“The Sinister Sisters? Who’re they?”
Ms. Haggerty’s eyes narrowed angrily. “They’re an unhappy branch of the family—but a distant one. You needn’t concern yourself with them.”
“Okay, then I want to join,” I said.
“You’re sure?”
I nodded. “When do I start?”
“How about right now?”
“Now?” I guess I was expecting some kind of test or task. “But what are the rules?”
“There aren’t any rules to beginning, kiddo. You just do.”
PHWEET! PHWEET! “Attention Pixie Piper! Attention Pixie Piper! Please meet your mother up front at the manager’s office now!”
“Oh no, I forgot! Mom’s waiting for me!”
The light in aisle six began flickering. “You’d better get going, kiddo,” Ms. Haggerty said, hanging her basket on her arm. Something was happening to her. She looked fuzzy.
I rubbed my eyes. “Um, Ms. Haggerty? You’re fading around the edges.”
“Oh, well, yes. It’s my power.”
I looked at my arm, but it was still solid. “Is it going to happen to me?”
“I don’t think so. Each of us gets our own distinct gift.”
PHWEET! PHWEET! “Pixie Piper! Come to the front of the store now!”
Ms. Haggerty began fading faster. She was disappearing into thin air. “Wait! Please, Ms. Haggerty—do you know what my power will be?”
“Sorry kiddo. You never know until your gift appears. Now, call me Aunt Doris. We’re related, you know.” She shooed me off with a blurry hand. “Go! Hurry!”
“Okay, Aunt Doris,” I said, dashing down the aisle.
“Pixie, wait! I forgot something!”
When I spun around, she was gone. But I could still her voice in my ear, whispering, “I left out the most important thing of all—guard your goose!”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ye Olde Second Chance
Over the weekend I thought about what I could do to help earn an apprenticeship with the Goose Ladies. I couldn’t be braver than brave until I knew what to be scared of. I couldn’t guard my goose before it was hatched, either. I could keep the Goose Ladies’ secrets, but I hardly knew what they were yet. The one thing left was being truer than true.
I’d actually looked up the word true. It had a couple of meanings that everyone knows, such as “real” and “not a lie.” But it also meant “loyal” or “faithful”—which was something I hadn’t always been to Gray. But I was going to change that. From now on I was going to be a truer-than-true friend.
So instead of waiting at the bus stop by myself on Monday morning, I marched up to his front door and knocked. It seemed to take forever, but he finally opened it.
“Hey, Gray!” I said, all bright and cheerful.
He looked around, as if I might have meant some other Gray.
“Come on out. Please. I need to talk to you.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone will see us?”
“No!”
“Huh.” He didn’t move from the doorstep.
“Um, I think I overreacted, worrying about us being seen together,” I began. “Forget what I said about us being secret friends. Okay? It was silly of me.” I tried to laugh, but it sounded as if I were choking on gum.
“Huh.” He grunted again. His sneaker dug at the doorstep.
When I’d told Gray I wanted to be secret friends, he might have gotten the idea that I didn’t think he was smart, fun, nice, and all that. But I did think so! I also believed that once Egg hatched, I could trust him to help me guard my goose. The important thing was, I still thought Gray was special. I wanted him to think I was special, too.
“I’m really, really sorry, Gray,” I burst out. “It was a dumb idea to be secret friends. I was being an idiot! Please forgive me and come outside. I’ve got something amazing to tell you.”
He looked up and eyed me for a second. “I’ve got to get my backpack.” He closed the door in my face.
I was waiting at the bus stop when he finally reappeared. He took his time crossing the road. “Okay, what’s so amazing?”
“Uncle Bottoms got a new toilet for the museum. It’s King Louis the fourteenth’s throne toilet from France and it’s over four hundred years old. There’s going to be a big celebration when it goes on view, but my dad said we could get a sneak peek at it after school today.” I was talking so quickly it was like someone had pushed my fast-forward button.
Gray squinted one eye, which meant he was considering. “A throne toilet? Sounds interesting. But I can’t today.”
“Why not?”
“Because I promised Sage I’d help teach Angel to sit and stay.”
“But you go to her house every day!”
“So? She wants us to be friends.” The way he emphasized the word friends made me remember what I’d told Sage on the phone—“Gray’s just my neighbor.” I would’ve given anything if I could just take it back.
We waited in silence until the school bus rattled down our road. When the doors opened, I let Gray climb the steps ahead of me. Midway up the aisle I could see Sage aiming her smile at him like a flashlight. He didn’t glance at me again as he sat down next to her.
But later in class that morning, he passed me a note.
I can go with you to see the you-know-what later. Sage forgot she has a dentist appointment after school.
When I looked up, Sage was watching me. I smiled at her, but she turned away. I couldn’t help hoping she had a cavity.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ye Olde King Louis
Fortunately, the Museum of Rare, Historical, and Unique Toilets wasn’t shaped like one. It was a long, low building made of white bricks and surrounded by pine trees.
“Hey, uh, hi,” I said when Gray met me at the entrance.
“Huh,” he answered, or maybe it was “Uh.”
We sounded like Stone Age people. Cave Boy and Cave Girl about to discover personal hygiene.
There was a single route through the museum. Once you stepped inside, you were on the path of Toilets Through the Ages. We’d been there so many times we could have led a tour with our eyes closed. Right near the door was a rough stone bench with four keyhole-shaped openings which “users” were supposed to sit over. The description on the wall behind it said it was a public toilet from ancient Greece. Whenever I passed it, I was grateful that I lived in modern times where public toilets were individual, with real seats and doors.
My favorite thing in the entire museum was a potty that was hidden inside a stack of oversized books. I always wondered if it had been in someone’s personal library. The realistic-looking books were carved of wood, and the top half of the pile opened like the lid of a treasure chest to reveal a bowl in the middle. Whenever we passed it, Gray always said the same thing: “Look, Pix—books with a surprise ending!” But today he didn’t say anything.
About halfway through toilet history, we found my dad and Uncle Bottoms. They were installing a deep red carpet between the globe toilet from Belgium (which Gray had always called the World of Poop) and my second favorite, the elephant-shaped toilet from India.
“Hi, Uncle Bottoms, hi, Dad. Is this where you’re going to put the King Louis?” I asked.
Uncle Bottoms stood up and wiped his wire-rimmed glasses on a red bandanna. He had crinkly black eyes, a belly like a teddy bear, and a very enthusiastic way of speaking. “Howdy, Pixie! Gray! Yes, this is the spot. We thought a red carpet would emphasize its royal history.”
“Where is it?” Gray asked, looking around.
“It’s in the community room. We’re keeping it out of the public’s view until the big ceremony. But you two can have a sneak peek if you like.”
Dad put one arm around my shoulders and the other around Gray’s. “I’m glad you both came to visit. Come on, let’s take a look.” I was pretty sure Mom had told him that Gray and I were having some sort of feud.
The community room was where speci
al presentations were given. The King Louis throne toilet was already up on the stage, facing out as if it were waiting for an audience.
“That’s it?” I blurted. As soon as I did, I wished I could take it back. I hadn’t meant to hurt Uncle B.’s feelings. Only, I’d been expecting the fairy-tale kind of throne—big enough for a giant, with golden arms and legs and a seat made of plump red velvet. But the King Louis looked more like the kind of chair you’d find in a stuffy old dining room—except for the white porcelain bowl beneath its seat cover.
“The design on the back represents the grand royal coat of arms of the old Kingdom of France,” Uncle Bottoms explained. “See the angels and those leaf-shaped thingies? They’re made of real gold.”
“I didn’t know you could paint with gold,” I said, giving it a second look.
“Did King Louis really use it while he was talking to people?” Gray asked. “I mean, for you-know-what?”
Uncle B.’s dimples appeared when he smiled. “Yes, he did. I suppose King Louis thought a throne with multiple uses was practical. Especially since back then, relieving oneself was a social event.”
Suddenly Gray looked as happy as if he’d awakened to a snowstorm on a school day. “A social event? You mean the guests were party poopers, too?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop from giggling. But Uncle Bottoms hooted like a crazed owl. He was older than my dad, but he still had a sense of humor like a kid. Gray fell to his knees, quaking like he was going to die. He actually pounded the floor. I was glad to see a flash of the old Gray again. I wondered what Sage would have thought if she could see him now.
Finally he got up and wiped his eyes on his shirt. But he still wore a lopsided grin I recognized as his mischief face. “Do you mind if I ask one more question about the King Louis, Mr. B.?” he asked.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Did you try it out?”
Uncle Bottoms shook his head. “No, never. I treat all of the museum’s toilets like the priceless treasures they truly are. The history of toilets is also the story of how hard humans have worked to improve world health and hygiene. And in many places around the world, they’re still working on it.” Uncle B. winked at us. “Besides, I think most of these antiques would be dreadfully uncomfortable to use.”
Gray nodded, but I could tell he was disappointed.
“We’ll unveil the King Louis shortly after I come back from my trip to the Netherlands,” said Uncle Bottoms. “It’s been a while since I’ve reviewed the bathrooms there. I’m planning to meet with an antiques dealer who says he has a potty shaped like a Dutch wooden shoe.”
“Do you think you’ll ever find one shaped like a sneaker?” Gray asked.
“It’s possible. The world is full of surprises.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ye Olde Grand Opening
“Is it okay if I come over to visit Egg now?” Gray asked when we were back outside.
“Sure.” I walked a little ahead of him so he couldn’t see how surprised I was. Suddenly breathing seemed easier. I was beginning to hope things between us would become normal again.
“Hi, Egg, it’s me, your dad,” Gray announced as he hung over the incubator. Then his forehead wrinkled up. “Hey, is that a hole?”
“Very funny.”
“No really, look!”
I took a second glance—and a third. Though it was hardly bigger than a pinprick, there was a hole in the shell. “It must have happened while we were at the museum! I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there when I got home from school,” I said. “Wow!”
“What should we do?”
“Just wait, I guess. My dad said the baby has to peck its own way out. We’re not supposed to help.”
Scrrritch. Our mouths dropped open at the sound of a scratching noise as soft as pencil on paper. Egg was definitely trying to hatch.
“Maybe we should stay here and keep watch,” Gray suggested. “If I get my books, we can do our homework on the floor.”
“Okay.”
Gray gave Egg a last look. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t let anything happen without me.”
“You’d better hurry,” I told him, though I was pretty sure that hatching took time. But through the window I could see him running, windmilling his arms as if he might suddenly lift off. It made me smile.
By dinnertime the pinhole in the shell had only gotten slightly bigger. Mom invited Gray to eat with us, so he wouldn’t miss anything. Afterward we played Jenga on the mudroom floor until Sammy decided to “hep us.” We ended up building towers for him to knock down.
But Egg was a slow hatcher. So slow that when it was time for Gray to go home, we still hadn’t glimpsed a feather.
“Come back first thing tomorrow morning,” I urged him.
“Okay!” On his way out, he held up two crossed fingers for luck and I did the same.
“Time for you to get ready for bed—tomorrow’s a school day,” said Mom when she and Dad found me on the mudroom floor. I’d been writing in my notebook, but I closed it and stood up.
“Why is Egg taking so long?” I asked them. “Do you think something’s wrong?”
Dad’s eyes met Mom’s before they settled on mine. “The gosling might be too weak to make it,” he said.
“No!”
Dad put an arm around me. “We’ve never done this before, Pix. Maybe we should have turned it more often or kept a fan nearby to circulate the air. We tried our best. Now it’s up to the gosling.”
I wondered if like me, he and Mom were thinking of Skye, my brother who hadn’t survived. He’d been born when I was five—too early, too small, and too fragile. Even though he’d only lived one hour and eight minutes, I still thought about what he’d be like if he’d had the chance to grow up.
When Mom had gotten pregnant again three years later, I’d been afraid. What if the same thing happened? But she’d told me we had to have hope. She’d said living without it would be like living without the sun or the stars. And then Sammy had been born, strong and healthy.
Sometimes, hoping took bravery. I kept that in mind as I got into bed with my notebook. Since I’d decided I wanted to be a Goose Girl, I’d started writing poetry again. I had a feeling that if I did get to be one, I was going to need rhyming more than ever. Besides, writing a poem always made me feel better. So, before I went to sleep, I finished the one I’d been working on:
Hope is contagious,
But not a disease.
It won’t make you cough, ache, itch,
Upchuck, or sneeze.
It’s not like a yawn
or a tune that you hum.
It’s the feeling you’re waiting
For good things to come.
“See you tomorrow, Egg,” I whispered. But the idea of leaving the gosling all alone to hatch didn’t seem right. So after I was sure my parents were asleep, I crept back to the mudroom.
The long, jagged line that ran along Egg’s shell made me gasp. There were also small, squiggly cracks trailing off it in every direction. And when I leaned into the tank, I heard a wheezy little squeak.
“It’s okay, Egg. I’m waiting here for you,” I murmured. The shell rocked slightly, as if it were trying to answer. It reminded me of when Sammy was a tiny baby, learning to turn over in his crib. He’d seemed so helpless I’d wanted to give him a little push. Instead, I’d stood over him for a long time, rooting for him to do it himself. When he finally did, he cried because he’d gotten scared. But I’d been thrilled.
“Come on Egg, you can do it!” I whispered.
Egg managed another pitiful peep. It sounded like a cry for help, but Dad had warned me that picking off pieces of shell could injure the gosling—unless it was struggling for too long. Then it had to be helped or it would die.
But how long was too long?
For a while the crack seemed to stretch and shrink. Finally, it spread into an opening about the size of my pinky nail. I could see something! A beak or maybe a fo
ot. Egg wobbled again and then was quiet.
“You must be exhausted, Egg. I am, too.” My legs trembled in agreement. I grabbed a few clean towels from the stack above the washer and made a bed for myself on the floor.
Just before I lay down, I remembered the poem Mom had recited when she first told me about the Goose Ladies—the one she’d learned from her mother. I don’t know why, but I thought it might help Egg. So, I leaned over the tank and whispered it:
“Fragile, light, and sturdy
To house a little birdie
Or enclose a tiny sun
Then it cracks—and hope’s begun!”
I don’t even remember falling asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ye Olde Destiny
When I awoke, the light through the window was as pale as the ginger tea Mom gave me for stomachaches. I rolled onto my back and stared at the cracks on the mudroom ceiling, which looked like the ones on Egg’s shell. I studied them for a long time because I was afraid to look in the incubator. The room was so quiet. In the woods you couldn’t help but run into dead animals sometimes—baby birds that had fallen out of the nest or half-eaten squirrels a hawk had dropped. But I couldn’t face a broken shell and a limp gosling. Not yet.
I must have drifted off again, when I heard something. It was a wheezy squeak that pulled me out of sleep and onto my feet. There in the tank was a tiny, fragile, live bird! Its feathers were damp and it huddled under the heat lamp with a small piece of shell stuck on its back. Suddenly its bright eyes focused on me and it squeaked again.
That got me moving. I wrapped the little creature in a towel and dried it gently. Then I lifted it up to my cheek. Its down brushed against my skin so lightly, I could barely feel it. It was strange how something so soft could make me feel so fierce inside.
I was sitting on the floor with the gosling nestled in my lap when my parents came in. They were still wearing their pajamas. “I’ll be darned, it looks like you’ve got an Embden there,” Dad whispered when he saw us.
The Secret Destiny of Pixie Piper Page 6