Diary of a Mad Brownie

by Bruce Coville

  As I had already apologized, I thought it was rude of her to say this. I near pitched another fit. But I remembered the wise words of Buttercup MacKenzie and closed my eyes and began to count.

  After a moment, she said, “What are you doing?”

  “Counting.”

  “Why are you counting?”

  “I’m trying not to lose my temper!”

  “Oh, like counting to ten. My mother has told me I should do that, too.”

  “Will ya be quiet? I’m still trying to keep the fit from bustin’ out of me!”

  She fell silent, and after a while I was able to take a deep breath.

  “All right,” I said, opening my eyes. “I can talk again. Sorry about that wee outburst.”

  She had her back to me, and when she turned to face me, I saw tears on her cheeks.

  It made me feel like the worst brownie in the world.

  “I was just trying to be nice,” she said.

  “And I was just trying not to pitch a fit,” I said. “It’s not easy, but I’m working on it. I have a fierce bad temper.”

  “How high did you count?”

  “One thousand, two hundred and forty-six.”

  And that was where we left things for the night.

  10/18 (Sun.)

  I’m not speaking to Angus right now. He really needs to work on his temper.

  In other news: Things are worse with Dad. He spends most of his time down in the studio now. And the problem isn’t just between him and Mom. Yesterday he had a big fight with Pete!

  This is serious. Dad and Pete have been writing songs together for years, and I’ve never heard them fight before. As near as I could make out, it was because Dad wants to start writing the words to his songs himself. But that’s always been Pete’s job, so he was mad. I don’t blame him…especially given some of the things Dad has written. They’re awful!

  Bennett is getting weirder, too. The only time we’ve seen him for the last couple of days is when he comes slinking out of his room for supper. He’s dressing all in black and is incredibly mopey.

  What the heck is going on around here?!

  Monday, October 19

  This afternoon, after I apologized to Alex for my wee tantrum, she said, “Angus, what have you been eating?”

  “How kind of you to ask,” I replied a bit tartly. “It’s a good thing I am nae a pet, which we have now established. If I were, I would long since have been stinking up your closet with my moldering corpse, gone from this world for lack of anyone bothering to feed me.”

  She scowled. “Well, you’re clearly not fading away. So you do eat, right?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “Well, what? And where have you been getting it?”

  This was a bit uncomfortable, as I was not sure how she would take the answer.

  “Well?” she said again after a minute.

  “I have been snitching things from the kitchen, as is my right for the work that I do! But my diet is rather limited. I can’t open your refrigerator, so the best I can manage is things in boxes and bags…cereal and chips mostly. No one can begrudge me that, for I eat but a small amount. But it’s too much salt and sugar, which is nae good for my heart. Oh, how I long for a bit o’ the blessed haggis.”

  “What in the world is haggis?”

  “Oh, ’tis a lovely savory pudding. You start with the stomach of a sheep, then stuff it with a mixture of the sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs (all chopped up, of course), along with some oatmeal, suet, spices—”

  “Stop!” she shrieked.

  Then she began to make very loud and disgusting fake vomiting sounds.

  I had not realized Americans have such sensitive stomachs.

  When she finally calmed down, she said, “I promise I’ll bring you food from now on, Angus. I’m sorry I didna ask you sooner.”

  It was my turn to scowl. “Are you making fun o’ me?”

  “No! Why?”

  “You said ‘didna’ rather than ‘didn’t.’ I thought you were makin’ fun o’ my accent.”

  She blushed a bit. “Mom says I’m a natural mimic. I tend to pick up on the way people around me are speaking. When we go on vacation to Canada, I come back speaking like a Canadian. And if I visit Mom at work and talk to the woman there who sounds like you, I come back sounding a little like her.” She made a face. “Bennett-the-Booger says I pick up accents so easily because I have a weak personality.”

  “He’s a booger, all right,” I agreed.

  Anyway, the upshot of all this is that she will bring me food from now on. Which will make things a bit easier.

  She remains a slob (this is a word I recently learned from listening to Bennett-the-Booger), but I am starting to see that she is a kindhearted one, and that counts for something.

  SONG LYRIC BY DENNIS CARHART

  Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie

  Cuz I ain’t dead, as you can see.

  My heart still beats, and my stomach burns

  With lots of acid, which means it churns.

  Oh, I loved deep, and I loved true.

  I loved so hard, my face turned blue.

  But that sweet love was spurned, so now I weep

  Cuz my true love said I was a creep.

  I flung myself over a cliff

  Because we had a lovers’ tiff.

  And when I landed on the rocks below

  I knew my love would have to go!

  From a set of seventeen song recordings submitted to Thracks Trax Music

  Tuesday, October 20

  I write this after a long and exhausting day.

  It started when I went out to begin my work this morning and saw that Alex had left her research report on her desk. She had worked hard on that report, and I knew she would be in big trouble with her teacher if she was late in handing it in, as she has already missed many assignments. I knew this because I have overheard her mother speak to her about it almost every day, usually quite loudly.

  I think Mrs. Carhart might do well to read How to Be a Better Brownie.

  It’s too bad the print would be too tiny for her eyes.

  (Despite the above, I have much sympathy for Mrs. Carhart. Having a child like Alex must be a great trial.)

  Though this situation definitely qualified as a mess for Alex, strictly speaking it is not part of my duties to help with a problem like this. Should I try to take it to her? It might make her feel better about me being here.

  After much fussing and cudgeling of my brains (I mean that quite literally—I pounded upon my head trying to talk myself out of it), I rolled the essay into a neat curl and tied it with a bit of string. The house was quiet—the young Carharts at school, Mrs. Carhart at work, Mr. Carhart locked away in his Man Cave, which turned out to be his “studio,” where he pens his wretched songs. So the only one I needed to worry about was Bubbles (Sweet Lords of the Hunt, what a name for the monster!), and I was hoping the beast was outside.

  No such luck as that. When I got to the kitchen, who did I see with his face in his food bowl? Bubbles, of course. But I was a brownie with a job to do, and not about to take any nonsense from a mere cat. So I set aside the rolled-up report and braced myself. This was not Angus-just-arrived-and-all-worn-out. This was Angus-on-a-mission.

  It was time to settle this for good.

  The cat looked up, saw me, and crouched.

  I crouched, too.

  The cat sprang.

  I sprang at the same instant, my mighty leap taking me far higher than his. The cat landed beneath me, and I landed on his back.

  Unfortunately, I had landed backwards! I lunged up, grabbed Bubbles’s tail, and used it to swing into the air.

  This time I came down right way forward. As I did, the beast yowled and reared like the horses in the old Westerns I used to watch with Sarah.

  I sank my hands into his fur, dug my heels into his sides, then cried, “All right, Bubbles, it’s time to decide who’s in charge here!”

  The cat bu
cked, yowled, twisted, and squirmed.

  I held on as if clutching the secret of life. (In a way, I was, since I knew that if I fell off his back, his claws would soon be doing unspeakable things to my innards.)

  The cat galloped forward, yowling as if his tail was on fire.

  I couldn’t help myself. As we tore through the dining room and the living room, I swatted at his backside and shouted, “Yahooooo! Ride ’em, Brownie!”

  Suddenly the cat skidded to a halt. He flung himself sideways, then onto his back.

  I kept my grip, holding on like Janet clutching Tam Lin in the old tale. Though I was tiring, I dared not let go. My only hope was to hold on until Bubbles was exhausted.

  The creature finally stopped, gasping for breath. That was when I played my last card. Pulling myself forward, I whispered in his ear, “Ya didn’t expect to meet your match today, did ya, ya daft fur ball?”

  The cat froze. I suspect no one had ever before talked to him in his own language.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I know the language of the beasts. That first night you had the best of me, but now I’ve the better of you. And what I need to tell you is this: Miss Alex is in a mess. This morning she left behind some papers that are important for her to have in school. I am ready to bring them to her, but I need help. Are you willing to help me? For the sake of your girl, will you get me to that school?”

  The cat held still for a long moment, then replied, “Yes.”

  “Well, then let’s be out the door and on our way. The sooner we deliver these papers, the better. Though first we have to stop so I can pick it up, of course.”

  “Of course,” said the cat.

  “I’m going to get down. You’d best not try anything when I do. Remember, we are now a team if we’re to help Alex.”

  Bubbles made an irritated sound but said nothing more.

  I slid down, ready to leap away if necessary.

  Normally I don’t like to deal with cats. They’re finicky and can’t always be trusted. But as my dear Sarah used to tell me, “Angus, you can’t choose where the ball lands. You have to play it where it lies.” (She was very proud that golf was invented in Scotland.)

  Happily, I didn’t have any more trouble with Bubbles. In fact, he was quite helpful. After I retrieved Alex’s work and was about to mount him again, he said, “You should wait until we’re outside. Otherwise the flap is apt to knock you onto your butt.”

  I thanked him for this bit of wisdom.

  As it turned out, it was a good thing I had taken the time to tame the cat, since he knew a backyard route to school, which was definitely the best way for us to get there without my being seen.

  When I thanked Bubbles for this, he said, “Do you think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to be seen? I’ve no desire to be spotted with a little man riding on my back!”

  I nearly pitched a fit but started to count instead.

  After we passed through a small wooded lot that led to the edge of the playground, Bubbles stopped and said, “This is where you get off. I am not going to cross that wide open space carrying you as if I were some tiny horse!”

  “That’s fine, and I thank you for bringing me this far.”

  Despite his objection to being seen with me, the cat seemed to have taken the team idea to heart, for he said, “Do you want me to wait for you?”

  “Thank you, but no,” I replied. “I’ll get a ride home with Alex. Or walk if I must. There’ll be no hurry, and now that I know your route, I can do it without being noticed.”

  “Then I’ll be off. Good luck!”

  The playground was indeed a wide space to cross, with almost nowhere to hide. At least there were no classes outside. Taking a deep breath, I went into full scurry mode. Usually I only use my scurrying power to cross a room, nae such a great distance as this. The trip took a huge burst of energy, and I was fair winded when I reached the far side.

  As I leaned against the building, trying to catch my breath, I realized I hadn’t thought this through. How was I to get inside the place?

  Well, the first thing to do was find Alex’s room. That was simple enough. I just made my way along the foundation, pressing myself tight to the concrete, until I could sense Alex nearby.

  As the building was built of brick, I knew I could climb it. But I was going to need both hands. I undid the string with which I had tied up the paper and used it to bind the roll to my back. The paper was getting a bit squashed, but there was no help for that.

  Now that my hands were free, I leaped to the bricks and started to climb.

  Glory be to goodness, the windows were open! They were an odd kind of window, low and wide. They didn’t slide up, as I was used to, but tilted out. Happily, the opening was big enough for me to slip through. However, I couldn’t go in with the class there, as someone was almost certain to see me. So I clung to the wall, peering into the room with my eyes just above the ledge.

  I quickly spotted Alex.

  I had been hanging there for several minutes when the teacher clapped her hands and said, “Time for lunch! Everyone line up.”

  As soon as they were out the door, I scrambled through the window, then scooted to my girl’s desk. I shinnied up a leg, climbed on top, then took the roll of papers from my back and flattened it out.

  It rolled right back up, which I should have expected.

  I unrolled it again, then stood on one end.

  The other end rolled up, knocking against my knees.

  Cursing a bit, I leaned over the edge of the desk. It had a top, bottom, and three sides but was open where the student sits. I assume this is so things can easily be put in and taken out. Only it would be a task to put anything new in Alex’s desk…it was already crammed to bursting.

  Sweet Lords of the Hunt, the messes this child makes!

  I dug around and found a big eraser, a quarter, a smooth stone the size of my head, and a plastic turtle. I hauled them up to the desktop, then used them to hold down the corners of Alex’s assignment.

  I had just finished, and was planning to scoot over to the window and make my exit, when I heard the teacher come back in!

  I did the only thing I could and went over the edge of the desk and into the mess inside. It was no easy thing to squeeze into that miniature junkyard! When I had gone as far as I thought I could, my head was still sticking out. So I burrowed deeper, wedging myself between a book and something soft and squishy that I didn’t want to think about. I stopped when the point of a pencil hit my bum.

  And there I stayed. It’s possible I have been in a more uncomfortable position sometime in my life, but if so, I can’t remember it.

  I had hoped the teacher would leave to pick up her class and I could escape then. No such luck. Some other teacher delivered them to the door!

  As Alex’s chair scraped back, I heard her mutter, “What the…?” She bent and peered into the desk, then hissed, “Angus! What are you doing here?”

  I shook my head and pressed my finger to my lips. She nodded—thank goodness the girl is quick—and took her seat. After a while she moved around, and I heard her clear her throat. I saw that she had positioned her backpack so I could climb into it.

  I shuddered, remembering the mess I had seen tumble out of it before. But it couldn’t be worse than remaining where I was. I scootched backwards and slid into the pack, which is where I stayed until she carried me home at the end of the school day.

  Back in her room, she laid her pack on the bed and opened the end. “Thanks for bringing that report,” she said as I crawled out. “You saved my butt!”

  “You’re quite welcome,” I replied, pulling something disgusting out of my fur. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll go back to the closet now. I’ve had about all I can take for one day.”

  I dragged myself up to my shoe box, where I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  I’m not sure how long I napped. I awoke about an hour ago and have been writing this ever since.

  10/20 (Tues
.)

  Angus did the nicest thing today. He brought me the research report that I had left at home!

  It must have been scary to make the trip to my school all on his own. He definitely got me out of huge trouble by doing it!

  I have to think of something nice to do to thank him.

  In other news, the hair has hit the chair! By which I mean the end of my hair is finally all the way down my back. Can’t sit on it yet, but I’ll get there soon.

  Wednesday, October 21

  This afternoon Alex said, “Angus, you need to stay in the closet for a little while. I’m going to have Bennett help me with something, and I know you don’t want him to see you.”

  I was burning with curiosity, of course, but I did as she asked.

  I heard her knock on Bennett’s door but could only catch some of their words…enough to know that she was asking, and then demanding, that he go to the attic with her.

  A few minutes after that, they came back into the room. Between them they were carrying a great pink concoction of a dollhouse.

  Bennett was looking pretty cranky. But when Alex said, “Thanks, Ben. I bet you can get a poem out of this,” he brightened up and said, “Great idea!”

  Once he had left, I climbed down from the closet.

  “What is that thing?” I asked.

  “It’s for you! I thought it would be a more comfortable place for you to stay than the closet.”

  “But it’s pink!”

  “Well, it’s the right size, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but it’s pink. I can’t live in a pink house. I’m a brownie, nae a fairy! Besides, it doesn’t have any front. You can look right in!”

  “Well, you can look right out of the closet and see me!”

  “As if I want to! And you know I’m not to be seen by the rest of your family.”