The Great Treehouse War Page 4

  Together, they followed Winnie’s dad into the kitchen.

  Winnie had seen a lot of weird things in the past year, during her parents’ unusual holiday celebrations. The life-size mummy her mom crafted for King Tut Day. The trays and trays of inedible glop her dad had prepared for Moldy Cheese Day. The full-scale re-creation of a post office, for Thank a Mailman Day. Even a laser show for Stuffed Mushroom Day (that had been especially weird). But nothing had prepared Winnie for what she saw when she and Buttons stepped into the kitchen that Thursday.

  The floor—the entire kitchen floor—was covered with baking pans, each at least five feet wide. Barrels of peaches were crammed onto every counter and tabletop, and what little room remained was crowded with enormous bags of flour and sugar, tubs of butter, and jugs of milk.

  “We’re making the world’s largest cobbler!” her father announced, from his perch on one of the kitchen chairs (there was nowhere else to stand). “Well, sort of.” He frowned. “The largest was over eleven feet long, and I couldn’t find an oven that big on such short notice. But the pizza place across town said if we can get them these pans by ten p.m., they’ll bake them in their pizza ovens. And based on sheer volume, our cobbler will definitely trounce the record. I bought these oil drip pans off the auto body shop—brand-new, of course. Smart, right?” He tapped the side of his head. “Bet your mother never would’ve thought of that. Now help me make the batter. The peaches are already skinned; we just need to slice them.”

  From the doorway, Winnie cleared her throat, not quite sure what she wanted to say first. “When did you have time to skin all these peaches?” That was what she landed on, peering into the nearest barrel. “There’ve got to be hundreds of them.”

  “Seven hundred eighty-two,” her father confirmed. “I had my intern at the lab do it. You should’ve heard him whine about it. ‘Not even close to my job,’ blah-blah-blah . . .” Balancing on one foot, Winnie’s dad reached across to a cupboard. “To work!” he told Winnie, handing her a mixing bowl. “We have tons to celebrate.”

  Winnie shifted Buttons to one arm and took the bowl. “Okay, but, Dad? Before all the celebrating, can I talk to you? About my grades? I need to work on this local history report. It’s really important, and I need lots of time to do it. Mr. B said I really have to focus on—”

  “Oh, your teacher tried to talk to me about all that.” Winnie’s father waved the discussion away. “But you can bring your grades up on your mother’s days, which I’m sure are dreadfully boring anyway, right? You wouldn’t want to miss a celebration like Peach Cobbler Day. Not after I went to all this trouble, just for you.” He lifted a barrel and dumped a load of peaches onto a cutting board. Slimy, skinned fruit rolled across the table, bouncing into trays on the floor. “Here, grab that knife, would you?”

  “But—”

  “Listen, Winifred, I have something I need to talk to you about. Some very exciting news.”

  Winnie nestled her chin deep in Buttons’s soft fur. “We’ll figure it out,” she whispered to him (because she could tell, from his purrs, that he was worried about her). “About my grades.” Even if she couldn’t work on her local history report that afternoon, even if her mom ended up being just as unreasonable about things as her dad was (which Winnie had to admit was likely), Winnie always had Wednesdays—there were two left before the report was due. That wasn’t a lot of time to finish something so important, but Winnie knew she could do it. If she really tried. If she spent every single second of those two Wednesdays focusing on nothing but that report.

  “Winifred?” her father said, slicing into the first peach. “Did you hear me? About the exciting news?”

  “Oh,” Winnie said. “Right.” She plopped Buttons down behind her in the hallway and kicked away one of the enormous cobbler pans so she could pick her way across the floor. “Is it about peaches?” she asked, joining her dad at the kitchen table.

  “In fact,” he replied, sending a peach pit flying as he chopped, “this news is even more exciting than peaches.” He puffed out his chest in suspense, his eyes sparkling. “I have been asked,” he told Winnie, “to join the team researching the potential medicinal properties of the feces of the lesser prairie chicken.”

  “Um . . .” Winnie slowly worked through her dad’s last sentence. She knew that feces meant “poop,” and lesser prairie chicken sounded like a sort of bird. “You’re going to study bird poop?” she asked her dad. And then she remembered that she was supposed to be excited. “Wow,” she added. “I mean . . . congrats.”

  “Thank you,” her dad said. And then he frowned at Winnie, like he thought she might be thinking something she shouldn’t be thinking. “You do know the lesser prairie chicken isn’t a chicken, right? It’s a grouse.”

  “Oh.” Winnie had not known that. What she wanted to ask was why anyone would put the word chicken in a bird’s name if that bird was not, in fact, a chicken. But instead she simply said, “Cool.”

  “It is cool,” her dad agreed. And he smiled a huge smile. “It’s a very prestigious position. Much more prestigious than any project your mother has worked on.” Another peach pit went flying. “We leave for Kansas on June tenth.”

  From the doorway, Buttons let out an angry mew!

  “What did you say?” Winnie asked her dad.

  “June tenth,” her dad repeated, still chopping. “My colleagues will be heading out to set up the facility next month, but I told them we’d need to wait until June tenth to join them. Your teacher seemed awfully insistent that you couldn’t leave until the school year ended, even for something as exciting as assisting me in my research. But don’t worry, you’ll still have plenty of time in the field. We’ll be there all summer.”

  Winnie dodged the peach pit that threatened to take out her left eye.

  “All summer?” she shrieked. “In Kansas? Researching chicken poop?” If Winnie spent the whole summer in Kansas, she’d miss Lyle’s epic pool party, which he’d agreed to throw on a Wednesday, so Winnie could come. She’d miss Wednesday afternoons at the roller rink with her friends and breezy Wednesday mornings doodling on her treehouse porch. She’d miss Wednesday-night sleepovers at Squizzy’s and snuggling in her beanbag bed with Buttons on Wednesday evenings, watching the stars above them.

  But her dad didn’t seem to care about any of that.

  “They’re grouse,” he corrected her. “Not chickens.” He was back to frowning. “And I thought you’d be much more excited about assisting me in my research. Your mother has never offered you such an opportunity. By the end of the summer, you’ll be the number-one feces collector on the team.”

  At that, Buttons couldn’t contain himself. “Meeeeeeeeeeeeow!” he growled, leaping into Winnie’s arms. Winnie did her best to comfort him, but she was feeling pretty upset herself. “Dad,” she said, as calmly as she could, “can’t we just talk for one sec—”

  That’s when her dad’s cell phone started to ring, cutting Winnie off. The ringtone was the Wicked Witch theme from The Wizard of Oz.

  “What on earth does your mother want?” Winnie’s dad asked, snatching the phone from under a sack of flour. White powder puffed across the kitchen. “Alexis,” Winnie’s dad snarled into the phone, “I wish you wouldn’t call during my day with— No, Alexis, I do not think— No, honestly, I was not trying to—” And then he paused. He glanced at Winnie and Buttons, who were now encrusted in a thin layer of flour. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I think that might just work out wonderfully. Would you like to tell her?”

  Winnie’s dad handed Winnie the phone.

  “Hello?” Winnie said. Buttons squirmed in her floury arms, like he just knew Winnie’s mom wasn’t about to say anything good.

  “Winifred,” her mother said quickly, “don’t worry. I’ve solved the problem.”

  “The problem?” Winnie asked.

  “When your father takes you to K
ansas this summer, you’ll be missing all of your Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays with me. Thirty-seven days in total. You hadn’t done the math?”

  Winnie didn’t tell her mom that she hadn’t even thought about missing Sundays, Tuesdays, and Fridays. She’d only been worried about Wednesdays. But what she said was, “Oh. That’s a lot of days.” She darted her eyes toward her dad, who was gleefully tossing peach slices in a bowl. “I guess I can’t go after all then. Too bad. I was really looking forward to all that chicken poop.”

  “Grouse poop,” her dad corrected, without looking up from his peaches.

  Buttons let out an annoyed mew!

  “No need to skip it,” Winnie’s mom said on the other end of the phone. “I’ve come up with a wonderful alternative. Since you’ll be missing thirty-seven of my days this summer, you’ll just spend your next thirty-seven Wednesdays with me. There are nine before you set off for that dreadfully dull trip to Kansas with your father, which leaves us with twenty-eight to make up for after you start sixth grade. That’ll take you all the way into next March. You won’t need to spend another Wednesday by yourself in that awful treehouse for nearly a full year. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Buttons was leaving floury paw prints all over Winnie’s favorite black shirt, as though frantically trying to send her a message. But even without the world’s greatest cat to alert her, Winnie knew things were desperate.

  “Mom,” Winnie said. “No. You can’t do that.” No more Wednesdays for an entire year? Even if somehow, impossibly, Winnie managed to pass fifth grade without her next two days in the treehouse, there was no way she could get through sixth without them. “You can’t.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Winifred,” her mom replied, clearly not recognizing the misery in her daughter’s voice. “It really works out perfectly. And don’t tell your father, but there are some amazing holidays coming up on Wednesdays. Why, just this next Wednesday is National Garlic Day. I’ve already found a recipe for garlic ice cream. It will be a lot of work on my part, but you’re worth the effort, Winifred. I know you’re going to love it.”

  As her mom rattled on about all of the exciting Wednesday holidays they’d now get to enjoy together—Windmill Day, Escargot Day, Lumpy Rug Day—Winnie returned her gaze to her father, whose mound of sliced peaches was quickly growing on the cutting board in front of him. She flicked on her Artist Vision and watched him chop in the shifted light.

  The gleeful way he hacked the fruit.

  His shoulders back, completely relaxed.

  The quiet tune he hummed as he worked.

  He hadn’t taken in one word she’d said about school. About any of it. He was perfectly happy with his peach cobbler. He’d said the celebration was for Winnie, but it wasn’t, not an ounce of it.

  “And X-Ray Day, and Square Dancing Day, and Crush a Can Day . . . ,” Winnie’s mom went on.

  Through the phone, Winnie did her best to focus her Artist Vision on her mom. She had to imagine, but the picture was clear.

  The broad smile as her mom listed new holidays.

  The easy way her fingers tapped the table while she spoke.

  Her list of celebration ideas, growing longer by the second.

  Winnie’s mom had said she was planning things for Winnie, but Winnie didn’t want her plan. And her mom wasn’t listening to her, either.

  “Me-ow,” Buttons told Winnie miserably as she hung up the phone. And Winnie couldn’t have agreed more.

  Late that night, after swallowing down more peach cobbler than should legally be allowed, Winnie tucked herself into her bed in the back bedroom of her father’s house. Buttons snuggled himself in beside her, but she could tell just by his purrs that he was unsettled as she was.

  “We’ll figure something out,” she told him. But she didn’t really believe it.

  In between yawns, Winnie pried open the covers of the enormous book Squizzy had loaned her—Understanding Embassies and Consulates—and read the chapter Squizzy had bookmarked. Her brain fuzzy with tiredness and worry, Winnie didn’t understand at first what the words meant or what they had to do with her local history report or her treehouse.

  But just as she was about to set the book down for good and get some sleep, Winnie noticed something unusual.

  A folded-up piece of paper, half glued to the back cover of the book with orange juice.

  Winnie peeled the paper free.

  It was a letter from Squizzy’s dad to the town mayor (who just happened to be Aayush’s mom). A letter about Winnie’s treehouse. A letter Winnie had never been meant to read.

  Winnie read it.

  As she read, a thought began to bloom in Winnie’s mind. The thought was small at first, like a seed. But by the time she woke up the next morning, that letter still clutched tight in her hand, the thought had bloomed, huge like a sunflower. And suddenly, Winnie knew precisely what she needed to do.

  AN INTRODUCTION TO EMBASSIES AND CONSULATES

  (So Simple Even Lyle Stenken Can Understand It!)

  by Sonia “Squizzy” Squizzato

  WHAT IS AN EMBASSY? WHAT IS A CONSULATE?

  An “embassy” is a building where citizens of a foreign country can conduct business. This business may include issuing visas, aiding in trade relationships, and assisting in matters of tourism. A “consulate” is like an embassy, but smaller.

  WHERE IS AN EMBASSY OR CONSULATE?

  This is a tricky question! The easy answer is that embassies and consulates are typically located in or near important cities of foreign countries. For example, the French Embassy to the U.S. is located in Washington, D.C.

  But here is a fun fact! The building and surrounding grounds of an embassy or consulate are considered property of that building’s country. So when a person passes through the doors of the French Embassy in Washington, D.C., he is no longer in the United States—he is suddenly in France! That visitor would have to follow the laws of France, not the United States.

  WHAT HAPPENS TO AN EMBASSY OR CONSULATE WHEN THE COUNTRY IT REPRESENTS NO LONGER EXISTS?

  Well, now that’s an excellent question. I guess you’d have to find an embassy historian to answer that one . . .

  Maurizio F. Squizzato

  201 E. Landsend Ave.

  Glenbrook, PA 19066

  April 12th

  Mayor Leila Asad

  100 Center Square

  Glenbrook, PA 19066

  Dear Mayor Asad:

  This past week, I’ve been helping my daughter Sonia research information about the Republic of Fittizio for her local history report. As I’m sure you already know, the Republic of Fittizio is the long-extinct country that once built a consulate in our humble town. Sonia was inspired to research the country and its consulate because of the plaque on the trunk of her friend Winnie’s treehouse.

  On a hunch, I did a bit of digging on my own and discovered that the exact spit of land where Winnie’s linden tree was planted was in fact the site of Fittizio’s former consulate. Although the consulate was long ago torn to the ground, the tree—planted from a Fittizian seed over 150 years ago—remains.

  Now, I’m no lawyer, but it occurs to me that this tree—once a product of the Republic of Fittizio and planted on what was technically Fittizian soil—is most likely still part of the now-defunct Republic of Fittizio. All this makes me wonder if perhaps

  young Winnie’s treehouse might not, technically, reside on U.S. land. I worry it’s possible (it’s unlikely, of course, but I believe it’s possible) that when Winnie is inside her treehouse, she might not be living in the United States.

  Even if I’m correct in my assumptions, I sincerely doubt that this small technical anomaly will ever amount to anything, but I did want to bring the matter to your attention, just in case my hunch is correct. Is there some course of action we can take to address the is
sue?

  Sincerely,

  Maurizio Squizzato

  Winnie’s Sunflower Thought

  the day what happened happened!

  That Friday after school, while Lyle was serving his detention, Winnie did not go to her mom’s house to celebrate Dolphin Day. That was because of the sunflower thought, which was now so huge in Winnie’s mind that all she could do was think it and think it. The more she thought it, the bigger it grew.

  Here’s what Winnie was thinking:

  If her treehouse wasn’t part of the United States, then when Winnie was inside it, she didn’t have to follow any of the laws of the United States—laws like you have to do what your parents say, especially if your parents are acting like major weirdos and driving you nuts and making you fail fifth grade.

  If her treehouse was part of the Republic of Fittizio, then when Winnie was inside it, she got to follow the laws of that country.

  If the Republic of Fittizio didn’t exist anymore, then it didn’t have any laws anymore, either.

  So, if Winnie was in her treehouse (which was in the Republic of Fittizio), then she could make up her own laws. Laws like she didn’t have to come down ever, not unless she wanted to, no matter what anyone else said, even her parents.

  Winnie didn’t tell anyone about her sunflower thought—not even Lyle or Squizzy or Uncle Huck—because she didn’t want anyone to try to stop her from doing what she was thinking about doing. Instead, Winnie slipped a note under her mom’s front door, stapled to a copy of Mr. Squizzato’s letter to the mayor. Then she crossed to her dad’s house and slipped the exact same note under his door. And then she made her way to her treehouse.

  Dear Parents,

  If you need me I’ll be in my treehouse, which as it turns out is its own country, so you can’t make me come out unless I want to.