Yes, she thought. Something is definitely going on.
Excitement rose inside her. Ever since she’d read those letters from her parents, she’d felt like she couldn’t sit still. All day long, her mind had whirred and clacked and churned, a machine spinning its wheels. Something had to change, she knew. The question was: how?
Wombat gave her another nudge. His eyes were wide and round. Whatever the animals were planning, she was going to help. Quickly, she lit the fire sticks, raising the first one into the air. As she threw it, Smalls tucked his legs, leaping easily through the hoop of fire.
“This is for you, Bertie,” Smalls whispered, landing softly on all fours. Stretching out his tongue, he caught the first fire stick flawlessly. Behind him, the audience cheered, and for a second Smalls felt a flicker of that old thrill he used to get at Mumford’s when he knew the crowd had arrived. He caught the second fire stick and then the third and the fourth, keeping his eyes trained on the curtain at the back of the ring. Everything depended on what happened next.
As Smalls snatched the last fire stick out of the air, Juliet and Hamlet burst out through the curtain, dragging Claude into the ring by his coattails. “Let me go!” Claude was screaming. “Free me this instant!”
“Sorry,” Juliet said. “But it’s about time we get to be free.” As she and Hamlet leapt out of the way, Smalls flicked his tongue, winging each of the fire sticks at Claude. They landed in a tight circle, surrounding him in flames.
“Let’s see you jump through a ring of fire,” Smalls told Claude.
Inside the circle of flames, Claude’s face turned beet red as a line of sweat sprang to his brow. “Water!” he screeched, his nasal whine ringing through the tent. “Spray water, Lord Jest!”
But Lord Jest didn’t move a muscle.
“Water!” Claude thundered. “Now!”
Still Lord Jest didn’t move. “Sometimes the trouble is worth it,” he whispered.
“Now, Lord Jest, or you’re going to have a nice, long run-in with Wilson tonight!” Claude went on.
Lord Jest let out a whimper. “And sometimes it isn’t.” He dunked his trunk in the bucket of water.
“Here we go,” Wombat murmured. “The moment of truth.”
Lord Jest lifted his trunk, taking aim. But what sprayed out wasn’t water. It was oil.
Wombat burrowed his paws excitedly. “Just as I predicted. When you mix oil and water, the oil always rises to the top.”
Lord Jest blinked. “Ya tricked me.”
The oil landed in a perfect arc around Claude. But instead of putting out the fire like water would have, it intensified it. As flames shot up to the ceiling, Claude howled with fury. “He sounds like a hyena,” Buck grumbled, and for once Smalls had to agree with the zebra.
In the audience, people were leaping to their feet. “Not again,” one woman cried.
“Now, Rigby!” Smalls called out. It was time to paint this ring red.
Rigby tore through the curtain, a bucket gripped in his teeth. Hurrying to the front of the ring, he nosed the bucket onto its side. Red paint spilled out, coating the floor along the edge of the seats. Several splotches got on Rigby too, and his eyes widened as he looked down at the red streaks on his fur. “I’m ruby-colored,” he breathed.
Behind him, Claude let out another howl. “Someone stop those wild animals!” he shouted.
“I’ll get ’em,” a burly man with a thick black beard offered.
He jumped down from his seat, grabbing for Rigby. But as he did, his foot landed in a patch of red paint, slipping
out from beneath him. “Holy mackerel!” he shouted as he flew through the air, landing with a thud on his butt.
“I think you mean holy horseshoe,” Smalls said happily.
As others leapt out of their seats, trying to grab for the animals or make for the exit, they too hit slippery, gooey patches of paint. Legs went slipping out from beneath people left and right. Skirts flapped up and coats flew open and butts hit the floor, one after another.
“My brand-new skirt!” a pale-faced woman screeched as she slid across the floor, colliding headfirst with the bearded man.
“Fireeeee!” a wobbly-chinned woman cried out as she slipped along the floor, slamming butt-first into a furious-looking grandfather.
“The Four-Legged Rainbow has delayed the audience!” Rigby called out to the others.
“Stop those animals!” Claude continued yelling, ignoring Rigby’s barks. “They’re wild! They need to be in cages!”
Smalls let out a deep roar, which the animals knew meant one thing and one thing only. Run.
Immediately, Wombat and Rigby headed for the tent’s exit, with Hamlet close behind them. “Come on, Lifers,” Hamlet shouted. “We’re breaking free!”
“I knew something fishy was going on,” Buck growled. Kicking up his hooves, he took off after the animals. “Let’s go, Lord Jest,” he shouted over his shoulder.
But Lord Jest just stood there, his eyes wide with fear.
“Come on, Lord Jest!” Buck tried again. But when Lord Jest still didn’t move, he left without him.
Outside, rain drenched the animals instantly, washing the paint off Rigby and matting their fur down flat. Rigby shook drops of water out of his eyes as he raced toward the woods, his gait sure and steady in spite of the mud. Hamlet was a few feet ahead of him, his long legs eating up the ground.
Behind them, Wombat wasn’t faring nearly as well. The short, stout paws that were perfect for burrowing a hole in three seconds flat were good for nothing in the mud. “Rigby!” he called out as he sank rapidly into the ground. “I need assistance!” But his words were snatched away by the wind. “Rigby!” He tried again. But it was useless. Rigby kept running, oblivious to Wombat’s cries.
Buck, who had paused to look back once more for Lord Jest, found himself staring at a flailing hairy-nosed wombat. Wombat was yanking at his paws, trying desperately to fight through the mud, but it wasn’t getting him anywhere. Buck let out an annoyed sigh. “Fine,” he grumbled, marching back to Wombat. He stopped next to him, crouching down low. “Hop on.”
Wombat’s jaw dropped open. “You’d like me to . . . ?” He trailed off, at a rare loss for words.
“Do you want to escape or not?” Buck snapped.
Wombat leapt onto Buck’s back, clutching his mane with his paws. “Let’s vamoose,” he declared. “Let’s skedaddle. Let’s hightail it. Let’s—”
“Let’s shut up if you want a ride,” Buck interrupted.
Wombat snapped his mouth shut. “My snout is sealed.”
Buck nodded. “Now let’s—how did you say it?—vamoose.” He took off sprinting through the rain with Wombat on his back.
Meanwhile, in the doorway of the tent, Juliet paused. “What are you waiting for, Smalls?” she called back. “It’s time to go!”
Smalls scanned the tent. His eyes fell on Bertie, who was leaping over Rigby’s river of paint to get to Susan. “You go ahead,” Smalls told Juliet. “There’s something I have to do first.” He galloped over to Bertie. “You said you wanted to run away together,” he said. Then he grabbed Bertie’s suspenders in his teeth.
Chapter Forty-nine
Worth the Trouble
Smalls had Bertie’s suspenders in his teeth, and he was tugging him toward the exit. Something kicked alive in Bertie’s chest. The animals were escaping. He’d known it, in some form, since the second he saw Smalls throw those fire sticks at Claude.
“Bertie!” Claude yelled from inside the ring of fire. “Get me out of here right now! Or I’ll, I’ll . . .”
He said something else, but Bertie didn’t hear. The wind had blown the door to the tent wide open, and suddenly Bertie could see outside. Rain slashed down in sheets and the wind tossed mud and dust through the air, but
it was something else that caught his eye. In the sky, through a crack in the clouds, he saw a single star, burning through the grayness and the darkness and the storm.
He blinked, once, twice, three times, but the star remained, shining steadily away. It made Bertie think of time, how even in the worst of storms, the earth kept right on spinning. There are a million different paths out there, he thought. A million different directions. A million different possibilities. Distantly, he felt Smalls tug on his suspenders. He heard Claude scream out his name. It’s about time I had an adventure, he decided.
He looked over at Susan. “How about we go find your parents?” he said.
Susan broke into a grin. “You read my mind.” She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Smalls tugged Bertie’s suspenders again, and this time Bertie went with him, Susan’s hand clasped tightly in his.
Smalls let out a grunt of delight as he galloped out of the tent with Susan and Bertie at his side. Rain was pelting down on him, but he didn’t care. He was running, legs cycling and muscles clenching and heart pounding, and there wasn’t a chain or a cage or a wall in sight.
Up ahead, Juliet glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t,” she said when she saw Susan and Bertie.
Smalls ducked in front of Susan to keep her from slipping in a pile of mud. “I did,” he said. “Sometimes, I’ve learned, a little trouble is worth it.”
Juliet sighed. “Well, holy horseshoe.” She circled back and stopped in front of Susan, nudging her with her nose. “Go ahead,” she said. “Get on.” Susan grabbed gratefully onto Juliet’s neck. With the ease of an acrobat, she kicked herself onto the lion’s back. “See you in the woods, Smalls,” Juliet called out, taking off after the others.
Susan twisted around, looking back at Bertie. “Meet me in the cave!” she yelled, right before the wind swallowed up her voice.
Smalls knelt down next to Bertie. “Your turn,” he said, lowering his neck for Bertie to grab on.
But Bertie wasn’t an acrobat. He flung his arms around Smalls’s neck, but every time he tried to kick himself up like Susan had, his feet went slipping and sliding in the mud, refusing to obey him.
“Come on, Bertie,” Smalls pleaded. He looked nervously over his shoulder. People were spilling out of the tent in clumps, shielding themselves from the rain with umbrellas and newspapers and stolen food trays. “There’s the bear!” someone yelled. “And a boy!”
Thunder clapped angrily in the sky, making the ground tremble beneath Smalls’s paws. Bertie tried once more to throw himself on Smalls’s back, but this time his hands slipped too, and he went plummeting to the ground.
“Coming through! Don’t move! Let me by!”
Smalls tensed. That awful, nasal whine could only belong to one person. He dove to the ground to help Bertie. As he did, something caught his eye. Something tiny and green, sprouting up from the wet, barren earth. Smalls’s breath caught in his throat. A four-leaf clover. He grabbed the clover in his teeth as he nudged Bertie back up. We could use some luck right now, he thought.
“That bear is mine!” Over by the tent, Claude was fighting his way angrily through the crowd. Breaking into a sprint, he raced over to his motorcar, which was parked behind the Big Top. “You don’t run from my circus and get away with it!” he shouted as he flung himself inside. Without bothering to shut the door, he gunned the engine, steering the motorcar toward Smalls and Bertie.
“But the rain,” someone yelled as Bertie finally managed to swing his legs over Smalls, landing squarely on his back. “And the mud! If the car slides, you could hit them!”
Claude just kept on driving. “Then I hit them,” he said.
“No!” Out of the tent burst Lord Jest, his ears flapping wildly as he raced toward Claude’s motorcar. “Sometimes the trouble is worth it,” he yelled.
Inside the car, Claude’s eyes widened as he realized what the elephant was doing. “Stop,” he screamed. But this time, Lord Jest didn’t listen. Lifting his trunk, he dove right in front of the car.
Chapter Fifty
The Last Act
KA-BAM!
The sound rang out through the air as three thousand pounds of motorcar collided with thirteen thousand pounds of elephant. “Lord Jest!” Bertie screamed. He tightened his arms around Smalls’s neck, nudging him toward the fallen elephant. “Come, on, Smalls, we have to help him!” But Smalls stayed frozen in place, his eyes flickering between the woods and Lord Jest.
Sirens blared in the distance as Claude leapt out of his motorcar. There was a deep scratch across his arm and he was limping, but it barely slowed him as he rushed to Lord Jest’s side. He dropped down next to the elephant, a strange expression on his face. “Lordy,” he whispered, placing a hand on the elephant’s head. “Call a vet!” he cried out, and from somewhere in the distance came the faint sound of identical twins, responding in unison.
“We’re on it, Boss!”
“Lordy,” Claude said again, cradling the elephant’s trunk. He looked up, and Smalls saw several tears rolling down his cheek.
“Holy horseshoe,” Smalls murmured. The strange expression on Claude’s face was sorrow.
Bertie nudged Smalls again. “We have to go see if Lord Jest is okay!”
Smalls grunted. Bertie was right. He took off, galloping back toward the tent with Bertie clinging to his neck. But he’d only made it a few feet when he suddenly stopped short. Because rising above the rain and the thunder and the sirens was a familiar noise. The honk of an elephant—telling him to run for his life. “Turn around!” Lord Jest honked, his voice weak and raspy. “Save Bertie!”
Suddenly, Smalls understood. Lord Jest had done this for them. For Bertie. And the only way to truly thank him was to turn and to run.
Bertie clung desperately to Smalls’s back as he veered sharply in the mud, steering them in the direction of the woods. He had no doubt why Smalls had turned around. He’d heard it too: Lord Jest’s wild honk, directed right at them—as if he was telling them to run. Behind them, Bertie heard people yelling and rain slashing and sirens pulling up to the circus, one after another. He thought about twisting around, looking back. But he found himself looking forward instead, at the thick line of trees zooming toward them. At what lay ahead.
“Thank you, Lord Jest,” he whispered.
The air smelled different as they neared the woods, sweeter and fresher, like someone had taken an eraser and wiped the world clean. Smalls let out an excited grunt when they crossed through the trees. Instantly, the world stilled. The sky became darker, the rain became thinner, even the sounds became quieter: trees creaking and leaves rustling and in the distance, the soft hoot of an owl.
Bertie slid off Smalls’s back, his feet sinking into the muddy ground. “I think they’re this way,” he said, leading Smalls toward Susan’s cave. As they walked, Bertie closed his eyes, tilting his head up toward the rain.
He was finally free: no one to yell at him, no one to punish him, no one to call him worthless. He had no idea what would happen next, but it didn’t matter, because he’d be with his family. It was dark in the woods, but he felt like someone had flipped a switch inside his chest, lighting him up.
The rain eased to a thin drizzle as the cave came into view. Bertie broke into a smile when he saw the six wet, excited
faces waiting outside for him. “Took you long enough,” Susan said with a grin. Walking over to Bertie, she threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “I’m glad you made it,” she whispered.
Bertie watched as the animals ducked into the cave. Smalls went last, looking over his shoulder as if to say, “Come on!” Bertie grabbed Susan’s hand. “Me too,” he said.
Inside the cave, Smalls let out a deep, excited roar, like he used to at Mumford’s when it was time to play a game. With his new four-leaf clover tucked behind his ea
r, he walked in a circle past each of his friends—his family—the new and the old. “So,” he said. “What’s next?”
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t have been possible without the support and encouragement of so many people. HUGE thank you’s to . . .
The Razorbill team, particularly Ben Schrank and of course Anne Heltzel—who’s been an incredible editor and equally great friend.
Josh Adams and Adams Literary, for believing in my writing, and in me.
Randee Mendelsohn Segal, a teacher I’ll never forget.
Eric and Monica Allon, who brought me to places like Cape Cod and Gloucester, where dreams always seemed within reach. And my “Brady Bunch” cousins, who were there to dream with me.
Popi, whose support and enthusiasm have always meant so much to me.
The whole Resnick/Wachtel family, who welcomed me in like one of their own.
Meryl Lozano, my reading-companion-almost-twin-partner-in-crime.
Lauren Nicole Greenberg, the most big-hearted person I know. Thank you for being my best friend, my backbone, and my biggest supporter, always.
The real Susan and Fred, neither acrobat nor wombat, but better parents than I could have dreamed up myself. Mom and Dad: you’ve allowed me to climb the highest trees and go out on every limb, because I knew you’d always be there to catch me if I fell. For that, I can’t thank you enough.
And of course, my husband, Nathan, who knew just how long the path could be and still walked beside me every step of the way. I would have given up a thousand times already if it weren’t for you (and probably eaten a thousand microwave dinners). You are in every word I write.
Finally, I want to thank my own four-legged companions, past and present: Maple, who during countless hours of writing never lets me get lonely. And Willow, who was the first to teach me that you don’t need to speak the same language to be a true friend.
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 18