“Do you know this Pen the Penguin? If so, please help us, dear penguin! Help us on our quest to find Pen the Penguin, and you could save the lives of—”
“Give me a break. Pen’s over at the snack table,” the penguin huffed, pulling her wing from my grasp. The room returned with shocking clarity as she toddled quickly away from us and through the crowd.
With my heart beating frantically, I tried to remain calm or at least remember to breathe as Jenny and I walked toward one of the many long, white-tablecloth banquet tables dotting the room. The table was covered in finger snacks, glasses of colorful, fruity-looking drinks, and plates of chocolates, each with a small sign to label the fillings. I noticed a few boasting “Cheerful,” “Romantic,” and “Energetic.” Several boys were hovering around a nearly empty plate of “Lucky,” and next to this was an almost full plate of “Dramatic.”
If this was going to be a Big Moment, I figured a little Drama couldn’t hurt. Jenny and I each took a chocolate, clinked them together, and plunked them onto our tongues, letting the creamy filling melt dramatically. They tasted like hazelnut.
“This . . . is . . . so . . . GOOD!” Jenny groaned, fanning herself with a hand.
“I know! If I died right now, I wouldn’t care—this chocolate has changed my life!” I agreed, pounding my hand on the table enthusiastically. From behind the table, several of the fancy little servers glared at me.
Or were they fancy . . . ?
Perhaps not! Perhaps they were . . . penguins!
Jenny and I locked eyes, and with a dramatic nod that said more than a thousand words, we dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the table.
“Jenny! This is serious!” I whispered, shaking her by the shoulders.
“I know!” she hissed, grabbing the front of my jacket.
“Now is the time we must convince the evil Pen that Christine’s story doesn’t have to end with my death. We’ll tell her to inspire a new ending—maybe one where Gail is not an assassin at all! I am too young to die! And after all, we’re all only human, Jenny!” I said, pulling her so close to me I could see myself in her green eyes.
“But she’s a penguin,” Jenny breathed.
“Damn!”
“What are you doing down there?” a strange and mysterious voice asked from the barrier of the cloth. My heart skipped a beat and—
“Oh, God,” Bob the Ficus said as he lifted the table cloth with a few leafy branches. “Are you two being dramatic under here? Kids these days have no dignity. Come on, I found Pen for you.”
With several branches, Bob held the cloth up, and with a few more, he ushered us back into the room. This time, though, we exited the table onto the service side, carefully avoiding all of the orange, webbed penguin feet that danced around, serving chocolates and drinks.
Pen was easy to spot, even amongst the penguins, partly because she was by herself, leaning up against the wall, watching coolly as we approached. It looked like she’d been waiting for us. But also, as we walked closer, I noticed that she was simply dripping with detail. The webbing on her feet was wrinkly and more of a tangerine than a basic orange; her tiny black-and-white feathers had shades of yellow and brown mixed in, each distinct and soft; and her eyes were black and beady like the rest of the penguins’, but on closer inspection, they were far too close together, giving her a sort of dumb, puzzled look.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said in that same squawky voice from the coffee shop. The familiarity of it made my skin prickle. How could I have thought she sounded like that other penguin? Pen’s voice was a pitch higher, harsh as nails, and rang out painfully and quickly, like a shrill whistle.
“Good luck, Peter. Jenny,” Bob said, before wobbling his pot back toward the dance floor. Every so often he glanced at us over what I guess you’d call his shoulder.
“You will come with me now,” Pen ordered. The shape of her beak was a permanent smile, almost like the painted lips of a clown, but it didn’t make her seem friendly. She looked crazy.
My brain was screaming at me to grab Jenny’s hand and run. There was no talking her out of this, I knew, and she very well could be leading us to our death. But we just followed the penguin along the wall, narrowly missing several swirling and twirling students, and stopped outside an inconspicuous door labeled “maintenance.” Pen opened the door, and obediently we walked in, though I almost stumbled over my own feet, which were numb with tingling.
The maintenance closet was about the size of Randy’s office, if not a little larger. The walls were cluttered with hanging brooms, mops, and shelves full of cleaning supplies. Pen pulled out three buckets, turned them upside down, and motioned for us to join her in sitting. We did.
“I know you’re here to ask me to change the outcome of the story,” Pen said bluntly. She was tapping one of her big webbed feet spastically on the floor before the words even left her mouth.
“That would be lovely,” Jenny said. “Well, now that it’s settled, we’d better be going . . .”
“Sit down!” Pen shrieked, slapping a heavy wing against her knee. Her little black eyes bulged dangerously, making her look even more cross-eyed than before. I would have laughed if it wasn’t so terrifying. Jenny sat back onto her bucket like a puppet on strings.
“Do you know how hard I had to work to get Christine to change the story to what it is now? I spent days slaving away with the Plot Paper. Listen, I am not going back to kids’ books, and I am so tired of being a logo. Do you know what logos do?” she asked, jabbing me in the chest.
I shook my head, struggling to keep up to speed.
“Nothing! Logos don’t do anything! It is exhausting sitting in one place all day.”
“Wait, it was your idea to make the story the way it is now? You’re influencing Christine to have Gail kill Peter?!” Jenny asked.
“Of course,” Pen said casually, examining her foot. My head was spinning in confusion, but Pen seemed well in her element and unperturbed.
“But why?” I asked, standing up and banging my head on a low-hanging bucket. Pen shot me a glare, and my legs began vibrating so badly I had to sit back down.
“Haven’t we been over this? Because I am nobody!” she screamed, her sharp beak still smiling. “When Christine started writing a mystery set in the arctic, the first description she included was of a penguin—a lonely, fat penguin just minding her own business. It was me. Of course, there were no other characters around yet, as she was just starting the story, so voilà, I became the main character!” She smacked her wing triumphantly against what I guess you’d call her knee, and then went on.
“Well, I don’t think Christine really intended for me to stay the main character, but I saw my chance and I took it. I don’t know if you’re aware, but I was one of the main characters in Christmas in the North Pole.” She puffed out her chest importantly, and Jenny and I shared a quick glance. Pen was not one of the main characters in Christmas in the North Pole; she had had fewer lines than the lamppost in the book. But she went on, addressing us as though we were her little minions. In a way, it felt like we were. It was the strangest thing, but I was a little bit out of sorts. I mean, if I were in control here, would I be sitting on a bucket listening to a long-winded explanation from the crazy penguin who I’d just discovered was influencing my death with Plot Paper? Maybe. I’m really not that bright. But the point is—
“Do you mind?” Pen asked, staring at me crossly.
I looked over at Jenny. Internal monologue, she mouthed, shaking her head.
“I was saying, I got rather . . . close with the lead character of the book, and after it was over, Puff left me his piece of Plot Paper, since he wouldn’t be needing it anymore.”
“Your friend’s name was Puff?” I scoffed.
“Yes, Puff the Puffin,” she snapped. “So before the story could go any further, I decided to take things into my own hands, do a bit of tweaking. I thought how lovely it would be to bring together all of my very favorite ch
aracters from some of my publisher’s books. You, Jenny, Randy, the odd plant/Wizard, and that nice Gail woman, who I had heard was doing a bit of assassin work. And then I started thinking, wouldn’t it be lovely if the nice Gail woman killed Peter Able?” Pen threw her head back and laughed, the little black-and-white feathers over her throat vibrating with her mirth. “I mean,” she continued, shrieking in between cackles, “it was a bit difficult at first, when Gail actually liked you—can’t imagine why—but after Randy chose you over her, it was easy. She was much more enthusiastic to do the job!”
Yep. She was crazy.
She snapped her head back, glaring at me.
“I am not crazy. It’s just . . . I sat on the outside of your books for years as the logo! And not once did I get to participate in the story! Oh sure, on the copyright page, but who even reads that?”
Tears were actually forming in the penguin’s eyes, like black pools of water, and for just a moment I felt sorry for her. But just for a moment.
“So I decided that you had to be killed,” she said simply, back to examining her foot. “No more books about Peter Able the Boy Wizard, and your stupid ‘watery blue eyes’ and ‘constellation of freckles’ or whatever. No, Christine’s story will not be about the arctic at all, but about a Boy Wizard with a big conflict, his little friend Jenny, a Handsome Detective, and the Assassin who ruins it all.”
She paused for a moment, as if to let this sink in, but I was going to need more than a moment to sort through the mess of questions rattling around in my head. I asked what seemed most important.
“You think Randy’s handsome?” I really needed to work on my priorities.
But, to my surprise, Pen shrugged and looked almost embarrassed. That is, if sociopathic penguins can look embarrassed.
“Actually, I didn’t really mean to say that . . . I’m not sure where that came from . . .” Oddly, Pen looked a little frightened, and she touched her throat, as if checking to make sure her voice wasn’t just speaking of its own accord.
Before I could ponder this further, or ask something else stupid, like what Pen’s favorite color was, Jenny piped up with something actually relevant.
“Did Christine’s story begin when Peter got his conflict? Are you the one who influenced that, decided what his conflict would be?” For some reason, Jenny looked close to tears.
Pen nodded proudly.
“And mine . . . ?” Jenny whispered.
Pen threw her head back again and laughed and laughed. (God, she was crazy!) When she was finally finished, she shook her head. “I don’t have time for little teenage romances. No, I didn’t write your conflict.”
Jenny seemed a little bit relieved at this, and, honestly, I was too. But the feeling was pretty short-lived, as we still seemed to be sitting in a small closet with a crazy bird. And she still wasn’t done.
“As you are undoubtedly wondering, if I have been influencing the story for this long, why did I not just have Gail kill you early on, in one of her earlier attempts? Or why did I not just kill you myself in the coffee shop? Or, in fact, why had you nearly forgotten all about me until the character list was released?”
Perhaps You, the reader, had been wondering, but honestly, I was more focused on how best to escape the prewritten plotline and get out of the room alive. Now that she mentioned it, though, those were good questions.
“Because I want Christine’s books to sell! I want everyone to see the fall of Peter Able! And nobody is going to read something that ends in a few measly scenes. The book goes to editors in a week, and I think Gail and I have finally gotten it worked out. A real surprise ending, you know?” Pen laughed gleefully, a sound more like a wounded animal than anything else.
I waited for a moment, wondering if she could possibly have anything more to say, but she just kept laughing.
I didn’t know what to do! Why hadn’t I been a less obnoxious character in my series? Why hadn’t I ever befriended the Penguin Logo? Why did I suddenly feel so tingly, and my hands had gone numb? And why was I unexpectedly standing up, bludgeoning Pen over the head with a heavy bucket?
“Peter, what are you doing?!” Jenny shouted, jumping off her bucket and reaching up to stop my swinging arms.
“I’m not sure!” I shouted back, over the sickening crack of the bucket on Pen’s skull. It only took four hard CONKS and she crumpled to the hard tile floor, a small trickle of blood dripping from her temple.
I looked away and took a few breaths. I hate blood.
“I don’t know how I did that. Since we saw her,” I gestured toward the black-and-white mess on the floor, still averting my eyes, “I’d been feeling, I don’t know . . . out of control. But then something just clicked, and I thought, ‘This is taking way too long,’ and before I knew it, I . . .”
I broke off, unsure for a moment about what I’d just done. Had I killed the penguin? Was I a murderer?
Jenny leaned down next to Pen and put her hand on Pen’s neck.
“She’s alive,” she whispered. I started to kneel down, but, of no control of my own, jerked back up and nearly smacked my head on the hanging bucket again.
“Jenny, we have to go now!” my mouth announced, completely bypassing my brain. “Follow me,” I said, gently helping Jenny to her feet. I had no idea what I was talking about or doing, of course, and my body was nearly numb with tingling. But I decided to go with it—because, really, I didn’t have an option. I moved over to a spot on the wall where a yellow, rather ordinary mop was hanging, and gave it a sharp tug. Idly, my brain wondered what the hell I was doing, but my mouth just motored on, oddly calm.
“We are going down this secret passageway, Jenny.”
Jenny looked at me, clearly concerned for my sanity. To be honest, I probably should have been too. But before I knew it, the brick wall slid to the side, like a rather heavy and loud sliding door, to reveal a wide, rectangular passageway.
“Peter, what the—”
“Squawk, mumble, mumble,” Pen said, though her eyes remained closed.
“I don’t know, Jenny. I just feel like this is what we’re supposed to do. But, boy, do I wish my handsome friend Randy were here to help.” Even as the tiny little words left my mouth, I watched them in confusion. Jenny looked concerned, but after some persuading that I was (a) not crazy and (b) not secretly pining over my roommate, she helped me drag Pen through the doorway.
The door opened up onto a tiny stone landing, which immediately dropped off to several steep cases of stairs. Jenny whispered a quick spell, and Pen floated lightly into the air, hovering just a few inches from the floor. We made our way down, and down . . . and nearly five minutes later, we were still going down.
When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs, we found ourselves in a large stone corridor, lit only by a few blue torches. The unfamiliar passageway had led us to the very familiar Conflict section of the dungeon.
For a moment, the tingling in my body seemed to have stopped, and I looked around frantically, scared that the strange inspiration had suddenly deserted me. But then I felt it, lightly, and I saw what I (apparently) was looking for: Person vs. Self.
I nodded toward the door, and Jenny reluctantly floated Pen above the hard floor and stopped just outside the classroom.
“Jenny, we’re going to lock Pen in here, and then we’re going to run upstairs and find some help, okay?” I asked, putting my hands on her shoulders. Her chin was shaking badly, and I could see tears in her eyes. With a sickening feeling, I realized I was scaring her.
“Peter, what has gotten into you?” she whispered.
“I don’t know . . . It all just kind of came to me,” I said. “You know that feeling you get when you’re being written? That tingly, out-of-control, I-might-be-going-crazy kind of feeling? Well, it kind of started up again earlier, when we were following Pen to the closet.”
“I know, I had that too,” she whispered, nodding her head. A clump of hair dropped from the elaborate knot on top of her head and
brushed across her face. I tucked it behind her ear.
“Well, I couldn’t figure it out at the time, but I think Pen must have influenced Christine’s story to have us follow her. You know, with her Plot Paper.”
Jenny nodded again and glanced down at Pen, who was still unconscious but starting to breathe more heavily. She might wake up at any moment. I had to make this quick.
“But then when I hit Pen over the head and . . .” I would not say “nearly killed her.” I was not murderer. “Well, I got that being-written feeling, but really strong, and somehow it felt different, like someone else was writing me. And it’s still going on, Jenny. Like these words coming out of my mouth right now,” I said, pointing at my moving lips, “aren’t my own. Does that sound crazy, Jenny?” I asked, almost pleadingly. Of course I’d been used to the feeling during my series, but I’d known I was in a series then. This just felt violating.
“Yes, it sounds crazy,” she finally said, smiling just a little despite her tears. “But, Peter, let’s go. Let’s go find help, and, and, let’s just get out of here. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
I certainly did, too, but I didn’t let her know that. We wrenched open the classroom door and peered around inside. Person vs. Self was the only Conflict room that locked from the outside, as the idea was, you were locked in with your inner demons until you sorted things out. Or not. It was also different from the other classrooms because it was completely empty of any desks, tables, or even lights. The only piece of furniture in the room was a large, austere black podium at the front, only visible through the chink of light from the open door. A cold wind seemed to blow out of the space, too, though there were no vents or windows. With a flick of Jenny’s wrist, Pen hovered through the open door and then dropped to the hard stone floor unceremoniously. Together, we slammed the door back into place and locked it tight.
“That’s for Randy!” I shouted through the closed door.
Jenny raised her eyebrows at me quizzically, and I just shrugged in response. I’d no idea why I’d said that, nor did I know why I suddenly felt inclined to buy Randy a pair of shoes.
The Fantastic Fable of Peter Able Page 15