“He not a present,” says Brian mutinously.
Sic’s the first to recover. “Well, this should be good for a few laughs. Does he have a car?”
“Give it a rest!” That’s Wood.
“Not one he’ll be bringing all the way from Yukon,” says PapaDum.
“But Camelottery’s ours!” Catalpa shakes back her black hair like a rock star. “You can’t just ship in some random old guy behind our backs the minute we’re out of contact range.”
For once, Sumac finds herself in total agreement with her big sister, which feels odd.
“He’s PopCorn’s dad,” CardaMom reminds them.
“The fact is, Iain doesn’t seem to be safe driving or living on his own anymore,” says PapaDum.
“And he’s got nowhere else to go,” adds CardaMom.
MaxiMum raises one elegant eyebrow.
“Well — nowhere else that —” CardaMom hesitates. “I mean, of course there are homes, but …”
“Places where he very well might be happier,” murmurs MaxiMum.
“Isn’t Camelottery a home?” Sumac asks, puzzled.
“She means, like, orphanages for oldies,” Wood tells her.
“Yeah, we could pay for him to be looked after by strangers,” says CardaMom, “but luckily we have enough folks and time and room to take him in, so we’ve decided to try this first.”
“Luckily?” echoes Catalpa, as if she’s about to be sick. “We haven’t even had a Fleeting.” That’s Lottery for a family meeting. “Call this a democracy!”
“It’s not, tsi’t-ha, it’s a family,” says CardaMom.
“Sometimes,” says MaxiMum, “as the parents, it’s our job —”
“The Council of Four has spoken,” Sic interrupts in a sinister video-game voice.
“I’m afraid this is a like-it-or-lump-it situation,” says PapaDum.
“Come on, kids,” says CardaMom, “let’s open our hearts. There’s room for another, said Mrs. —” She breaks off. “Macroom? McCrone?”
“Huh?” says Wood.
“Some old song.”
Sumac should look it up for CardaMom. She’s the Lotterys’ good girl, the practical one, the helper, the one who solves problems instead of causing them. Isn’t she?
And Oak starts to wail, because he’s rubbed pizza sauce into his eye.
The next morning, Sumac’s in ancient Sumer. Well, actually, in her room sitting right against the vent with a tablet. (Every summer, PapaDum resists putting on the air-conditioning because it guzzles so much power and hurts the planet, but he cracked a week ago and turned it up high.) She’s researching magic spells, boastful inscriptions, weird recipes, poems by Enheduanna — priestess of Ur — who may have been the first writer ever…. Dumu looks like dummy but actually means child. To call someone a dummy you say ludima, which Sumac remembers because it’s like ludicrous.
“Busy?” MaxiMum leans in around the door.
“My head’s too full,” says Sumac, “like my tummy after too much pie.”
“So, about Iain. We’ve been talking about where would be best for him.”
Aha. Maybe the parents have slept on it and realized that Camelottery’s not right for him after all?
“We’re thinking ground floor, so he’ll have a bathroom close by, and no stairs and baby gates to deal with.”
Sumac keeps her face blank to hide her disappointment.
“I thought you’d understand. You’re such a rational being.” MaxiMum bends to kiss the part in her hair.
MaxiMum doesn’t kiss the kids very often, so it’s worth at least double when she does. Also, rational is her highest compliment because it means your brain works logically.
“OK, then. We’re assuming you’d prefer Spare Oom to the Overspill in the basement? I’ll —”
MaxiMum breaks off as a squawk goes up in the Hall of Mirrors outside the door: “Somebody!” (That’s how Brian calls for help, because there are so many Lotterys. Not that Brian admits to needing help very often.)
Hang on a second, thinks Sumac. What was that about preferring Spare Oom?
But MaxiMum’s gone, leaving Sumac pop-eyed with outrage. Ground floor. Bathroom close by. That means this room, her room. The one that’s had the sign on the door — Sumac’s Room, with a picture of a red, flame-shaped sumac berry cluster — since she was one day old. Do the dads and moms seriously expect her to give it up?
Rational, my butt! She kicks her beanbag, almost hoping to send polystyrene peas snow-showering all over the room, but instead her foot skids off and she stubs it on the leg of her desk.
Curled up on the floor, Sumac sobs as she rubs her toe, which is probably broken. She’ll have to wear a cast, and then she won’t be able to manage stairs and baby gates either, and they’ll have to let her stay in this room instead of banishing her three flights up to spidery old Spare Oom.