Nah, a million dollars is better.
Terry picked up the pen and something buzzed past his ear. He yelped. The pen dropped.
An enormous bug with shimmering wings landed on top of the Wish Book. It looked straight at him. Terry stared back.
Trish would freak if she saw this bug in her room—she hated bugs, especially ones that flew—but Terry was entranced. The bug was beautiful. He’d never seen one like it. Its dark brown eyes, the same shade as his sister’s, sparkled like jewels, and the purple in its wings matched the ink of the wish it stood on: I wish I could fly.
Wait.
Terry swallowed hard. “Trish?” he said to the bug, and immediately felt ridiculous. But when he said her name, the bug hopped as though it was excited. As though it was responding. Confirming.
Oh no. “Trish?” he said again. “Is that you?”
The bug lifted off the page and did a loop-de-loop through the air. Terry’s heart sank to his toes. “Oh no,” he said aloud. “Oh no oh no oh no.”
The bug landed on his hand like it wanted to comfort him.
He sucked in a breath. “Oh, Trish. What have you done?” The bug fluttered its wings. Terry started to cry.
His sister was a bug. A beautiful bug! But a bug nonetheless.
Never again would she sneak into his room late at night so they could stay up whispering and giggling. Never again would she annoy him to death by humming the song from her favorite cartoon, or make him smile with a random fart joke, or break the last cookie in half to share. Never again would he trade his milk for her orange slices at school lunch, or check his answers against her perfect math homework, or catch her eye across the table as Steve told a long, boring story, knowing she knew exactly what he was thinking. Never again would she be his real sister, because somehow, impossibly, ridiculously, horribly, his sister was now a bug.
He couldn’t stand it. Sometimes, sure, Trish drove him up the wall, but life without her would be terrible. She was his twin. His other half. They were meant to go through the world together.
He had to fix this.
Terry knew the second rule: No wish can undo another wish. So he couldn’t change her back. But there was another way for her to be his twin again.
Fingers shaking, Terry picked up the purple pen. He wrote the words quickly, before he could chicken out.
I wish to be a bug like this one.
The second he finished, it was done.
Terry didn’t feel it happen, but he knew in an instant it had worked. Everything around him looked familiar yet completely different. Trish’s room suddenly seemed enormous. He fluttered his wings (he had wings!) and felt them lift him off the chair. He could fly! This was amazing. He tried a loop-de-loop. His heart soared.
He was a bug now, just like his sister. It was a huge, unthinkable sacrifice, but it would be a fun adventure too.
“Hey, Trish!” he said, or rather, buzzed. He flew toward the other bug. “Trish!” he buzzed again. The bug hissed and flew off.
“Trish?” Terry repeated. She didn’t answer.
What the huh?
Before Terry could wrap his bug brain around it, the front door slammed and someone ran up the stairs to his bedroom. “Terry!” he heard.
No. Impossible.
“Terry!” a voice just like his sister’s shouted again. The footsteps pounded from his room to hers, and Trish appeared in the doorway—human Trish. Her hair looked windswept. Her eyes shone bright. Her face seemed bursting with news to tell him.
“Terry?” she said. But Terry knew she hadn’t seen him. He glanced around and saw the other bug at the window, searching for a way out. Being a normal insect. Just like it had been all along.
Terry felt like he’d swallowed a bonfire.
He’d been wrong. So wrong. So above and beyond wrong—and so foolishly impulsive—he almost couldn’t believe it.
But Trish would believe it.
Trish knew better than anyone what Terry was like.
She always said if he’d just think another second or two before he acted, she wouldn’t constantly have to dig him out of trouble. But she did.
Trish always saved him. She would rescue him from this hideous mess. He only had to tell her what he’d done.
But how?
Trish moved toward the desk like she was showing him the answer. And there it was: The Wish Book! He would land on his wish and she’d see it and him, and put two and two together. Then somehow she’d find a way to fix it.
He flew toward her and she shrieked. “It’s okay,” he said. “Trish, it’s me.” Though he knew she could not understand him.
He hoped he wasn’t making a second enormous mistake.
He landed on the desk, on top of the Wish Book. On top of his wish. He fluttered his wings, held his breath, and silently begged his twin to get it. To understand him.
It’s me, it’s me, it’s me, it’s me, he thought, trying to throw the words where she might catch them. Hoping harder than he’d ever hoped before.
She blinked.
He watched her face transform into a familiar expression. Her eyes filled with calm. Her jaw tightened. He saw it and knew: Trish was forming a plan.
Yes, sis. Yes!
Slowly, she reached out and picked up the pen behind him. Her lips twitched with the start of a smile. His whole body beamed back joy.
She lifted her hand and he saw what she was holding.
The pen was still on the desk behind him.
Her trusty fly swatter was not.
Beware! If a bed monster nibbles your toe,
she won’t leave the rest well alone.
She’ll slide out your toenails, peel back the skin,
and suck your flesh clean off the bone.
When she reaches your ankle, she’ll lick up the blood,
and take a good chomp of the meat.
That’s why it is safest, everyone knows,
to keep blankets over your feet.
If the blanket slides off in the night, my poor friend,
you can kiss foot and leg both goodbye.
The monster will gobble what bites she can get.
She won’t stop till she reaches your thigh.
But then it is not ’cause she’s full that she’ll stop,
nor is it so that she can rest.
The monster will switch to your other bare foot
and compare which of them’s tasting best.
You can fight, you can scream, you can cry, you can beg,
but the monster won’t care, not a little.
For after she’s eaten both legs, now she gets
to devour your soft, tasty middle.
The middle’s the best and the squishiest part—
plus it’s full of the most nutrients.
Each organ she gnaws on she’ll savor, not giving
a darn if the sound makes you wince.
It’s not because monsters are selfish or cruel—
they’re mostly quite charming and funny.
It’s just that the children whose beds they sleep under
can smell irresistibly yummy.
Where were we? Ah, yes—eating liver and guts,
your intestines and kidneys and heart.
When the monster’s slurped up all the best of that mess
you’ll be looking quite well torn apart.
There’s nothing at this point to do, I’m afraid.
Your loss is the monster’s true gain.
For after she’s finished your lungs and your neck,
she gets to move on to your brain.
She’ll pluck out your eyes (mmm, they’re salty and juicy),
and save all your nose hairs for later.
Once she has eaten your face off, your ears
will border two sides of a crater.
She’ll pry back the top of your skull like the lid
from a can of baked beans, only better—
for inside your head there’s a smart, chewy treat:
It’s like beef mixed with cheese, only wetter.
She’ll munch it and crunch it and chew all that’s left,
and let out a terrible belch.
If, in her belly, you try to protest,
your last cries the bed monster will squelch.
Not a gulp or a bite will be left of you, see,
she’ll have eaten you, toenail to head.
And once she has polished off every last drop,
she’ll curl up and she’ll sleep in your bed.
I would hate for this fate to befall one of you,
my delicious and innocent children.
So turn off the lights, and aim for sweet dreams—
but please, keep your toes tucked and hidden.
Acknowledgments
Howls of thanks to my editor, Rosemary Brosnan, who helps me find my way through the deepest, darkest forests. A grateful shudder to the entire team at Quill Tree Books and HarperCollins, especially Courtney Stevenson, David DeWitt, Caitlin Lonning, and the monstrously talented marketing, sales, publicity, and subrights ghouls. Carolina Godina, your illustrations are so perfect, I screamed.
Thanks to my agent, Michael Bourret, for keeping me safe while I dream. A thunderclap for everyone at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret.
Bone-deep hugs to Lainie Fefferman, Jascha Narveson, Jem Altieri, David Levithan, Billy Merrell, Nick Eliopulos, Jeff Snyder, Anna Luiza Rissi, Sophia Jane Rissi, Erika Rissi, Jeremy Rissi, Mama Mrose Rissi, and Ati Rissi, who listened to early drafts and didn’t mind the cobwebs. Chris Crew, Claire Legrand, Emily X.R. Pan, Lauren Strasnick, Robin Wasserman, Erin Soderberg Downing, Terry J. Benton, Terra Elan McVoy, Tiff Liao, and Amy Jo Burns helped the moonlight sneak through the clouds.
Scritches to Arugula Badidea, my very ferocious ostrich, for staying right there in the middle.
A tingle up the spine to Alison Johnson, Island Readers & Writers, and the librarians, educators, and booksellers who help readers find books to devour—especially those at Labyrinth Books, Community Bookstore, McNally Jackson Books, Princeton Public Library, and Stonington Public Library, who keep this book monster well fed.
And a whisper of thanks to you, reader.
About the Author
Photo credit Kim Indresano
ANICA MROSE RISSI grew up on an island off the coast of Maine, where she read a lot of books and loved a lot of pets. She now tells and collects stories, makes up songs on her violin, and eats cheese with her friends in Princeton, New Jersey, where she lives with her dog, Arugula. Anica is the author of more than a dozen other books for kids and teens, including the Anna, Banana chapter book series and Nobody Knows But You. Find out more at www.anicarissi.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Copyright
Quill Tree Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
HIDE AND DON’T SEEK. Text copyright © 2021 by Anica Mrose Rissi. Illustrations copyright © 2021 by Carolina Godina. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2021 by Carolina Godina
Cover design by David DeWitt
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020949343
Digital Edition JULY 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-302697-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-302695-7
2122232425PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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