Part 11 (1/2)

”No,” I said quietly. ”The cooking's fine.” It was, too. Except for the nights when he gets too adventurous, my father's really good in the kitchen.

”Well, if it's not the food, it must be the company,” he said. ”Sorry I'm boring you.”

”Oh, it's not that,” I said.

He put down his fork. ”OK, Nine. What's up?”

”Nothing.”

He tightened the corners of his mouth. ”I've seen rocks with more enthusiasm for life than you're showing at the moment.”

”Are you going to be very busy while we're at this inn?” I asked.

”Of course,” he said. ”It's a big project for me.”

”Oh. Well, will I see much of you?”

”I expect so,” he said, although he sounded a little less certain of himself.

”Will there be many kids there?”

He started to answer me, then stopped. ”I'm not sure.”

”That's OK,” I said. ”I was just wondering. Can I be excused? I have to start packing.”

I walked slowly away from the table. Then I went in my room, closed the door, and looked at the clock. Six-thirty. I wondered how long it would take. I remembered Cute Edgar, the director of The Woman in White, telling me that one of the great secrets of acting was planting a seed in the audience's mind and then letting it grow by itself.

”Your problem, Nine,” he added ”is that once you plant the seed, you go overboard with the fertilizer.”

Except he didn't say fertilizer.

At seven forty-three my father came through. ”Listen, Nine,” he said, poking his head into my room, ”I've been thinking. I'm going to be awfully busy while we're at the Quackadoodle. Do you suppose Chris might like to come along to keep you company?”

I jumped off my bed with a whoop and gave him a hug. When he left I grabbed my phone and called Chris. ”Start packing!” I yelled. ”We leave at eight-thirty Wednesday morning!”

About ten minutes later Dad poked his head into the room again. ”You know,” he said, ”you could have just asked.” Sometimes I wonder who's fooling who around here.

CHAPTER THREE.

How to Pack ”OK, Sidney,” I said, ”time to move.”

I scooped our cat off my underwear and dumped him onto the floor. Sidney gave my leg a halfhearted whack with his paw, made his cranky sound, and stalked out of my room, twitching his tail angrily.

”That,” said Chris, ”is one weird cat.” She was sitting at the head of my bed, helping me pack, which in this case meant rolling her eyes whenever she considered a piece of clothing too hideous for words.

”Ten minutes!” yelled my father from the living room.

”Ten minutes,” I muttered. ”I can't possibly be ready in ten minutes!”

”You had all last week,” Chris said quietly.

”Don't you start on me,” I snapped.

What Chris had said was true, of course. But I was already feeling sorry for myself because I had realized that while my father is good at a whole lot of things a mother usually does, helping me get ready for a trip is not one of them. I was also feeling a little silly, because I realized it was no big deal, and guilty, because I knew I was going to make us late. Also cranky, because I really didn't want Chris to watch me pack.

”I think I'll go talk to Sidney,” said Chris. ”He's in a better mood.”

I waited until she was gone, then sighed in relief. Now I could get started! Using what I call the grab-and-stuff method, I s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pile of underwear and threw it in the suitcase. Socks, s.h.i.+rts, jeans, and T-s.h.i.+rts came next. A couple of sweaters, a few good skirts and blouses, and I was just about finished.

It's a very efficient system, but not the kind of thing you particularly want someone else to watch. I almost made it, too. I was just trying to close the lid when Chris came back into the room. ”Good grief,” she said, when she saw the stack of clothes being squashed into the suitcase.

”Be quiet and help me push,” I said. She got on the other corner of the suitcase. Between the two of us we managed to get it closed and fastened.

”Uh-oh,” said Chris.

The cuff of a red sweater was sticking out on the right side.

”Forget it,” I said. ”Getting it in now would be more trouble than it's worth.”

”The Golden Chariot awaits,” called my father. The Golden Chariot is what Dad likes to call his car, which is this ancient 1964 Cadillac he bought when I was a little kid. It's yellow and white. It has huge fins. And it's longer than almost every parking s.p.a.ce in town. It also breaks down at least once a month, but Dad claims the repair bills are no worse than the car payments most people make. He says its worth it to have a car with cla.s.s.

I think it makes sense for a preservation architect to have a car like that. It's like the buildings he loves-big, old, and kind of funky.

Chris had ridden in the Chariot several times. But she still wasn't prepared for how much room we had in the trunk. After Dad opened it, she stood looking inside for a moment then said, with awe in her voice, ”You know, if you put in plumbing, you could rent that out as an apartment.”

Like I said, it's a big car.

Since I believe in first things first, my box of books was already in the trunk. Dad's tennis racket and golf clubs lay next to them.

”Hey, Mr. T,” said Chris, ”I thought this was a working trip.”

”It's an experiment,” I said. ”He hasn't played golf in seven years.”

”I am ignoring you both,” said my father, throwing in the last of the suitcases. He went back into the house. A minute later he came out with the cat carrier. Sidney was inside, complaining mightily.

”Is he coming with us?” asked Chris.

”He's staying with my grandmother,” I said.

”Lucky Gramma,” said Chris, climbing into the backseat of the Chariot. I climbed in next to her.

Dad started the car.

”Are we almost there?” I teased when we got to the end of the block.

”Did I tell you I found a kennel that takes kids?” replied Dad.