“Stop it!” Wombat hollered. “Don’t you understand? She. Hates. STRIPES!”
“Wombat!” Tilda gasped. “Calm down!”
But Wombat didn’t seem to hear her. “She. Likes. WOMBATS!”
Buck brayed in amusement. “We’ll see about that, guinea pig.”
Wombat’s ears flattened against his head. “I,” he said through gritted teeth, “am a HAIRY-NOSED—”
Before he could finish, the door to the caravan swung open. “You brought the monkey to a sanctuary?” Claude bellowed as he stormed inside. Lloyd and Loyd followed, with chains piled high in their arms.
“It’s going to make the circus famous,” Lloyd said knowingly.
“We’ll be written up in the newspaper,” Loyd said resolutely.
Claude stopped short, looking from Loyd to Lloyd and back again. He was wearing an outfit of all orange, a jug of cocoa clutched in his hands. “I put you two in charge for one morning so I can attend to some business, and this is what happens?” He paused, gulping back some cocoa. “You’re just lucky that old monkey was useless to me!” With another pause, he drained the rest of the jug. “Now stop wasting time! We only have nine hours before Ames—ahem, I mean the audience arrives tonight.” With that, he stalked out of the caravan, muttering to himself about a cocoa refill.
Lloyd looked at Loyd.
Loyd looked at Lloyd.
“He’ll change his mind when he sees the newspaper article,” Loyd said.
Lloyd nodded his agreement. “Then we’ll get raises for sure.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Let the Show Begin
The day passed in a whirlwind of practice. Hour after hour the animals worked on their acts, and slowly but surely the finale came together. Wombat made it all the way across the tightrope. Rigby jumped up on the beach ball and didn’t fall right back down. Tilda nailed her flip–double axel–flip combo with a thrilled squeak. And Smalls leapt through the flaming hoop and caught six fire sticks in a row without a single burn or yelp.
With an hour to showtime, Claude looked almost happy, a tight smile spreading across his lips. “Bajumba,” he whispered. “Ames is going to like what he sees.” With a stroke of his beard, he cleared his throat. “Lloyd,” he barked.
“Yes, Boss?” Loyd said.
“Yes, Boss?” Lloyd added.
“Bring the animals backstage.” He turned to Bertie. “You clean up their equipment. And you.” His gaze moved to Susan. “What are you waiting for? Go get your rope ready!”
Susan nodded. “Of course, Master Magnificence,” she said, her voice extra bright. But as she passed by Bertie, she crossed her eyes at him when Claude wasn’t looking.
An hour later, Smalls was sitting backstage, rubbing anxiously at the yellow horseshoe on his chest as he waited for the circus to begin. He felt like electricity was zipping through him, prickling at his paws and buzzing in his ears. All day long, he’d kept looking around, hoping to spot a four-leaf clover poking out of the dusty ground or peeking up through a crack in the Big Top. But nothing green seemed to grow here. Not grass, not trees, not flowers, and certainly not clovers.
“Step three, done,” Tilda murmured nearby. She was ticking off each step as she made her way through her sixteen-step grooming process. “Skip step four,” she muttered angrily. “Since I no longer have my red silk bow.”
Next to her, Wombat was whispering to himself in French and Rigby was debating the tent’s exact shade of red. “Redwood,” he said. “No, rose! No.” His tail thumped excitedly against the ground. “Ruby! Definitely ruby.”
Smalls glanced around, trying to distract himself. In the back of the tent, the acrobats and tumblers were stretching and warming up, touching their toes and jogging in place and kicking their legs above their heads. Susan was carefully unwrapping strips of gauze from around her hands, a focused expression on her face. The clowns were scattered about, adjusting their wigs and honking each other’s noses and singing scales to prepare their voices. Nearby, the horn player was shining his horn and Claude was shining his top hat and even Buck was shining his hooves with his tail. The lions were busy too, Hamlet fluffing out his mane and Juliet buffing her fur. It seemed like everyone had something to do except for him.
Nosing the curtain back, Smalls peered into the ring. It was the smell that hit him first: swirls of cinnamon and sugar and dough, so thick and fragrant he could almost see them. The ring had a red velvet floor, and just minutes earlier, Smalls had watched Loyd and Lloyd run out with a bucket of red paint to fill in spots that had worn thin since the last show. But looking at it now, you’d never know. Under the sparkling circus lights, the floor looked plush and bright. Curved along the outside of the ring were rows of silver benches. People were filing into them, holding pillowy donuts and fizzing sodas and soft puffs of spun sugar. A boy with a headful of brown curls gripped a twisty bun stuffed with cinnamon, making Smalls’s mouth water.
Suddenly, the lights in the tent dimmed. “Let the show begin,” Smalls heard Claude murmur as the audience jostled to take their seats. Claude clapped briskly. “You’re up, Larry.”
A clown wearing oversized polka-dot pants held up by thick green suspenders straightened out his orange wig. His face was painted white, and a squeaky red ball was perched on his nose. He paused behind the curtain, dropping twelve juggling balls into his large pockets. Out in the ring, the lights went out completely, an oily darkness sweeping over everything. Squaring his shoulders, Larry the Clown walked out to perform.
Alone in the center of the ring, he began to juggle. As he tossed the balls into the air, they lit up, one by one, until they were glowing like a dozen moons. Their shadows flitted across the tent’s ceiling, bending and waving and twisting, never still. It made Smalls think of nighttime at Mumford’s, how the inky sky would coil into shapes behind the stars, like the darkness was telling a story.
The balls winked and flashed as they began to fall, and then with a pop, they each flickered out, darkening the ring once again. For a second, everything was silent. Even the audience seemed to hold their collective breaths. Then, all at once, the horn blasted and the tent brightened, pinpricks of light raining down on the ring.
The clown was gone, and in his place was Claude, the ringmaster, resplendent in an outfit of pure gold: shiny gold shoes, gold pants made of brushed velvet, a tight gold vest with gold buttons that looked ready to pop, and a gold topcoat with coattails that flapped behind him. On his head was a gold top hat, with a band of shimmering gold gems along the brim.
“Welcome to the Most Magnificent Traveling Circus!” Claude announced. His voice was different than usual, lighter and less nasal, like it was tap-dancing through the air. It made him sound like someone else entirely. “Our acts are sure to delight and thrill you, to entertain and amuse you, to excite and inspire you. So sit back, relax, and most of all, enjoy the show!” With a tip of his gold top hat, Claude disappeared into the fold of the curtain, slipping backstage.
“Tumblers,” he hissed as the horn blasted through the ring. His voice was his own again, sharp and nasal. “You’re up.”
Dressed in matching tie-dyed bodysuits, the Nilling cousins burst into the tent, diving into a synchronized routine. “Lloyd, get the elephant ready,” Claude commanded. “And then Loyd, the lions. They’re up next!”
As the Lifers and performers cycled in and out of the tent, Smalls could hear Rigby, Tilda, and Wombat whispering behind him. But he couldn’t make himself focus on their words. He just kept thinking how soon he would be out there, hundreds of eyes pressing in on him from every side. Back at Mumford’s, they used to play in front of crowds all the time, but this was different. This crowd wanted something. Expected something. This wasn’t a game.
Smalls drew in a long breath. Practicing with Bertie earlier, swiping fire sticks out of the air like they were nothing but flies, he’d felt
ready for this. But now, peeking through the curtain from backstage, watching Lord Jest shoot spirals of water out of his trunk and Buck lobby pins into the air with his nose, he wasn’t so sure. His paws felt soft and wobbly, like they were made of jelly, and suddenly he couldn’t remember if he had to jump two feet or three feet to clear the hoop. An awful list started to assemble in his head.
Things That Could Go Wrong
1. Every single strand of my fur could go up in flames.
2. I could slip and send every strand of Rigby’s fur up in flames.
3. He could slip and send every bristly fur on Wombat up in flames.
4. We could all go up in flames. Except for Claude and his little friend, Wilson.
Smalls rubbed at the yellow horseshoe on his chest. At least Claude had decided to save the Misfits’ performance for the finale. His final surprise, he kept calling it. Which was fine by Smalls. One chance to go up in flames was more than enough.
“Five minutes!” Loyd grabbed Smalls by the scruff of his neck. “Get in line, Misfits. You’re on next.”
Chapter Thirty
A Finale to Remember
Out in the front of the Big Top, Bertie was pouring sodas, endless streams of sweet, bubbly syrup, each snatched away by eager hands before he could take even a single taste for himself. “I want a donut, Mother!” a girl demanded shrilly. She had wild brown curls and was wearing a yellow dress that had a poufy skirt, as if there were hundreds of juggling balls stuffed underneath. She dragged a small dollhouse behind her, eying the donut counter greedily.
“We’ll get you one, Chrysanthemum,” her mom promised. She had a pale face and nervous, watery eyes. “As soon as we get our soda. Just please don’t shriek.” She handed Bertie a coin. “Two colas,” she ordered.
“Extra, extra syrupy,” the yellow dress girl—Chrysanthemum, whatever kind of name that was—added snottily. “And fill it all the way to the top.”
Bertie struggled not to roll his eyes as he poured the colas for the girl and her mom. A tiny bit fizzed onto his hand, and his stomach gurgled at the thought of sucking it up. But as the girl snatched the soda from him, it dripped off, sinking into the velvet floor.
She still wears diapers under her poufy dresses, Bertie decided. It was a game he liked to play with the worst kids: imagining up terrible facts about them. Just minutes ago, he’d decided that a screaming, red-faced boy was wearing socks filled to the top with cow manure.
Chrysanthemum moved on to the donut stand, and a small blond boy, maybe four or five, took her place. He was with his mom, who kept ruffling his hair, making it flop into his face. “Stop it, Mom,” he groaned, but he was laughing as he said it, and he leaned against her leg, letting her support his weight.
Bertie stood still, waiting for the longing to hit. It always happened when he saw a boy laughing with his mom. Sometimes the longing squeezed him so tightly that the whole world seemed to spin, and he had to close his eyes until it passed. But today, Bertie found himself thinking about Susan instead and how good it had felt to laugh lately, that kind of deep-down laughter that made him feel like he was splitting at the seams. Bertie smiled absently as he handed the boy his cola.
“Thanks!” the boy chirped. He grabbed his mom’s hand, dragging her toward the tent. “Hurry, Mom,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to miss the finale.”
Bertie glanced around. The concession stands had emptied out, and there wasn’t a single person waiting in line for soda. He seized his chance, hurrying over to the curtain to peek into the ring. Claude didn’t like him to watch the show. “Concession counters should be manned at all times,” he always said. Bertie wasn’t even supposed to break for the bathroom. But usually, when he was sure Claude was safely backstage, he would sneak a peek anyway. And after all his work with Smalls, there was no way he was missing tonight’s finale.
Susan was in the ring, finishing up her performance on the rope. She’d threaded white ribbons through her hair, and they fluttered behind her like wings as she soared and spun and dipped. But this time as Bertie watched, he didn’t see the ribbons, or the twirls, or the way her blond hair fanned out behind her, shimmering under the light. Instead, he saw her hands, raw and sore with blisters. It made him want to run into the ring and help her down from the rope, tell her she never had to spin or twirl or twist again.
As Susan performed her final rotation, the animals were lining up backstage. “This is it,” Claude kept saying. He was pacing back and forth, stroking furiously at his beard. “I’m going to blow Ames Howard away with this finale,” Smalls heard him whisper to himself. “And then he’ll have to—”
“Now!” Loyd said, drowning out the rest of Claude’s sentence. He shoved Smalls toward the opening in the curtain. Susan had just leapt off the rope and was curtsying to a standing ovation. As she disappeared backstage, Loyd kicked Smalls in the back, and suddenly he was flying through the curtain and out into the ring. Smalls blinked under the bright lights as the other animals spilled out around him. The horn blasted, once, twice, three times. Lord Jest swung his trunk majestically through the air. The finale had begun.
At first, everything went like clockwork. Lord Jest flung his hula hoops and Susan slid easily down his trunk and Hamlet and Juliet spun so fast they were almost a blur. Buck ran alongside them, juggling balls under his hooves and behind his tail, making the audience go wild.
Then came Wombat’s turn. Looking terrified, Wombat took one step onto the rope. Then another, and another. Slowly, a look of confidence crept onto his face. He lifted his snout up, walking faster, his steps steady and sure. “I’m doing it, Tilda,” he called out. “It turns out I’m quite the audacious wombat!”
Wombat had just made it past the middle of the rope when out of nowhere, his paw slipped. He let out a gasp as his legs splayed out beneath him, sending him belly-flopping onto the rope. “I can remedy this,” he said as he bounced up and down on his stomach. “I’m audacious. I’m skillful. I’m—”
“Falling.” Lord Jest laughed.
He was right. With one more bounce, Wombat slid off the rope, crashing to the ground with a resounding thud. At that moment, Rigby jumped onto his beach ball as planned. Instantly, it deflated beneath him. He too tumbled to the ground, landing with a yelp in a tangled pile of fur.
Smalls glanced wildly around. The Lifers were still performing, as if they hadn’t even seen Rigby and Wombat fall. Lord Jest was bending a hula hoop into the shape of a poodle with his trunk, Hamlet and Juliet were zooming around the ring on their wheel, and Buck was juggling fifteen balls effortlessly through the air. As Wombat and Rigby pulled themselves back up, an image of Wilson, Claude’s stick, flashed through Smalls’s mind. It’s up to me now, he realized.
Susan leapt gracefully off Juliet’s back in the front of the ring. She turned the hoop of fire on and instantly it burst into flames. “Let’s save this,” she whispered.
“You read my mind,” Smalls replied. Though of course, to Susan, it sounded like a long grunt.
Smalls took his place by the hoop. One, he counted silently. Two. Go! As he leapt into the air, tucking his legs beneath him, the ring seemed to melt away, until it was just him and the hoop. And suddenly he knew: he could do this. He soared through the air, clearing the hoop easily. A burst of pride rushed through him. He hoped that wherever Bertie was, he saw that.
Quickly, Smalls tilted his head up, preparing for the fire sticks. Behind him, he heard the telltale sizzle of Susan throwing the first one. He unfurled his long tongue, his fur prickling in anticipation. But as the fire stick arched into the air, the flames that usually flickered from its tip kept growing—and growing, and growing. Smalls heard Susan let out a gasp as the flames grew so large they engulfed the stick, until it wasn’t so much a fire stick as a ball of fire.
Smalls couldn’t tear his eyes away from the mass of flames as it began to hurtle d
ownward. Closer and closer it drew, growing larger and stronger with every passing second. Smalls stood up tall, stretching out his tongue. He could do this. He had to do this. But then the ball of fire was right above him, and he could feel the heat pouring off it in waves. There was no stick left to catch on his tongue, only flames. And suddenly he could feel the way they would singe his tongue and scorch his fur, sending bolts of pain shooting through him. With a yelp, he leapt out of the way—just in time for the ball of fire to come crashing down in the front of the ring.
Sparks flew as it collided with the floor, the smell of burnt velvet rising into the air. The flames continued to grow, feeding on each other as they flickered left and right. Smalls jumped backward as a flame blazed by, nearly licking at his paws. “Watch out!” Susan yelled, pushing Smalls away from another patch of fire. As plumes of smoke rose around him, Smalls’s heart clenched up in his chest.
The ring of the Big Top was officially on fire.
Chapter Thirty-one
How ’Bout the Elephant?
As the fire blazed in the front of the ring, the audience stumbled over each other to get to the exit. “Wait!” Claude yelled, bursting through the curtain from backstage. In his haste, he tripped over Rigby’s deflated beach ball. Stumbling forward, he landed sprawled out on his oversized belly, a few feet away from the flames. His top hat slid off and out shot Tilda. She was slathered head to toe in mud, looking more like a bedraggled mouse than a majestic rabbit.
Hopping faster than Smalls had ever seen her move, Tilda hurried to the back of the ring, away from the flames, and immediately began licking the mud off her paws. Smalls, Wombat, and Rigby quickly joined her, huddling together as the flames rose ahead of them.
As Claude struggled to pull himself up from the ground, the distinct sound of popping came from underneath his wide girth. Finally, he managed to stand, but as he did, seven gold buttons scattered onto the ground. His vest sprang open, revealing a torn and stained undershirt beneath it. “Water!” Claude screamed as smoke rose around him. “Someone get me water!”
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 11