“I don’t know.” His requests to their parents were usually less complicated, like asking if Rafael could spend the night.
“I should ask them one at a time. Divide and conquer, like Dad says, except he says it in Latin. Who do I ask first?”
Another long discussion ensued, during which they analyzed each parent’s soft spots, but in the end they could agree only to toss a coin. Batty went back into the kitchen to borrow a nickel from the sparechange jar by the phone.
“Heads for asking Mom first, tails for Dad,” she said, tossing the coin high into the air.
It was heads.
Their parents arrived home in the late afternoon, bearing photographs of the car they’d bought after a long and arduous search. It was a blindingly bright turquoise minivan with a peculiar orange racing stripe across the hood, plus at least a dozen bumper stickers that no Penderwick agreed with.
“It’s awful,” said Skye, looking at the pictures.
“We know,” said Iantha. “But we got them to knock five hundred off for the racing stripe.”
“And another hundred off for the bumper stickers,” said Mr. Penderwick. “And we can bring it home this week.”
“It’s flashy,” said Ben admiringly. He liked the orange racing stripe.
“Flashy is just the right word,” said Jane. “I hereby dub it Flashvan, and we can scrape off the bumper stickers.”
“And Lydia’s big-girl bed will be delivered on Thursday,” said Iantha. “She helped pick it out, didn’t you, sweetheart?”
Lydia put on her I-can’t-hear-you face and showed Asimov the balloon she’d been given by the car saleswoman. Under the impression that every floating thing was a bird, he gave it an irate swipe. The balloon popped, and Lydia crumpled into loud misery.
“She needs a nap,” said Iantha, gathering her up and heading toward the steps.
Ben poked Batty. “Follow them,” he whispered.
She shook her head. No one could be receptive to daughter-run businesses with Lydia wailing in their ear. But when Iantha came back downstairs, she was never alone long enough for Batty to tackle her with PWTW. It wasn’t until dinner was over, when her mom went into the basement to do laundry, that Batty got her chance. She followed Iantha down the creaky wooden steps, nervously clutching her list of odd jobs, now a neatly typed and official-looking flyer.
Batty had always been fascinated by the basement, with its hulking, humming furnace, the maze of overhead pipes, dim corners full of shadows, plus the hoarded treasures of years past—dusty vases, broken chairs, battered Frisbees, ancient clocks with their hands all set to different times, discarded doors and windows from earlier versions of the house, and one mysterious and solitary wooden shutter that seemed never to have belonged anywhere.
Tonight wasn’t the time to linger and look about, though. The washer and dryer were along the back wall, and that’s where Batty found Iantha. She was leaning over the washer, pulling out wet laundry one piece at a time, each sparkling where it had never sparkled before. “Glitter. Glitter. More glitter.”
“Where did it all come from?” asked Batty.
“Aha!” Iantha pulled a small plastic tube from the pocket of a tiny pair of flowered jeans. The tube was labeled GLITTER, it had no cap, and it was empty. “Lydia must be bringing home art supplies from Goldie’s again.”
This wasn’t the first Lydia-versus-laundry mishap. The last time it had been a purple crayon that melted all over Ben’s shirts. He was going to hate glitter even more.
“Maybe she shouldn’t be allowed to have pockets.”
“Too late.” Iantha pulled out Skye’s favorite soccer jersey, all asparkle. “I’ll have to wash this load again.”
“Mom.” Batty readied her PWTW flyer. “I want to start a business.”
“Glitter removal, I hope.”
“Mom!”
Iantha let drop a twinkling sock and turned to Batty. “You’re serious?”
“I want to make some money.”
“Honey, what could you want that you think we can’t buy for you? Do you need new clothes?”
“No, I thought I’d use it for music stuff.” She held her breath, hoping that stuff would work for her mom as well as it had for Ben.
It didn’t. “What kind of stuff?” Iantha asked.
“Like records and sheet music and maybe I’ll want more music lessons someday,” she burbled, hoping that the definition of someday really actually meant this coming week. Then she had an inspiration. “You know, like how Jeffrey plays both the piano and the clarinet.”
“You want to take clarinet lessons? That’s exciting. Let’s talk to your dad about it.”
“No, thank you, not now, anyway.” Batty had no interest in playing the clarinet. “Here, look.”
She handed over the flyer and watched anxiously as Iantha read it.
“Digging up rocks?”
“Don’t pay attention to that one. Ben made me write it down, but it’s my business, not his. I know he’s much too young to have a job.”
“And you’re not?”
“No! I don’t want to buy a tire for the new car or anything. Promise.”
“Good, because Flashvan already has four tires.” Iantha smiled. “PWTW. That’s clever. Did you think that up?”
“Yes.” Being called clever was a good sign.
“I’m awfully proud of you for taking responsibility, but, Batty, between school and piano, you already work so hard. I want you to have fun while you’re a child.”
“I don’t work that hard at school,” said Batty, thinking of those unwritten book reports.
“Still, how could”—Iantha scanned the flyer again—“dusting be fun for you?”
Batty couldn’t lie and pretend that dusting would be fun. “Please, Mom.”
“Have you asked your father yet? No? Go tell him about PWTW, and then we’ll talk.”
Much encouraged that she hadn’t gotten a definite refusal, Batty took the PWTW flyer back upstairs to where her father was emptying the dishwasher. Before she could begin her spiel, there was a knock at the front door. Mr. Penderwick left to answer it, and came back grumbling.
“Boys for Jane. I asked them their names and they both said Donovan, thinking they could fool me. So I didn’t offer them any pretzels.”
“There are two Donovans,” said Batty.
“Really? Well, I still won’t offer them any pretzels. Locustae, swarming the house and devouring all the snacks.”
“Daddy—” Then Batty said all over again what she’d said to Iantha. At the end, her father was shaking his head.
“Isn’t it enough that Skye’s tutoring half the high school and Jane plans to turn herself into a clothing factory? Now my ten-year-old wants to go into business for herself?”
“Almost eleven. Please, Daddy. I know what I’m doing.”
Jane flew into the kitchen, looking for the pretzels. “Know what you’re doing about what, Batty?”
“She wants to start a neighborhood odd-jobs business,” said their father. “And I think she’s too young.”
“Didn’t you and Aunt Claire have some vaguely shady business when you were Batty’s age?” asked Jane.
“There was nothing shady about it,” he said with dignity. “We helped neighbors clean out their garages, then sold what they gave us at tag sales.”
“To the other neighbors.” Jane took not only the pretzels from the cabinet, but also a giant bag of tortilla chips.
“And I was twelve, which is older than almost eleven,” he added.
“So Aunt Claire was only nine!” said Batty eagerly.
Her father frowned, and tried to change the subject. “Jane, leave some food for the family!”
“I’ll pay you back for all of it when I publish my first book, I promise. Do we have any cookies?”
“It’s not the money, it’s the innumerable trips to the grocery store,” he said.
“Yes, Daddy.” Jane kissed him on the cheek, found a bag o
f cookies to add to her loot, grabbed several bottles of drinks from the refrigerator, and left.
“No one listens to me,” he said.
“I do,” said Batty.
He went back to the PWTW flyer, studying it carefully. “I must say this is impressive. My daughter, an entrepreneur. But if we let you do this, there must be rules.”
“Yes! Rules!” She could handle any rules, as long as she was getting closer to singing lessons.
“We will wait, however, until Iantha comes back upstairs. No more of this divide et impera.”
There it was—the Latin for “divide and conquer.” “Okay, Daddy.”
When Iantha came back upstairs, the three of them retreated to the cozy book-filled study the Penderwick parents shared, though unequally. With the exception of Iantha’s neat desk, from which she could research her way into the heavens, the room overflowed with Mr. Penderwick’s botanical samples, all in different stages of preservation, some still drying between sheets of newspaper, some pressed flat in glass frames, and on his desk, a few in the last stage, carefully pasted onto sheets of white paper, turning them into pieces of art with delicate smears of dried color. Batty snuggled into an open space on the couch between two of these—one with a touch of rusty orange and the other a smoky blue—hoping their beauty would bestow luck.
Batty and her parents worked on the rules until they were all satisfied, finally agreeing on three. She couldn’t accept a job without first checking back with them. Her schoolwork couldn’t suffer. And to begin, she would limit her business to Gardam Street, where her parents already knew and trusted the neighbors.
“And for heaven’s sake,” added her father when they were finished, “make sure you mention your age on this flyer. People might think Iantha and I are offering to do their light dusting!”
ON SUNDAY MORNING Batty headed downstairs. She had with her the PWTW flyers, neatly typed and printed out from Iantha’s computer (with the added note I am almost eleven years old and reliable for my age). After breakfast she would distribute them to the houses on Gardam Street. Despite her unwavering determination to make money, she was feeling shy and hoped that Ben would go with her.
In the kitchen, her father was pouring batter into the waffle iron, Lydia was in her high chair, wearing her favorite bib, the one with lambs on it, and Ben was in a chair far away from Lydia.
“Good morning.” Batty kissed her dad’s cheek while sniffing greedily at the sizzling waffle.
“Don’t go near Lydia,” said Ben. “She’s grotesquely sticky.”
“Lydia is beautiful,” Lydia said, offended.
“That’s true, Lydia,” said her father, “although in this family we concentrate on brains, not beauty. But you are also very sticky. Have you been eating your waffle or bonding with it?”
Batty took a wet towel to Lydia, who fought her manfully. The process wasn’t made easier by Asimov, who decided it was a good time to try to steal Lydia’s waffle.
“No, no, gato!” cried Lydia, but Asimov ignored her, not knowing that gato is Spanish for “cat.”
“More Spanish!” Mr. Penderwick shook his spatula. “Skye’s getting ahead of me again. Lydia, what is the Latin for ‘five’? Unus, duo, tres, quattuor, then what?”
“Armaweerum.”
“No, but that does sound like the start of the Aeneid. How clever of you to remember that.”
“Oui,” said Lydia.
“Rafael and I are going to study Klingon when we’re in high school,” said Ben.
“Fine goal,” said Mr. Penderwick, sliding a hot waffle onto a plate. “Ready to eat, Batty?”
“Yes, please. Yum.” She sat down, and dug in. There is nothing so delicious on a Sunday morning as a waffle fresh out of the waffle iron, smeared with butter and real maple syrup. “Ben, will you come with me to distribute the PWTW flyers?”
“Can’t. Rafael is coming over, and we’re going to build and battle.”
“What about taking Lydia along?” Mr. Penderwick asked.
Batty looked doubtfully at Lydia, now with a chunk of waffle stuck in her red curls. Not exactly the businesslike appearance Batty hoped to project. But a talkative baby sister was always good cover for a shy person. “Lydia, will you come with me to distribute my flyers?”
“Lydia wants to build and battle.” Lydia waved her fork for emphasis.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Ben. “Go with Batty. It will be much more fun.”
“And you can ride in your stroller,” added Batty.
This caught Lydia’s attention. She was always willing to go somewhere if she could ride there in regal splendor. Today was no exception, so after breakfast, she allowed herself to be cleaned and readied for an outing. She wanted her crown and several tutus, one atop the other, and also an attendant. For this she chose her pink-and-green-striped doll, which Skye had named Baby Zingo as a joke. Except that Lydia thought it an excellent name, and now they were stuck with it. When Lydia and Baby Zingo had at last been loaded into the stroller, Batty slid the PWTW flyers into its pocket and resolutely set out to meet her future.
Gardam Street had ten houses, five on each side. Because knocking on nine doors was beyond her, even with Lydia’s company, Batty had come up with a compromise. She would distribute flyers to every house, quietly slipping them into mailboxes, but she must also—to prove her resolve—knock on at least one door. It was tempting to choose the Geigers’. Batty had been in and out of their home all her life and had little shyness left for any of them, certainly not for Nick and Tommy, but not even for their parents.
Choosing the Geigers was too cowardly, though, and they got only a flyer, just like the other families up and down the street. Batty decided to knock on the door of the second-least-scary family, the Ayvazians, down on the corner, who were old, tiny, and kind, and always had excellent treats on Halloween.
Mrs. Ayvazian opened the door at Batty’s knock and beamed. “It’s some Penderwicks! How nice! Come in, come in.”
Before Batty could explain about the flyer, Mrs. Ayvazian had helped Lydia out of her stroller and was bustling them both into the house. Mr. Ayvazian was in the living room, sitting at a table piled high with books, papers, and photographs.
“Look who’s come to visit, Harvey.” Mrs. Ayvazian turned back to the girls. “He’s writing his memoirs.”
“I’ve made it past Vietnam,” said Mr. Ayvazian. “Hope to reach Reagan by Christmas.”
“And how is Miss Lydia?” said Mrs. Ayvazian.
“Goldie put Frank in a box,” she answered.
“Not now, Lydia,” said Batty.
Her storytelling thwarted, Lydia decided to show off her tutus. She executed a giddy triple twirl, then set off on a series of hops that put Mr. Ayvazian’s table at risk. Batty lunged, getting hold of a tutu or three just in time. One good bump to that table and all the papers, books, and photographs would be on the floor, and that would be the end of earning money for a while, since it wouldn’t be fair to charge the Ayvazians to clean up a mess Lydia had made.
“How about some cider donuts for our guests?” Mr. Ayvazian asked.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Ayvazian. “Who would like some donuts?”
“Lydia,” said Lydia.
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Batty, determined to keep this strictly business. She handed a flyer to Mrs. Ayvazian. “No thanks for either of us, Mrs. Ayvazian. I’ve come looking for work.”
“Work? Goodness.”
“I’m the Penderwick Willing to Work and I can do most anything—well, some things, like dusting.”
“I do my own dusting,” said Mrs. Ayvazian, “and Harvey handles the outside, except for the gutters, of course.”
“I don’t know much about gutters.” Except for the time Tommy had lodged a baseball in one, causing a small flood.
“That dog could use a walk,” said Mr. Ayvazian.
“Why didn’t I think of that? Batty, would you consider walking a dog?” Mrs. Ayvazian asked.
<
br /> The last thing in the world Batty wanted was to walk a dog. She hadn’t even been able to protect her own dog. How ever could she be trusted with someone else’s? But she couldn’t say any of this to Mrs. Ayvazian. Besides, there didn’t seem to be a dog in the house. There never had been a dog at the Ayvazians’.
“I didn’t think you had a dog, Mrs. Ayvazian,” she said, hoping this was all a misunderstanding.
“Duchess, dear, say hello to Batty and Lydia.” Mrs. Ayvazian lowered her voice, as if the invisible dog could hear her. “She arrived only last week. My brother moved to Florida and thought she would be better off here with us. I think she misses him something awful.”
“Well, she should miss him. He spoiled her rotten.” Mr. Ayvazian didn’t lower his voice. Since there was still no dog in sight, Batty didn’t know whether this was a good or bad sign.
Could it be that the Ayvazians were losing their minds? This happened sometimes to old people, Batty had heard, although usually it made them do things like misplace keys, not hallucinate dogs. She was trying to figure out a polite way of getting Lydia safely out of the house when she heard a grunt coming from behind a blue armchair.
Then, slowly, while Batty and Lydia stared in amazement, an oddly shaped brown animal—like an overstuffed hot dog with teeny legs—dragged itself out into the open.
“Gato,” said Lydia uncertainly.
Batty hoped that the dog—for it was not a cat but a terribly overweight dachshund—didn’t understand Spanish. Never had she seen a look of such shame on an animal’s face. It was clear that Duchess already knew she was tubby—being called a cat could have pushed her over the edge.
“Have you ever met a dog that needed exercise more than this one?” asked Mr. Ayvazian. “Laziest dog I ever met.”
“She’s not lazy, Harvey, just a little out of shape.” Mrs. Ayvazian gave Duchess an encouraging pat on the head. “Would you like to take a walk with Batty and Lydia?”
“I really hadn’t considered walking dogs,” said Batty. Especially not this dog, who looked like she would die of a heart attack at any moment. “I don’t think I’d be any good at it.”
“Anyone can walk a dog,” said Mr. Ayvazian.