“Aww.” The sound of Lord Jest’s sneer drew Smalls’s attention away from the photo. “You and that boy are just soooo sweet,” he said, clomping over to Smalls. He shook his head, making his ears flap through the air like wings. “When ya gonna listen to me, buddy bear? Caring only gets ya in . . .” Lord Jest trailed off as his eyes landed on the photo on the floor. “Where did that come from?” he asked sharply.
“It fell out of Bertie’s pocket. It’s a photo of—”
“I know what it’s of,” Lord Jest interrupted, his voice tense. “I just don’t want to see it!” Lifting a chained hoof, he gave the photo a kick, sending it flying to the other side of the ring. “Why would Bertie even have it?”
Smalls watched Lord Jest smack his trunk angrily against the floor. Suddenly, a thought dawned on him. “The elephant in that picture . . . was that you, Lord Jest?”
“So what if it was?” Lord Jest spit out. “It was a lifetime ago. Back when Claude still had a heart,” he added under his breath.
Smalls took a step back in surprise. The boy in that picture, hugging the elephant . . . “That was Claude?” he whispered.
Lord Jest let out a nasty honk. “It’s like I was saying before, caring only gets ya in trouble.”
Smalls blinked as he stared up at the elephant. He finally understood. Lord Jest wasn’t mean because he was angry. Lord Jest was mean because he was hurt. Claude had been his friend once, and he’d betrayed him. Smalls thought about how terrible he’d felt after Bertie had yelled at him, like something inside him had shattered. How long had Lord Jest felt like that?
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Smalls said softly. He pictured Bertie: his smile, his laugh, the way he’d said that word, family. Suddenly, he felt unbearably sad for Lord Jest. He stepped closer to the elephant, looking him right in the eyes. “Sometimes the trouble is worth it.”
* * *
Outside the Big Top, Bertie was on his way to find his uncle. It wasn’t Claude’s usual lunchtime yet, so if he wasn’t in the tent, there was only one other place he was likely to be: filling up on cocoa in his caravan. As Bertie made his way there, he replayed his new memory over and over again. It felt like such a gift, to remember. For so long his mind had been like the dusty ground here: dry and barren, a place where nothing could grow. But now something had. And maybe if one memory could sprout, more would too. He reached into his pocket, toying with the tiny wooden doll tucked inside. His mom had given him one just like it. But why? And when? He fought hard to remember—to make another memory sprout—but the answers eluded him.
He slowed down as he neared Claude’s caravan. He could worry about the memory later. Right now, he had his uncle to face. “Uncle,” he practiced. “You can’t treat me like a little boy anymore. If I’m going to stay here, I demand you treat me better from now on. And I demand you treat the animals better too!” Demand. He liked that. He pushed his baseball cap off his forehead. From now on, he decided, there would be no more yeses.
Taking a deep breath, he flung open the door to the caravan. “Uncle?” he called out, stepping inside. But the caravan was dark and still. Claude wasn’t there. Bertie closed the door behind him, looking around. He was rarely allowed in his uncle’s caravan, and he couldn’t help but stare at all the space he had, enough room for a whole couch and a table and a long counter. At the very end of the counter, his eyes landed on a tall ceramic urn.
Bertie pulled the top off it, peering inside. It was Claude’s cocoa powder. Reaching into his pocket, he felt for the fingernail Claude had spit out at him last night. It was still right where he’d dropped it. “Eat fingernails, Uncle,” he said, tossing the nail into the urn. As he did, he noticed a piece of paper peeking out from beneath the cocoa powder. It was a check, written out to C. Magnificence. Bertie’s jaw dropped as he stared at the number on the check. For the rabbit, someone had written along the bottom.
Bertie thought back to the animals that had been in the tent. He’d been so consumed by his anger earlier that he’d barely noticed anything. But as he ran through the animals in his head, it hit him that Tilda the Angora rabbit hadn’t been there. He sold her. It dawned on him suddenly. Claude had sold the rabbit. He looked down at the check, gripping it tightly in his fingers.
“This shouldn’t be yours,” he whispered angrily. Without stopping to think, he stuck the check into his pocket. Then he placed the top back on the urn and hurried out of the caravan. Outside, the rain was picking up, and the sky had turned dark and threatening overhead. But he barely noticed. Because Claude’s unattended urn of cocoa had given him an idea.
Bertie broke into a smile as he climbed into his caravan. Pushing past the clowns, he went into his closet of a bedroom, wrangling the jar of Claude’s nails out from under his bed. “It’s time you go where you belong,” he said. “Into the cocoa.” Clutching the jar to his chest, he started back to Claude’s caravan.
Chapter Forty-six
Toddle’s Toys
“Let’s run through it one more time,” Smalls said, his chains clanging against the ground as he paced nervously along the back of the ring. There were only two hours left until showtime, and as Lloyd and Loyd patched up any remaining damage from last night’s fire, Smalls, Wombat, Rigby, Juliet, and Hamlet were putting the final touches on their escape plan.
“First,” Juliet began, “the fangs will take care of the identical baboons.”
“As well as the rooster,” Hamlet added, licking his chops. “He won’t rule the roost after this!”
“Good,” Smalls said with a nod. They were using code words so Buck and Lord Jest wouldn’t know what they were planning. When the time came, the elephant and zebra could escape with the rest of them, but until then, Smalls wasn’t taking any chances.
“Next, the Hairy-Nosed Prince will get Blackie set up for our special grand finale,” Wombat said proudly.
“And the Four-Legged Rainbow will delay the watchers!” Rigby chimed in.
“And then finally, the chickens will all fly the coop,” Smalls finished.
“Chickens?” Buck muttered. “Rainbow? What are they talking about?” He looked over at Lord Jest, but Lord Jest ignored him, staring blankly into the distance.
“All right,” Smalls said. He looked from Wombat to Rigby to the lions. “Here goes nothing.”
* * *
A few hours later, Bertie stood at the back of the Big Top, watching Buck and the lions perform their tricks in the ring. Something felt different at the circus tonight, Bertie decided. He’d noticed it every time he’d taken a break from the concession stand to peek his head in to watch. There was an electric buzz to the air, as if somewhere in the tent, lightning had struck.
It could just be the weather, Bertie reasoned. It had grown steadily worse since this morning until a full-blown storm was raging, rain pounding and thunder clapping and wind howling, making the lights flicker out occasionally in the ring. Or maybe, Bertie thought, it was him. Between his new memory and the stunt he’d pulled with Claude’s cocoa, Bertie had been feeling antsy all night. Something had to change; he knew that much. He just didn’t know what it was.
The animals disappeared backstage, and Susan swung in on her rope. The tips of her long blond hair were wet from the rain, but the audience didn’t seem to notice. They oohed and aahed in all the right places as she twirled her way through the ring. She caught Bertie’s eye as she leaned into her back bend, giving him a tiny smile. Bertie smiled back. Whether it was the storm or it was him, something was definitely buzzing through the air, and it was making him want to do something.
“Hello!” a woman called out from the concession area, making Bertie jump. “Is there anyone to buy soda from around here?”
Bertie slipped through the curtain back to the soda counter. “What can I get you?” he asked. Just days ago, he would have been terrified that Claude would
find out he’d abandoned his post, but right now it was the last thing on his mind. He looked up and found himself staring into the face of the same pale, watery-eyed woman he’d served last night. The one whose awful daughter had worn that poufy yellow dress.
“One cola,” the pale-faced woman ordered primly. She was with a friend, a large woman whose chin quivered and wobbled with every movement.
“What a disgrace this circus is!” the wobbly-chinned woman said in disgust. “Next time, I’m insisting my daughter wait until the Howard Brothers Circus is in town. I heard there was even a fire in the ring last night!”
The pale-faced woman nodded. “There was. I was here. And believe me, I did not want to return for a second viewing. But Chrysanthemum seemed to find the whole fire rather exciting. She insisted we return again tonight. And you know my Chrysanthemum. She’s impossible to say no to.” She let out a nervous laugh. “If I didn’t know better, sometimes I’d think she was trying to punish me for something!”
Probably because you named her Chrysanthemum, Bertie thought.
“How is she liking that circus rabbit you got her?” the wobbly-chinned woman asked as Bertie handed the pale-faced woman her cola.
Bertie looked up sharply. Circus rabbit?
“Two colas for me,” the wobbly-chinned woman commanded when she noticed Bertie staring at them. Bertie nodded, pouring the sodas as slowly as possible so he could catch more of their conversation.
“Chrysanthemum won’t put that white puff ball down.” The pale-faced woman laughed. “She keeps calling it her purse and trying to hang it in her closet! That’s my Chrysanthemum for you. Her parents own Toddle’s Toy Emporium, and she manages to find the only toy out there that we don’t sell!”
“Soon enough, she’ll have you opening a pet store too.” The wobbly-chinned woman tittered.
“Probably,” the pale-faced woman agreed. “Filled with hundreds of Angora rabbits named Tilda.”
At the sound of Tilda’s name, Bertie lost his grip on one of the cups, sending it splattering to the floor.
“Careful, little boy!” the wobbly-chinned woman scolded. She jumped out of the way as a stream of cola shot out of the cup, making her chin wobble even faster.
Bertie murmured something: sorry, maybe, or my apologies. He couldn’t be sure; he was too busy rehashing what the woman had just said. Tilda was at some place called Toddle’s Toy Emporium.
“The boy must be slow,” the wobbly-chinned woman said, snatching the other cup out of Bertie’s hand.
The pale-faced woman tossed a coin at Bertie before hooking arms with her friend. “I bet they don’t hire slow boys at the Howard Brothers Circus,” Bertie heard her say as they stalked back to the ring.
“Didn’t you hear, ladies?” A man with a long, curling mustache stopped them by the curtain. “The Howard Brothers Circus just bought this old rig. They’re sending it overseas tomorrow.”
“The Howard Brothers Circus is going to take over everything,” the wobbly-chinned woman said knowingly before disappearing through the curtain.
“Overseas?” Bertie whispered. Abandoning the soda counter, he hurried back to the ring. His mind was suddenly tugging him in a million directions at once. Tilda was at Toddle’s Toy Emporium. Claude had sold the circus. The Howard Brothers were sending them overseas. And then once again, unbidden, the memory from earlier: the way his mom had smiled as she’d pulled out the wooden boy. His fingers tightened around the wooden boy in his pocket. Something has to change, he thought again. And quick.
Chapter Forty-seven
Something’s Fishy and It’s Not Tuna
“Loyd, Lloyd, line the animals up,” Claude ordered. “It’s time for my final finale!”
“And ours too,” Juliet murmured as Loyd yanked her into line.
“What was that, Juliet?” Buck asked suspiciously. When Juliet didn’t answer, Buck flicked his tail impatiently. “I smell something fishy,” he declared. “And it’s not tuna. You and Hamlet have been whispering way too much with those Misfits today. Right, Lord Jest?”
But Lord Jest didn’t reply. He was swishing his trunk back and forth through the air, his eyes distant.
“We were simply playing a word game,” Wombat jumped in. “It’s called . . . Word Filler.” He named one of his favorites of Smalls’s games. As Wombat jumped into a long-winded explanation of the rules of Word Filler, Rigby retreated behind his fur.
“You’re a brave, graceful dog,” he whispered, giving himself a pep talk. “You’re a strong, capable dog.”
Smalls looked over at Juliet. “The oil’s in the bucket?” he asked.
“Hamlet took care of it,” she said.
“And the paint’s ready to go?” Smalls already knew the answer, but he felt the need to check just once more. Their whole escape was resting on this finale. If anything went wrong, they’d be sent overseas tomorrow, and any last hope of finding Tilda would vanish.
“Rigby knows where it is,” Juliet said. “Don’t worry, Smalls. We’re ready.”
Smalls nodded, but he couldn’t help wishing for the millionth time that he had a four-leaf clover to calm his nerves.
“Places,” Claude announced. “Go!”
Someone pushed Smalls on the rump, sending him stumbling into the ring. Above him, the lights flickered unsteadily as the wind beat against the flaps of the tent. In the audience, a boy started crying. “I’m scared, Mom,” he said.
Sorry, kid, Smalls apologized silently. But it’s about to get a whole lot scarier.
The circus horn blasted once, twice. It must have blasted another time too, but the sound was drowned out by a clap of thunder. Outside, lightning flashed, brightening the tent for a single instant. With a twirl of Lord Jest’s trunk, the finale began.
Lord Jest crouched down, allowing Susan to climb onto his back. As he rose onto his stool, he began tossing hoops into the air. If Smalls had been watching Lord Jest, he might have noticed the way he stared straight ahead as he performed, his eyes glassy and unfocused. He might have noticed how his hoops, usually thrown with such finesse and precision, teetered a little as they slid down over Susan. And he might have heard the words he kept repeating to himself, over and over, like a mantra. “Sometimes the trouble is worth it.”
But Smalls was too preoccupied with his own plans to pay any attention to Lord Jest. The finale continued on. Juliet and Hamlet began to spin on their wheel, Buck juggled balls alongside them, Wombat mounted his tightrope, and Rigby lay balanced on his beach ball, hiding beneath his fur.
As Smalls took his place behind his hoop of fire, a pesky list began to form in his mind. Things That Could Go Wrong. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to banish it. Four-leaf clovers, he thought. He pictured a field of them, hundreds upon hundreds, blossoming and unfolding before his eyes. A bubbling stream of honey wound through them, steam wafting off it.
When Smalls opened his eyes again, Juliet and Hamlet had almost reached Lord Jest. The elephant straightened out his trunk and Susan got ready to slide down it. But at the last minute, the lions steered away. They spun wildly toward the back of the ring, heading for backstage.
That was his cue. In a single bound, Smalls had reached Lord Jest.
“Whoa!” Susan cried out as she landed on Smalls’s back instead of Juliet’s.
Meanwhile, Hamlet and Juliet crashed through the curtain. The entire backstage fell still. The tumblers stopped stretching. The clowns stopped snickering. Loyd and Lloyd stopped cleaning. And Claude stopped shining his top hat.
“W-what the . . . ?” Loyd stuttered.
“H-how the . . . ?” Lloyd stammered.
“Why the . . . ?” Claude gasped.
The lions ignored them all. “You know, Juliet,” Hamlet said, “I’ve always thought the wrong siblings were trapped in a cage.”
“I think it’s about time we remedied that, Hamlet,” Juliet agreed. The lions rolled their wheel straight toward the twins. “Now!” Juliet called out, and in unison they leapt off, sending the wheel crashing down—trapping Loyd and Lloyd underneath it.
“Hey!” Loyd flailed around, kicking his brother. “I can’t move!”
“No, I can’t move!” Lloyd thrashed around, hitting his brother.
“The beautiful sound of brotherly love.” Hamlet sighed.
Juliet laughed. “Now it’s his turn.” The lions spun around to face Claude, who was backing up into the wall of the tent.
“Lloyd,” Claude hissed. “Loyd! Get off your lazy butts and stop these lions!”
But Lloyd and Loyd just thrashed helplessly under the wheel.
Hamlet bared his razor-sharp fangs. “This,” he said, “is going to be fun.”
Chapter Forty-eight
The Moment of Truth
Susan looked around, flabbergasted, as Smalls deposited her in the center of the ring. To her left, Rigby leapt to his feet on the beach ball, tossing the fire sticks over to Wombat. Wombat caught them in his teeth, and Rigby jumped to the ground, disappearing backstage. Susan tugged on a strand of hair. Something was going on. It was almost as if the animals had some sort of plan.
She felt something soft press against her ankle, and she looked down to see Wombat nudging her with his snout. With a grunt, he tossed the fire sticks up to her. She caught them automatically and Wombat nudged her again, nodding his snout toward Smalls.
He wanted her to throw the fire sticks, she realized. She glanced over at the audience, who were all watching expectantly, oblivious to the fact that the finale had suddenly, somehow gone haywire. From backstage, she heard something that sounded vaguely like a scream.
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 17