The Magic of Melwick Orchard by Rebecca Caprara

Author:Rebecca Caprara
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group
Published: 2018-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

“Grab the bones and meet me at the millpond!” Dad hollered from the porch after Mom left for the hospital. Despite the news about that jerk Henry, the thought of some quality time with Dad perked me up. “And don’t forget your glove!” he added.

I laced up my sneakers, then ran back to the kitchen. We always saved our pizza and bread crusts—which Junie nicknamed bones—to feed to the local birds wherever we lived. In New York City it’d been pigeons. In Louisville, crows. Magpies in Calgary. Geese in Philadelphia. Swans in Atlanta. Seagulls in San Francisco. And here in Bridgebury, ducks. Without Junie around to contribute her portion, the millpond mallards would have to make do with a lighter meal tonight.

“Got ’em!” I said, racing out into the yard.

Up ahead, Dad was peering through the cracked workshop window at the dusty tools and unfinished projects inside. He turned and marched up the grassy hill. He paused to inspect the paint-flecked pickets of the fence at the top. He shook his head, then began to turn right.

“Let’s take the back way!” I shouted, trying to catch up with him. I wished my new sneakers were imbued with a little extra magic. A turbo booster would’ve been real handy.

I ran to his side just as he reached a break in the fence where two footpaths diverged. Both routes met again down by the pond, but one led up the sloping hillside to the east, within eyeshot of the clearing. The other would steer us along the western perimeter of the orchard and a safe distance from my tree.

He took another step to the right.

I grabbed his shirt, nearly tearing the sleeve off. “The back way!”

“Whoa! Okay. The back way it is. But why?”

My mind spun. Letters shot out of my mouth. “PTCD! PTCD!”

“What?”

“PTCD!” I shrieked.

“Isabel! What on earth are you saying?”

“Post-traumatic chicken disorder! Remember?” I lifted the cuff on my jeans to reveal a scar on my leg. “The back route avoids the henhouse.” When we first moved to Bridgebury, Junie begged me to take her to Mrs. Tolson’s farm to see the animals. Big mistake. We’d barely gotten around to petting the sheep and piglets when a flock of crazy hens swooped in and chased us out, flapping and squawking and pecking at our ankles.

Dad tapped me gently on the head with his glove. “Good thinking. You’re always looking out for us.”

Yes, indeed. I was Isa, Protector and Defender of Sick Sisters and Distracted Fathers! Nincompoop nurses and cruel poultry, beware!

We set off westward, toward the sinking sun and safely away from the clearing, because I was also Isa, Protector of Magic Seedlings.

***

The ducks quacked happily as we tossed chunks of crust into the water. I wished we had more to feed them, but they didn’t seem to mind. They were just grateful for the attention. I glanced over at my father. I felt the same.

Dad gave the last piece of crust to the smallest duckling. A runt, maybe, who kept getting pushed aside by the larger ducks.

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