The Tragical Tale of Birdie Bloom

by Temre Beltz

  The drawing showed two girls in familiar gowns, one noticeably taller than the other. The girls stood side by side, holding their hands up to a cloud-filled sky. Falling down from the clouds, falling into their hands, was something much larger than raindrops. At first, Birdie thought it was great clumps of snow, but then she could see it was something even more marvelous. Paper. Whole sheets of paper. And every time the manor’s walls heaved a contented little sigh, as if for once it was proud of what was on display, the falling sheets of paper appeared to wiggle and move. As if the drawing was more than just a drawing.

  And it was. Because of all the very many dreary books and terrifying illustrations that had numbed the Tragicals’ minds over the years, they had never once seen a drawing so full of hope. It stirred them up from the inside. It made their very limbs tingle. As if, like the drawing, they too might be something more. Something more than just a Tragical.

  Imagine that.

  Though the children—not one—had moved even a muscle, a boy of about seven whispered aloud, “Do you—do you think that drawing’s got something to do with magic? Like how those rain clouds came to visit?”

  Birdie knew Cricket was responsible for the drawing, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t anything to do with magic. Ms. Crunch—a bona fide magic expert—had suggested as much when she wrote in her letter: If there’s one thing about magic: forbidden or not, it always finds a way. Maybe magic didn’t have to always show up by way of flashy explosion and dazzling skill; maybe magic could arrive even through the hands, through the imagination, of a little girl. And certainly this drawing—Cricket’s drawing—changed things. And wasn’t that what magic did best?

  But not everyone was looking for such a change.

  Francesca Prickleboo stomped her foot on the ground. She stepped in front of the long line of Tragicals. “Who did this?” she hissed.

  For a moment, even she looked a tad taken aback at how very much like Mistress Octavia she sounded. Still, she continued, “Of all the places to do something naughty, why would one of you choose to do it here, in a place of honor? And on the day of the Chancellor’s visit? Who was it?”

  Birdie’s heart sank when Cricket’s tears began to fall.

  “I didn’t do it . . . I didn’t do it,” Cricket said, shaking her head. “I mean, I drew it, but I never would have put it there!”

  Upon Cricket’s confession, upon sensing her distress, all the children silently, instinctively, moved away from her. They were Tragicals. That’s what they did. And it’s what Birdie almost did too. She had to fight quite intensely to force her feet to remain put, but keeping her eyes fixed on Cricket’s drawing helped. Remembering that she was the one who had given Cricket the paper in the first place helped even more.

  Friendship. Together. That’s what it was all about.

  When Birdie drew up alongside Cricket, Francesca’s jaw gaped. “But she— She’s nothing more than a troublemaker!” And then Francesca assumed the position that sent shivers down the Tragicals’ spines. She threw her shoulders back, she tilted her head toward the ceiling, and she let loose her loudest, tattliest cry. “MISTRESS OCTA—”

  But Griselda Peabody interrupted her.

  Or rather, Griselda Peabody’s portrait interrupted her. I don’t mean that it floated eerily down the hall like a ghost. No, Ralph gave it a proper whack with the toe of his shoe and sent it sliding down the buttery-slick hallway until it came to rest against Francesca’s calf.

  “Oh, Mistress Peabody!” Francesca said. She swept Griselda Peabody’s portrait up and into the cradle of her arms. “No Triumphant should ever be treated in such a way.”

  And a Triumphant Griselda was. On the other side of Wanderly—in a place teeming with emerald green forests and blue, cloudless skies, nestled atop the peak of Triumph Mountain and framed by a smooth, glassy sea—was the place that could not have been more opposite to Foulweather’s Home for the Tragical. Instead of being filled with the bad endings, each canopied four-poster bed was filled with a happy ending, and at Peabody’s Academy for the Triumphant, Griselda Peabody was in charge of it all.32

  BOOM!

  The foundation of the manor quaked. Birdie and Cricket reached out for each other so as not to stumble and fall. A collective shadow fell across the Tragicals’ faces, because surely it was him. Surely he was there. In less than a moment, they would meet face-to-face with . . . the Chancellor!

  Which didn’t explain why, from two hallways away, Mistress Octavia burst out, “You? What are you doing here?”

  And a curiously breathy voice answered, “I believe the more appropriate response is ‘Hello, Griselda,’ but I’m nothing if not gracious—that’s how we Triumphants operate—so I’ll give you a moment to collect yourself before I start docking points. I’m here for your triennial inspection.”

  “But it’s been six years!” Mistress Octavia growled.

  “Has it?”

  “And where’s the Chancellor?”

  “Last I heard he was organizing his shoe closet—”

  “What?”

  “He’s got a lot of shoes. But let’s get started, shall we? I would prefer to be done five minutes ago, if you know what I mean.”

  The Tragicals gawked at one another. Francesca looked down at the Griselda she held in her arms. “What’s going to happen to us?” Her voice came out as a whisper to no one in particular.

  “What’s going to happen to me?” Cricket echoed while choking back sobs.

  Birdie gritted her teeth. “Nothing,” she said. “Because Mistress Octavia and Mistress Peabody are never going to find out about any of this.”

  And before Birdie could lose her nerve, she strode toward a stunned Francesca Prickleboo, snatched Griselda’s portrait out of her arms, and marched toward the wall where Cricket’s drawing hung. But it was hanging high. Much higher than it first appeared. And no matter how much Birdie leaped with all her might, the tips of her fingernails barely grazed against the bottom edge of the drawing.

  All the while, Griselda Peabody’s voice snaked closer. “Oh my! Is this what you call proper accommodations? There are so few cockroaches here it’s as if you employ an exterminator! Explain to me how this is preparing the children for the worst?”

  Birdie felt on the brink of tears herself. She turned to Cricket and asked, “How did you manage to get this up here in the first place?”

  “It really wasn’t me!” Cricket cried out. “I’m telling the truth. I never put it up there!”

  And that’s when Ralph stepped forward. He drew near to Birdie and kneeled down before her. “I’ll lift you up,” he said.

  Birdie gulped. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”

  “On my shoulders. Come on, it won’t be scary.”

  “I’m not scared—”

  “Then climb on.”

  “But—”

  “They’re getting closer! Hurry. None of us is tall enough on our own.”

  Birdie swallowed hard. Though she really wasn’t scared of heights, how could she explain to Ralph that she was just getting used to standing beside another person, much less scrambling atop one’s shoulders?

  But then Birdie happened to glance at Cricket. Cricket was bobbing her head up and down, trying to encourage her. If Birdie didn’t do it—if she didn’t get that drawing down in time—what would become of Cricket? Mistress Octavia was bound to get sick of doling out dungeon appointments, and with Chewy long gone . . . What if Mistress Octavia finally resorted to the Drowning Bucket?

  Birdie plunked her hands on Ralph’s head. She swung one leg and then the second over his shoulders. Birdie and Ralph swayed awkwardly this way and that. They were a teetering, quivering mess, but slowly—very, very slowly—they rose. And, together, they became the tallest Tragical in all of Wanderly.

  But the click-clack of Mistress Octavia’s footsteps was nearly upon them!

  “Hurry!” Ralph said. “Just grab it off the wall! They’re almost here!”

  B
irdie was trying to do just that, but every time she lifted one corner up and moved to the next, the wall seemed to grab the drawing right back. It was as if the manor wanted Cricket’s drawing to remain. As if to prove its point further, the wall up and flung off Magician Slickabee’s portrait with such ferocity he went sailing across the hallway! A flabbergasted Francesca Prickleboo barely managed to duck as the portrait smacked against the opposite wall and slid miserably down to the floor.

  Mistress Octavia Foulweather’s and Griselda Peabody’s footsteps drew to a sharp halt.

  “What was that terrible noise?” Griselda Peabody said.

  “Oh, that? Probably just one of the children practicing fainting or maybe even spontaneous death.” But Mistress Octavia sounded uneasy. And she did what she always did when things were going awry. “SIR ICH-A-BOD! SIR ICH-A-BOD!!”

  And from somewhere among the shadows, Sir Ichabod appeared. He began shuffling through the Dark Hallway at full speed, until he saw what the Tragicals were up to.

  Upon seeing Birdie teetering from Ralph’s shoulders, a childish drawing pinned to the wall, and two (count them, two) Council portraits tossed to the wayside like yesterday’s junk, he shrank five sizes.

  If he could have, he probably would have melted into the floor completely.

  But maybe there was something more to Sir Ichabod than the Tragicals assumed. Maybe he wasn’t completely immune to the sound of their tears when they cried themselves to sleep at night. Maybe he wasn’t entirely against them. Because without waiting for anyone to ask, he straightened up. He walked right up to Birdie and plucked her off Ralph’s shoulders. He reached up toward the wall and coaxed the manor into releasing Cricket’s drawing. He grabbed hold of Magician Slickabee’s portrait, slung him back into place along the wall, and had very nearly dealt with Griselda, too, when terribly, awfully, tragically—

  “AHHHH!” the real Griselda Peabody let loose a bloodcurdling scream. She had turned the corner into the Dark Hallway!

  Several of the Tragicals screamed right along with her.

  A few others threw their hands over their eyes.

  Little Amelia had finally lifted her sleepy head off the floor and began wailing at top volume.

  Surely it was all over.

  Except Griselda Peabody wasn’t irate over her cast-off portrait. Griselda Peabody had not even noticed her cast-off portrait; she was staring instead at the fat rat with the silver pompadour striding down the center of the room like it was a runway. Birdie blinked. She knew that rat. It was the very same rat that had merrily climbed into her lap in the dungeon. But what was a dungeon rat doing up here?

  Griselda Peabody jabbed a shaking finger in the rat’s direction as if she had the power to stop it. But Triumphants, for all their happy endings, weren’t trained in magic. According to the Chancellor, they didn’t need magic because they already had everything they would ever need. Griselda Peabody, however, looked like she would have really appreciated a chair to stand upon right then.

  As it was, her powder pink skirt was hiked over her wrinkly knees. Her silver-slippered feet shimmied to and fro as if she thought a perfectly executed waltz was the answer to everything. It wasn’t, but it did give Sir Ichabod the perfect opportunity to prop her portrait back on its hook and slink back into the shadows, like he hadn’t just done several astonishing things.

  Throughout all the commotion, the rat stayed his course. He had eyes for one person and one person only. And despite the evil, cursing glare of Mistress Octavia, despite the presence of the headmistress of the Triumphants, despite all the Council’s portraits sneering down upon him, the rat continued along until he plopped on top of Cricket’s shoe with a contented sigh, curled his long, fat tail beneath him, and promptly took a snooze as if all was right in the world.

  What a day it was turning out to be for Cricket.

  What a day it was turning out to be for Mistress Octavia, because Griselda Peabody’s face had turned a bright tomato red. She began slashing her quill against her clipboard with deep, broad, furious strokes.

  “What are you doing? What are you writing on that paper?” Mistress Octavia barked.

  “This place is a nightmare! And I don’t mean that in the complimentary way,” Griselda Peabody said, holding up one finger. “It’s too clean! It’s too bright! These children look well-nourished! And pets? You have allowed them to have pets? Never mind that it’s a rat; this child has developed a relationship with something!” Griselda Peabody paused. She lifted one distinguished eyebrow in Mistress Octavia’s direction. “The Chancellor will have much to think about.”

  Mistress Octavia rolled back her shoulders and lifted her head high. She set her gaze in Sir Ichabod’s direction and said three seething words: “Get. That. Rat.”

  But Cricket had already scooped him up and was running about, like she actually believed a Tragical (and her illegal pet) could escape. Whether out of honest confusion or in an effort to assist Cricket, the other Tragicals began to run about too. Soon, the rat was being passed back and forth, as if in a festive game of hot potato, leaving Sir Ichabod to lunge uselessly after them because their billowing black gowns made it appear like everyone had something stuffed beneath their sleeves.

  Amid the chaos, Birdie barely noticed the large gray moth that charged down the hallway from the direction of the dungeon and came to rest upon her shoulder. When it began to bat its wings noisily in her ear, she tried to shoo it away, but it got terribly huffy. Only then did Birdie realize she wasn’t dealing with a moth at all, but a letter disguised as a moth. A letter from her witch! A letter Mistress Octavia definitely could not see, because surely the only thing more punishable than a magical letter would be a magical friendly letter (if, of course, Ms. Crunch had come to such a decision).

  Birdie cupped her hands around the moth. She felt the little pile of ash fall into her palms, and without waiting for it to transform into a sheet of paper, she stuffed it deep into the cradle of her pocket and patted it once against her thigh.

  She rejoined the commotion just in time for Mistress Octavia to bellow, “Caroline, give me that rat now!”

  The Tragicals stopped running. Griselda Peabody fanned herself so briskly her mane of silver hair whooshed behind her. But Cricket was a very literal eight-year-old. No matter how many times Mistress Octavia called her “Caroline,” the false name simply hadn’t stuck. Not to mention how busy she was whispering soothing words over the rat snuggled in her arms.

  “Caroline, I am talking to you!” Mistress Octavia insisted.

  Birdie gulped. Someone was going to have to answer Mistress Octavia. Surely Mistress Octavia wouldn’t take too kindly to it being someone other than Cricket, but with a new letter from Ms. Crunch simmering in Birdie’s pocket, a trip down to the dungeon didn’t sound so bad.

  “R-right here, Mistress Octavia,” Birdie blurted out.

  Mistress Octavia threw her hands in the air. “You’re not Caroline!”

  “Who is Caroline?” Griselda Peabody asked with a sniff.

  Mistress Octavia pointed at Cricket. “She’s Caroline!” With nary a warning, Mistress Octavia lunged for the rat being held in Cricket’s arms. Cricket shrieked. She shut her eyes, tossed her rat as far away from Mistress Octavia as she possibly could, and begged, “Run for your life, Sprinkles!”

  “A name! That rodent has a name?!” Griselda Peabody said. She bent her head, scribbling fiercely on her clipboard.

  Mistress Octavia shoved Sir Ichabod to the side and dove after Sprinkles herself. At last, seeming to realize the dire urgency of the situation, Sprinkles revved his little feet to full throttle. Much to the delighted squeals of the younger Tragicals, he bounded lithely across three pairs of shoulders, leaped spectacularly off a shrieking Francesca’s hair, and finally disappeared beneath the wall upon which Mistress Octavia banged her head. Hard.

  Mistress Octavia slowly stood up. She looked like she had been through a war instead of a surprise visit from the Council. Her voice wa
s a terrifying whisper. “Sir Ichabod, you will set one hundred—no, two hundred; no, three hundred—rattraps on this eve! And with every sickening snap you children hear, you shall think about how it is all your fault. You are doomed! There is no way to escape it, and if you try, you shall only infect others with your own misery.”

  Cricket collapsed in a heap of black fabric. Her shoulders heaved beneath her gown.

  Birdie’s heart ached too. Almost as if Cricket’s tears were her very own. Did such a thing happen between friends?

  While the other Tragicals shuffled silently back into line, Griselda Peabody tucked her clipboard beneath her elbow. With her lips drawn tightly together, she said to Mistress Octavia, “Your nasty little speech along with that rat’s death sentence was the first—I repeat first—sign that you’re doing even one thing right. Be warned, Octavia: the way a kingdom handles its bad endings has everything to do with its happy endings. You slipped through this inspection by a brittle hangnail.” With that, Griselda Peabody whirled her purple Council cloak around her and disappeared in a puff of smoke.33

  The Tragicals needed no further instruction. They gathered the long hems of their gowns in their shaking hands, and—even in the absence of the audience they had been expecting—they trudged. They trudged as they had never trudged before. And almost every single one of them forgot about the drawing on the wall filled with hope.

  Except Birdie.

  Birdie hadn’t forgotten. In fact, along with the letter in her pocket, it was all Birdie could think about. No one had ever chosen Birdie for anything before. And of all the things Cricket could have drawn, Cricket had chosen her. Birdie and Cricket, together. And that’s why Birdie determined, on that night, she would save the life of Cricket’s pet rat. That night, for once, Cricket wouldn’t have to lose something.

  Of course, a doomed child hadn’t much business in saving the life of anything (even the life of a rat), but neither did a doomed child have any business dabbling in something as wonderful as friendship. But surely that’s what was happening. Surely that’s what it had to be.