“Now!” Loyd added with a yank of his own.
Into the caravan walked an enormous elephant, the ground trembling with each step he took. He was the gray of the sky after it rained, with ears as wide as wings and a trunk that swept the ground. His skin was thick and leathery, and on either side of his trunk were short, ivory stubs where his tusks once were. The elephant lifted his trunk, and Smalls noticed a streak of peanut butter along its tip.
The peanut butter on his trunk, Smalls realized. That’s what he’d been smelling. He sank onto the floor, his stomach growling. In his mind he could picture a bowl of warmed honey sitting next to his oak tree. It was so vivid, he wanted to reach out and touch it, scoop the warm, gooey goodness up in his paws.
Lloyd and Loyd gave the rope another tug. It was looped around the elephant’s neck, and he let out a soft moan as his head jerked forward. For the first time, Smalls noticed the thick chains wrapped around the elephant’s ankles. They dug into his skin, making his gait slow and wobbly.
Lloyd threw open the door to the largest cage, and Loyd pulled the elephant toward it. But just outside the cage, the elephant stopped, refusing to take another step. Loyd yanked impatiently at the rope. “I said no shenanigans,” he snapped.
But still the elephant didn’t move. He just swung his trunk back and forth, looking nervous. “What do you think, Loyd?” Lloyd asked loudly. “Should we get Claude’s little friend?”
The instant the words were out of Lloyd’s mouth, the elephant’s whole body sagged. His head drooped and his ears flapped and his trunk slumped against the ground. This time, when Loyd pulled the elephant toward the cage, he slunk inside.
“Nicely done, Lloyd,” Loyd said.
“Nicely done, Loyd,” Lloyd echoed. They walked out of the caravan, letting the door slam shut behind them.
In the silence they left behind, Smalls, Tilda, Wombat, and Rigby all stared at the elephant. The elephant stared back at them. Finally, Wombat stepped to the front of his cage, sticking his snout between the bars. “Greetings,” he ventured, nodding politely at the elephant. “How do you do?”
“How do I do?” the elephant scoffed. His voice was low and raspy. “Where didya come from? The 1800s?” He narrowed his eyes at the animals. “If you really wanna know, I think I do about as well as you all look.” With a chuckle, he held up his trunk and rubbed the smear of peanut butter onto the wall of his cage. Then he sucked it off, slurping it down loudly. On the other side of the caravan, Rigby’s stomach let out a hungry growl.
Clearing his throat, Wombat tried again. “I’m Wombat,” he said. “But my friends call me Fred.”
The elephant sneered at him. “I think I’ll stick with Wombat.”
“And may I ask what your name is?” Wombat pressed.
The elephant waved his trunk dismissively through the air. “If ya want.”
When the elephant didn’t elaborate, Wombat took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said through gritted teeth. “What is your name?”
“I’m Lord Jest,” the elephant said. “Lord Jest,” he clarified. “Never just Jest.”
“Nice to meet you, Lord Jest,” Tilda offered, using her sweetest voice. “I’m Tilda, and the others are Smalls and Rigby.”
Lord Jest shook his head, looking annoyed. “A prissy rabbit, a boring dog, a measly wombat, and a bear so small he could be a kitten. How does Claude think misfits like you are gonna spice up the circus?”
“Going to,” Wombat corrected automatically, at the same time Smalls said, “Circus?”
Smalls reared up so fast he banged his head into the ceiling. “What do you mean by circus?”
“You mean no one told ya?” Lord Jest let out a harsh laugh. “I guess I get the pleasure.” He looked from Smalls to Wombat to Tilda to Rigby. “Welcome, Misfits, to the Most Magnificent Traveling Circus. I think you’re just gonna love it here.”
Chapter Thirteen
A New Act
“Holy horseshoe,” Smalls said, rubbing absently at the yellow horseshoe on his chest. “We’re at the circus.” He’d never been to a circus, but the word made him think of surprises, of clowns and laughter and things that shouldn’t be, couldn’t be, but somehow were. And animals. The thought struck him suddenly. Weren’t there animals in a circus?
“The circus?” Rigby asked excitedly. “I’ve always wanted to watch a circus!”
“Watch?” Lord Jest let out an amused honk. “There will be no watching for you. You’ll be performing. You’re the new act at the circus, Misfits.”
Rigby shook the fur out of his eyes. “What’s an act?” he asked slowly.
Lord Jest snorted. “Wow, ya musta lived in a cave before this.” He snaked his long, gray trunk through the bars of the cage, swinging it back and forth in front of the Misfits. “An act means you’re performers. Ya do tricks and stuff for the crowd.”
Smalls bolted upright in his cage, his heart beating fast. There were animals in the circus. And they were about to be them.
“Which is really a joke when ya think aboudit,” Lord Jest continued in his gravelly voice. “Since you’ll never compare to us Lifers.”
“Lifers?” Tilda squeaked. She was nibbling furiously at her paws, removing any stray bits of burrs or dirt that had gotten caught there during the drive.
“Yeah, Lifers,” Lord Jest said. “You a parrot or a rabbit? We Lifers are the real circus performers. Born and raised. There’s Buck the zebra, May the monkey, the two lions, Hamlet and Juliet, and then there’s me. The main act.” Lord Jest gave his trunk an angry swish. “You get that through your heads, okay? I’m the star. I’ve been here longer than any of the other animals, even old May. Which means I get the rewards. Got me?”
The animals were saved from answering by the sound of the door swinging open. Fresh air poured inside, washing over Smalls. He tensed as he waited to hear Lloyd and Loyd’s heavy footsteps, but this time, the footsteps were different. Two sets: one firm and sturdy, the other soft and nimble.
“Close the door!” a man’s voice scolded. Smalls recognized the sharp, nasal voice immediately. It belonged to Claude, the man in the top hat.
“But it’s so hot in here, Uncle,” a boy’s voice responded. “And if I’m hot, think about how the animals must feel—”
“How many times do I have to tell you, boy?” Claude interrupted as he came into Smalls’s view. “Animals don’t have feelings. It’s a scientific fact.” Raising a large silver jug to his lips, Claude took a long swig. Steam wafted off the jug, filling the caravan with a rich, sweet smell as it curled to the ceiling.
Smalls took a deep breath, wanting to suck in that sweetness, swallow it down. But suddenly it was drowned out by a different smell—a soggy, curdled, rancid smell that made something turn in Smalls’s stomach. The boy emerged from behind Claude, gripping a tall stack of wooden trays in his hands.
The terrible smell was pouring off those trays in waves, but Smalls barely noticed it anymore. Because the boy standing before him was the one from the black motorcar, the one whose bright blue eyes had stared out at him through the window. Bertie.
For the first time, Smalls got a full view of him. He was skinny, all knobby knees and elbows and wrists, and his
baseball cap kept slipping down his forehead. His freckles made Smalls think of stars, how if you traced from one to another, you could find a constellation. The boy’s white shirt was worn thin in several spots, and his brown pants were held up by a pair of old red suspenders. The pants were so short, you could see his skinny ankles above his mismatched shoes, and Smalls’s eyes widened as he noticed an angry red welt spreading across his skin.
Next to Bertie, Claude swilled from his jug, then smacked his lips loudly. “Get to work, boy,” he snapped, without bothering to look up.
Smalls watched as Bertie’s hands tightened around the tr
ays, turning his knuckles white. “Yes, Uncle,” he said through gritted teeth.
Yes, Uncle, yes, Uncle, yes, Uncle. It seemed like Bertie could go through entire days uttering only those two awful words. Sometimes he dreamed about what it would be like to say no, just once. NO! He imagined how the word would shoot out of his mouth like a bullet, ricocheting through the air.
Taking a deep breath, Bertie walked over to Lord Jest’s cage, sliding a tray under the bars. There was a pile of thick, slimy, crusty brown slop on top of it, and Bertie grimaced as he remembered the time he was forced to eat it. Claude had run out of the dry oats that made up Bertie’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner, leaving Bertie with only one option to fill his empty, growling stomach: the animals’ slop. It had been awful, as crunchy as it was slimy, sticking to the roof of his mouth no matter how many times he swallowed. And the taste! It had tasted like dead frogs, Bertie remembered, like rotten, decaying, slimy frogs, slinking down his throat and into his stomach.
In his cage, Lord Jest eyed the tray warily. “Sorry, Lord Jest,” Bertie whispered.
Claude, who had taken a break from his cocoa to gnaw on a pinky nail, looked up sharply at the sound of Bertie’s voice. He spit the fingernail out. It tumbled to the ground, bouncing off his shiny red shoe. “There is no conversing with the animals. You know I require absolute silence to drink my cocoa. Can you manage that, you worthless boy?”
Bertie stood back up, counting slowly to ten in his mind. It was what he did whenever that dangerous word—NO—began to rise inside him, threatening to escape. He paused, waiting until the word was safely locked away again: trapped behind bars and sealed in a box and buried deep in his stomach. Only then did he say, “Yes, Uncle.”
Once, he’d come close to saying no. His uncle had ordered him to skip the animals’ dinner for the night, and instead of saying Yes, Uncle, he’d asked, Are you sure? For several long seconds, his uncle had stared at him, his eyes cold and emotionless. Then he’d made Lloyd and Loyd pick Bertie up and toss him into a tiny cabinet in the back of the supply caravan. “This,” he’d said, “is what happens to boys who talk back to me.”
Claude had locked Bertie in that cabinet for two days, his knees jammed into his chest and his chin between his legs and his back stooped into a curve. It had been so dark in there he couldn’t see his own hands and so hot that sweat had trickled down his arms and pooled behind his ears, making him feel feverish and chilled at the very same time. Late at night, something warm and furry had brushed against his skin and nipped at his ankles, but no matter how loud Bertie screamed, no one had let him out.
His last few hours in that cabinet, he’d been so dizzy from thirst and hunger and pain that the walls had seemed to spin around him like a carousel. When his uncle finally let him out, his legs were so dead asleep that he’d collapsed onto the floor, unable to use them. In that moment, with the rough floor against his cheek and his stomach as hollow as a tunnel, Bertie had made himself a promise. As long as he was living with his uncle, he would never, ever, ever say no.
Bertie kept counting in his head as he moved on to the cages of the new animals. The dog was in the first one. He shook several tufts of white fur out of his eyes as Bertie slid him the tray. Rigby was his name, Bertie knew. He’d read that article about the Misfits a million times by now, memorizing every single word. He knew how Rigby played “mop” and Wombat expertly burrowed and Tilda could be mistaken for a cloud. And of course, how Smalls had traveled all the way from Asia when he was just a cub.
Bertie moved on, slipping a tray into Tilda’s cage. She hopped briskly away from it, her tiny black nose quivering. Sighing, he gave a tray to Wombat, who nosed it curiously with his furry, brown snout. Bertie paused when he reached the last cage. He looks . . . stately, Bertie decided as he peered in at Smalls. The bear was sitting on his haunches, staring right back at him.
He looks . . . sad, Smalls thought as Bertie slid the sour-smelling tray into his cage. Like he needs to play. Smalls imagined Bertie throwing a ball to him. His muscles would tighten and release as he galloped after it, catching it smoothly on his tongue. He’d wing it back through the air and Bertie would smile as he chased after it, his skinny legs kicking up behind him. I bet he has a nice smile, Smalls thought, and instantly a list began to take shape in his mind. Ways to Make Bertie Smile.
“Boy!” Claude barked. Bertie’s heart leapt into his throat as he whirled around to face his uncle. Sometimes Bertie worried that Claude could read his mind, that somehow he would know when Bertie was thinking nice thoughts about the animals. “Don’t keep me waiting,” Claude snapped. He took a final swig of his cocoa, tapping the bottom of the jug to get every last drop. Then he grabbed Bertie by the nose. “Come on.” Pinching hard, he dragged him out of the caravan.
Chapter Fourteen
The Fairy Tale’s Over
Smalls stared down at his tray of slop. His stomach felt dark and cavernous, like a black hole. The only thing that could satisfy him right now was a nice, big bowl of warmed honey. And this looked nothing like honey.
Tilda took one sniff of her slop and looked haughtily away. “I can’t eat that,” she declared.
“Probably a good idea,” Lord Jest agreed. “Who knows what’s in there? Maybe even rabbit.” Tilda let out a scandalized gasp. “Why dontcha just fling it my way?” Lord Jest continued. “Get that stink outta your cage?”
“So this is really it?” Wombat cut in before Tilda could answer Lord Jest. He peered down at the slop in dismay. “This is our evening meal?”
“Evening meal?” Lord Jest burst out laughing. “I don’t know what fairy tale you all came from, but in this world, we don’t get no evening meals.”
“Don’t get any,” Wombat corrected.
“’Scuse me?” Glowering at Wombat, Lord Jest stomped one of his chained hooves against the floor. The whole caravan shook under its weight. Some of Tilda’s slop spilled off her plate, and she let out a soft squeal, skittering away from it. “You wanna correct me again?” Lord Jest snarled.
Wombat snapped his mouth shut, looking shaken.
“As I was saying,” Lord Jest continued. “We don’t get no precious evening meals here. We get slop. Real food is earned, by the best performers. And like I said before, that’s always me. So if you don’t eat up, Misfits, I will. Because morning is a long ways away.”
“I can’t do it,” Tilda said, shaking out her fur. “I’m just going to wait until Mumford comes to find us.”
Smalls reached up to touch his four-leaf clovers, forgetting they were gone. The problem was, he knew what the others didn’t. Mumford wasn’t coming for them. He was the one who’d lost them in the first place. Smalls looked down at his slop. The edges were yellowing and there was a crust along the top. It looked about as appetizing as a bowl of wet, wiggling worms. But if he didn’t want to starve, he’d have to eat it; they all would.
He lifted his head, mustering up his most cheerful voice. “We,” he announced, “are going to play a game.” Smalls’s mind began to race, ticking off a long list of possible games.
“Slop Pile Dodge?” Tilda asked hopefully, hopping even farther away from her tray.
“No, Imagine That Squirrel,” Rigby argued.
That gave Smalls an idea. “This is a little like Imagine That Squirrel,” he said. He walked to the edge of his cage, sticking his nose through the bars. He’d feel so much better if he could just see his friends! But the bars made it impossible. In the cage next to his, Wombat stuck his snout out, and out of the corners of Smalls’s eyes, he could just make out its furry brown tip.
“I could use a game to divert my attention from that revolting tray,” Wombat said.
“Divert?” Lord Jest mimicked from the across the way. “Who do ya think ya are?”
“I think that I am Fred,” Wombat replied huffily. “A wombat of the rare and prestigious hair
y-nosed variety.” He lifted his snout proudly into the air. “Now tell us about this game, Smalls.”
“I call it Delicious Dinner Dream,” Smalls said. “We are each going to dream up the most delicious dinner possible! And as we eat our slop, we’ll pretend it’s transforming into our dream meal.” He sat back, pleased with his game. “I’ll start.”
Closing his eyes, he pictured the most delicious dinner he could imagine. “Before me is a bowl of the sweetest, thickest, stickiest honey in the world.” Smalls took a big slurp, imagining the way the honey would warm his stomach as he swallowed it down.
In the cage next to his, Wombat stuck his snout into his slop. “Alphabet stew,” he murmured.
“A carrot feast,” Tilda tried out. “Carrot cake and carrot soup and carrot pudding!” She took a tentative nibble and then another.
In the cage closest to the door, Rigby let his fur flop over his eyes. “An ice cream sundae,” he imagined. “With ice cream in every color of the rainbow, scoops of pink and copper and violet . . .” He lowered his head, lapping up his slop in a single breath.
“Wow,” Lord Jest said dryly. He looked up from his tray, which he’d already licked clean. “If it ain’t a bunch of little princesses.”
Smalls ignored him. Finishing up his meal, he sat back, listening in satisfaction to the sounds of slurping and chomping ringing through the air. Delicious Dinner Dream. It wasn’t his favorite game, but it had done the trick.
A half hour later, with their stomachs full of mystery slop, the animals all began to yawn. “I think I’m just going to close my eyes . . .” Rigby murmured. The instant his head hit his paws, he was out, his snores blasting through the caravan.
“Wombat?” Smalls whispered. But Wombat’s breathing had begun to deepen and lengthen. He too was fast asleep.
Smalls shifted in his cage. He was exhausted, the kind of tired that seeped into his bones and weighed him down, like he was filled with sand. But he just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. When he rested his head on his paws, his back hit up against the wall. When he curled up against the wall, his paws slid into the bars. And when he tried to stretch out like he did at home, all four paws ended up smushed into the corners of his cage.
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 5