The Secret Destiny of Pixie Piper

by Annabelle Fisher

  “Sorry.” I didn’t feel like explaining I’d been too embarrassed to talk to anyone after the whole cookie thing.

  But she seemed to accept my apology because she launched into a speech about her History Village Dolls. She had seven of them and she told me the name, birthdate, and exciting or tragic history of each one.

  I listened and nodded, listened and nodded, until I felt like one of those bobblehead statues. The truth was, I’d always thought History Village Dolls were lame, even though they’d been so popular that in third grade, my grandma had given me Polly Pioneer instead of the hermit crab I’d really wanted. Now that we were in fifth, I couldn’t believe Lucy still liked them.

  When Alexa Pinkston got on the bus, I jumped right up. “Here, have a seat,” I said as if I were a waitress at the diner. I looked around for another spot and saw Gray and Sage still chatting away. Sage was showing him photos of her puppy.

  The nearest empty seat was next to a first grader. I sat down and took out Ella Enchanted, the book I was reading. It was a Cinderella-type story about a girl who didn’t fit in with her family or at school, and whose only real friend was a boy who happened to be a prince. I felt so sorry for her, my eyes welled up.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ye Olde Poetry Slam

  When I got to my classroom, there was a message on the whiteboard:

  Dear Girls and Boys,

  I am away at a conference today. Your substitute teacher, Ms. Doris Haggerty, will be helping you work on poetry writing. She is an expert, so please listen carefully. I want someone in our class to be Winged Bowl Elementary’s first poet laureate!

  Your teacher,

  Ms. Tomassini

  I stared at the woman sitting at Ms. Tomassini’s desk. Instead of a black pointy hat and a cape, she was wearing black pants and a black sweater. And instead of a straw basket with a stuffed goose, there was a black, shopping bag–size purse on the floor beside her chair. But her frizzy red hair and the bandage on the side of her nose nearly made me faint.

  I slunk down in my seat, hoping she wouldn’t notice me, even though she was reading something on Ms. Tomassini’s computer and didn’t seem to notice anyone. For a while, anyway. Then she cracked her chewing gum a few times. I guess those whiplike snaps got everyone’s attention because the room became quiet. Ms. Doris Haggerty, alias Mother Goose, smiled.

  “Hi, kiddos. This is some classroom you’ve got.” She lifted a paper off the desk. “It says here all I have to do is talk to the whiteboard and it will take notes for me.” She wrinkled her brow as she read further. “Your teacher says I’m supposed to call it ‘Stu’ whenever I want it to write something.” She didn’t sound a thing like the fortune-teller at the Renaissance Faire. But like Mom had said, she’d been playing a role.

  Lucy raised her hand. “Stu is short for Speech-to-Text Unit,” she explained.

  Ms. Haggerty cracked her gum again. “Thanks. I thought it was short for Stuart.”

  Some of my classmates laughed quietly, as if they weren’t sure they were supposed to.

  “Just kidding, kiddos,” she said. “So I hear your school is having a contest for poet laureate. Ms. Tomassini wants us to practice this morning, by writing a poem in honor of Substitute Teacher Appreciation Day. Lucky for you, I happen to know about poetry.”

  “Oh man!” Raffi tossed his pencil on the floor.

  “Blecch!” Chris Moran stuck a finger down his throat and gagged himself.

  Gray surprised me by burping. He wasn’t ever rude when Ms. Tomassini was around.

  Ms. Haggerty raised a single eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

  Raffi waved an arm, but he didn’t wait to be called on. “We can’t write about substitute teachers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Ms. Tomassini says we should write about the things we love. And no one loves substitutes. No one even likes you—I mean them.”

  “Well, I like poems that tell the truth. You can write about things you love or things you hate. But I also like poems that make me laugh.” Ms. Haggerty turned toward the board. “Stu, write this down!” she ordered.

  “When we went to recess

  The class hamster vanished.

  I think the sub ate it.

  She said she was famished.”

  Ms. Haggerty smacked her lips and wiped her mouth as if she’d just eaten our class pet. Almost everyone laughed—then we turned to check that Sniffy and Whiskers were still in their cage.

  Ms. Haggerty winked. “See how much fun poetry can be?”

  Sage raised her hand. She wasn’t laughing. “But that’s not real poetry. Real poetry is supposed to express feelings.”

  “Hunger’s a feeling,” Raffi called out. It made me like him a little better.

  Sage ignored him. “A poet laureate is supposed to write poems that have beauty and meaning. Yours is more like a Mother Goose rhyme.”

  “What about the poems Ms. Tomassini read us from A Light in the Attic?” Lucy said. “They’re funny and the author, Shel Silverstein, is really famous.”

  “Right!” I hadn’t meant to jump into the discussion, but there I was. “Besides, some Mother Goose rhymes have meanings. They’re like a secret language or a message in code. My mother said ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ was a protest against unfair taxes. And that in ‘Jack and Jill,’ the woman called Old Dame Trot was one of the first woman doctors.”

  “Very good, kiddo.” It was obvious Ms. Haggerty didn’t recognize me, which was a big relief.

  Sage whispered something across the aisle to Maya. Then Maya turned to me. “Since you’re such an expert, could you please tell us what Ms. Haggerty’s poem means, Pixie?”

  I rolled my eyes as if it was the dumbest question I’d ever heard. “Obviously, it means she likes hamster sandwiches.”

  I was popular for the thirty seconds everyone spent laughing. Then Ms. Haggerty cracked her gum so loudly, it sounded like lightning had struck her teeth. “Okay, here’s what I think is the most important thing about writing poems. They should be surprising. Whether it’s because of the subject, the images you create, or the words you put together, surprise is the thing that creates magic.”

  Suddenly, I got what she meant—and what her hamster poem meant, too. It was about how having a substitute teacher in your classroom was a lot like coming home to find a substitute mom in your kitchen—a disturbingly weird experience.

  I didn’t volunteer to explain this to the class.

  “Okay!” said Ms. Haggerty. “Now take out your writing notebooks and let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ye Olde Suspicious Sub

  I couldn’t concentrate on poetry. I was feeling desperate for an idea until I looked over at what Leo Glass, who sat across from me, was doing. Instead of writing, he was drawing. It wasn’t the assignment, but Leo was like that. His picture of a lady monster with snaky red hair, tarantula earrings, vampire fangs, and a book that said POETRY poking out of her purse made me snort.

  But if anyone heard me, I didn’t notice. I had my idea. I was already working on my poem and everything around me had faded away. That’s how I was whenever I was writing—a real-live zombie poet.

  “Time’s up!” Ms. Haggerty announced with a deafening gum crack. “Who’s going to read first?”

  Not me, not me, not me. I kept my head down and concentrated on making myself invisible.

  “I will!” Sage volunteered. She grabbed her notebook and bounce-walked up front. Watching her sleek black hair swing across her back made me try to pat down my curls.

  Sage flashed a big, toothpaste model’s smile before she began reading. A lot of my classmates actually leaned forward in their seats. Including Gray.

  “‘Why We Need Substitute Teachers,’ by Sage Green.

  “What would we do without substitutes?

  Stay home and rot our brains

  Watch TV shows and videos

  Play Xbox till our thumbs fall off

  Ea
t junk food till our stomachs ache

  And drive the adults nuts.”

  Everyone laughed and clapped.

  “Nice job, kiddo,” said Ms. Haggerty, which was as irritating as wearing an itchy sweater.

  “It’s free verse—it doesn’t rhyme,” said Sage.

  “Yes—or have rhythm,” Ms. Haggerty added. “Now who else would like to share?”

  I leaned over my desk to block my notebook from prying eyes. Everyone seemed to think that anything Sage did was cool, including writing a poem. But it never worked that way for me.

  A few painful seconds of silence went by. Then Sage turned around in her seat and smiled. “Since you’re such an expert on poetry, why don’t you read yours, Pixie?”

  When she said the word “expert,” her mouth puckered up like she’d just swallowed sour milk. I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed Leo by the arm and stood up. “Leo and I did a poem and an illustration together. We’ll both share,” I said.

  Leo’s vampire-pale face turned paler, but he didn’t say no.

  “Thanks for coming up here with me,” I whispered when we were in front of the class.

  “I didn’t exactly volunteer,” Leo mumbled.

  Ms. Haggerty cracked her gum again. I knew she meant we’d better shut up and start.

  I elbowed Leo in the side and hissed, “Hold up your drawing!” Then I began to read:

  “‘Monster Sub,’ by Pixie Piper

  Is your substitute a werewolf,

  a vampire, or a witch?

  Does she have claws on the end of her paws

  And a wart on her nose she can twitch?

  “Does she make you write ridiculous

  Rhymes in bloody, dark-red ink?

  Then tell you to do each one again

  ’Cause she says your poems stink?!”

  There were a few laughs, though no one clapped. As we walked back to our seats, I glanced at Sage. Her hands were folded in her lap, but when she caught my eye, she waved one in the air.

  Ms. Haggerty nodded at her. “Do you have a question?”

  “Um, I thought we were supposed to write a poem honoring substitutes. That poem was more like insulting them.”

  Well, you should know since you’re such an expert on insults, I said in my head.

  Ms. Haggerty sent Sage a doubtful look. “Insulting? Not at all! It gives me credit for having a lot of power.” She looked around the room again. “Now, who else would like to read?”

  “Wait! I have another question,” Sage called out. “Don’t you think free verse is much more artistic than rhyming poetry?”

  Ms. Haggerty twitched her nose. “Look, kiddo, your poem was very creative. You used free verse to imagine what would happen in a world without substitute teachers. Instead of writing an essay, you were able to create images in our minds with a few well-chosen words.”

  Sage’s face glowed like she’d swallowed a jar of lightning bugs.

  “However . . .” Ms. Haggerty continued, “your friend’s poem uses the image of a vampire teacher to let readers know what most kids think of substitutes. It’s funny and honest, but it’s also precise. The words in a rhyming poem have to fit just so in order for it to work. So I’d say the poems are different, but equally artistic.”

  Sage’s glow became a glare.

  But even though Ms. Haggerty’s reply was satisfying, I kept my feelings off my face. Maybe now, the kids would start calling me Precise Pixie. At least it would be better than Princess Potty.

  When it was time for lunch, I decided to eat with Gray. I figured since we hadn’t sat together on the bus, we’d already proved we weren’t tied to each other. Besides, he was the only one I’d mentioned the Mother Goose fortune-teller to. I couldn’t wait to tell him who our substitute was.

  But as I grabbed my lunch from the classroom fridge, I heard Ms. Haggerty say, “Pixie, would you come here for a moment?”

  She knew my name after all.

  I shuffled up to the front of the room. She was filing one of her scarlet nails. Soon the classroom was empty.

  “Look, don’t let that know-it-all discourage you,” she said when she finally looked up. “You wrote a good poem.”

  I shrugged. “It was okay. How did you know my name?”

  “I heard Miss Know-It-All say it.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You heard it at the Renaissance Faire! I saw you there. You told my fortune, even though I didn’t want one.” Before she could say anything else, I began chanting:

  “A rhyme in a pocket

  A cinnamon curl

  A secret uncovered

  A Mother Goose Girl.”

  Her eyebrows jumped. “Oh, I remember you, now. I saw lots of bright orange in your aura. It means you’re loaded with creative energy.”

  I knew she was trying to change the subject, but I wasn’t going to let her. “That fortune is coming true,” I said. “I’m even getting a goose—a real one, not like your stuffed bird. I found an egg near our pond and my dad made an incubator so it could hatch.”

  She blinked as if she were surprised. “So it was like the universe placed it there for you to find, huh?”

  Suddenly I was pretty certain it wasn’t the universe that had left Egg for me.

  “Are you one of the Goose Ladies?” I burst out. “Because if you are, I want you to know I don’t want to be one. I don’t care if I’m a descendant or not. Tell the rest of them to leave me alone. I’m not joining you!”

  The corners of her eyes turned down, and her jaw seemed to tighten up. I could tell I’d disappointed her. She might even have been angry.

  “No one has to be a Goose Lady, kiddo. And even those who want to join aren’t necessarily accepted. Just being born a descendant isn’t enough. It takes courage and determination. Above all, you must be devoted to our mission. Not everyone is up to the challenge.”

  “What mission? Why would I need courage?”

  “What does it matter? You’ve already made up your mind.” She brushed some imaginary crumbs off her sweater. “I suppose you don’t want a goose, either.”

  A little shock ran through me. Egg was practically the only thing keeping Gray and me friends right now. But there was more. Egg needed me. I wasn’t giving up on it.

  Ms. Haggerty glanced at the clock. “I’m going to lunch now. I suggest you do, too.” She picked up her giant purse and walked out of the classroom without looking back, though I heard her mumble something. I think it was “Good riddance!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ye Olde Gross Secret

  When I’d come late to the lunchroom, I’d found Gray eating with Sage and her friends. So I’d joined the loners’ table—kids who had their noses in books or just stared into space and didn’t talk to one another. Maybe they’d had fights with their best friends, too—or maybe some of them didn’t want friends. Not one of them seemed to notice when I sat down. But it hardly mattered. The surprise of discovering a real live Goose Lady in my classroom had made me unable to eat or talk much, anyway. The rest of the day wasn’t much better. Ms. Haggerty allowed us to write poems about anything. Only there wasn’t a thing I wanted to write about.

  On the bus ride home, Gray sat with Sage again. I pretended not to see them as I walked up the aisle to the first empty seat—which happened to be next to Leo.

  “Hi,” I said.

  He jerked his head at me, which I guess meant hello back. To show him I wasn’t interested in talking either, I pulled out Ella Enchanted.

  “What’s that about?” he asked.

  I tried not to act surprised. “It’s like Cinderella and other fairy tales all mixed up,” I said. “The main character, Ella, is under a curse that makes her obey anyone who gives her an order, no matter what it is. She needs to break the spell, but she’s also got to deal with evil stepsisters, ogres, and other creatures.”

  “Does she have any special powers?” he asked.

  “No superhero stuff, if that’s what you mean. But she’
s awesome anyway. She’s brave, smart—and she knows Gnomic and Ogrese.”

  “What are those?”

  “Gnomic is the language gnomes speak and Ogrese is—”

  “The language ogres speak,” Leo finished. He tapped the book’s cover. “You know, this Ella kind of looks like you. Especially the cinnamon-colored hair.”

  My scalp got the prickles. No one had ever called my hair color cinnamon except for the Goose Lady. I looked at my book. Unlike the grouch I’d been seeing in the mirror lately, Ella’s face was pleasant and smiling. And though her hair was the same color as mine, hers was straight and neat. Mine looked like the squiggles in a finger painting by a five-year-old.

  “I never really noticed the cover,” I said.

  “I always pay attention to a book’s cover. I want to illustrate books when I grow up.”

  Wow, he already knew what he wanted to do. I only knew what I didn’t want to do. “You’d be great at it,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He finally cracked a smile. “If you want, I could illustrate more of your poems.”

  “That would be cool—if I write any more of them.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because I don’t want to be a poet or a poet laureate.” My voice came out sharper than I’d meant it to.

  Leo touched my arm lightly. “But you could still write them for fun. I’ll never stop drawing, no matter what.”

  I knew he didn’t mean to make me feel bad. It was just that I used to think writing poems was fun, too.

  I opened my book and began to read so I wouldn’t have to think about losing poetry or Gray. But when we reached Sage’s stop, I couldn’t help but notice that Gray got off with her. He was the one who was getting to see the puppy. I hated watching him jump off the bus as if he couldn’t wait.

  By the time the bus arrived at my stop, I was feeling pretty low. I slipped into Acorn Cottage through the mudroom door and looked into the incubator. “I have bad news for you, Egg,” I said. “Your pretend father is being a real jerk. I think he’s forgotten all about you. He’d rather play with a puppy.”