Disney Before the Story

by Disney Books

  Special thanks to Cathryn Mchugh

  Copyright © 2021 Disney Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.

  Based on the book THE HUNDRED AND ONE DALMATIANS BY DODIE SMITH Published by The Viking Press.

  Cover design by Margie Peng

  Lexile: 770L

  ISBN 978-1-368-06870-3

  For more Disney Press fun, visit www.disneybooks.com

  For Oliver and Bruley

  —T.R.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: The Headmistress

  Chapter 2: The Fashion Club

  Chapter 3: Perdita

  Chapter 4: Supper Plans

  Chapter 5: A Close Call

  Chapter 6: Kitchen Duty

  Chapter 7: The Escape

  Chapter 8: The Clubhouse

  Chapter 9: Making It Official

  Chapter 10: Confronting Cruella

  Chapter 11: Henry

  There was a skip in Anita’s step as she walked to her dormitory at Dahlington Academy for Girls. After two weeks at boarding school, she’d just received her first piece of mail: a letter from her mum. Her fingers clutched the envelope, itching to tear it open.

  Beatrice, Anita’s roommate, was reading on her bed when Anita entered their room.

  “Lovely day outside,” Anita said to Beatrice. “Care to explore the grounds later?”

  Without looking up from her book, Beatrice responded with a slight shake of her head. Her corkscrew curls hung like a curtain over her face, further separating her from Anita. Everything frightened Beatrice, from Anita’s old stuffed rabbit, to the sounds of other students passing in the hall, to her own reflection in the mirror above the wardrobe. Beatrice’s brush-off was no surprise, as Anita’s short time at Dahlington had been filled with similar failed efforts to make friends.

  When Anita tried to start a conversation with her tablemates over lunch on the first day, she’d immediately been shushed by the student aide who patrolled the dining hall. One rainy day after classes, she’d set up her easel and canvas in the common room, hoping other girls would stop by, perhaps to chat about her painting, or even just to sit in a nearby chair and study. But no one did.

  Anita sat down at her desk with a sigh. She opened the letter and began to read. Her mum, who had attended the same school when she was young, wrote that she was eager to hear whether Anita was having as great a time at Dahlington as she’d had as a girl. In the letter’s pages, her mum recalled the school where she had made all her lifelong friends and formed her dearest memories. It was the same dreamy Dahlington Academy story she had told Anita all her life. But one thing was for certain: it was not the Dahlington Academy Anita had been enrolled in for the past two weeks.

  The location was the same, in the postcard-perfect countryside. The history was the same, as one of the most esteemed boarding schools for girls in all of England. And the name was the same; Anita had checked the iron placard in the great hall several times just to be sure. But the school Anita’s mum described had changed.

  Peeling paint and scuffed floors replaced the gleaming marble and polished wood of her mum’s memories. Instead of bands of merry girls filling the halls with laughter, solitary students ventured out of their dormitories only for classes or meals. Rather than lively, inspirational debates in the classroom, there were dull, dry lessons straight from the ancient textbooks. And this stricter, bleaker school came complete with a thick book of rules handed out to incoming students on their first day.

  Through it all Anita had done her best to stay positive. She tried to keep a smile on her face, no matter how dreary things seemed. But forcing happiness on the outside hadn’t been enough to change the way she felt on the inside. Anita was lonely and miserable.

  Tears began to fall from Anita’s eyes as she read her mum’s words. Somehow, she’d let herself hope that the letter would be an explanation of why the school was so cold now, instructions with the right thing to say or do to bring back the wonderful academy of her mum’s childhood.

  Just as she was about to toss the letter into the rubbish bin, Anita spotted a postscript at the bottom of the last page, under her mum’s signature: P.S. Don’t forget to sign up for one of Dahlington’s clubs! The tennis club was where I made some of my best friends.

  Anita bolted upright, wiping her eyes. No one had mentioned clubs since Anita arrived at the school. She wondered: Was this the answer? Would she find her true friends and make memories in a club?

  She checked the clock. There was a couple of hours left before dinner, enough time to speak to the Headmistress. She folded up the letter, put it in her blazer pocket, and grabbed her coat.

  “Beatrice,” Anita said, “I’m going to speak to the Headmistress about joining a club. Would you like to come along?”

  Beatrice looked up at Anita in wide-eyed alarm. “Headmistress?” she warbled. She shook her head and returned to her reading.

  Anita shrugged and set out for the Headmistress’s office, alone as ever.

  The hallway outside the Headmistress’s office was deserted and eerily quiet. Anita was nervous about speaking to the head of the school on her own. She wished she had a friend, even terrified Beatrice, by her side. Patting the letter in her pocket for courage, Anita took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  “Enter.” The voice inside sounded faint and tired. Anita turned the knob and let herself in.

  The Headmistress’s office was as gloomy as the rest of Dahlington. The furniture, lamps, photographs, and wall hangings were all draped in large sheets of fabric. Anita wondered if perhaps the Headmistress was terrified of dust; that might explain the odd coverings. The woman herself, her dull brown hair swept up in a bun, sat at her desk, riffling through the pages of a photo album.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Anita began.

  “Mmm,” was the only response the Headmistress gave. She didn’t look up.

  “My name is Anita,” Anita continued. “I’m a first-year student, and I was wondering if there are any clubs here I could join. I wasn’t sure who else to ask, and—”

  “Clubs?” the Headmistress asked, still engrossed in the photos.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Anita said. “My mum was in the tennis club. She loved being on the Dahlington team back in her day.”

  “The tennis club is gone,” the Head-mistress replied, turning a page in her album.

  “It is?” Anita frowned. “Well, I’m more interested in an art club, anyway—”

  “There is no art club.”

  “Theater?”

  “No.”

  “Poetry?”

  “No.”

  “Chess?”

  “No.”

  Anita was getting discouraged. “What clubs do you have?”

  The Headmistress sighed and finally lifted her eyes from the photographs. “We only have one club. You ought to speak to Cruella about it.”

  “Cruella?” Anita asked.

  “Cruella De Vil, my student aide,” the Headmistress said. “She’s in the year above you. In fact, she’s probably in club room 101 right now.”

  “Thank you,” Anita said. The Head-mistress cast her gaze back down. Anita could tell the visit was over. She left the office and closed the door behind her, heading off to find Cruella De Vil and, hopefully, some trace of
the Dahlington her mother had once known.

  Anita wandered the school halls, looking for Cruella. Eventually, down a tucked-away wing of the first floor, Anita found a classroom with an open door, its light spilling into the otherwise dark hallway. The doorplate read Club Room 101, though the second 1 was upside down.

  She took a cautious step inside. Scattered around the room were top-of-the-line sewing machines. Strewn atop the desks and chairs were yards of fabric in all kinds of colors and textures: purple taffeta, ivory silk, tangerine wool, emerald-green velvet. In the back were several dress forms, each draped with a different outrageous ensemble. On one hung a burgundy pantsuit speckled with swirls of lavender beads and draped with a glimmering silver cape. On another was a shocking-green hooded minidress trimmed in gold and brown fringe. Anita might have wondered if she was in the right place if it wasn’t for what covered the walls: old club rosters and photos were tacked up everywhere. But curiously, each one had a large red X slashed through it.

  The room appeared to be empty of any club members. But then a girl, crouching, emerged from behind one of the dress forms, her back to Anita as she poked and prodded at the fabric in front of her.

  “Excuse me, are you Cruella?” Anita waved her hand shyly as the older student turned around.

  The girl’s mouth was clamped shut, holding the pins she had been using to adjust the fabric on the mannequin. Her hair was a mane of chaos, half black and half white, as wild as her giant, ferocious eyes. Those eyes narrowed slightly when she saw Anita. She spit the pins out of her mouth and stabbed them into the dress form.

  “Yes,” she answered, her voice calm in spite of the frenzied scene. “I’m Cruella. Cruella De Vil.”

  Anita realized she had seen Cruella before. There wasn’t anyone else in Dahlington with that hairstyle. Cruella was the student aide who patrolled the dining hall at mealtimes, enforcing table manners and shutting down attempts at socializing. “My name is Anita,” she said. “The Headmistress said I should speak to you about clubs?”

  “Clubs?” Cruella pursed her lips, smooth-ing strands of hair away from her face.

  “Yes,” Anita said. “I was hoping to join an art club. I love to paint, but—”

  “There is no art club,” Cruella said. She smirked and began to take slow, slinking steps toward Anita. “All the clubs have been disbanded. Except mine, that is.”

  Anita felt like a mouse under a cat’s stare. After two weeks of feeling invisible, she was uneasy having someone watch her so closely. “What is this club?” Anita asked.

  “It’s a fashion club, Anita darling,” Cruella said, grabbing one of the pieces of fabric from a nearby desk and tossing it around her neck like a boa. “You’re welcome to join.”

  “I don’t know how to sew,” Anita said, eyeing one of the contraptions on the desk closest to her. It was a piece of machinery so complex Anita wondered if she’d need a university degree just to turn it on.

  Cruella tipped back her head and cackled. “You wouldn’t be sewing, oh no.” She dabbed tears of laughter from her eyes. “There are so many other ways you can contribute. You can take notes on my ideas; you can be my alternate dress form; you can hold the pincushion…Oh, the list goes on and on for how I could use you!”

  It sounded like Anita would be Cruella’s assistant rather than another member of the club. “That’s awfully nice of you to offer. Where are the other members?”

  “It’s just me,” Cruella said.

  Anita wondered what made this a club and not just Cruella’s hobby. “But why is it just you? What happened to everyone else? What happened to the other clubs?”

  Cruella shrugged. “Not everyone can keep up with the fashion club, Anita. All the other clubs lost their funding.”

  “All of them?” Anita asked.

  “Things happen,” Cruella continued. “Clubs break rules…members stop paying their dues…people lose interest. I suppose I’m just the only survivor.”

  “What would it take for someone to start a new club? Do you know?” Anita asked.

  “Of course I know,” Cruella snapped. Then she collected herself, unfurled the makeshift boa, and placed it back on the desk. “You need five shillings in dues plus any additional funds for club supplies, the signatures of at least five other interested students, an official meeting place, and, finally, the approval and permission of the Headmistress.”

  “That’s all, is it?” Anita said sarcastically. Cruella didn’t seem to get the joke. She turned back to the dress form.

  Anita sighed. She couldn’t even get her own roommate to speak to her. How would she ever get another five students on her side?

  “Thank you anyway,” Anita said to Cruella. On her way out of the club room, Anita paused to study one of the photographs on the wall. It had a red X through it, like all the others, but Anita could still make out most of the image. It was an old tennis club photo. And there, on the right, with a familiar wide smile and glasses, was Anita’s mum. Anita reached out to touch the picture. This was the Dahlington her mum loved, and it was just out of Anita’s grasp, trapped in a photo from the past.

  As Anita studied the image, she realized she didn’t recognize the location. In the background, behind the girls, was a small tidy structure.

  “Cruella,” Anita said, “in this tennis club photo, what is the building in the background?”

  “That’s the old equipment shed,” Cruella answered from her dress form. It sounded like her mouth was full of pins again. “You should go find it. Maybe it will inspire you for your little art club.” Cruella cackled at the idea. As Anita left club room 101, Cruella’s laughter continued to echo through the dingy hallway behind her.

  Dahlington Academy’s exterior was in much the same neglected condition as the interior: the grass was overgrown, the hedges needed trimming, and pockets of weeds dotted the landscape. Anita figured that the equipment shed would be near the tennis courts, which were all the way on the outskirts of the school grounds. She wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to find it, but seeing the photograph of her mum made her feel drawn to it.

  When Anita reached the courts, she saw the shed right away. The bright paint had faded, the shutters hung askew, and part of the roof had collapsed. Nevertheless, Anita went in.

  The inside of the shed was an even sorrier sight. Cobwebs hung in the corners, dust coated every surface, and the windows were so dirty they hardly let any light in. The place also seemed to have become a dumping ground for whatever students and teachers wanted to forget. Broken chairs lay on their sides, rusted gardening tools hung on the walls, and random bits of sports equipment were scattered everywhere.

  It was a fitting end to Anita’s afternoon. It felt like someone had painted a big red X over all the hope she’d felt after reading her mum’s letter.

  As Anita turned to leave, she tripped over a stack of books, falling and skinning her knee. “Ouch!” she squealed.

  A rustle came from the other side of the shed.

  Anita scrambled back to her feet. If there were rats in the shed, she didn’t want to meet them. She had just reached the door when she heard a cry that pierced her heart—a cry for help.

  Despite her fear of what could be lurking in the shadows, Anita crept toward the noise. She moved aside some boxes and lifted an old book. There, underneath, panting and wagging its tail, was a Dalmatian puppy.

  “Where did you come from?” Anita asked, noticing the puppy wasn’t wearing a collar. Her black-and-white-spotted fur was dirty, and Anita could see the faint outline of her ribs. She wondered how the pup had been surviving in this wretched storage shed.

  Anita held out her hand. The puppy approached cautiously, sniffing Anita’s fingers. Seeming to instantly decide she was a friend, the dog leapt forward to lick Anita’s face. Anita laughed, scooping her up and cuddling her tight. “I’m here now. I’m here,” she cooed.

  Dahlington students weren’t allowed to keep pets; Anita didn’t have to check the enormous rule book
to know that. But the poor thing couldn’t stay in the shed.

  “Do you want to come to my room?” Anita asked the puppy.

  “Woof!” the puppy answered in a delighted bark.

  “Shhh.” Anita pressed a finger to her lips. “You can’t make noise, or someone will find out.” She scratched the puppy behind the ears. “Now, what shall we call you?”

  Anita picked up the book that had been on top of the puppy and flipped through the pages. Her eyes stopped on the first name she found: Perdita.

  “‘Perdita,’” she read aloud. “Do you like that?”

  The puppy nuzzled into Anita’s neck. It seemed she did.

  “Stay quiet, then, Perdita.” Anita tucked the puppy inside her coat, shielding her from view as she headed back toward the school.

  Anita made it to the dormitory and up to her floor without encountering another soul. Perdita stayed quiet and calm, nestled inside Anita’s coat. On the walk over, Anita had tried to think of how she could convince Beatrice to let her keep Perdita in their room. In a way, Anita hoped Beatrice might ignore Perdita the same way she ignored her.

  When Anita entered, Beatrice was huddled up on her bed as usual, staring at the open book in her lap.

  “Beatrice?” Anita asked. Beatrice raised her eyes slowly. “Hello,” Anita said. “I don’t want you to be frightened, but I’ve got something to show you.”

  Anita unwrapped her coat and revealed the puppy in her arms. Perdita had fallen fast asleep and was snoozing with soft snores. Beatrice’s hands flew to her cheeks in surprise, her book forgotten.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” Anita said. “She was living in the shed out behind the school.”

  Without a word, Beatrice reached out her arms toward Perdita.

  “You’d like to hold her?” Anita asked. Beatrice nodded. Anita was surprised, but she placed the sleeping puppy in Beatrice’s arms. Beatrice hugged Perdita to her chest. Then she dissolved into tears.