The Secret Destiny of Pixie Piper

by Annabelle Fisher

  “Who cares about that?” I’d grumbled.

  Dad scratched the back of his neck with a screwdriver. “Apparently millions of travelers do, Pix. So to show his gratitude, Mr. B. founded the Museum of Rare, Historical, and Unique Toilets. He felt we should all know how much we owe our health to the development of toilet technology.”

  “Big whoop,” I muttered, but he just smiled.

  “Why don’t you try skipping stones on the pond until you feel better?”

  I did try it. And he was right—sort of. Skipping stones can change the way you look at things. I didn’t love the museum, but I loved the people in charge of it—my dad and Uncle Bottoms. After the Princess Potty episode, the museum and I mostly ignored each other.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ye Olde Secret

  The night after we got home from the Renaissance Faire, Mom came into my room. “Can we talk, Pixie?”

  “Sure.” I scrunched over in bed so she could sit beside me.

  She smoothed out a wrinkle in my quilt. “I know lately you’ve been feeling different—”

  “It’s okay,” I interrupted. “I know what happened today was just a coincidence. That fortune-telling Mother Goose was just a faker.”

  Mom hesitated a moment. “Well, probably.”

  Probably? That was weird. A cold finger of fear traced my spine.

  “There’s something I need to tell you. I’ve been waiting until you were old enough to hear the truth—but I think I may have waited too long.”

  I burrowed down deeper under my quilt. My mother had been keeping a secret from me. A truth so terrible, she’d waited years to tell me. I wanted to put my hands over my ears, but I was too old for that kind of stuff. “Okay, what?” I croaked.

  “Well . . . ,” she said. She took a deep breath and looked up at the stars on my ceiling. “You are a descendant.”

  “Isn’t that like an ancestor?”

  “No, ancestors are the people who came before you—a line stretching way back in time. Descendants are their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and so on.”

  “But everyone is a descendant!”

  “Yes, but you”—Mom tapped my nose as if I were still a little kid—“are a descendant of someone extraordinary.”

  “Extraordinary”? Did she mean special—or strange? I swallowed hard. “Who?”

  She patted my leg. “This is going to sound a little crazy, but it’s important that you know, because, well . . .”

  “Just tell me, Mom!”

  “Okay.” She took another deep breath and let it out. “You’re a descendant of Mother Goose. I am too, but I don’t have her powers. At least, not anymore.”

  “Ha-ha, very funny. Mother Goose is a fairy-tale character. She doesn’t have powers—she makes up nursery rhymes.”

  Mom folded the edge of the quilt away from my face. She’d made it out of leftover fabric from her many costumes and it was crazy and beautiful. “Oh, Pixie. Apparently there’s a lot more to it. My mama used to tell me that I was special and that someday a group of descendants called the Goose Ladies would come for me. She said they would teach me how to use my power.”

  Okay, my mother was unusual even when she wasn’t talking about imaginary people. But this was just plain weird. “Come on, Mom, I’m too old for this stuff.”

  “Pixie, I’m serious.” There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her face.

  “But who are they? What do they do?” The idea that a bunch of weird women with hairy warts might be coming for me was scary. I looked around my room, wondering if they would suddenly fly in through the window or walk through the wall—and if there was any way to stop them.

  “Only the Goose Ladies know about the Goose Ladies,” she said with a sorry little shrug. “I don’t think my mama wanted to tell me much until I was older.”

  “She never said anything else about them?”

  “Well, there was this one rhyme she taught me. We’d say it together before I went to sleep.”

  “Do you still remember it?”

  She nodded and closed her eyes.

  “Fragile, light, and sturdy

  To house a little birdie

  Or enclose a tiny sun

  Then it cracks—and hope’s begun!”

  When Mom opened her eyes again, they had a faraway look in them. “I never got a chance to learn what it meant because of the car crash.”

  My throat welled up whenever Mom spoke of her childhood. She’d only been five when her parents died. I reached out and took her hand.

  “After I was living with my grandparents for a while, I began to suspect that my grandma knew something,” she said. “One day she swooped into my room and gathered up all my nursery rhyme books. I never saw them again.”

  “Is that why you collect them now?” Mom had an entire shelf of Mother Goose books in her room.

  She sent me a crooked smile. “Actually, I did manage to hide one of the old ones from my grandma.”

  “Really? Do you still have it?”

  “I do. Unfortunately, it isn’t a very good one,” she replied.

  “Can I see it?”

  “Another time. It’s getting late.” She started to rise, but I grabbed her hand. There was still something I needed to know.

  “Did you ever see them, Mom?”

  “No,” she said, sighing deeply. “I used to think it was because I was never alone—my grandma never let me go anywhere without her. Although as I grew older, I wondered if the Goose Ladies were just part of a tale my mama made up.”

  “But what do you believe now?”

  She played with my fingers for a moment. “I think someday they’ll come for you—because of your rhymes, you know? Mine were never as good as yours. For years while I was at Grandma’s, I used to wish they’d appear. That’s why I’m so excited for you now.”

  I didn’t tell her I’d given up on poetry because it made me seem like a weirdo. I was afraid it would hurt her feelings.

  “What does Dad think about the, um, Goose Ladies?” I asked.

  “Oh, Pixie, he doesn’t know! Mama always said it was important to keep them a secret from outsiders.”

  On top of the bookcase Dad had built for me, there was a framed photo of my parents, taken before I was born. In it, the two of them were licking a single mint chip ice cream cone. I couldn’t believe she hadn’t told him. They’d always shared everything. How could she call him an outsider?

  I twisted some strands of hair around my finger. “So that fortune-teller at the fair today—do you think she’s one of them?”

  “Oh, no.” Mom shook her head. “She was too conspicuous. Too loud. I doubt that they wear costumes. Probably they want to keep themselves hidden.” She cupped my chin with a gentle hand. “It’s really important that you never mention this to anyone. I need you to promise.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I whispered. “I promise.”

  Because really, who would have believed it anyway?

  The next day, while Mom was outside gardening, I went into her room and found what looked like the book she’d hidden from her grandma. It was the only one that didn’t have a paper cover with a picture of a lady in a tall black hat or a fat white goose wearing old-fashioned spectacles on it. This cover was soft brown leather. Although some letters in the title were worn away, I could still make out what it said: Sister Goose’s Cautionary Verse for Brats.

  “Sister Goose”? “Brats”? I took the book into my room and closed the door. On the first page was a rhyme I’d never read or heard before:

  Each and every moral rhyme

  The little child should keep in mind.

  But if a brat does not obey

  Punishment shall rule the day.

  The last line gave me goose bumps. Was it some kind of warning? I shut the book and shoved it under my pillow. If any Goose Ladies tried to come for me, I’d throw it at them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ye Olde Golden Donut

  Althoug
h our school was named after flying toilets, it was a pretty awesome place. Uncle B. had donated enough money for the students of Winged Bowl to have a super-modern facility with the very latest technology. We all got our own laptops. The cafeteria food was actually edible, and we even grew some of it ourselves on our rooftop farm. The schoolyard had a ropes course, a zip line, and a climbing wall. We even had the most modern toilets—the seats were heated in cold weather, they were compostable to save water, and best of all, they were smell-free.

  The first thing Monday morning, our principal, Ms. Mosely, had us gather in the auditorium for what she called “a wonderful surprise.” She used the words “wonderful” and “special” a lot.

  “Since Winged Bowl School is such a special place, I’ve decided it should have a poet laureate,” she announced. “A poet laureate is appointed by a president, a king, or a queen to get the citizens excited about reading and discussing poetry. And most wonderful of all, a poet laureate writes poems to honor his or her country’s special occasions.”

  I could practically hear what the kids around me were thinking—Big whoop.

  “At Winged Bowl, we are going to have a poetry contest to select our special poet,” Ms. Mosely continued. “He or she will write poems in honor of important school observances, such as Dental Health Month, Egg Salad Week, Head Lice Awareness Day, Thumb Appreciation Day, Teacher Appreciation Day, Substitute Teacher Appreciation Day, and Principal Appreciation Day.”

  There were so many snorts and snickers, the auditorium sounded like a stable full of horses. The teachers had to stand up and shoot dirty looks at the troublemakers.

  But Ms. Mosely was still smiling. “Now I know you’re all going to want to enter the contest,” she said. “Especially since our benefactor, Mr. Bottoms, has commissioned a medal for our poet laureate to wear.” She opened a black box that was resting on the podium and lifted out a gold medal on a striped ribbon that was like the kind Olympic athletes got for winning. A few of the kids stood to get a better look at the medal, which resembled a golden donut.

  Big whoop.

  I watched Ms. Mosely watching us with raised eyebrows. I knew she wanted us to applaud, but the kids around me were acting like their fingers had turned into worms. Dead worms. Since I’d given up writing poetry, I didn’t care much, either. But as I watched her eyebrows sink, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  “Come on, let’s make some noise,” I whispered to Gray, who was sitting next to me.

  “Okay, sure,” he agreed. Then he burped as if he were running for burper laureate.

  “Not like that!” I started clapping really hard to cover up for him.

  But at the sound of Gray’s gigantic eruption, the kids around us burst into applause. Ms. Mosely’s smile returned. She must have thought they were clapping for the golden donut.

  “Maybe I’ll enter,” Gray whispered. “I could use that thing as a hockey puck.”

  But my attention had wandered away. Even though I’d vowed not to write any more poems, my disobedient brain was already making one up:

  Dental health’s boring

  But if it’s forgotten

  Your breath will smell doggy

  And your teeth will get rotten.

  In my imagination, I saw myself accepting the medal. Then I realized I was wearing a black cape and carrying a basket with an ugly stuffed goose in it. It wasn’t a daydream—it was a daymare!

  “Hey, are you choking? You’re turning purple,” said Gray. He began pounding my back.

  “S-s-stop!” I sputtered, swatting him away. “I just need some water.” Holding my throat, I squeezed out of the aisle with everyone watching. That’s when I began thinking, What if that wacky Mother Goose’s curse was real?

  I was already settled at the back of the school bus when Gray dropped down next to me. We lived across the road from each other and we’d been riding the bus together since kindergarten. I probably spent more time with him than with my parents.

  “So are you entering the contest?” he asked as the bus lurched away from school.

  “What contest?”

  “The poet laureate contest. Did you leave your brain in your locker?”

  I looked around to see if anyone had heard him, but most of the kids were busy talking, trading snacks, or glued to their music or games.

  Sage Green and her friends Maya, Anna, and Ellie were cooing over something—probably photos of Sage’s golden retriever puppy.

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to, Gray. I hate writing poetry.”

  “What? Since when?”

  “Since now!” I snapped, more sharply than I’d meant to.

  Gray’s answer to that was a burp. Then he put his earbuds in and ignored me.

  Right away, I felt sorry. The truth was, ever since we were little I’d entertained both of us with rhymes about all the stuff we did together. We liked to compete over everything—who could get a better grade, catch the most popcorn on their tongue, or run the fastest.

  I could still remember a poem I made to tease him when we were seven or eight:

  Pix and Gray ran up a hill

  To see who would be faster.

  Pix bumped a tree and skinned her knee

  So Gray became the master.

  Then down they raced on speedy legs

  Once again competing.

  But this time Pix was extra quick

  And ran past Gray to beat him.

  Although I knew I deserved it, I hated having Gray mad at me. As soon as we got off the bus, I’d explain to him why I wasn’t entering the contest. I reached into my backpack for my book and found a cookie in a plastic baggie instead. My stomach dropped as if the bus had gone over a giant bump. Right away I knew it was one of the “peanut butter wishes.” Had the fake Mother Goose fortune-teller—or whatever she was—somehow slipped it into my bag?

  Okay, I knew that was crazy. Mom must have packed it as an extra snack. It was just a cookie. So I held it under Gray’s nose.

  “Hey, want this?”

  He was still acting as if I weren’t there.

  Strangely, the cookie’s sweet, nutty scent began to make my mouth water. I couldn’t resist taking a tiny bite. It melted on my tongue like a puff of cotton candy.

  “I wish something exciting would happen today,” I murmured, even though I didn’t believe a peanut-butter cookie could grant a wish any more than a fortune cookie could tell a fortune. I plucked one of Gray’s earbuds from his ear. “Hey, do you want to go down to the pond later?”

  I thought he was still ignoring me. But then he slid his eyes sideways and cracked a slight grin. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Cool.” I stuck the earbud back into his ear. That’s when I noticed Sage watching us.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ye Olde Phone Call

  When the bus pulled up at our stop, I leaped off the steps. Gray was right behind me. “I’ll drop my stuff at home and tell my grandma where I’m going,” he yelled. “Be over in a few minutes.” His house was right across the road from our driveway.

  “Okay, hurry!” I didn’t want to miss a minute of the sunny spring day. I was hoping to see some rabbit kits or a roly-poly groundhog cub. And those tiny, wild strawberries that grew in the woods might be ripe, although Gray broke out in hives if he ate too many.

  “Peeksie, Peeksie!” Sammy chirped from his high chair when I entered the kitchen. He waved a grape-juice Popsicle at me.

  I loved how he said my name. I loved everything about him. I’d been nine years old when he was born. Sometimes it felt as if Mom, Dad, and I had been holding our breath until he came along.

  “Hi, Sammy.” I took a pretend lick of his drippy Popsicle and patted his head, which was sticky as usual. “Hi, Mom. Whose is that?” She was at the kitchen table, sewing buttons on a very large, very pink sweater. Most days she got home a little earlier than me and picked up Sammy from Gray’s grandma, who was his babysitter. After
ward she usually mended clothes or ran errands for the residents at the nursing home where she worked.

  “It belongs to Kitty Beans. Her arthritis makes it hard for her to sew.” She put down the sweater and gave me a hug. “How was your day?”

  “Fine. Is it okay if I go down to the pond with Gray and do my homework after?”

  “Sure.” She looked up for a sec. “Oh, you had a phone call.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Sage Green. I told her you weren’t home yet and that you’d call her back.” Mom tore a sheet off the pad where she’d written Sage’s number.

  Was Sage going to invite me over to see her new puppy? That’s where the other girls on the bus had been going. Maybe she was sorry she hadn’t asked me, too. It was silly, but I couldn’t help thinking that it might be the exciting thing I’d wished for.

  “Do you want a Popsicle?” asked Mom.

  “No thanks. I guess I’ll call Sage now.” I took the phone into the living room so I could curl up in a window seat while I talked. For privacy, I pulled the purple velvet drapes closed around me. I didn’t call right away, though. I wanted to see the puppy, but after what happened at Sage’s tenth birthday party, I didn’t ever want to be around her mother again.

  Sage had invited everyone in the class. Although I’d felt a little nervous, I’d been excited about getting to see her house. I’d only gotten as far as the gigantic coat closet in the hall when I’d overheard Mrs. Green talking to someone in the kitchen. “Dana Piper is awfully colorful. You should see the costumes she wears to the nursing home where my mother lives.”

  Since she was talking about my mom, I froze and listened.

  “I know! Last week I saw her at the grocery store wearing a ball gown and a tiara,” the other person agreed. “I pretended not to notice her.”

  My mom, Dana, was a recreation therapist at the Good Old Days, which was a residence for seniors. Her job was to plan activities that were both entertaining and therapeutic. She often wore gowns, capes, hats, tiaras, and other unusual clothes to work. “My costumes remind the residents of the parties they attended and the places they visited. It gives them something to talk about, and it stimulates their memories,” she’d once explained to me.