The Secret Destiny of Pixie Piper

by Annabelle Fisher

  “It’s awful about her grandma. She must’ve needed to talk.” I swallowed before I added, “I guess you’re her best friend.”

  “Sage did most of the talking. I finally told her I was too tired to say another word, but she said she just needed to hear someone breathing. I suggested she listen to Angel, but that made her mad.”

  “Why?”

  Gray yawned. “When we first started sitting on the bus together, we talked about how we both wished we had brothers or sisters. We promised that if either of us ever got lonely, we’d keep each other company. She said I was breaking my promise.”

  I patted his uncombed hair. “Don’t worry. Sage probably won’t still be upset this morning.”

  He swatted my hand away. “I’d rather sit with you. Okay?”

  “It would be mean, Gray. You’d be making her feel even worse. You should try to be extra nice today.”

  He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaned.

  I thought I might take my own advice and ask Sage to come over on Saturday. She’d probably love to play with Destiny and Sammy. A little part of me still hoped we might be friends, though I wasn’t sure why.

  But to tell the whole truth, there was another reason I wanted Gray to sit with Sage—I wanted to sit with Leo. Although I’d started riding with him because Gray was mad at me, I sat with him now because it was fun. Sometimes I made up a rhyme for a drawing he’d done in his sketch pad. Other times, he drew something to go along with a poem of mine. Then, last Friday, when I’d plopped down beside him, he couldn’t look me in the eye. His knee jiggled so much his sketch pad bounced off his lap.

  “What?” I’d asked, catching it.

  He opened the pad and turned the pages until he came to a portrait of a girl’s face. She had chocolate polka-dot eyes, freckles that looked splatter painted across her nose, and hair like the scraggly curls of a cocker spaniel. But the most noticeable thing was the scent that wafted off the page.

  “It’s me, isn’t it?” I asked after a moment.

  Leo nodded.

  I leaned closer to the paper and sniffed. “Why does it smell like cinnamon?”

  “I mixed some cinnamon spice with brown paint, so I could get your hair color right.” He pointed to the half-smiling mouth. “You’ve actually got that look on your face right now—the one that means you’re trying not to smile. I can’t tell if it means you like it or if you think it’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid. I like how it smells—and I like the picture.”

  “Do you want it?”

  I nodded, and he tore it off the pad really carefully. It was in my room now, taped high on my wall where Sammy couldn’t reach. Every time I looked at it I felt tickly inside.

  “You’d better get up,” I told Gray as the bus turned onto our road. I reached down to help him, and he followed me up the steps. But as soon as we got on the bus, I could tell something was different. It was weirdly silent. I was careful not to look at anyone as I walked up the aisle. Still, I felt eyes poking at me, as if they were fingers.

  Something stung my cheek. It was a silvery, balled-up wrapper from a stick of gum. I looked around, but everyone was staring straight ahead.

  Swoosh! A crushed-up tissue hit the back of my neck. Another got me in the cheek.

  A murmur of quiet giggling began.

  I forced myself to walk down the aisle, acting like I didn’t notice.

  Zing! A pencil bounced off my back.

  The murmur turned into a chant. “Stop it, Goose Girl! Stop it, Goose Girl! Stop it, Goose Girl!”

  “What’s going on back there?” Mac called when I was almost to the empty seat next to Leo.

  The voices quieted down. All except for one.

  “Hey, Pixie!”

  It was Raffi. He was my friend, wasn’t he? I turned around.

  Everything seemed to take place in slow motion. I saw Raf pull back his arm. I saw the ball in his hand. I understood what was about to happen—and for a second, I thought about trying to stop him. But if I did, everyone would see it. They’d hear my poem and they’d know it was true. So I just stood there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ye Olde Confession

  I don’t remember collapsing after the ball smashed into my face. But suddenly I was on the floor, staring up at the ceiling of the bus. For a few moments everything was blurry, as though I were underwater. Then, as things got more in focus, I could see that someone had stuck a wad of gum up there. I thought I saw Gray, but he disappeared quickly. Next Lucy’s and Alexa’s heads floated above me like balloons. The only sound I heard was my own moaning.

  And then my dad appeared, so red-faced he must have run up the driveway. He was big as a bear, but he carried me off the bus as gently as if I were a porcelain teacup. During the car ride to the doctor’s, he sang one of his favorites, the John Lennon song “Beautiful Boy” to me. Only he changed the words to “beautiful girl.”

  Dr. Crow didn’t think I had any broken bones, though she couldn’t tell about my nose yet. She wanted me to stay home and rest for a few days while the swelling went down. She said I was getting a “shiner,” which meant a black eye. There wasn’t much to do for it except to use ice packs for my throbbing face. But if I got bad headaches or began vomiting, Dad would need to take me to the hospital for some tests. She said she’d call tomorrow to check on me.

  Mom and Sammy were waiting for us at the door. As soon as he saw me, my brother burst into tears. “Peeksie boken!” he cried, pointing at my face.

  “It’s not so bad,” Mom murmured. But when we passed the hall mirror she slipped a hand over my eyes and said, “Don’t look!” Then she tucked me into bed with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a kitchen towel to hold against my swelling cheek.

  When I opened my eyes, it was four o’clock. I couldn’t believe it! School had been over for an hour already. A few minutes later Mom cracked the door open. “Pixie, are you up? Ms. Mosely and Ms. Tomassini would like to talk to you.”

  The principal and my teacher! “Um, I don’t feel so well. Can they call back tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “Can’t you say I’m sleeping?”

  “I’m afraid not, honey.”

  “But why?”

  “Because they’re here.” Mom opened the door wider. Ms. Tomassini and Ms. Mosely looked in at me and smiled. The three of them squeezed into my room.

  “Um, hi.” I croaked.

  “We’re sorry to disturb you, Pixie,” said Ms. Tomassini. She set a plate of chocolate chip cookies on my night table.

  “Yes.” Ms. Mosely studied my face. “You must be in a lot of pain. I hope these flowers cheer you up.” She placed a bouquet of yellow daisies in a glass jar on my desk.

  “Thank you.” I smiled just a tiny bit because smiling made my face hurt.

  “We’ll only stay a few minutes,” said Ms. Mosely, staring deep into my aching eyes. “It’s very important I understand exactly what happened. Apparently someone told Raffi you could stop the ball with your mind.” She raised her eyebrows. “Do you know anyone who would say such a thing?”

  “No.” I swiped at my cheek.

  “I appreciate that you don’t want to tattle. But this is very serious.”

  Without meaning to, I let out a weird snort-sob. “It was me. I told him.”

  My teacher and the principal looked at each other.

  “Am I in trouble?” My voice came out so small I hardly recognized it.

  “No, Pixie,” Ms. Tomassini answered quickly. “But why would you say that to Raffi?”

  “Yes, why?” Ms. Mosely didn’t sound nearly as sympathetic.

  I turned toward the window. “Because I was trying to be special.”

  Ms. Tomassini put a hand on my arm. “But you are special. You’re a really kind person.”

  I think I caught Ms. Mosely rolling her eyes. “Well, it still wasn’t right of Raffi to throw something at you,” she said, “even if you did encourage him.”

/>   That felt unfair, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. Miserably, I slipped down under my quilt. My principal and my teacher looked as if they didn’t know what else to say to me now that I’d “confessed.”

  “I think Pixie is tired now. Maybe you could speak to her again in a few days,” said Mom. Her voice was polite but firm.

  “Of course,” agreed Ms. Mosely.

  Ms. Tomassini brightened. “While you’re recovering at home, Pixie, you can work on the poem for the poet laureate contest. It’s due on Friday. That should be fun, right? You’re a wonderful poet.”

  “I—I don’t know if I’ll be better by then.”

  “That’s okay—take your time. You can ask Gray to bring it in for you whenever it’s ready.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ye Olde Culprit

  I stayed in bed for the rest of the day. Mom even brought Destiny into my room to keep me company. My gosling had learned that the reward for keeping her diaper on was getting out of jail (alias, the mudroom) so she didn’t pull at it anymore. She still loved to dance to Mom’s old mix tape, especially when “Manic Monday” came on. Actually, today had been the most manic Monday of my life. I didn’t think I’d ever hear the song again without getting a headache.

  On Tuesday morning Dad stayed home while Mom dropped Sammy off with Gray’s grandma and went to the senior center. When she and Sammy came back at two, they hurried straight up to my room.

  “You’re looking a little better, sweetie,” Mom said. “Does your head hurt now?”

  “Not too much.” I always felt better when she was around.

  “Oh, good.” Her face relaxed into a smile. “I heard some news about Sage’s grandmother. The nursing supervisor at the residence spoke to someone at the hospital. She says Gloria’s heart attack was mild and that she’ll probably be moved out of intensive care tomorrow.”

  “That’s great, Mom.” I wondered if Sage had though about how I was feeling. Yeah, right.

  “Up!” my brother demanded, tugging on my quilt.

  “Okay, Samster.” Mom lifted him onto the bed. “But be gentle with Pixie.”

  Sammy was learning colors by studying the changes to my face. “Bu,” he said, touching my cheek. “Yewwo,” he added as he traced under my eye. When he kissed my cheek with his drooly lips, I got teary.

  Later that afternoon, Lucy and Alexa called. Mom brought the phone into my room. “Just five minutes, girls. She’s supposed to be resting,” Mom told them before she handed it to me. I didn’t even protest. It was hard to hold the phone near my face.

  “We miss you! So does everyone in class!” they exclaimed. They were on the speakerphone at Alexa’s house.

  “Oh yeah? Then how come they were all throwing garbage at me?”

  “It wasn’t everyone, Pixie,” Lucy said. “Just Sage and her idiot friends.”

  “Really?” In my fuzzy memory of what had happened on the bus, it had seemed as if everyone were against me.

  “Yes, really,” Alexa confirmed. “How’s your face?”

  “It hurts. My parents keep making me hold a frozen bag of peas on my cheek, but it doesn’t actually feel that good.”

  “Victoria Victorian’s mother put brown paper soaked in vinegar on her forehead when she had a headache,” said Lucy.

  “You want Pixie to take advice from a doll’s mother?” asked Alexa.

  “Every History Village doll comes with a book, Al!” Lucy told her. “I know a lot about what people in different historical times did.”

  “Maybe I’ll ask my mom if we have any vinegar,” I said, to stop them from arguing. “How was school today?”

  “Terrible! Ms. Tomassini made us try writing a kind of poem called a haiku. Mine was the worst in the class,” said Lucy.

  “You always think you’re bad at everything, but you’re not. You’re good at everything, Lu,” I told her.

  “Actually, mine was the worst,” said Alexa.

  If my head didn’t hurt I would’ve rolled my eyes. “Tell me what else is going on.”

  “Well, Raffi’s in real trouble,” Alexa replied. “After your father carried you off the bus, he had a meltdown. He was screaming at Sage the whole way to school.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “Let me tell,” interrupted Lucy. She cleared her throat dramatically before she began shouting, “‘You’re a liar! A stinking liar! You told me she could stop things with her mind!’”

  I wasn’t that surprised Sage had told her friends my secret. But telling Raffi was different. Probably she’d pretended to like him, so she could get him to do whatever she wanted—like throw a ball at my face.

  “Raffi will do anything to get attention,” I said.

  “True, but it made me think about the day that weird lady tried to kidnap Destiny,” Alexa said. “Before she could get away, you said a poem. And her van stopped.”

  My heart started ticking faster. “That was just a coincidence! My mom pulled in and blocked the van. You saw it. You were there.”

  “Okay, but why were Sage and her friends chanting, ‘Stop it, Goose Girl’?”

  “Because the day she came over, we ran into a fox in the woods. It was about to attack Destiny, so I screamed and it ran away. Anyone can scream, Al. It’s not a secret power.”

  “What were you screaming?” Lucy asked. “Was it a poem?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Lucy was silent. Alexa said, “Uh-huh.”

  I could tell they knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. I wish I could have told them that I was only trying to protect them. But it was a secret.

  It was so quiet I thought they’d hung up. Then Lucy asked, “Are you okay, Pixie? We didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” Alexa said after a moment. I had a feeling Lucy had poked her.

  “That’s okay. I should probably go.”

  “Wait—there’s one more thing!” said Lucy.

  “What?”

  “Leo asked us to tell you he hopes you get better soon!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Ye Olde Revenge Writing

  On Wednesday morning Mom and Dad both went to work. Dad was only two minutes away in his barn workshop behind Uncle B.’s house. Still, he made me promise to keep the phone with me even in the bathroom, so I could call him if I needed him.

  Actually, I’d woken up feeling much better. I even began working on Ms. Tomassini’s poet laureate assignment. I was eager to do it because I’d had an idea. I wasn’t even going to try to write a poem that could win. I was going to write one that would pay a certain person back for all the trouble she’d caused.

  At noon Dad returned from his workshop to have lunch with me. While he made grilled cheese and bacon, I sat at the kitchen table and held a bag of frozen peas against my cheek.

  “What did you do this morning?” Dad asked.

  “Homework. I wrote a poem for a contest. The winner gets to be poet laureate of Winged Bowl.”

  “Sounds cool.”

  “Not really—it’s just homework. Everyone has to do one.”

  “Can I hear it?”

  “Okay.” I put the peas back in the freezer and went to get the poem. I didn’t mind. Dad loved everything I did—writing, drawing, and even singing, which I was truly terrible at.

  He was flipping the sandwiches when I got back to the kitchen. The bacon-y smell was making my mouth water. “Okay, ready?”

  “Yep,” he said, waving the spatula.

  “My poem is called ‘Why a Goose Is Better Than a Golden Retriever.’”

  “That’s a goofy title.”

  “Daddy, shush!”

  He pretended to zip his lips shut. I narrowed my eyes at him and began reading.

  “My goose doesn’t beg at the table

  She doesn’t slobber or shed

  She doesn’t chew shoes or eat up the news

  Or put muddy paws on my bed.

  “My goose never causes a problem.

&nb
sp; In her feathers you won’t find a flea.

  She won’t drool or bite, or howl in the night

  And on our good rug, she won’t pee.

  “My goose is a pet that is faithful.

  In the night she won’t leave you alone.

  Not like a golden retriever

  Who would dump you for an old bone!”

  I looked up, expecting Dad to laugh, or even clap. Instead, he had a funny expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Why not?”

  Dad ignored the question and asked one of his own. “Do you know anyone with a golden retriever?”

  “Yes, a girl in my class.”

  “I bet she’s not going to think it’s very nice.”

  I scowled at the floor. “It’s not supposed to be nice.”

  “I’m not going to tell you what to do because you know,” he said as he brought our grilled cheeses to the table. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

  I pulled out a chair and sat, imagining myself reading the poem in class while Sage’s face grew red and teary. Suddenly my throat was so tight I had trouble swallowing.

  “After lunch I’ve got to go into town to pick up a load of fencing,” said Dad, interrupting my thoughts. “It should only take about half an hour. But Mom’s going to be home late because Sammy’s got an earache and needs to see the pediatrician.” He cocked his head at me. “Do you want me to ask Grandma Westerly to stay with you until one of us gets back?”

  “That’s okay, Dad. I can stay by myself for a little while. I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “You’ll always be my baby,” he teased. “You should try to nap anyway, okay?”

  “Okay. I guess I’ll do that now.” I looked down at my half-eaten sandwich. “I’m pretty tired.”

  When he left, he was humming the same beautiful girl-boy song he’d sung when we’d been on our way to the hospital. I scooped Dessie up and went back to my room. My face hurt and now my heart hurt, too. I hated that I’d disappointed Dad. When I got into bed I started to cry. Destiny got so upset she began honking.