* * *
While Buck and Wombat were lamenting in their caravan, Tilda was being squeezed by Chrysanthemum in the backseat of a motorcar. “Squeak!” Chrysanthemum kept demanding, squeezing Tilda until she let out a strangled squeal. Chrysanthemum laughed in delight. “You’re my new squeaky, high-fashion purse,” she declared.
“First ‘nuzzle bunny’ and ‘bunny buns’ and now a purse?” Tilda burst out. “For your information, little girl, my name is Tilda!”
Chrysanthemum laughed at Tilda’s squeaks, squeezing her even tighter. “Mother,” she said. “I want to take my new purse to the store.”
“Now?” Mrs. Toddle asked. She blinked her pale, watery eyes, stifling a yawn. “It’s late, Chrysanthemum.”
“I want to bring my purse to the store!” Chrysanthemum repeated, her voice rising shrilly. She shook her head, making her brown curls bounce up and down.
“Okay,” Mrs. Toddle gave in. “We’ll go to the store. Just please don’t shriek.”
Chrysanthemum smiled smugly to herself. “Works every time,” she said under her breath.
A few minutes later, the motorcar turned down a long, narrow road. At the end of it, a building rose into the sky like a mountain. It was made of green brick and had a white lace trim and a white shingled roof that gave it the look of being snow-capped. A large sign became visible as the motorcar drew closer. TODDLE’S TOY EMPORIUM, it read.
Several unusual contraptions dotted the grassy area around the sign. There was a tall silver coil that sprinkled bits of candy into the air in random spurts. There was a boy built entirely of copper who was waving a rainbow of balloons in his copper hands. And nestled in a tall oak tree was a life-size version of the wooden dollhouse Chrysanthemum had left behind at the circus.
Chrysanthemum leaned back in her seat, a stray curl springing onto her forehead. “One day, Toddle’s Toy Emporium will be all mine,” she confided in Tilda. “I will be the first to own every toy that’s ever invented.” She looked out the window at the silver coil and the copper boy and the life-size dollhouse. “And I will be the only person in the world to own a Candy Springer and a Copper Boy and a Toddle’s Original tree house. We’ll see just how snooty Lauren Nicola is to me then!” She gave Tilda another tight squeeze, but this time, Tilda didn’t feel it. Because curled up on Chrysanthemum’s lap, the motorcar buzzing beneath her and Chrysanthemum’s voice twisting above her, she’d fallen fast asleep.
* * *
Back in the caravan, the other animals had drifted off as well. “Tilda,” Wombat kept murmuring in his sleep. Otherwise, the caravan was quiet, darkness washing over the cages like a lullaby. As everyone else slept on, Smalls sat back, absently touching the spot behind his ear where he used to keep his four-leaf clovers. He was just as tired as the others, but his mind refused to shut off. Something Rigby had said earlier had worked itself into the crevices of his brain, and no matter what Smalls did, he couldn’t seem to get it out. “We’d have to escape to do that,” Rigby had said.
It would be impossible, Smalls thought. Or . . . would it? Between Wombat’s smarts and Rigby’s imagination and his strength, why couldn’t they do it? Excitement prickled at his paws. He turned in a circle, thinking hard. They’d have to find a time when they were out of their cages, of course. “When are we free?” he muttered to himself. “No cages or chains or Lloyds nearby . . .”
“Well, that’s easy.” Smalls jumped at the sound of Juliet’s voice. He turned around to see her watching him curiously. “During the circus,” she went on. “When we’re out in the ring, performing for the audience. No cages or chains or Lloyds there.”
Smalls snapped his head up. “Holy horseshoe,” he murmured. She was right.
Juliet swished her tail thoughtfully, studying him. “Why were you asking about the cages anyway?”
“No reason,” Smalls said, looking away. He had to admit that Juliet was starting to grow on him, but she was still a Lifer. “Just curious.”
“Fine.” Juliet shrugged. “Don’t tell me.” She lay down in her cage, trying to get comfortable. “It’s not as if I care.”
Chapter Forty
Worthless
That night, Bertie slept fitfully. He dreamed of a woman. Her back was to him, and he kept pleading for her to turn around. But every time she did, she would darken to ashes, scattering on the wind. By the time the light of dawn filtered through his tiny window and Claude flung his door open, Bertie felt like he’d barely slept a wink.
“Get out of bed, boy!” Claude ordered.
Bertie pulled his blanket tighter. “Why should I listen to you?” he mumbled into his pillow.
“I’ll tell you why.” Claude grabbed his arm, pulling him roughly out of bed. He crouched down until he was face-to-face with Bertie. “Because you’re an orphan now, boy.” The smell of hot cocoa poured off his breath. “You have no father. You have no mother. You have only me. Which means, like it or not, this is your home. And if you want to be fed, I suggest you get your skinny butt out to the Big Top and do your job.”
He spit a fingernail in Bertie’s face. “That bear you were supposed to train failed me yesterday! If he doesn’t do better tonight, I’ve found a nice new home for you for the next few days. And believe me, it’s going to make that cabinet in the supply caravan look like a mansion.”
Bertie stared at him, not saying a word. My mom is gone, he thought. Claude is all I have now. Somewhere buried inside Bertie was a deep, deep sadness. But piled on top of it—heavier than bricks and steel and all the chains in the world—was anger. Anger so big and so black that it cast a shadow over everything.
* * *
Meanwhile, in the Big Top, Smalls was busy making lists.
Pros to Escaping
1.We could try to get Tilda back.
2.No more cages or rings or chains.
3.We’d never have to smell Claude’s cocoa breath again.
Cons to Escaping
1.We could be caught.
2.We could be punished.
3.We’d have to leave Bertie.
Smalls sighed. Three versus three. He was getting nowhere. As the door to the Big Top swung open, he looked over. In stalked Claude, with Bertie close at his heels. Bertie looked different, Smalls noticed. His muscles were tensed, and his eyes were distant, glazed, somewhere else altogether.
“Get to work, boy,” Claude said, giving him a shove.
Bertie stumbled toward Smalls, his baseball cap slipping into his eyes. “We have to get this right today,” he said sullenly. He pointed to Smalls’s starting spot. “Start!” he ordered sharply.
Smalls cocked his head, confused. This boy looked like Bertie. He smelled like Bertie. But he was acting nothing like Bertie. Why wasn’t he smiling? Or sneaking Smalls food? Or scratching him under the chin?
And then suddenly it hit Smalls. Bertie must be angry about his performance last night after all. Smalls’s heart sank to his paws.
“Start!” Bertie ordered again. He pointed to Smalls’s starting spot, and this time Smalls scrambled into his stance, anxious to please him. “We’ll skip the hoop and just start with simple fire stick catching,” Bertie said. “Since that’s where things went so wrong yesterday.” He tossed an unlit fire stick into the air. “One. Two. GO!” he commanded. But his voice was so curt that Smalls looked over at him in surprise—and completely missed the stick.
Bertie threw up his hands. “Come on, Smalls,” he said, sounding exasperated. “That was an easy one!”
Smalls pawed the ground uneasily. He wished Bertie would just talk to him, tell him what was wrong. But Bertie wouldn’t even look him in the eye.
The thing was, Bertie couldn’t look Smalls in the eye. Because the anger inside him had grown so big that it was starting to swallow him whole. “Again,” Bertie ordered, tossing anot
her fire stick into the air. “One. Two. GO!”
This time, Smalls leapt forward, stretching out his tongue. But he was so desperate to please Bertie that he put too much force into it, and again he missed the stick completely.
Frustrated, Bertie gathered up the fire sticks. This is my life, he thought. He threw one of the sticks into the air. This is all I have now. He threw another one up. I have no family. He threw a third stick, then a fourth, not caring where they went. I have no one. I am no one. He threw a fifth stick without even looking. I am worthless. With all his might, he chucked the last stick into the air. “GO!” he yelled at Smalls.
Smalls leapt forward, trying to catch each of the six sticks as they spun wildly downward. But he had to move right as he moved left and forward as he moved back, and suddenly his feet were tangling and instead of catching, he was falling—all the way to the ground. The sticks smashed down around him, making whacking noises as they hit the ground. The last one, the one Bertie had chucked upward so angrily, fell downward hardest, slicing through the air like a knife. But instead of hitting the ground near Smalls, instead of making the same whack as the other sticks, a gust of wind blew in from outside, pushing it toward Bertie. With a loud, angry THWACK, it slammed right into his head.
“Ow!” Bertie cried out. Pain shot through him, and again he thought those awful words. I have no one. I am no one. I am worthless.
The anger sucked him in, making him someone else entirely, someone hard and dark and wholly alone. When the words came out of his mouth, they belonged not to him, but to this darker, harder version. A person that was Bertie and wasn’t Bertie, all at once. “YOU,” he shouted at Smalls, “ARE. WORTHLESS!” Then he turned and he ran.
Chapter Forty-one
A Wooden Boy
Bertie didn’t know where he was going. He just knew that he had to get away, and fast, somewhere where nothing could reach him, not even his feelings. Susan’s cave in the woods, he thought suddenly—and that’s where his legs steered him, pumping wildly as they kicked up dust in his wake.
His body moved automatically, as if that too didn’t belong to him. He closed his eyes, letting his limbs take over. He was Invisible Boy, he told himself. He wasn’t even there. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than his foot collided with something hard. He lurched forward, waving his arms through the air to regain his balance. But it was too late. He landed on his stomach with his second thwack of the day. For several seconds, Bertie just lay there, his cheek pressing against the dusty ground.
In the distance, he could hear Claude yelling and Loyd—or maybe it was Lloyd—saying, “Of course, Boss! You’re right, Boss!” An image of Smalls flashed through Bertie’s mind. The way he’d looked at him when he’d yelled . . . No. He blinked the image away.
With a groan, he pulled himself up—and found himself staring straight at a miniature house. It was carved of wood and meticulously painted, not a detail out of place. There were gray shingles on the roof, white shutters on the windows, and a sprinkling of painted daisies around the front stoop. For an instant, Bertie forgot about himself as he pulled it onto his lap.
Above the tiny wooden door was a latch. Carefully, Bertie tugged at it. The top half of the house lifted up, revealing a whole home underneath. He leaned in close, studying it. There was everything: a miniature bed and a miniature desk and a miniature stove and even miniature plates, set out on a miniature table. There was a whole miniature family sitting at the table too: a dad and a mom and three colorfully painted kids. Bertie scrunched up his forehead as he looked at one of the kids. It was a boy, with a smattering of freckles and a shock of red hair sticking out from underneath a tiny wooden baseball cap.
He picked the boy up, laying him out in his palm. Like everything else in the house, he was carved out of wood. He had arms and legs that moved forward and backward and a blue sweater and brown pants painted onto him. His face was painted on too, and every tiny detail—from the individual eyelashes to the dotting of freckles—was perfect. He had bright blue eyes, much like Bertie’s own. And even though Bertie knew they were made out of paint, they were so lifelike that he almost expected them to blink up at him.
As Bertie stared at the wooden boy, something tugged at the corner of his mind. It was a memory, thin and translucent as a bubble. The boy reminded him of something from his past. But no matter how hard he fought for it, the memory stayed just out of his reach.
“Faster, you lazy wombat!” Claude’s angry shout drifted over from the Big Top, shaking Bertie out of his thoughts. He put the wooden house on the ground and stood up abruptly. He was just about to drop the boy inside too when at the last minute, he slipped him into his pocket instead. Then, breaking back into a run, he let his legs carry him toward the woods.
* * *
Meanwhile, inside the Big Top, Smalls was speechless. Lloyd had taken over his training, and as Smalls leapt through the flaming hoop and caught fire stick after fire stick with his tongue, he thought only of Bertie and that word he’d called him. Worthless.
Maybe Bertie was right. Maybe he was worthless. He couldn’t save the circus last night, after all. And he couldn’t stop Tilda from being taken away. He looked over at Wombat, who was moping his way across the tightrope, and Rigby, who kept withdrawing into his fur whenever Loyd looked away. He’d always been the one who made sure his friends were happy, but now he was even failing at that.
A breeze blew into the Big Top, making Smalls turn around. Bertie had left the door to the tent hanging wide open, and outside, Smalls could see the barren, dusty ground extending in every direction. In the distance, a line of trees stretched across the horizon, and suddenly Smalls found himself imagining what it would be like to kick up his paws and run—away from the Big Top and away from the caravans and right into those woods. He shivered a little at the thought. He’d never really lived in the wild; none of them had. But as Lloyd took the fire sticks from him and shoved him toward the hoop, Smalls couldn’t shake the idea.
Somewhere beyond those woods was Tilda. If he could save her, they’d all be together again; they’d all be happy. But it was as Rigby had said: the only way to do that was to escape. Smalls pawed nervously at the ground as he took his spot by the hoop.
He wasn’t worthless. And he was going to prove it.
Chapter Forty-two
Brighter Than the North Star
“Escape?” Wombat said. “As in take flight? Bolt? Make a break for it?”
“Exactly,” Smalls confirmed. Claude, Lloyd, and Loyd had left for a coffee break, and now he, Wombat, and Rigby were huddled together in the back of the ring, chains around their paws. “We’re going to escape, and then we’re going to find Tilda.”
Wombat gave him a curious look. “Does this have something to do with Bertie calling you—?”
“Of course not!” Smalls cut him off. “It has to do with Tilda. And”—he shook a chained paw at him—“our freedom.” It was a word he’d never thought much about before, but now it seemed to sparkle in his mind, brighter than the North Star. It blinded him from everything else, even—almost—Bertie.
“Escape,” Wombat said again, nodding his snout. “If I rescued Tilda, she’d be required to forgive me for my utmost buffoonish behavior.” His voice grew softer. “And we’d be together again. Okay,” he said. “I’m in. Let’s escape.”
“But what about Mumford?” Rigby asked. He spit out a strand of fur that had found its way into his mouth. “What if he finally finds the circus, and we’re gone?”
Smalls steeled himself as he looked from Rigby to Wombat. This was it. He couldn’t protect them any longer. They had to know. “Mumford knows exactly where we are,” Smalls said. “He’s known all along.”
Wombat wrinkled up his snout. “What are you saying, Smalls?”
It all came out in a rush. “Mumford bet us in a card game against Claude. And then
he lost us. He bet us away.”
“Why would he do such an atrocious thing?” Wombat whispered.
Rigby ducked his eyes under his fur, letting out a soft whimper. “He’s as bad as Claude.”
“No.” Smalls shook his head, thinking of the way Mumford had always been: how he’d brought Smalls home from an auction instead of chickens and how he’d used his train money to purchase Wombat and how he’d let Rigby’s mom wander onto his farm to give birth to her litter. “I think he’s just . . . human.”
“Human is quite a confusing thing to be,” Wombat said with a sigh.
An image of Bertie flashed through Smalls’s mind—how distant his eyes had seemed when he’d yelled at him. “I think it is,” he agreed.
Rigby shook his fur out of his eyes. “I’m glad I’m a Komondor dog,” he decided. “Even if my fur is plain old white.”
They were all quiet for a minute. Finally, it was Rigby who asked it. “So if we want to escape, the question is: how?”
Smalls sat back on his haunches. “I think I have an idea.”
As Smalls, Wombat, and Rigby huddled closer, the Lifers lounged on the other side of the ring. “The humans should take coffee breaks every hour,” Buck said, making himself comfortable.
“It’s better than having to practice,” Lord Jest agreed with a yawn.
“I think my new circus act is going to be napping,” Hamlet chimed in. Letting out a contented sigh, he rested his head on his paws.
Ignoring the others, Juliet flicked her ears toward the back of the ring, where Smalls, Rigby, and Wombat were crouched together, whispering. “Something is going on,” she murmured to herself. Pretending to sift around in the velvet floor with her nose, she inched closer to the Misfits. “Maybe someone dropped some food out here,” she said loudly, but no one took any notice. She inched even closer.
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 15