Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Sticky-Fingers Cure

by Ann M. Martin

  “This must be a dream,” Missy murmured. She stared down at the floor. “How on earth could a chandelier disappear?”

  Wag, snoozing in his spot at the end of the bed, lifted his head and wrinkled his eyebrows.

  Missy pulled open the curtains and discovered that her window was a foot higher off the floor than usual. Outside, though, the sun was shining and the yard looked as bare and wintry as ever. She glimpsed Warren and Evelyn Goose and Martha and Millard Mallard searching for corn in the barnyard. They seemed perfectly fine.

  “Aha!” Missy said to Wag. “This is the work of House. House must be feeling better and is playing tricks again.” But Missy’s tingling fingertips told her that was not right. She hurried to her closet to get dressed, felt around on the floor for the string attached to the bulb, and couldn’t find it. She couldn’t find the bulb either. She shone a flashlight on the floor and saw nothing but shoes. Dressed in her nightgown and an old flannel robe, she stepped through the doorway into the hall—and gasped because there was nothing to step over.

  Penelope came swooping along the hallway then. “Look up! Look up!” she squawked.

  Missy tipped her head back. That was when she saw that the door was no longer upside down. She went back into her room and looked at the ceiling. There was the chandelier. She stepped into her closet, and the string attached to the light bulb swatted her in the face. The bulb was high above her head.

  “My stars and garters,” she said. Then she added, “I never.”

  The upside-down house had become a right-side-up house. The ceilings were the ceilings and the floors were the floors.

  Missy ran down the stairs, which this morning felt like downstairs stairs and not upstairs stairs. In the parlor, she tripped once more, this time in the spot where another chandelier should have sprouted but was missing. She opened the front door and ran across the porch and partway down the path, not caring that her bare feet were pounding along freezing stones, and also not caring that people on their way to work could see her wearing her fuzzy yellow bathrobe that made her look like one of the ducklings the Mallards hatched each spring. She stopped, turned, and stared at the upside-down house. Its chimney pointed to the sky. So did its roof. Not a single thing about it was upside down.

  Missy walked slowly back inside and closed the door gently behind her. “House? Are you angry?” she asked as she made her way into the parlor. She grabbed the back of the couch and held on tight since she felt somewhat dizzy from all the right-side-up-ness. “House?” she asked again. She waited for a reply from the house, for a lamp to switch itself on or for the teakettle to whistle in the kitchen. “Please tell me this is a trick,” said Missy eventually, even though her fingertips told her that it was not.

  As soon as Missy had fed the animals, she sat down at the table in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and her phone. Lester sat opposite her. He was slowly stirring coffee of his own. He stirred and stirred and stirred. The cup was full.

  “Aren’t you going to drink that?” Missy asked.

  Lester took the cup delicately between his front hooves and raised it to his lips. He took an ant-sized sip and set the cup back on the table.

  Missy sighed. Then, even though it was still quite early, she picked up her phone and called Harold Spectacle.

  “Missy?” said Harold instantly. “Is something wrong?”

  Missy hesitated. “I know you’re just about to open the store, but, yes, I believe something is wrong.”

  “Are you at home? Shall I come over?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Missy took her coffee into the parlor. She clutched at the backs of chairs and couches in order to keep from falling. “I feel like I’m on board a ship,” she remarked to Wag.

  Wag glanced at her, then made a wide arc around the empty spot where the chandelier should have been.

  “Silly boy,” said Missy. “Nothing is there.”

  She stood at the window with her coffee, looking out at the street. Presently she caught sight of Harold. He was hurrying along in his top hat and his winter tuxedo, the wool one he had had specially made for cold weather. He was in such a hurry that, Missy realized, he had forgotten to bring his cane, which didn’t matter one bit, since he didn’t actually need it.

  Missy opened the front door, then watched in surprise as Harold rushed right by the house.

  “Harold?” Missy called. “Harold!”

  Harold stopped and looked about in surprise. “Missy?”

  “Back here!”

  Harold turned around. He stood stock-still. After a long moment, he said, “Oh, my,” as he gazed at the house.

  “I know,” said Missy miserably from the porch.

  Harold ran along the front path. He was used to the stones wavering and wobbling beneath his feet, but they remained in place, which caused Harold to trip four times before he reached the porch. “First day with my new feet,” he murmured, blushing. Then he looked above his head. He glanced to his left at the chimney. He looked at Missy. He opened and closed his mouth several times. At last he said, “It’s right side up.”

  Missy nodded.

  “Inside, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Missy ushered Harold in, and he gazed at the ceilings and the floors and the windows. “Oh, my,” he said again.

  “What do you think has happened?” Missy asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve lived in Little Spring Valley my entire life, and this has always been an upside-down house.”

  Missy nodded. “House hasn’t given me a sign about what’s wrong. Do you think this is…” She couldn’t bear to finish the sentence.

  “The Effluvia?” Harold finished for her.

  Missy nodded.

  “Could be. How do the animals seem?”

  “Something is definitely wrong with Lester.”

  “How about you?”

  “Me? I feel fine.”

  “Good, good,” said Harold, but Missy noticed that he was backing ever so slowly toward the door. As he did so, his hand crept toward the pocket of his pants and withdrew a handkerchief. He pressed it to his nose and mouth. “Lovely to see you,” he said, “but I really deed to opedd the store dow.”

  “What?” asked Missy.

  Harold removed the hankie long enough to gasp out, “I need to open the store. Gotta go.” He returned the hankie to his face. “Call if you deed adythig. Bye!”

  Missy watched him trip along the path. He didn’t put the handkerchief back in his pocket until he was safely on the sidewalk. Then he ran as fast as he could.

  “This is not good,” Missy said to Wag, who was at her side. She continued to stand in the doorway and noticed that the cars driving down the street slowed when they reached her house, and people opened their windows and gawked. One car stopped entirely, and a woman leaned out and snapped a picture.

  Missy sighed and closed the door. “All right,” she said to Wag, who appeared to be listening to her. “I need to determine if anyone else in this house has the Effluvia.” She patted him. “You seem fine. You ate a good breakfast. And all the outside animals seem fine. Lightfoot seems fine, too, but something is going on with Lester. And Penelope … well, who can tell with her?”

  Penelope swooped into the parlor then, aiming for a landing on the chandelier. She remembered too late that the chandelier was above her, not below, and she skidded under a table and fell over. She flapped her wings as she got to her feet. “Confound it!”

  “Penelope? How are you feeling?” Missy asked cautiously.

  “All in a muddle,” she replied. “All in a muddle.”

  * * *

  Missy watched Penelope very closely that morning. She watched her while she ate and while she snoozed and while she jumped up and down on Wag’s head until Wag shook himself and she slipped off. “How are you feeling now?” Missy kept asking. Penelope’s answer was different every time.

  “Under the weather.”

  “Over the top.”

  “A bi
t wobbly.”

  “Right as rain.”

  “Fit as a fiddle.”

  Missy didn’t know what to think.

  She and Lester ate lunch in the kitchen. Missy thought Lester seemed perkier, although she noticed that his entire lunch consisted of lukewarm liquids—lukewarm soup, lukewarm juice, and lukewarm coffee. She was just deciding that maybe the animals had escaped the Effluvia after all when Lightfoot ambled into the kitchen and suddenly floated to the ceiling.

  Missy stared up at her. Sometimes when the house was feeling frisky, it would float a couch with Lester resting on it up to the ceiling, or a bed with Wag sleeping on it. But normally the animals didn’t float on their own.

  “Lightfoot?” said Missy. “Lightfoot, come down from there!”

  Lightfoot looked primly at the kitchen below. She curled her tail around her front legs as if she were sitting on the floor. She licked one front paw. Then she spotted a fly on the ceiling, swatted it, and ate it. A moment later, she yawned, stretched, and began walking along the air. She came to the top of the refrigerator and curled up on it.

  “Lightfoot,” said Missy, reaching into the refrigerator. “Lightfoot, I have a treat. Would you like a piece of chicken?” She let Lightfoot sniff the chicken, then set it on the floor. “If you want it, you have to come down here.”

  Lightfoot stood. She leaped off the refrigerator—and landed in the air next to Missy’s head so that they were eye to eye. She looked at the chicken below and meowed.

  “Uh-oh,” said Missy. But she didn’t panic. She hurried to her bedroom and inspected the rows of bottles in her cure cabinet. “Ah. Here we are.” She removed a small vial labeled ANTI-FLOTATION and rushed it to the kitchen, where she squirted two drops onto the chicken and handed it up to Lightfoot, who was back on the refrigerator. Lightfoot ate it in one gulp.

  “Feel any different?” Missy asked.

  Lightfoot began to purr and floated upward until her head bumped the ceiling.

  Missy set the bottle on the table. “That is a one hundred percent guaranteed remedy, and it isn’t working,” she said, which was how Missy knew that Lightfoot had caught the Effluvia from the house.

  * * *

  Some decisions are made easily but are difficult to carry out. And some decisions are made with great difficulty but are simple to carry out. Missy’s decision to place the house and everyone in it under quarantine was the latter sort. She thought and thought and thought about how she should handle the arrival of the Effluvia. She thought about how contagious it was, how the only cure for it was time, and how she certainly didn’t want anyone to catch it from Lightfoot or the house. She thought about the children of Little Spring Valley who stopped by her house every day after school, how they would miss their visits, and how disappointed they would be if they couldn’t come inside. She thought about not being able to walk to Juniper Street with Wag and about how she would miss her own visits with Harold Spectacle. She thought about how long the quarantine might last if every resident of the right-side-up upside-down house caught the Effluvia, one after the other.

  “The quarantine could go on for weeks, even months,” she said sadly to Lester, who was once again lying on the couch. “But I know what I must do.”

  The next part was easy. Missy found two large pieces of cardboard among the stacks of art supplies she kept on hand for children who wanted to make dollhouses or masks or scenery for puppet shows. Then she found a fat red marker and lettered two signs. The first one read:

  * * *

  Quarantine:

  No admittance!

  * * *

  The second one read:

  * * *

  Closed

  due to Effluvia!

  * * *

  Missy posted one sign on her front door and the other in one of the front windows. The signs had been up for exactly twenty minutes when she heard the first knock. It was accompanied by a very loud voice calling, “Missy? Missy!”

  Missy peered through the window in the door. When the door had been upside down, Missy could see only feet through the window. Today she peered at the top of Veronica Cupcake’s head.

  “Veronica,” she called back, “don’t you see the signs?”

  “Yes. But what does ‘Quarreling not admitted’ mean? And what is eff-foo-vess…?” she asked slowly. “Wait, is that the bubbly stuff in soda?”

  Missy said patiently, “I’m sorry, Veronica, but I’m afraid no one can come in for a while. The house and Lightfoot have caught the Effluvia. It’s very contagious. I don’t want anyone else to get it.”

  She thought she could hear Veronica sigh. “I really can’t come in?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Veronica scuffed her way back to the sidewalk.

  Five minutes later, Missy heard pounding on the door. “Hey! What’s a quarantine? Missy?”

  Missy hurried into the hallway and saw Frankfort Freeforall with his face mashed up against the window.

  “Let me in!” he called. “Please? School’s out. I’m bored.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Missy, and she explained about the Effluvia again. By the time she was done explaining, seven children were standing on the porch.

  “Then can we play out here?” called Melody. “I haven’t seen you for two days. I miss you.”

  Missy thought. “All right,” she said at last.

  Linden Pettigrew looked helplessly around the yard. “What are we supposed to do?”

  Missy tapped her head with one finger.

  “Use our imaginations?” shouted Linden.

  “Exactly.”

  Missy spent the next hour watching the children invent a game called Gorilla Tag (she never figured out the rules) and answering the phone.

  The first call was from Melody. Missy looked outside and saw that Melody had abandoned Gorilla Tag and was sitting forlornly on the porch with her phone.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Melody. “We have to give oral reports in school, and I hate talking in front of the class. I can’t do it.”

  Now, most adults would suggest to Melody that on report day she should picture her classmates sitting in their underwear, but Missy knew that wouldn’t make a bit of difference. “You can practice over the phone with me,” she told Melody. “Then practice in front of your parents. Practice and practice until you know your report inside out and you’re an expert and can walk into your classroom with confidence. I’ll help you every step of the way.”

  “Over the phone?” asked Melody with a tremble in her voice. “Because I don’t want to stand here on the porch and yell my report to you.”

  “Over the phone,” Missy assured her.

  Veronica’s mother called next.

  “Is everything all right over there?” she asked. “Veronica just came home in tears.”

  Missy explained once more about the Effluvia.

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Cupcake.

  In a town as small as Little Spring Valley, news, especially the gossipy sort, spreads quickly. All afternoon and into the evening, Missy’s phone rang. Several parents wanted to know if Missy needed anything, but Mr. Pepperpot said, “Is it true that Georgie won’t be able to play at the upside-down house for … several weeks?” And Mrs. Treadupon asked, “Are you positive the Effluvia is contagious? Einstein does enjoy spending time at your house.”

  Missy fell into her bed that night, exhausted, and lay on her back looking up at Lightfoot, who was sleeping in the air, her tail dangling above Wag’s head.

  3

  The Sticky-Fingers Cure

  THERE WAS EXACTLY one apartment building in Little Spring Valley, and everyone was fascinated by it. It was five stories high, which made it the tallest building in town. And it had been built twenty-five years before, which made it the newest building in town. There had been a lot of grumbling when it was under construction.

  “This isn’t New York City. What do we need a skyscraper for?” Dean Bean had wanted to know.

  When the
five-story skyscraper was completed, people stared at it. They asked permission to take the elevator (the only elevator in town) to the roof for a bird’s-eye view of Little Spring Valley. They marveled at the people who chose to live in a building with a lot of other families and an elevator.

  Twenty-five years later, people had grown used to the apartment building. It sat at one end of Juniper Street. Sixteen families lived in it. One of those families was Louie Grubbermitts’s. Louie was ten years old. He had two older sisters, Rachel and Elena, who were fourteen and sixteen, which made them teenagers. The apartment they lived in with their moms was cozy and tidy.

  “As neat as a pin,” Mama Tricia liked to say.

  “A place for everything and everything in its place,” Mama Eloise would add.

  In the living room were two couches and three armchairs. Each was covered in a pleasant stripy fabric. By each chair was a small stand, and on each stand was a lamp. The lamps matched.

  In the kitchen was a wooden table covered with a cheerful yellow cloth. The table was surrounded by five chairs with cheerful yellow cushions that, of course, matched the cloth. There were pegs on the walls for hanging things and drawers and cabinets for everything else. One day Mrs. Freeforall, who was visiting the Grubbermittses with her son, Frankfort, opened a drawer while looking for a napkin and exclaimed, “This is the tidiest drawer I have ever seen in my life!” and she wasn’t exaggerating, as many adults do.

  Now, you might think that a bedroom inhabited by two teenagers would be messy, but you would be wrong. The room shared by Rachel and Elena was so neat that their friends were afraid to sit down when they visited.

  “We’re used to sitting on hills of dirty clothes,” said Edwina Nevermore.