Praise for Jennifer Weiner’s New York Times Bestseller
The Littlest Bigfoot
“Young readers who have ever felt too big or been made to feel small will feel just right in the cheerful glow of Weiner’s contemporary fairy tale.”
—New York Times Book Review
“A charming story about finding a safe place to let your freak flag fly.”
—People
“Enchanting right up to the sequel-beckoning end.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A heartwarming tale about friendship and belonging that will resonate with those young readers who have ever struggled to fit in or find their place in the world.”
—School Library Journal
“Weiner makes a winning children’s book debut with this witty story of outcasts coming together.”
—Publishers Weekly
To David Reek
THERE WERE THREE JUDGES ON The Next Stage, the top-rated televised talent competition in which singers and dancers, comedians and magicians, acrobats and ventriloquists all competed for a million-dollar prize. At nine o’clock on a Saturday night in New York City, the head judge, whose name was Benjamin Burton, was standing onstage.
Benjamin Burton was over six and a half feet tall, with long, lean legs and a thick head of glossy black hair. A mustache and a neatly trimmed beard covered his face from lips to neck; dark sunglasses concealed his eyes. There was something faintly menacing about his posture, about the way he moved and, even more, the way he held still, with his head perfectly motionless, his body angled like a knife; posed like a wolf ready to spring at its prey.
A girl who played the accordion and sang country songs stood to his left. A break-dancing boy was at his right. Above them were nets filled with barrels of silver and gold confetti, and in front of them was a crowd of five thousand people, all of them breathlessly waiting for the winner’s name to be announced.
“Devon,” said Benjamin, indicating the little girl. “Jaden,” he said, and gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Both of you have performed brilliantly tonight. But only one of you can go on . . . to the next stage.”
The girl looked up at him hopefully. The boy stared straight ahead, like he was too terrified to move. Benjamin Burton waited, his body coiled and still, looking out at the audience, examining each face, like a man looking for lost treasure, like he had all the time in the world.
The judge who sat to Benjamin’s right at the table that faced the stage was a singer/dancer/actress named Julia Sharp, who was famous for her glamorous good looks and long, honey-highlighted brown hair. On Benjamin’s left was Romy Montez, a laconic country singer who was rarely seen without his western boots and cowboy hat. The two of them had worked with Benjamin Burton for three years, but neither one of them could claim to know him or call him a friend. Neither one of them knew what Benjamin Burton did when he wasn’t onstage or in the judging room. They didn’t know how he spent his time, who he spoke to, or where he went as they made their way across the country, holding auditions. Benjamin Burton was as much of a mystery to them as he was to the rest of the world, which knew him as a successful music producer who ran an enormously profitable record label and served as a tough but fair judge on the talent show that he’d created.
He appeared to be in his thirties, although no one was sure. When reporters asked him where he’d grown up, he’d tell them, “Here, there, and everywhere,” with a smile that showed his teeth and held a hint of menace that made further inquiry feel risky. He had never been married. He’d never appeared with a date on the red carpet or waved to a special someone in the audience. He kept an apartment in New York and a house on the edge of a cliff, high in the Hollywood Hills. At night, when the show was done taping, he would go home alone, lock the doors behind him, and stay there, until he was needed at the set or on the road.
When the show was in production, the morning was devoted to meetings, and the auditions began in the midafternoon. During their free time, Julia tended to her hair and her fans and her athleisure-wear business and Romy worked out with his trainer. Benjamin went to his trailer . . . and then, ten minutes later, when no one was watching, he’d slip out the door, disguised in jeans and a sweatshirt and a pair of run-down sneakers, with a baseball cap pulled down low, its brim casting a half-moon of shadow over his face.
Every afternoon, in every city that The Next Stage held auditions, he would prowl the waiting hopefuls, a clipboard in his hand. As he moved swiftly down the crowds, slipped onto escalators, or cut through the crush of bodies crammed into hotel conference rooms, his gaze would touch on every face. He paced and scribbled and stared, sometimes for so long that he’d make someone uncomfortable, but he seemed to be able to sense the instant when his presence would become noticeable, and he’d move on, sometimes walking so swiftly that puzzled mothers would end up staring at the space where he’d been, then wonder if he’d been there at all.
Five minutes before showtime, he would emerge from his trailer, dressed in an impeccably crisp blue suit, with his thick black beard neatly trimmed, his hair carefully combed, and his big, dark sunglasses obscuring his eyes. He would nod at Romy, offer Julia his arm, escort them to the judges’ table, then walk onto the stage.
“Welcome . . . ,” he would begin. The room would go quiet. The silence would stretch for a long, tense moment, while Benjamin Burton stood in the spotlight, a microphone in his hand. His head never moved, but close observers could see his eyes, behind the glasses, passing over the crowd, from the balcony to the seats up front, left to right, row by row, taking in what felt like every face until finally, he’d say, “to The Next Stage!”
The audience would start cheering, clapping, and whooping. The spotlights would sweep the auditorium, alighting on the faces of the hopeful contestants, who filled the first three rows. The orchestra would start to play the theme song, and the taping would begin.
“He’s looking for his lost love” was how Julia explained Benjamin’s ritual. Julia was a great reader of romance novels, and she liked the idea of cool, distant, polite Benjamin Burton having a lost love somewhere and searching the crowd for some woman who’d broken his heart long ago.
Romy did not agree, even though he’d nod and smile when Julia unfurled her theories. He’d seen the set of Benjamin’s jaw, the way he stood with his shoulders rolled back and his hands curled in loose fists at his sides, as if he was ready to pounce or hit somebody.
So he kept quiet when Julia talked, but he didn’t think that Benjamin Burton was looking for a lost love at all. He thought that his fellow judge was, instead, scanning the crowd in every city they visited for someone who’d hurt him, who’d stolen something he treasured, someone who’d done him wrong.
And when Benjamin Burton found that person, Romy Montez knew, for sure, that he didn’t want to be anywhere near what happened next.
AS MUCH AS SHE HATED school, Alice Mayfair had always hated school vacations even more. At least while she was at school, there was always hope, a glimmer of a chance that some kid might like her or some teacher would befriend her, a tiny bit of hope that her life could turn around.
Time with her parents offered no such possibility. They didn’t like her. Worse, they were ashamed of her. And nothing Alice could do or say would change it.
Mark and Felicia Mayfair had arranged her life so that they saw as little of her as possible. When she wasn’t away at one of the eight different schools she’d attended, she was at camp. When she wasn’t at camp, she was spending a week with her beloved granny in Cape Cod, the only place she’d ever felt happy. It was only for the handful of days that she wasn’t in one of those three places that she stayed with Mark and Felicia, whom she’d lea
rned, long ago, not to call Mom and Dad.
Her mother was elegant and slender, always in a dress or a skirt and high heels, her hair sleek and glossy, her mouth always painted red. Her father was handsome in his suits and polished shoes, with a newspaper or an iPad tucked under his arm and a look on his face that let the world know he was important.
Then there was Alice, tall and broad, her hair a tangly mess, all stained clothes and clumsy hands and big feet; Alice, who resembled neither of her parents; Alice, who didn’t fit.
Now that she had learned the truth about herself—that she wasn’t human and that her parents weren’t really her parents and that her home was not really her home—for the first time, Alice didn’t feel ashamed or like she wanted to make herself smaller. Alice felt free.
She’d left her boarding school, the Experimental Center for Love and Learning, on a chilly morning in December, to start her winter break. It was early afternoon when Lee, her parents’ driver, dropped her off at her apartment building on New York City’s Upper East Side. Alice waved at the doorman, took the elevator to the penthouse, and found her parents waiting for her at the door. She hugged her mother, flinging her strong arms around Felicia’s narrow shoulders, feeling Felicia’s body stiffen, seeing the startled look on her face.
“Look at you!” said Mark, and instead of slumping or slouching or trying to rearrange the curls that had escaped from her braids, Alice stood up straight and met his eyes. And did her father flinch a little when she looked at him? Was Felicia looking a little sneaky and strange as she stroked Alice’s hair with a fragile hand?
It didn’t matter. They weren’t her parents. She didn’t belong with them, and that knowledge, a secret tucked up and hidden, like a butterscotch in her cheek, let her smile and say, “I thought I’d make us dinner.”
Her parents exchanged a surprised glance. “You can cook?” asked Mark.
“She took a cooking class at school,” Felicia said, letting Alice know that at least one of her so-called parents had glanced at the “narrative assessment” the Experimental Center for Love and Learning sent home instead of report cards.
“I’ll go grocery shopping,” Alice announced before her parents could object. “We’ll eat at seven.”
After a moment of startled silence, her parents agreed and handed over a credit card. Alice found her apron in her suitcase and went to the apartment’s airy, immaculate, rarely used kitchen to get started on the meal she’d imagined, and planned on serving at the small table in the kitchen instead of the enormous one in the dining room, where they typically ate on the rare occasions when all three of them dined together.
They tested your blood, and it isn’t human. That was what Jeremy Bigelow, the so-called Bigfoot hunter who’d been hot on her friend Millie’s trail, had told her that morning. At first Alice had been shocked and scared—Was she a space alien? Some kind of mutant?—but almost immediately she realized what this could mean.
If she wasn’t human, she might be Yare—what humans called Bigfoot. She might be part of the same tribe as Millie, her best friend. Which would, of course, be wonderful. Maybe that was why being Yare was the only possibility she’d considered, the only thing that she thought might be true. Also, as far as she knew, being Yare was the only possibility. During one of their early conversations right after Alice had learned the truth about her friend, she’d asked Millie whether, if Bigfoots were real, then other things might be real too.
“What other things?” Millie had asked.
Alice felt uncomfortable. She’d caught the way Millie’s voice had gotten a little louder when she’d said “things,” as if Alice had implied or meant to suggest that the Yare were in a different, less-important category than humans.
“I don’t know . . . vampires? Hobbits? The abominable snowman?”
Millie had thought, then shaken her head. “I am not hearing of those ones,” she said. “Probably they are stories that the No-Furs tell their littlies, to keep them behaving. Like the Bad Red-Suit No-Fur, which is, of course, Santa Claus.”
Alice had smiled, remembering how Millie had told her the Yare legend of a No-Fur in a red suit who snuck down Yare chimneys each December and stole the toys of bad Yare boys and girls and gave them to the No-Furs, and how Alice had explained how the Yare had twisted the story of Santa.
“How about the Loch Ness Monster?” Alice asked.
“Oh, she is real,” Millie said immediately. “But very shy. Also, she does not like to be called ‘Monster.’ ”
Alice’s mouth had dropped open, and Millie had giggled, and Alice, knowing that Millie was teasing her, but not in a mean way, started laughing too.
Alice probably had real parents, Yare parents, out there, somewhere, who were looking for her and who would love her when they found her. Being Yare would explain all the ways that she was different: bigger and taller than other girls her age, with big hands and big feet and a wild tangle of unruly hair that she called the Mane. She would find her parents, and she would find her people, and everything would make sense, and, most of all, she wouldn’t be lonely anymore.
Alice opened the refrigerator. There was a quart of almond milk that she recognized from her last visit home, two sad-looking apples, a container of bean sprouts and another of tofu, a tub of fat-free Greek yogurt, and a jug of maple syrup that, Alice knew, had never been poured onto pancakes but had instead been mixed with lemon juice and cayenne pepper when her mother did a cleanse.
Felicia was hovering, practically wringing her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. “If I’d known you were going to cook, I would have had some staples on hand.”
“It’s all right,” said Alice, who was feeling generous. She’d planned a dish that Kate, the school cook and Alice’s instructor, had served in the dining hall: butternut squash baked with honey and maple syrup, stuffed with a mixture of rice, black beans, and goat cheese. Any kind of squash is okay, Kate had told her, and you can put anything you’ve got into the stuffing. It’s a very forgiving recipe. Of course, Kate hadn’t told her what to do when you had nothing. Kate had probably never even imagined a kitchen as bare as this one.
Alice walked to the grocery store on the corner. There, she took her time, picking out the firmest squash, the sweetest-smelling onion, the biggest head of garlic. She bought nutmeg and cinnamon, selected a cylinder of goat cheese, and scooped rice into a paper bag. At home she washed her hands and located a knife and the cutting board, as well as a pot for the rice and a baking dish for the squash, both of which looked brand-new. For a while Felicia watched from the doorway, balanced lightly on her high heels, slim as a blade of grass in her skirt and blouse, asking Alice if she needed help turning on the oven, telling her to be careful with the knife. Alice shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. She was thinking of the sweater that was draped neatly over Felicia’s shoulders. The sweater, Alice knew, would never dream of slipping, and the skirt’s hem would never be crooked, and not a strand of her mother’s long, straightened hair would dare to fall out of place.
Alice settled the squash on the cutting board and used a knife almost as long as her arm to slice it open with one strong, exact stroke. “Look at you go!” said Felicia.
If her mother was slim as grass, then Alice was sturdy as an oak tree. She was strong and fast. She could run for miles, she could leap over fallen logs, she could swim across a lake and tow another girl to safety. She had saved Millie, and saved the entire Yare Tribe, and now, finally, Alice knew the truth about herself, and now, finally, she was going to find out where—and to whom—she really belonged.
Felicia was still watching. She watched while Alice smashed cloves of garlic and diced an onion, while she cooked the rice and toasted the spices and crumbled a fistful of cheese. Eventually, Felicia drifted over to the breakfast bar, where no one had ever eaten breakfast, and sat on one of the stools, which had never held anything but a newspaper or a purse or a stack of fashion magazines.
Alice drained the golden raisi
ns that she’d plumped in a mixture of cider and vinegar.
“That looks delicious,” said Felicia.
“I can make lots of things,” said Alice, offering her mother a spoonful of stuffing. “Lasagna. Curried tofu. Persian rice.”
Her mother nodded, then looked at her. Alice readied herself for the usual scrutiny, for the way her mother’s mouth would get tight and her nostrils would flare, like she’d smelled something unpleasant, when she inspected Alice’s midriff or her hips. There was always something wrong with Alice’s appearance—a sweater that had gotten too tight, a hank of hair that had slipped out of the braid, a rip or a stain or the dread horizontal stripes that, Alice had been told again and again, were not “slimming.” “Slimming,” of course, was Felicia’s highest praise for a piece of clothing.
“I like your”—Felicia paused, looking at Alice, groping for a word, finally settling on—“outfit.”
“One of the girls at school made it for me. Her name’s Taley. She likes to sew,” said Alice. Taley Nudelman, her roommate and her not-quite-friend (but not-quite-not-friend, Alice reminded herself) had made her the jumper as a holiday gift. The Experimental Center welcomed learners of all religions, while observing no holidays, but before the winter break the students were allowed to exchange handmade holiday gifts. With Millie’s help, Alice made her bunkmates rosemary sugar scrubs and lavender-infused honey, and baked them each a tin of cookies to take home. Taley had sewn them all jumpers, soft corduroy dresses that you could wear over shirts and tights or leggings. Alice’s was a golden brown color, and its straps fastened with bright orange buttons.
Felicia opened her mouth, preparing to say something, then closed it without a word. Alice bent, sliding the pan of squash into the oven. Seventeen days, she told herself. Seventeen days, ten of them in Hawaii, and she could go back to school.
Alice’s father set the table, and Alice sliced the cranberry nut bread that she’d baked at school and brought home in her suitcase. There were bottles of sparkling water, candles, little dishes of soft, salted butter, and, on the sideboard, a cake box tied with pink twine.
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