by Rob Harrell
Just then she looked over and saw us. Her face lit up in a smile, and she waved.
Even here, she had that backpack. Apparently, she’d made it out of a beat-up old basket when she was little. It was kind of funny-looking—no question—but she took that basket-pack everywhere. I’d seen her get razzed by the other girls about it, but she just kept on bringing it to school like it was her favorite thing in the world. You have to respect that kind of weird.
She was in line with her family for Flumpberry slushies. (Or Flumpshies, as they’re called.) She started doing pantomimed poses like she was in a big hurry and all irritated, which cracked Chester and me up.
She was checking her watch and putting her fists on her hips all huffy and tapping her feet. She mimed loading a huge cannon and carefully aiming it at the people in front of her.
Her mom looked around, all smiles, to see who Sierra was joking around with. When she spotted me, a look of distaste slid across her face. She grabbed Sierra by the arm and gently turned her away.
She was leaning down to whisper something in Sierra’s ear when a super-wide giant in a faded Prancing Knights jersey stepped between us, and the Sierra Show was over.
Either Chester hadn’t seen what Sierra’s mom did, or he pretended he hadn’t for my sake.
“I might ask Sierra to ride the Ferris wheel during the fireworks,” I blurted. It just came out all at once like that.
He wrinkled his nose for a second before nodding his head, the bells on his jester hat jingling. “Okay . . . I can see that.”
Just then there was a loud, rude snort behind us. My stomach did a flip when I turned to find one of Prince Roquefort’s bodyguard ogres standing inches away. (Not Buddy. He’s the ogre that’s kind of okay.) Let’s call this one Jerky McOgreface.
He sneered at me in a way that made my troll blood give a little kick. How much had he heard?
We gave each other a minor stare-down before he pulled out his phone and started texting. “Sierra Scarlet and a troll,” he chuckled. “Funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks.”
* * *
At some point, we met back up with Kevin. He’d grabbed a frozen MuttonPop from somewhere that seemed to have been just the thing he needed to calm him down a bit.
Trust me, neither Chester nor I was going to tell him about the Smutton situation. A not-freaking-out Kevin is something to be cherished and encouraged.
He did tell us he’d gotten a “talking-to” from his dad about spooking the festival-goers about the food.
My gramps, thrilled to have the chance to compete, just barely lost the pie-eating contest to a nine-foot-tall ogre named Gut, but then fell asleep full and happy in a lawn chair by the corn dog trailer.
We rode most of the rides and played every game the festival had to offer. Our favorite, as usual, was the dunking- booth, where one of the carnival workers dressed up in a goofy-looking wolf costume. His sole job was to hurl insults at you until you could throw a bull’s-eye pitch and put him in the water. Whoever had the job today was nailing the insult part of his job. Especially when Kevin stepped up with a fresh pile of baseballs.
Kevin stretched and cracked his knuckles. The sun was just ducking behind the hills, and all over the grounds, paper lanterns in the shape of straw, stick, and brick houses were being lit.
Ordinarily I’d have worried that the short jokes were going to upset Kevin—he’s super-sensitive about his height—but for several years, I’d seen just how much he enjoyed this booth. It seemed like the worse the insults, the better Kev’s aim became. He just stood there and waited for his moment like some kind of Z en master.
Kevin took a deep breath, grabbed his first ball, and fired. He missed, but barely.
Kev fired a second shot that made a loud ping when it caught the edge of the metal bull’s-eye. So close.
A small crowd had gathered as the insults kept coming. “I’m gonna Huff and Puff and make me a nice little ham sandwich, Short Stack!”
That was the one. With one smooth move, Kevin swept up a ball and nearly knocked that bull’s-eye off its hinge. There was just enough time for the “wolf” to mutter a little “uh-oh” before he went into the tank with a huge splash. The crowd let out a cheer and Kevin got jostled around with pats on the back and congratulations.
Rebb Glumfort, an odd little wizard kid from our class, walked up to Kevin—his hair and robe looking like he’d just rolled out of bed—and patted him on the head. “That’ll do, pig.” Then he just walked away, in typical Weird Rebb fashion.
As we walked away from the booth, I heard the soaked guy in the wolf costume sputtering and laughing. “Nice shot, kid.”
• 4 •
BEST LAID PLANS
It was time for Chester’s dad’s comedy show. The three of us made our way to the front of the stage, jockeying for position with a couple of elves wearing shirts from Mr. Flintwater’s comedy tour the year before.
First up, Stan Littlepig climbed the stairs and trotted over to the microphone.
He continued with his usual thanks and announcements, including a request for “No placing magic spells on the Port-o-Pottys, please. While it IS funny, it can also be a real bear to clean up.”
Then he paused dramatically before introducing “The Jester of Jollies, the Clown with the Class—FESTER FLINTWATER!!”
A cheer went up as Mr. Flintwater did a goofy walk to center stage. He had the crowd in stitches before he even got to the microphone.
He started strong with a pie to the face that just killed. I mean, the man was a comedic genius. He took a pie in the face like Mozart—if Mozart had been a pie-in-the-face kind of guy.
The crowd was really getting jazzed up as Mr. Flintwater’s set continued. Everybody knew what came next, and we were ready. Fireworks city! And the Littlepigs did not hold back on the boomers.
The Huff n Puff Day fireworks were legendary. They brought in Purple Pazzlers, Sizzling Willies, Strawberry Stinger Bombs . . . Kevin told me they’d had a couple of New Guinean Eyebrow-Fryers flown in for the finale.
I spotted Sierra standing with her little sister and parents and started making my way through the crowd toward her. I got there just as Mr. Flintwater thanked the crowd and the applause swelled to an ear-splitting roar. She smiled when she saw me and gave me a fist bump.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and, looking off all casual-like, started asking her about riding the Ferris wheel.
There was a big squeal of feedback from the sound system . . . and it was followed by a voice.
THAT voice.
I’m not sure how to accurately get across my annoyance at having my most horrible of all horrible classmates, the prince, interrupt me at this moment. Imagine eating a bowl of cookies-and-cream ice cream. Then imagine with only a couple bites left you find half of a dead rat at the bottom. And then the ice cream–coated zombie half-rat sits up and hisses at you.
Yeah. That about describes the feeling.
But please, allow me to give the floor to His Majesticalness Prince Roquefort of Notswin.
“Loyal subjects! Please, please. Hold your applause. I know it’s a thrill to see me, but we do have some sparklers to get to.”
I slowly turned away from Sierra, aware that my mouth was hanging open.
“As many of you know, my father, your king, injured his rotator cuff last week during a rather heated croquet match. So I have come to the festival in his stead.”
“Then, just now . . . I got the most marvelous of ideas in my brain! Would you all like to know what I think this party needs?”
Ugh. He was just insufferable.
“A KING AND QUEEN OF HUFF N PUFF DAY!! Huh? RIGHT?” There was a general sound of approval from the crowd, followed by light applause. “That’s why I’m naming your first-ever king and queen of the festival!”
The crowd was getting into it now as
the little toad reached into his fancy coat pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment. He actually pulled out a little pair of reading glasses that I know he didn’t need. “So, without further ado . . . your First-Ever King and Queen of the Huff n Puff Festival are . . .”
The crowd applauded and went nuts—for about half a second. Then it was like they realized what he had said and the applause fizzled.
Wait . . . What? Had I misunderstood him?
Someone in the crowd shouted “A TROLL??” and someone else screamed “SERIOUSLY??” and I knew I’d heard right. I turned and saw the confused look on Sierra’s face as someone behind me howled in confusion.
The crowd started some pretty serious murmuring, and a quick look of disgust flashed across Sierra’s mom’s face.
“Come on, you two! Get yourselves right on up here! Don’t be shy!” Prince Roquefort was signaling for us to come up on the stage. I wondered if he’d had a stroke. Some kind of psychotic break with reality.
The surprised crowd began moving back to clear us a path to the stage. Every single face looked confused or stunned or angry—except for Chester, who jumped out into our path.
“Come on, you two! Woo-woo!” What Chester lacks in social graces, he makes up for in enthusiasm.
Sierra and I slowly walked up the steps to the stage. I caught bits and pieces of the mumbling around me. “. . . makes no sense at all . . .” “. . . smellier than a wet dog, and that hair . . .”
We walked across the stage to where the prince was waiting like a tiny game show host.
“Let’s have a big round of applause for your new festival king and queen!!”
There was a smattering of applause (maybe my parents?) and more than a few boos, but I think the most common reaction was silence.
He went on. “Let me tell you what I’m thinking! I’m thinking the king and queen oughta take a nice, romantic ride in that big fancy Ferris wheel to watch the fireworks!”
Wait. What? How could he know about . . .? Then I looked over and noticed the prince’s ogre from the Dragon Swings line standing at the edge of the stage, stifling a laugh in his huge paw.
The prince looked right at me and gave me a big ear-to-ear grin, but his eyes didn’t match the rest of his face. They looked crazy, like little pits of evil.
I turned and saw Kevin in the crowd, wringing his hooves nervously.
“SO . . . Is this what you wanted, Zarf?” He turned and chuckled to the crowd, like he was in on a joke they hadn’t quite caught up to yet.
“See, people . . . MY people . . . I’m just having a little fun here. I mean, OBVIOUSLY. Because this troll has himself . . .”
“He was going to ask her to ride the . . .” But he couldn’t finish, as he dissolved into loud laughter.
I felt like somebody’d dropped a piano on my head. My face flushed, my knees buckled, and I had the immediate urge to run off into the woods and never look back.
Instead, I froze.
Roquefort was bent over laughing so hard, I hoped he might rupture something internally. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and to the tips of my ears.
Now, you may wonder: Hey, Zarf? Isn’t that the very same blood that makes you go into one of your trademark troll fits of murderous rage and snarling, spitting anger?
It is. But apparently on some subconscious level, Shame beats Anger—or at least it did this time.
The crowd had started laughing along with Roquefort—nervously at first, but it was gaining strength. He was wiping his eyes. “Ahhh . . . Ha- ha. Can you imagine?”
“Heh. Seriously, Zarf. You’re just ridiculous. Now, get off the stage.”
Suddenly his smile was gone. I hesitated for a moment, until I saw Jerky McOgreface coming across the stage for me, cracking his knuckles. Dazed, I went down the steps into the laughing crowd, wishing the stairs could keep going down into a big, Zarf-sized hole where I could curl up and die.
Avoiding Sierra’s gaze, I chanced a look back up at the prince. He had slid up beside Sierra. “Let’s get serious, now. . . Obviously, I’m your festival king.”
The crowd started to applaud for real. This was an outcome people could wrap their brains around.
“So light those fireworks up over there! And I think it’s only fitting if the REAL king and queen go take a ride on that big—”
And right then . . . that’s when we heard it.
The first blood-curdling howl.
• 5 •
BOOM
A wolf howl—there was really no mistaking it—pierced the noise of the crowd. It was clear, loud . . . and really close. I don’t think there was a single living creature at that festival who didn’t break out head to toe in goose bumps the size of railroad spikes.
Before the first howl died out, there was a second. And then a third and a fourth. The howls were all unique, with slightly different pitches and tones, like a nightmare version of a barbershop quartet. But they were all loud, and close enough that we felt them in our bones.
Everyone stood there like statues as the howls faded. Then the first of the fireworks exploded overhead. It was as if a starter gun had gone off to start a race—the crowd took off running at once. The result was total chaos. As the deafening explosions and flashes of light continued, people began slamming into one another like screaming pinballs.
The prince dropped the microphone and leaped into his ogre’s arms—knocking Sierra backward. She stumbled over the mic chord and went down hard.
I was trying to hop onto the stage when I was slammed to the ground by a large cow-woman in a neon dress. Feet and hooves were pounding everywhere, so I tucked up in a ball and pulled my ears in so they wouldn’t get stepped on. I was kicked and knocked around repeatedly until the crowd thinned a bit. I staggered to my feet and saw by the flickering light that Sierra was gone. As I turned to look for Kevin, I felt a large paw grab my arm. It was my dad, with my mom and Gramps close behind him.
I fell into step with them as we fought through the crowd, and another explosion shook the air around us. “I’m fine. But my friends . . .”
“Your friends will be fine, Zarf. We need to get our family home safe.” I turned back and saw Kevin with his mom and little sister, Ima, bathed in pink and purple light, running away in the direction of their house. I looked back at my dad and nodded.
People were running everywhere as we made our way down the driveway. I almost tripped over a gnome waving a huge crossbow around and yelling into the night like a lunatic.
The rest of our trip home was relatively uneventful until we reached the bridge over our house. We could hear the preprogrammed fireworks show winding down in the distance. That’s when John came galloping up on his horse. His eyes were worried.
“Miss Flett? Have you seen her?” We all shook our heads. His horse pranced around on the cobblestones as John looked up and down the street. “I’m worried. She’s not answering her phone either.”
My dad stepped forward. “Can I help? We can organize a search party.”
John turned his horse back around. “No. I’ve called on the knights. You all get inside and lock the doors.”
But he sure didn’t look sure.
* * *
We all got inside, and my dad went around checking the downstairs doors and windows. It had been a rough night, so after seeing that everyone was okay, I headed up to my room. Now that some of the adrenaline was draining out of me, I felt like a big wet sack of troll guts and shame.
I flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling for a while. Maybe asleep I wouldn’t feel so humiliated. As I shut off my light, there was a knock at the door. After a moment Gramps walked in, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t say anything—just walked over to the window and checked the lock. Then he sighed and stood there looking out into the night.
Finally, he spoke, without turning around.
&nbs
p; I slid down in the bed. “No.”
He was quiet for a bit. “I always knew tha’ prince lad was a turd, but wha’ he pulled tonigh’ was jus’ . . .” Then his words just died off.
He found his way over in the dark and sat down on the edge of my bed. The springs groaned like they were in horrible pain, and I had to re-adjust so I didn’t roll into him. We just sat there quietly for a bit.
“Hope so.” I could feel him nodding. “I really do . . . and I’d imagine th’ Knight Service’ll have this all under control by first light. Bet she’ll be right there where she belongs tomorrow. Givin’ ya yer mornin’ lessons.”
He sat there long enough that I started to nod off, and then he patted my leg and grunted himself up from the bed. Before he slipped out the door, he spoke in a tired voice.
• 6 •
MONDAY, MONDAY
The following morning was dark, drizzly, and cool, which suited my mood perfectly. I’d barely slept, and was hoping against hope that school would be canceled. Canceled forever would be good.
My gramps was still sleeping, but when I entered the kitchen I got an “Are you okay?” smile from my dad and a long hug from my mom. Is there a worse torture than having your parents feel sorry for you?