“I can do that.” Dad’s mouth trembled. Suddenly Eleanor realized he must be trying not to cry. She was surprised. She didn’t know he loved Scrumpy so much.
She patted his hand. “It’s okay, Dad. God is in charge.” It was what the minister had said at Great-Grandpa’s funeral last year. That funeral didn’t have any swords. Hers would be better. “God is in charge, right?” she said. “Even of a fish?”
“Even of a fish.” He stood next to her at the counter, and they each ate another cookie, and then Dad covered the plate with plastic wrap. “We’d better save some for Mom.” He looked at his watch. “Time for more unpacking.” Aaron’s and Alicia’s voices drifted from the bedrooms.
Eleanor said, “Owen and I will be outside practicing for the memorial funeral show.”
Dad’s mouth jiggled again. “Okay, sweetie.”
But before she could go out, she needed lightsabers. Owen brought the fishbowl inside just as Eleanor discovered—in a kitchen box—the perfect practice lightsabers: lasagna noodles. Uncooked, lasagna was stiff and flat, and if they taped a few pieces together, the swords were the right length.
In the backyard, though, the lasagna kept breaking every time they stabbed each other (which Owen called “lunging”). The lasagna sabers even broke when they didn’t stab each other with them. They used more tape.
Finally Owen said, “This isn’t working.”
Owen was the sword expert, after all. “What should we do instead?” Eleanor asked.
“Well,” said Owen, looking around, “sticks might work.”
The yard was full of sticks. Big trees lined the back fence line—and there was the pine tree in the front. Sticks everywhere. And lots of weeds.
“Who does the yard work here?” Eleanor asked.
Owen shrugged. “I guess we do. The people who live here.”
Eleanor frowned. Clearly Owen’s family didn’t have very high standards. “At my house,” she said, “we pick up sticks so that my dad can mow. And we pull weeds,” she added, looking at the dandelions.
“You mean your old house,” said Owen. “Where you used to live.”
Eleanor glared. “And there’s a tree house in the backyard. I’m going back there.”
“To visit?”
“To live.” Then she wished she hadn’t said so much, because right away Owen wanted to know when her family was moving again.
What if he said something to her parents?
“It’s a secret,” she said quickly. “You have to promise not to tell, or I won’t tell you any more. In fact, I’ll make you forget everything I already told you.”
“You can do that?”
“Promise not to tell.”
“I promise.” But he didn’t look very happy about it.
“So the secret is,” she said, swinging her new sword to test it, “I’m going to run away back to my old house. I’m going to bury Scrumpy the Fourth there, and I’m going to live in the tree house.”
“Your parents will let you?”
He sounded worried, like he might tell on her. She narrowed her eyes and looked sternly at him. “They will adjust to it,” she said. “After I move back. People are flexible.”
“You didn’t tell them?”
“That’s why it’s a secret. And you can’t tell either. You promised.”
He nodded slowly. “I promised.” Then he said, “What about the funeral?”
“What about it?”
“If you’re burying Scrumpy at your old house, why are we doing a funeral here?”
“It’s a memorial funeral. That’s how they work,” said Eleanor. She wasn’t quite sure that was right. To change the subject, she plunged her stick out in front of her and made a stance, using the words Owen had just taught her. “On guard! Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Let’s fight!” she said. She swished her sword, making the buzzing noise that lightsabers make and standing in the fencing stance she’d just learned. She shuffled forward and swung wildly. He brought his sword underneath and jabbed her lightly in the stomach. As she collapsed, clutching her heart, she said, “Owen! I . . . am . . . your . . . father!” Then she crumpled to the ground and lay still.
Her eyes were closed like Vader’s when his mask came off, and she could hear the wind rustle in the trees and feel the long grass tickling her arms. Fencing was fun. It was too bad she’d have to stop practicing it with Owen when she moved back home.
But she’d already decided. And Jedis were not quitters.
Chapter 4 Owen
Owen stood over Eleanor, worried. “Are you okay?” He didn’t think he’d lunged at her that hard—but he didn’t usually fence without fencing gear. And she’d lunged toward him at the same time.
Eleanor’s eyes popped open. “I’m fine. I was doing Vader. From the old, old Star Wars.” She made the weird breathing sound.
“That’s pretty good,” said Owen. “But you know Vader’s evil, right? Don’t you want to be one of the good guys? Like Luke? Or Leia? You should be Leia. Or someone from the new Star Wars.”
She ignored the new Star Wars suggestion. “My hair doesn’t make buns.”
“Oh.” Her hair was too curly to look like Leia’s. But then again, she didn’t exactly look like Vader either.
“I think maybe I’m going to be a memorial funeral preacher when I grow up,” said Eleanor, standing and brushing the twigs off her pink leggings. “And Darth Vader.”
“You’re going to be an evil preacher?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be silly. I’ll be Vader when he’s good.”
Owen decided not to point out that good Vader was around for only about a minute of the movie.
They kept practicing, but the sticks didn’t make great swords—mainly because Eleanor jabbed hard, and even though she didn’t hit Owen very often, when she did, it hurt. A lot. When they needed bandages, Owen had an idea.
“I have an old pool noodle. Let’s cut it in half and put it on the ends of the swords.”
Eleanor wrinkled her nose, like she was about to say no.
“It’ll look like the lighted part
