The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  “We’ll have to do it during a show,” Smalls was saying. “Out in the ring. That’s the only time we’re not in chains or a cage without the Lloyds or Claude right next to us.”

  “But how?” Rigby asked. “There will be hundreds of other hands there to catch us.”

  “A distraction,” Wombat said thoughtfully. “We’ll need an enormous distraction.”

  “Like a fire?” Smalls joked.

  Wombat’s head snapped up. “Like a fire,” he repeated.

  They all looked at each other. “No one would notice us running out if the tent was on fire again,” Rigby said.

  Juliet’s yellow eyes widened. “You’re planning to escape,” she burst out. She’d inched even closer, and now she was standing only feet from the Misfits. “I knew you were up to something last night!” she told Smalls.

  Smalls glanced nervously at the other Lifers, but they were all snoozing contentedly away. “Maybe we are,” he said defensively. “What does it matter to you?”

  Juliet cocked her head, her eyes flitting toward the window in the tent, where the woods were just barely visible outside. “It matters,” she said slowly, “because I want in.”

  Wombat burst out laughing. “You want us to trust a Lifer?”

  “That’s like trying to catch a cloud,” Rigby said. “Which I’ve tried. Believe me, it’s not possible.”

  Smalls ignored them, studying Juliet. “You’re serious.”

  Juliet lowered her voice. “I want out of this place. And I want Hamlet to come with me. Before one of us ends up like May—with no monkey sanctuary to save us.”

  Smalls met her eyes. He saw that word reflected back at him. Freedom. “Okay,” he said suddenly. “You’re in.”

  Wombat and Rigby’s jaws dropped. “She’s what?” they both asked.

  “Think about it,” Smalls said. “They’re lions. We could use their strength. Besides, leaving in the middle of the show was really her idea.”

  Wombat lowered his voice. “How can we be adequately sure we can trust them, Smalls?”

  Smalls looked back at Juliet. She seemed tired, he thought. Worn. As if she were carrying it all on her back—the threats, the slop, the fights, the punishments. “You can trust us,” she promised. “We’ll help.”

  Wombat stared at her for a long moment. “Humans do have an abysmal fear of lions,” he said tentatively.

  Juliet bared her sharp fangs to demonstrate, and Rigby leapt backward. “So do Komondor dogs,” he yelped.

  “See?” Juliet flicked her tail against the ground. “You need us.”

  Wombat looked at Rigby. Rigby looked at Wombat. Smalls could see a message passing silently between them.

  “Okay,” Wombat said.

  “Okay,” Rigby said.

  “But no others can know about it in advance,” Wombat added. “The last thing we need is Lord Jest or Buck thwarting our plans.”

  Juliet nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly. For a second, Smalls thought he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes. But then she blinked and it was gone. “Now let’s get planning.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Better Than a Squirrel

  Susan couldn’t find Bertie anywhere. She’d looked in the Big Top, in his sleeping caravan, even in the kitchen, but it was like he’d just disappeared. And right when she was dying to tell him about her parents’ letters. “Where is he?” she muttered. The only place she hadn’t looked was the woods, but why would he be there?

  “Of course,” she blurted. Her cave. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She’d been the one who told him to go there. She took off running, clutching her parents’ most recent letter in her hands. It was the one written only days ago. She’d hidden the rest of them safely under her bed, but she couldn’t make herself part with this one. It was proof that they were real—not just the letters, but the parents too.

  She was panting by the time she reached the cave, and she paused outside to catch her breath. All around her the woods were alive with whispers, wind skirting through the trees, making the leaves rattle and fall. There was a thickness to the air too, like you could scoop it right up in your hands. A storm was coming, Susan realized.

  She only hoped it would pass before nighttime. A caravan was the worst place to weather out a storm. The rain pounded against the roof so loudly it seemed to be thrumming inside you, and the wind shook the caravan back and forth, back and forth, like a boat on a violent sea. Without fail, one of the Nillings always threw up, and with the windows sealed up tight, the stench would seep into everything, impossible to escape.

  When her breathing returned to normal, Susan pushed her way into the cave. From the outside, the cave didn’t look like much, just a solid wall of gray rock. But there was an opening at the bottom, and when you ducked through it, the wall opened into a cavernous, empty space. Just like she’d predicted, Bertie was in there, sitting on the floor with his back to her. For a second, she saw the walls of the cave through his eyes. Paint was everywhere, bright, swirling, vibrant, a tornado of colors. It was like standing inside a canvas.

  “Do I have news for you,” she announced, dropping down next to him. She waved her parents’ letter at him. “That box we found was filled with letters, Bertie. And they were all from my parents. They want me. They’ve always wanted me. Claude’s been lying to me all along.” She tossed the letter into the air. “But not anymore. Somehow I’m going to find them.”

  “Claude’s been lying about something else too,” Bertie said, staring blankly at the letter as it fluttered into her lap. Only then did Susan notice the tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

  She grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “My mom is dead,” he said dully. “She has been for years.”

  Susan closed her eyes. While she’d been finding her parents, Bertie had been losing his. “I’m so sorry,” she said. She opened her eyes to find him staring straight ahead, at the field of wildflowers she’d painted across the wall.

  “I’m all alone,” he said. “I have no one. No family.”

  Susan picked her letter back up, bending it between her fingers. She was thinking of something her mom had said to her once. “When I was little,” she told Bertie, “I used to see this duck wandering around our farm, always waddling after the same family of squirrels. Finally one day I asked my mom if the duck was confused and thought he was a squirrel. ‘Of course not,’ my mom told me. ‘He knows he’s a duck. But sometimes you can find family in surprising places.’” Susan turned to Bertie. His bright blue eyes were clouded over with tears. “You just have to find your squirrels,” she said softly.

  Bertie stood up. Walking over to the wall, he ran his finger along the curve of a flower. Silence yawned through the cave, and he realized vaguely that he should say something, fill it. But he was too busy working through what Susan had just said. Sometimes you can find family in surprising places.

  Out of nowhere, he pictured Smalls, his long tongue reaching out to lick his hand. He wasn’t a squirrel, but he was even better. “I have to go,” he said suddenly. All day long, his head had been so fuzzy. But just like that, it cleared. “There’s something I have to do.” He started toward the opening of the cave.

  “Wait!” Susan pulled a worn square of paper out from the waistband of her skirt. It was folded down the middle. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “I thought you’d want to see this. I found it in Claude’s caravan.”

  Bertie looked down at it curiously. “Thanks.” He paused by the opening. “I’m happy for you, Susan,” he said, and he was surprised to find he really meant it. At least while he was losing his parents, someone else was finding hers. He gave her a small smile. “You’re right, you should go find them,” he added. Then he hurried out of the cave.

  He unfolded the paper from Susan as he headed int
o the woods. But when he saw what it was, his legs stopped moving. It was a photograph of a young Claude, with his arm slung around a baby elephant. A note was scrawled across the back. Claude and his best friend, Lord Jest—or Lordy as he calls him.

  Best friend? Bertie sucked in a breath. He’d always assumed Claude had been the same his whole life: selfish, cruel, Claude. If he imagined him as a boy, it was as a bully, spitting fingernails into teachers’ faces and kicking stray cats on the street. But in this photo, he looked almost like Bertie.

  Was it possible that once, a long, long time ago, Claude had been just like him? Bertie tried to imagine Claude and Lord Jest as best friends. Maybe Claude had taught the elephant tricks and scratched him under his chin and snuck food into his cage. Maybe he’d rooted for him when there was no one else to. And maybe once, when it felt like nothing was ever going to be right again, when he’d felt lower than the soles on the bottom of his shoes, he’d raised his voice and he’d called him worthless.

  Bertie’s mouth turned to chalk. If Claude had been just like him once . . . that meant one day he could be just like Claude. Bertie thought about how his anger had swallowed him up earlier until he felt like someone else altogether. “No,” he whispered. It didn’t matter how angry he was or how much his heart felt like it was splitting down the middle. He couldn’t let anything turn him into that person—into Claude.

  Bertie broke into a run. There was definitely, definitely something he had to do.

  Chapter Forty-four

  A Call from the King

  “Bajumba!” Smalls heard Claude before he saw him. Seconds later, Claude came sauntering into the Big Top, tarnished silver jugs clutched in each of his hands. He lifted both jugs to his lips at once and took a long, sumptuous gulp. Wisps of steam rose into the air, filling the tent with the scent of cocoa.

  Loyd and Lloyd hurried in after him, wide, identical smiles on their broad, identical faces.

  “What is it you wanted to tell us, Boss?” Loyd said eagerly.

  “Yes, what’s your news, magnificent Boss?” Lloyd threw in smugly.

  Loyd elbowed his brother in the ribs. “Show-off,” he said through his smile.

  “Clone,” Lloyd muttered back through his own smile.

  “I got an important phone call, boys,” Claude announced. He pulled his top hat off with a flourish, and Loyd leaned in closer to hear him. Lloyd, not to be outdone, leaned in even closer. Glaring at Lloyd, Loyd leaned closer still, until it looked like he might topple over at any second.

  Claude took an annoyed step back. “What is this? The leaning tower of Lloyds?” He waved his top hat at the twins. “Up!”

  On command, Lloyd and Loyd straightened up, each trying to stand taller than the other.

  “Now, guess who just called me?” Claude continued.

  “The president of the United States!” Loyd guessed excitedly.

  “The king of the United States!” Lloyd chimed in eagerly.

  In the back of the ring, Wombat rolled his eyes. “I believe there are grains of dirt more intelligent than those two.”

  Next to him, Juliet burst out laughing. “Good one,” she said, and Wombat lifted his snout, looking pleased.

  “Even better,” Claude told the twins. He took another double swig of cocoa, then wiped a smudge of chocolate off his lips. “Ames Howard!” Lloyd and Loyd stared at him blankly. “Who’s Ames Howard?” Loyd asked hesitantly.

  Claude narrowed his eyes at the twins. “Ames Howard is only one-half of the great Howard Brothers.” He paused expectantly, but Lloyd and Loyd just kept staring at him blankly. “As in the Howard Brothers Circus?” Claude tried again.

  “Oh!” Loyd gasped.

  “Wow!” Lloyd exclaimed.

  In the back of the ring, the Misfits and Juliet all fell silent. Everyone in the world knew of the Howard Brothers Circus. It was the largest, grandest, most popular circus of all time.

  “Ames Howard was at our show last night,” Claude said. “Because the Howard Brothers were thinking about buying the Most Magnificent Traveling Circus.”

  “Oh,” Loyd said hesitantly.

  “Wow,” Lloyd said tentatively.

  “Buying?” Smalls whispered.

  “Of course, after our disastrous finale,” Claude continued, “Ames went sprinting out of the tent. I was sure I’d never hear from him again! But then . . .” He paused to down more hot cocoa. “But then, just now while I was getting my cocoa, he called.” Claude did a little jump in the air. “I was able to convince him that the fire was caused by faulty equipment, not faulty performers. And he believed me! They’ve decided they still want to buy the Most Magnificent Traveling Circus! They’re going to send it overseas.”

  Loyd furrowed his brow. “You mean to the other side of a pond?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Lloyd said impatiently. “He means to the other side of a creek. Right, Boss?”

  Claude sighed. “Across the ocean, boys. To other countries, other continents!”

  “Which countries?” Loyd asked.

  “Which continents?” Lloyd added.

  Claude shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? All I know is that they’re paying us! I can retire at last! And you, boys, will get nice, fat bonuses if you decide to stay with the circus.”

  Loyd and Lloyd threw their arms around each other, cheering with joy. Claude waved his top hat for silence. “There’s just one thing. They want the circus to leave tomorrow. We’ll have one last performance tonight, and then first thing tomorrow, we head to the harbor.”

  Smalls, who’d been listening carefully to the exchange, took a sudden step back. Tomorrow? The circus was going overseas tomorrow?

  Claude threw an arm around both of the Lloyds. “Come on, Lloyd. Come on, Loyd. We’re taking an early lunch today to celebrate! I’m getting a steak on Mr. Ames Howard!” As Claude, Lloyd, and Loyd ambled out of the Big Top, Smalls looked anxiously from Wombat to Rigby to Juliet.

  “Tomorrow,” Juliet said uneasily.

  “Which means if we’re going to escape,” Smalls said, “we’re going to have to do it tonight.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Eat Fingernails

  Seconds after Claude, Lloyd, and Loyd left, Bertie came flying into the Big Top. He was panting as he ran over to Smalls, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead. Rigby, Wombat, and Juliet had been huddled together with Smalls, whispering about escape plans, but they all backed away quickly, giving Smalls his space.

  Bertie threw his arms around Smalls’s neck, hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorrier than a firefly in a jar.” He blinked. That saying had just popped right out of his mouth. But it felt familiar somehow. Where had he heard it before? “I’m sorrier than a firefly in a jar,” he said again. He closed his eyes, and suddenly the memory that had been tugging at his mind since he found that wooden boy came floating into his reach.

  He was outside. It was nighttime, but specks of light were flashing in the darkness. He was holding a glass jar, chasing wildly after the specks as they flitted in and out of sight. “Got you!” he yelled, slamming the lid on his jar. Inside, a firefly skittered frantically, hitting up against the walls of the jar.

  “Bertie!” His mom stuck her head outside, her red hair like a flame in the starlight. “Dinner’s ready.”

  “I’m too busy to eat,” Bertie declared. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  His mom eyed the jar in his hand. The firefly was flickering brightly inside. “I bet you’re not sorrier than that firefly in a jar,” she said. She came outside, gently taking the jar out of his hands. Unscrewing the lid, she released the firefly. It flashed once, then disappeared into the night.

  “Hey,” Bertie protested. “It took me almost an hour to catch him!”

  His mom pulled something out
of the pocket of her apron, a miniature wooden boy with painted blue eyes and a shock of red hair escaping his tiny wooden baseball cap. She dropped it into the jar with a smile. “This you can trap in a jar,” she said.

  Bertie opened his eyes. The glass jar was gone, and so was his mom. Instead, Smalls stood in front of him, pressing his muzzle into Bertie’s hand. Bertie scratched him under his chin, right where he knew he liked it, and said what he’d come to say. “You’re my family now, Smalls.”

  Smalls leaned into Bertie’s hand. “Family,” he repeated. He felt warm and gooey all over, as if he’d been dipped in honey. He stuck out his long tongue and gave Bertie’s hand a lick. “I forgive you,” he said.

  Bertie touched the wooden doll in his pocket, comforted by the sound of Smalls’s grunts. He wondered if Smalls was talking to him, in his own, bear way. I forgive you, he imagined him saying.

  “If only we could get out of this place,” Bertie said with a sigh. “If only we could run away somewhere together.”

  An idea struck Smalls. “Maybe we can,” he whispered.

  Plop-plop-plop! Several raindrops splashed down on the top of the tent, the noise echoing through the ring. Smalls looked toward the window. Outside, the sky had turned dark and gray, clouds gathering and colliding, cloaking the sun like a curtain. “Those are not friendly clouds,” he heard Rigby pant. “Those are Claude clouds.”

  “Storm clouds,” Juliet assessed.

  Bertie scratched Smalls under his chin. “There’s something I need to do,” he whispered. “But don’t forget what I said, okay? You’re my family now, Smalls. I promise I’ll never hurt you again.”

  As Bertie hurried out of the tent, a small square of paper slipped out of his pocket, fluttering to the ground. Smalls lumbered over to it, his chains digging into his paws. It was a photo, Smalls realized. He crouched down to get a better look. In the photo, a boy had his arm draped around a baby elephant.