The Summer of the Falcon by Jean Craighead George Page A

lead the parade,” she said to her falcon, and her brothers fell in behind the triumphant twosome, pleased for them both.
    But the curtain on her stage of glory came down with a thump.
    “Juuniee, come here at once,” called her mother.
    Elizabeth Pritchard was standing in the doorway of the house. Her blue dress trimmed with a white collar made her look as crisp and breathless as an autumn day. “June,” she repeated, “I want to have a little talk with you.”
    Last year these words were ominous. They meant, time to talk about sex, or misbehavior, or some weakness of character that should be improved. They made June feel sick and uncomfortable.
    This year June felt only that time for talk was time from play. She answered her mother openly, “Okay,” and ran over to her, rushing too fast, nearly knocking her down as she said brusquely, “What?”
    Her mother stepped back to make room for the flying girl, then led her into the parlor.
    “June,” she said seriously, “your father and I have decided to take a trip together into the South. We’ve wanted to do this for a few years, and now at last we think we can because you are old enough to run the house while we are gone. It’ll be a big job, but it’s time for you to take on a larger responsibility.” She smiled at June and reached out a hand. “There comes a moment in every child’s life when the parent says—I’ve driven far enough, you take the wheel for a while. Now here’s the wheel.” She handed June a week’s menu and smiled again. “Try it—even if you fail. We’ll be cheering for you. And your Aunt Helen will help you out if you run into trouble.”
    June had watched her brothers deliver newspapers to pay for a camera when their father had told them he would not finance it. And when they had purchased it they had looked at each other and said with glee, “We can sell pictures to buy a car to go see the West.”
    And one or the other had added, “And no one can tell us what to do. It’s all ours.” They had smiled at their new sense of freedom.
    Now it was June’s turn. She was absolutely certain she could handle the job; and to prove it she asked her mother to give her a recipe for the family’s favorite orange pudding. She smoothed down her hair and ran out the door.
    Two days later her parents got up at dawn. Her mother fixed breakfast for them all and then departed as the purple sky turned blue. With great assurance June watched them depart, waving them down the road. When they were out of sight, she spun-jumped on Don’s back.
    “Whoopeee! We’re all alone. What do you want to do?”
    “Eat!” he answered.
    “Get you to make my bed,” chided Charles.
    June rose to the occasion. “All right,” she said brightly, “all right, I’ll make your beds and I’ll feed you.”
    She started up the steps, absolutely certain they would not take advantage of her. They followed. She waited to hear “Oh, don’t.” It did not come forth. She walked onto the sleeping porch. Her brothers walked behind her. They sat on the railing. June started to make Don’s bed. Now, she thought, he would stop the game. Surely he would not let her do his work for him. But he said not a word. She worked on.
    “Pull the sheet a little tighter, I like it smooth,” he said, almost in an aside. Then added, “Please make hospital corners, too.”
    June finished the job and walked slowly to Charles’s bed. She made it. Then with forced gaiety she asked, “Now what do you want to do?”
    “Eat!” Don replied with a twinkle. June marched downstairs and made a batch of pancakes. She served them with stiff angry motions.
    Charles picked one up, bent it, and as he did, he broke a pencil in his lap.
    “This thing is wooden!” he said. “I don’t want it.”
    Don put his fork into his, flipped his arm high, and kept the pancake bouncing and bouncing. He laughed, “Help, help, it’s rubber!” Charles curled up in his chair in the pain of laughter—and