by Cara Hoffman
All of it sings like a song in our hearts
The city is ours, it’s ours
Bernard could feel it—things were speeding up again; the voices of every kind of creature had drowned out the slovenly screeching and tapping of the Pork Pie Gang.
The crowd was cheering “Brava!” and “Go, Skippy!” and “We did it!”
In the commotion no one seemed to notice that Gary had left the stage and was pushing his way through the crowd, baring his teeth and snarling. Skippy raised four of her arms and was taking a bow and blowing kisses. She never saw what was coming.
Before anyone could stop him, Gary leapt into the middle of the chalk circle and, with a great stomp, crushed Skippy beneath his foot.
23
From the Air
The crowd gasped. They rushed at Gary but he pulled out his knife. Soon his guards were surrounding him and moving in on the small animals, taking out twine to bind their paws.
Bernard kicked against a weasel, dodging the blade of its knife. But Ivy, who was fighting beside him, wasn’t so lucky. The weasel lunged at her, slicing with the blade, cutting her tail clean off. She cried out in anger and pain. Bernard grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the entrance of the sewer grate.
“We need help!” he cried.
“No, let go,” she said, struggling against him. “It’ll grow back; we’ve got to keep going.”
The crowd around the chalk circle stood weeping, hugging one another. Some rats had gathered around Skippy, ready to help. But the cockroaches shrugged and shook their heads and kept playing their song. The bandleader continued to talk to Skippy as if she wasn’t crushed against the pavement.
“This is too awful to watch,” said Ivy. “Why aren’t they trying to help her?”
Just then Skippy’s antennae rose up.
“It must be a reflex,” said one of the rats. “Someone should really cover her with a sheet.”
Then Skippy’s wings opened and closed. Soon the small animals were watching in awe as Skippy propped herself up on two of her elbows and shook her head roughly from side to side. The other cockroaches began clapping in time with the music—and though she was still partly stuck to the sidewalk, Skippy gave a big grin.
“Wow,” she said. “What a sore loser!”
“Yeah, what a jerk that guy was,” said the bandleader. “How you feeling, Skippy?”
“Oh fine, fine,” she said. She sat up on her knees, gave herself another shake, then stood on two feet. “Ready, boys? Show must go on!”
Just as she began to dance, a sparrow touched down in front of Bernard.
“Mr. Pepperlin,” said the sparrow. “The rabbits say they’ve heard plans about another attack. They say they can feel it.”
“What do you mean?”
“From the sky,” said the sparrow. She looked up and pointed her wing toward the tops of the buildings. “The rabbits say we’re in danger. They’ve already taken shelter in the subway.”
Bernard looked up at the tall buildings. In this part of town, it wasn’t a forest of buildings like down in the East Village. Here the buildings were like mountains. He squinted up at the massive skyrises and then caught sight of her—perched on a roof, her feathers glowing in the flicker of lights.
It was Hunter. She was quietly watching the commotion on the ground, getting ready to strike. Bernard turned and saw more falcons; the tops of nearly every building had at least one standing guard, stoic and determined. It would be difficult for them to strike in the middle of such a large crowd, but Bernard knew how determined these birds were.
“Quick,” said Bernard. “We’ve got to take cover. Let everyone know—head for the stage.”
“The stage?” cried Ivy. “You’re crazy! You mean the subway? We have to get underground!”
“No!” said Bernard. “Everyone take shelter under the weasels’ stage. Now!”
As he said it, a flash of gray and white raced across their vision. A falcon, diving from the top of a brightly lit tower, swooped down and nearly grabbed the mouse in the hula skirt and sparkly red shoes. He shrieked and threw himself on the ground.
Now all the small animals began to run in a panic. “Head for the stage!” Bernard called out. “Head for the stage!” cried the pigeons and sparrows and starlings. Soon the small animals were running for their lives, leading the falcons to the weasels.
They dove beneath the stage and the falcons swooped down, just missing them but not missing the weasels. They grasped the weasels in their sharp talons. The weasels lunged at the birds with their knives, but they were no match, and one by one the Pork Pie Gang was plucked up into the sky or felled with a single peck. Never had birds of prey helped small creatures as they did that day.
Finally, only Gary remained. Standing on the stage, shrieking and cursing and waving his knife.
Bernard watched as a beautiful bird with dark, yellow-rimmed eyes circled above the stage. It was Hunter. She looked majestic and free, gliding on currents of air between the tops of the buildings.
Then she turned and swooped down. Faster than fast her sharp talons aimed right for Gary. At the moment she struck, she closed her eyes—then opened them again and looked right at Bernard, giving him a nod.
She let out a cry of triumph as she flew up and up and up, heading east toward the river, the weasel still cursing and flailing in her talons, until she was out of sight.
The small creatures of the underground crept out from beneath the stage. The city was filled with sound and color and light; cars were speeding past and people gazed at the sky in astonishment. All that was left of the Pork Pie Gang was the flutter of feathered hats falling and scattering like litter on the streets of Times Square.
24
Bernard of the Flowers
Bernard raised the gate on the shop at West Twenty-Eighth Street and brought the bundles of violets inside, separating them into bouquets.
It had been two weeks since the battle at Times Square.
After the creatures made their way back to the underground, after they cared for the injured, after they had a party with chocolate cake and Skippy singing a ballad to commemorate the day, Bernard had many decisions to make.
The queen knighted him and offered him a job in her court, along with the crow and the yellow finches and Mittens.
Mittens asked Bernard to come live with him and offered him a job fishing on the river.
Leon and Ivy asked him to join the underground and dedicate his life to freeing small animals from their troubles.
But Henry knew what Bernard really wanted, and asked him if he would like to run the shop next door to his own. Now each day Bernard woke with the sun and unloaded bundles and bales and bouquets of flowers. He talked with customers and made them tea. The shop was cozy and smelled like the garden. Inside, there was a long table and chairs for all his friends.
Each day Mittens came by to chat on his way to sit with the queen. He always brought Bernard a dragon fruit.
And Ivy came by too, dressed in her black sweater and cap, to deliver the underground newspaper.
Glub stopped in for tea and always bought crocuses to take home.
The mouse with the hula skirt and sparkly red shoes, and the sparrows and starlings and bees, came by to gossip. But the cockroaches rarely came to the flower district. They were too busy rehearsing because The Girl from the Silverware Drawer had at long last become a Broadway show.
Bernard wrapped up a bouquet of violets and snowdrops and baby’s breath and tied it with a red ribbon, handing it to Ivy.
“You sure it’s no trouble?” he asked.
“No trouble at all,” Ivy said. “Skippy’s going to love them.”
“Tell them all congratulations for me,” Bernard said. “Tell them Henry and I will catch the show next week.”
“Will do,” said Ivy. She put the flowers in the basket of her bicycle, then turned and smiled before getting on and heading north.
“The city is ours, Bernard!” she called as she pedal
ed up Eighth Avenue.
He laughed and stuck a flower behind his ear. “It’s ours, Ivy! It’s ours!”
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Claudia Gabel, for making this book possible; Jin Auh, for her guidance and sound advice; and my agent, Anna Stein, for helping me navigate the new world of writing for children. A fellowship from the MacDowell Foundation provided the quiet and community necessary to work on multiple projects, including Bernard Pepperlin. Early conversations with Zane Lepson about bugs, pigeons, cats, and cabdrivers provided great insight. Selena Samuella brainstormed to find Bernard Pepperlin his name. She is a star. My dedicated first reader, Jamie Newman, listened to multiple drafts and helped Ivy to envision her six-point plan. Jennifer Chen’s last-minute artistry was a lifesaver. My father, John Shannon, read an early draft of this novel and gave me wonderful notes, including a brief history of the pork pie hat. His limitless promotion of my work makes me think HarperCollins should put him on the payroll. Thanks, Dad! My mother, Kaye Newbury, read to me every day of my childhood, many days of my adolescence, and just the other day over the phone. Thanks, Mom! Thanks to my new friend Jude Henry Kahn and to his parents for their love and encouragement. The final scenes of this book were written sitting on their big blue couch. Thanks to Dove and Herman and Kai and to Dr. Mina Lepson for jokes and inspiring conversations. I’m grateful that I share a life and a loft with Marc Lepson. Go, Sweater Team! The City Is Ours, ML! Thanks to my coach, Pete Shapiro, and to my tai chi buddies at the Chinatown Y. Thanks to my uncle Franklin Crawford, a giant among men. Thanks to Eli and Em, who read early drafts and wrote amazing songs and taught me about happiness and the inner lives of mice. Go, Mouse Family. Thanks to Asa Horvitz, Corinne Manning, Ben Durham, Emma Heaney, and T Clutch Fleischman, for inspiring conversations, book recommendations, and frog catching. When writing a character like Ivy it’s good to have some real-world inspiration—so I’m lucky to have grown up beside Ann Godwin, who helped me build a house in the top of a lilac tree, braved bike wrecks and woodland adventures, always knew when the ice was too thin, got the best grades, did the most pull-ups, and once helped me carry a giant plywood ice-cream cone for a mile, through every backyard in town; suffice it to say, characters like lock-picking revolutionaries who can run upside down and explain the nature of time don’t just pop into one’s head from thin air. Thanks, Ann!
About the Author
Photo by Marc Lepson
CARA HOFFMAN spent her childhood playing by a riverbank and in the woods with her best friend. She studied music at school and later traveled, living in Athens, Greece, and on an island in the Mediterranean Sea. Cara is a graduate of Goddard College and a professor of writing and literature. She is the author of three award-winning novels for adults and has received a MacDowell Fellowship and an Edward Albee Fellowship. She currently lives near a riverbank on the island of Manhattan, where she often sees Mittens, Skippy, Leon, and Bernard around the neighborhood.
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Copyright
BERNARD PEPPERLIN. Copyright © 2019 by Cara Hoffman. Interior art © 2019 by Olga Demidova. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2019 by Olga Demidova
Cover design by Laura Eckes and Laura Mock
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Digital Edition SEPTEMBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-286546-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-286544-1
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FIRST EDITION
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