Abby in Wonderland (Special Edition)

by Sarah Mlynowski

  “That’s true,” I say. It would be cool to meet Alice. I’m not sure I want to meet the queen, though. Isn’t she supposed to be evil? Anyway, we need to focus on Frankie.

  I wish I knew what time it is in Smithville. I usually wear my watch when I go into a story, since it keeps track of time back home. But I didn’t put on my watch this morning. And if I’m not back by five thirty when my mom comes to pick me up, my parents are going to freak out. And so will Robin’s parents. And Frankie’s. And Penny’s nanny.

  Crumbs. I need a watch!

  Then I remember.

  “Robin!” I call. “What time does your phone say?”

  She takes it out of her pocket. “It says … six o’clock? Is that possible?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “It might have gotten messed up in the fall.”

  “Or maybe there’s a time difference here,” she says. “My phone always changes to the local time.”

  Right. It could be six o’clock in Wonderland.

  I look around the garden but don’t see anyone. I wonder why we’re even here. When Maryrose sends me and Jonah into a fairy tale, she always has a reason. Not that we find out the reason ahead of time — or sometimes ever.

  I’m getting a bad feeling. I can’t explain it. Yeah, the garden LOOKS pretty. But there’s something … off about it at the same time.

  I just want to find Frankie and go home.

  “Guys, look!” Robin says, her face all lit up.

  I glance over at where she’s pointing. Cards? Cards! Like the ones we used to play crazy eights. Except these cards are walking around. They are two-dimensional and made out of shiny cardboard, and they have heads. And arms. And legs.

  And we’re the same size as them. They’re human-sized! Oops, no. We shrank, so actually we’re card-sized.

  Three card-people are standing near us. I can see the little black leaf in each of the four corners of their card bodies. So they’re spades. Are they holding paintbrushes? I squint to see better. They are! And one of them is holding a can of red paint.

  Off to the side, I see another card — the Two of Spades — biting the nails on his left hand. He’s also holding a paintbrush, but he looks worried about something.

  Penny, Robin, and I tiptoe closer. We’re behind a big red rosebush. The spades are standing on a path edged with perfect white rosebushes. And they’re TALKING.

  “The Two of Spades is in BIG trouble,” the Three of Spades says. He dips the paintbrush into the paint can. He then brushes red paint over a white rose. Then another.

  “REALLY big trouble,” the Five of Spades agrees. He also dips his paintbrush in the can of red paint and starts painting a white rose red.

  “He’s gonna lose his head for sure,” the Seven of Spades says. He’s holding two paintbrushes and paints two white roses red at once.

  “Unless we finish in time,” Two says, rushing over to dip his paintbrush into the can Five is holding. He starts painting roses very quickly. I can see he’s missed a petal.

  “Well, don’t be sloppy about it, Two!” Five warns. “Or the queen will know! And we’ll get beheaded!”

  I cringe. “Beheaded?” I whisper. “Seriously?”

  Robin cringes, too.

  Penny nods grimly. “This queen is not messing around,” she says. “She’s mean.”

  Shivers run down my back. “Then we have to get out of here — pronto. We need to find Frankie. Where could she be?” I hope she’s okay. Even if she knows the story, she’s probably still completely scared.

  “Does she play croquet?” Penny asks.

  “Huh?”

  “There’s a croquet court over there.” She points ahead to a manicured green lawn. I can make out a white stake in the middle of the grass, and more card-people milling around, holding sticks.

  I’ve seen croquet on TV a few times before my dad switched the channel. It’s kind of like mini golf. You knock the ball through an arch instead of hitting it into a hole. And you use a wooden mallet — a stick with a rounded end — instead of a golf club.

  “I don’t think Frankie plays croquet,” I say. I’ve never played croquet. And Frankie is even less athletic than I am. I’m not sure she’s even played mini golf.

  “Let’s check it out,” Robin says excitedly. “I remember the croquet scene from the movie! It’s hilarious! Is it the same in the book, Penny?”

  “Probably,” she says with a shrug. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “If there’s no sign of Frankie, though, we have to keep moving,” I say.

  Robin claps. “Yay!”

  It’s strange. Traveling into a story with Robin is a little bit like traveling with my brother. She’s so excited about everything. Except she’s less obsessed with ketchup.

  We walk through the garden toward the croquet lawn, passing a couple more card-people. But no one says anything to us or seems to think it’s weird that we’re here.

  Maybe nothing is weird in Wonderland because EVERYTHING is weird in Wonderland?

  When we get to the croquet area, I blink. And blink again. Yup, everything IS weird in Wonderland. And what I’m seeing now is the weirdest thing yet.

  Instead of holding a wooden club, the Ace of Diamonds is holding a flamingo.

  Yes. A real live flamingo. The card-person is playing croquet with a pink bird. At least the flamingo is card-sized, too.

  And — I step a bit closer to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing — the cards are using hedgehogs as BALLS. Yes. Hedgehogs. Those roundish critters with little snouts, black noses, and prickly brownish fur that I’ve occasionally seen in my yard. These hedgehogs are about the size of my shrunken feet.

  I watch the Ace of Diamonds hold the pink flamingo upside down and use its long neck and head as the mallet. He knocks the flamingo against the hedgehog, which goes rolling into … into …

  No. It can’t be. But it is! The rectangular goal is not a piece of plastic like I thought. It’s another card-person. This one is a Five of Diamonds. And he’s bent over sideways to form an arch with his palms and feet. That can’t be comfortable.

  “Yes!” the Ace of Diamonds cheers. “Score!”

  The hedgehog rubs his rear end with his tiny paw and then runs off behind a bush.

  “Come back here this instant, hedgehog,” the Five of Diamonds, still bent over, demands.

  The hedgehog does not come back. But there are many more hedgehogs, all waiting patiently for their turn.

  I clear my throat. “Excuse me,” I ask the Eight of Diamonds standing nearby. “Have you seen a girl around here? She has dark hair and dark skin and red glasses?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t believe I have,” he says. “But I am often wrong.”

  “Hmm,” I say. I’m not sure if that’s a no or a maybe.

  “Would you like to play?” he asks.

  “Sure,” Penny says just as I say, “No, thank you.”

  “Come on,” Penny says. “We’re here anyway. One quick game.”

  “Yeah!” Robin says. “Maybe the game will lead us to Frankie.”

  “I don’t want to waste time,” I say.

  “She just doesn’t want to lose,” Penny mutters.

  “Excuse me?” I say, turning toward her.

  “You just don’t want to lose,” she repeats. “I get it. You’ve never played croquet before. You won’t be any good at it. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to play, either.”

  I snort. “Like you have played before?”

  She flips her ponytail. “Of course I have. I’m quite good.”

  “Sure you are,” I mutter.

  “I am!”

  “Guys, stop fighting,” Robin says. “Let’s play!”

  “Abby’s too scared,” Penny says.

  “Am not!”

  “Are too!”

  The steam builds up inside me. “Fine! You want to play? I’m ready!” I march over to where a bunch of flamingos are standing around, stretching their legs. One flamingo hu
ffs when he sees me. I don’t blame him. Being a piece of sports equipment does not seem like a fun job. I pause.

  Without hesitating, Penny reaches under a feathered pink belly and picks up one of the flamingos. She then turns it upside down, but the bird starts flapping its wings. “Stop that, flamingo!” she orders. “You better behave.”

  The flamingo does not stop flapping.

  “Cut. It. Out,” Penny says.

  She finally gets the bird to stop flapping. But just as she’s about to swing the flamingo’s head against the hedgehog by its feet, the hedgehog takes off, running in the other direction.

  I giggle. What can I say? That was funny.

  Penny grumbles to herself. “Okay, big shot. Let’s see how you do, Abby.”

  Oops.

  A flamingo walks right up to me. Does this mean he wants to be smacked against a hedgehog? I look at Penny and Robin and shrug. I can do this. How hard can it be? I pick up the flamingo the way Penny did and turn him upside down. I look at the hedgehog by my foot. “Here goes,” I say. Maybe if this was how they played croquet on TV, my dad wouldn’t switch the channel.

  “Wait!” the arched-over card-goal says. “My foot’s asleep!” He straightens up and rubs his foot. Then he gets back into position. “Okay, you can go!”

  I aim. I shoot.

  I totally miss. Both the flamingo and the hedgehog burst into laughter. And so do all the card-people. Great. Just great.

  “That was worse than me,” Penny says. “Robin, your turn.”

  Robin’s flamingo does as it’s supposed to and her hedgehog rolls through the goal!

  “Yay, you!” I say.

  Robin takes a bow.

  “I refuse to not be good at this,” Penny snaps, grabbing another flamingo. She aims. She hits. She scores. The hedgehog rolls right into the goal.

  So annoying.

  “Yessssss!” Penny shouts. “I rule at croquet! Do you think they give out trophies?”

  “Don’t let the queen hear you say that,” the Three of Diamonds warns. “She likes to win.”

  The thing is, I like to win, too. And I wouldn’t mind a trophy. It would look really good in my bedroom. Or maybe I could bring it to school and put it on my desk so Penny has to see it every time she passes me.

  I need to try this for real. I pick up another flamingo. I quickly line up my shot and whack the flamingo against the hedgehog. I watch as the hedgehog rolls … just to the left of the arched card-goal.

  Crumbs.

  “Aww, don’t feel bad just because I scored and you didn’t, Abby,” Penny says, which obviously does make me feel bad.

  I shake it off. So what if she’s better at weird-croquet? I bet I would be better at it with actual sticks instead of animals. I got a hole-in-one at mini golf! So what if all the other holes took me five tries? Anyway, there are no trophies here. And we really have to go. Why are we even playing this? I put down the flamingo. “This is a waste of time, you guys. We have to focus on finding Frankie.”

  “If you’re sure that’s why you want to stop, Abby,” Penny singsongs.

  “It is,” I insist. It totally is. It’s most of the reason, anyway.

  “Thanks for letting us play,” Robin says to the Ace of Diamonds.

  “Anytime,” the card says, and salutes us.

  We leave the croquet court and keep walking, scanning the garden for Frankie.

  “What is that smell?” Robin asks.

  “The smell of flowers?” I ask.

  “The smell of losing?” Penny asks.

  I roll my eyes.

  “It’s the smell of dessert!” Robin says. “Oh my goodness. My stomach is growling.”

  So is mine. Again.

  “I’m starving, too,” Penny says. “I only had a few potato chips for breakfast and we never got to have the spaghetti Sheila promised us.”

  “Wait, you had potato chips for breakfast?” I say.

  Penny shrugs. “My parents were busy getting ready for their trip.”

  Sometimes my parents are in a rush in the morning, but we always have breakfast together, even if it’s a quick bowl of cereal. Jonah always dribbles milk on his pajamas. I kind of feel bad for Penny. Kind of.

  “Hi, girls,” a grandfatherly voice says.

  We turn around and I gasp. Standing in front of us is a bunny. A white bunny with long white ears. He’s wearing a little red coat, silver-rimmed glasses, and a bow tie. There is a large clock dangling from his neck. And he’s just our size.

  Oh! It’s the White Rabbit from the story! Even I recognize him. He’s the character who says —

  “You’re late! You’re late! For a very important date!” Robin cries.

  Yes. That.

  The bunny looks at her strangely. “Riiiiiight. I suppose I am. I overheard you saying you were hungry, and I thought I’d point out where you could get some food.”

  “That’s so nice of you,” Robin says.

  The bunny motions to a long table on the other side of the croquet lawn. “Right there. Do you see? There are a bunch of pies. You are welcome to help yourself to them. I made them.”

  “Thank you so much!” Robin says. “You’re the sweetest.”

  Penny narrows her eyes. “They’re not carrot pies, are they?”

  “Carrot pies?” The bunny makes a face. “No! Disgusting! I would never bake a carrot pie. I would never eat a carrot. Carrots are a vile, vile food. I would rather eat dirt than carrots.”

  Okay, then. I guess contrary to popular thought, not all rabbits like carrots. My cousin doesn’t like chocolate. It’s incredibly weird, but it happens.

  “Thank you,” I say. I could eat some pie right about now. Who doesn’t like pie? I love all kinds of pie. Chocolate pie. Banana cream pie. Key lime pie. Lemon meringue pie. Mmm.

  “Have you seen our friend, by any chance?” Robin asks the bunny. “She’s about our height, dark hair, red glasses?”

  I flush. I should be thinking about Frankie, not pies.

  The bunny nods. “I believe I have.”

  What? A zing goes down my spine. “You have? Where? Is she okay?”

  “I believe she went that way,” the bunny says, pointing beyond the table, toward a forest.

  “Thank you!” I say. Hurrah! He saw Frankie! That means we’re on the right track! We’re going to find her! And maybe get pie on the way? “You’re the best,” I say.

  “I am. I really am. Toodles,” the bunny says before waving with his tiny bunny hands and hopping off in the other direction.

  “Come on,” Robin says. “We need energy. Let’s have a few bites of the pie and then go rescue Frankie!”

  Okay, good. I’m not the only one who could really use some pie.

  Robin, Penny, and I hurry over to the table. The pies are tiny — more like tarts. They have fruit on top instead of inside.

  “They look delish,” Robin says.

  Robin and I each pick up one of the tarts. I think they’re strawberry. YUM!

  Penny does not pick up a tart.

  “Penny? Why don’t you take one?” I ask.

  “They look strange,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest and turns away. “I think I’ll pass. I don’t normally eat pies baked by small animals.”

  “Suit yourself. Just don’t complain to me that you’re hungry later.”

  “I am kind of hungry,” Penny admits. “Fine, I’ll try one. But we better not shrink again. Or get poisoned.”

  “I can’t make any promises. But I trust the White Rabbit.” I look around for a fork. “Do you see any utensils?”

  “Nope,” Robin says.

  “I guess we have to use our hands,” I say.

  Penny frowns, picking up a tart for herself. “That’s gross. They’re in pastry dishes.”

  “So? Just use your hand as a scooper,” I say.

  Penny looks horrified.

  “Come on,” I say. “Follow me.”

  I stick my hand into the side of the pie and try to edge m
y fingers underneath. Squishy. Jonah would LOOOOVE this. “See?”

  Robin scoops up a big piece.

  Penny makes a face, but copies us. “This better be tasty.”

  “It will be!” I say. “It’s strawberry. You like strawberries, don’t you?”

  She nods.

  “Then let’s go. One. Two. Three —”

  “Wait!” Robin squeals. “Pie pic.” She takes out her phone. “It’s still six o’clock! The clock must be broken.” She snaps a picture of me lifting my hand and carrying a large scoop of tart to my mouth. “Great shot!” she says.

  Then she takes a bite and snaps a selfie.

  I chew.

  Wait a sec.

  BLECH. “What’s wrong with these strawberries?” I cry, spitting the pie out into my other hand.

  “Yuck!” Penny says, scrunching up her face. “Poison!”

  “Poison!” I repeat in a scream.

  “Guys,” Robin says, swallowing. “It’s not poison. It’s tomato!”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling silly. A savory pie.

  “I’m not having any more,” Penny says, spitting the mushed-up tart on the ground. “Forget it.”

  “It’s good,” Robin says. “I swear. Try it again.”

  I take another bite. It’s not that bad this time, now that I know what it’s supposed to be. It’s actually pretty tasty. It’s just a shock to the system when you expect something and you end up getting something totally different. Like if you think there’s milk in your cup, but it’s really orange juice. I like orange juice, but I don’t want it if I’m expecting milk, you know? Especially if I’m expecting chocolate milk.

  “Hey! Hey!” I hear from behind us.

  I turn around to see one of the cards waving her hands frantically. It’s the Three of Clubs. Her hair is in a long black ponytail, and the bottom of her card is shaped in a skirt.

  “What are you doing?” she yells.

  She does not look happy to see us.

  “Just having some pie,” Robin responds, lifting her hand to take another bite.

  “Stop that!” the Three of Clubs yells. I spot an actual club in her hand. Like the kind of club used to hit people, typically found in caveman cartoons. And she is pointing the club at us. “You are eating the queen’s tarts!”