“Take them away,” he whispered, backing toward the porch.
“But—but I painted them for you, ” Olive said, following him. The painted people stayed put. “It’s what you wanted. That’s why I borrowed the photograph, and why I had you tape all the paint-making instructionsback together—so I could use Aldous’s paints to bring back your mama and papa.”
“Those ARE NOT Mama and Papa!” shouted Morton. He whirled around and bolted into the house, slamming its heavy wooden door behind him. A moment later, Olive saw his round white face peering out at them from the corner of a downstairs window.
Olive turned back to her creations.
“MMMmmmmm,” said Morton’s mother.
“Rarrrrrrrr,” added his father.
12
W ITH THE PAINTED creatures that were definitely not Mr. and Mrs. Nivens stowed back in their own canvas, Olive sat on her rumpled bedspread, rocking nervously back and forth. This had been a huge mistake.
Each time she glanced at her painting, another lump of regret dropped into her stomach. She had probably just torn up and stomped on the last shred of Morton’s trust. And if the cats knew she had taken the jars and used the paints…Olive shuddered. Losing Rutherford was bad enough. Now, thanks to this one stupid painting, she could lose every single friend she had left.
As fast as she could, Olive jumbled all the jars and bowls and brushes onto the cookie sheet, coveringthem with the cloth. She would dispose of them later. First, she had to decide what to do with the painting. Mr. and Mrs. Nivens’s wonky faces stared back at her from their canvas, two witnesses to her guilt. She had to get rid of them. But how?
Turning the painting around for some privacy, Olive changed out of her pajamas into blue jeans and a T-shirt and tied on her tennis shoes. She glanced at the clock. It was 11:13. Too bad she had missed 11:11; she could really have
Morton was seated on his porch railing, trying to keep his balance while kicking his legs and rocking back and forth. When he spotted the three of them, he froze so abruptly that he almost slid off the railing into the tulip patch. As they got closer, Olive could see that Morton had put on the big T-shirt she had used to carry the torn papers over the top of his nightshirt. The T-shirt belonged to Mr. Dunwoody. I’ve got logarithm, said the front. Olive knew that if Morton turned around, she would see the words Who could ask for anything more? printed across his shoulder blades. But Morton didn’t turn around. He stared directly at his three visitors as he teetered forward from the railing onto the lawn. Then he shuffled very slowly toward the sidewalk.
“Hi, Morton,” said Olive. Her heart gave a little leap—whether from nervousness or hope, the rest of Olive wasn’t sure. “I brought you something. And I didn’t need three whole months to get it either.”
Morton stopped a few feet away. He stared up at the two painted people. Their smiles were fixed in place. Their mismatched limbs hung stiffly at their sides.
“Here’s Morton,” Olive told them.
Mr. Nivens’s face seemed to be fighting against itself. “Arrrr,” he said. But his mouth didn’t move the way an ordinary mouth would. Instead, it twitched sideways, while the teeth remained clenched. “Raaaa. Ara. Reeeee.”
“Mmmmmm,” said the painting of Morton’s mother. It looked as though she was trying to speak with her lips closed. “MmmmmMMMMmmmm.”
Olive glanced back and forth between the three family members. Her painted people looked just as they had a moment ago: like two figures from a wax museum who had been briefly microwaved.
Morton, on the other hand, looked horrified.
“Take them away,” he whispered, backing toward the porch.
“But—but I painted them for you, ” Olive said, following him. The painted people stayed put. “It’s what you wanted. That’s why I borrowed the photograph, and why I had you tape all the paint-making instructionsback together—so I could use Aldous’s paints to bring back your mama and papa.”
“Those ARE NOT Mama and Papa!” shouted Morton. He whirled around and bolted into the house, slamming its heavy wooden door behind him. A moment later, Olive saw his round white face peering out at them from the corner of a downstairs window.
Olive turned back to her creations.
“MMMmmmmm,” said Morton’s mother.
“Rarrrrrrrr,” added his father.
12
W ITH THE PAINTED creatures that were definitely not Mr. and Mrs. Nivens stowed back in their own canvas, Olive sat on her rumpled bedspread, rocking nervously back and forth. This had been a huge mistake.
Each time she glanced at her painting, another lump of regret dropped into her stomach. She had probably just torn up and stomped on the last shred of Morton’s trust. And if the cats knew she had taken the jars and used the paints…Olive shuddered. Losing Rutherford was bad enough. Now, thanks to this one stupid painting, she could lose every single friend she had left.
As fast as she could, Olive jumbled all the jars and bowls and brushes onto the cookie sheet, coveringthem with the cloth. She would dispose of them later. First, she had to decide what to do with the painting. Mr. and Mrs. Nivens’s wonky faces stared back at her from their canvas, two witnesses to her guilt. She had to get rid of them. But how?
Turning the painting around for some privacy, Olive changed out of her pajamas into blue jeans and a T-shirt and tied on her tennis shoes. She glanced at the clock. It was 11:13. Too bad she had missed 11:11; she could really have
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