by Linda Bailey
Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen something so messy, thought Eddie. Glancing at his front feet, he realized that he must be marking the floor with footprints.
Thank goodness he had noticed. The Grischer would be sure to spot a blueberry-juice trail on her desk.
He walked over to the yellow pad and wiped his feet on the top sticky till they were dry. Then he peered at the paper, leaning in so close that his eyes almost touched it. Yes, just as he’d expected, little blue marks all over.
He picked up the blueberry chunk and started to climb the desk leg. As usual, his mind wandered. It went searching for something more interesting than the long, slow slog up the desk.
He was halfway up when it happened. A shock ran through him that was so strong, he got chills.
“Wow!” he said.
Eddie had a great idea!
CHAPTER
14
A great idea is an extraordinary experience in anyone’s life—bug or Squisher. And if you are ever lucky enough to have such an experience, it would be wise to consider your timing.
Try not to have your great idea, as Eddie did, while struggling up a sheer precipice, hauling an enormous, awkward lump of dripping fruit. He got so excited, he almost fell.
“Aunt Min!” he cried when he got to the drawer. “Aunt Min!”
With his mandibles full of blueberry, it came out like this: “Amm-mmm! Amm-mmm!”
He dropped the chunk into the drawer and scuttled down behind.
“Is that really blueberry?” Min rushed over. “Yes! I could smell it. My favorite!”
“What?” said Eddie. “You said you liked raspberry best.”
“Raspberry’s my other favorite. I just—”
“Never mind, doesn’t matter. Aunt Min, I have a great idea!”
“Eddie, sweetheart, this berry is beyond words. So ripe, so juicy.”
“No,” said Eddie. “I mean, yes. I mean, no. Aunt Min, listen. That’s my idea. Blueberry juice!”
Min was attacking her meal with great zeal, but she glanced up politely. “You’re going to have to be more specific. How is blueberry juice an idea?”
“It’s like ink,” he said. “Like the ink on a stamp pad. If we still had the Librarian’s stamp pad, we could use that. But the stamp pad is gone now, so we’ll have to use blueberry juice instead.”
“Eddie, what are you talking about?”
“We can write a message, Aunt Min. With juice! A message to the Grischer. We can give her a piece of your mind. Like you said.”
Min stopped chomping. “Write?” she repeated in confusion. “Eddie? Can you . . . write?”
A thrill ran through Eddie. “I don’t know . . . can I?”
Min’s eyes were so big, they looked ready to pop. “Eddie, I have to tell you, I have never . . . not in all my born days . . . ever heard of a bug who could write.”
Eddie thought about this. But it made no sense. “Why not? I can read, can’t I? Why shouldn’t I write, too?”
Min, who had forgotten all about eating, pushed the berry chunk aside. “Well, I . . . golly . . . I mean, who’d ever think . . .” Almost too flummoxed to speak, she stammered, “Eddie . . . now, dearest . . . even if you could write . . . what would you write on?”
Eddie smiled. “Stickies!”
“Stickies?” repeated Min. “You mean . . . those little yellow papers?”
She squinted into the gloom at the pad of stickies that had been lying in the drawer since they arrived.
Eddie nodded. “Yes, those. There’s another pad under the desk.”
It didn’t seemed possible that Min’s eyes could get bigger, but they did. “You want to write . . . on those stickies?”
“Yes!” said Eddie. “I want to write on the stickies, using blueberry juice as ink. I know I can make marks, Aunt Min. I already did it by accident. My foot can be a pen!”
Min sat down with a plop. “Eddie, I am totally gobsmacked. I don’t know whether you’re the smartest bug who ever crawled or . . . or . . . as wacky as a bedbug.”
Eddie laughed. “Maybe I am wacky. But I really want to try. I can at least try, can’t I?”
Before she could answer, he continued. “It’s like that story about the cows that typed. How did they know they could type if they didn’t try?”
Min laughed. “Well . . . yes. But Eddie, that was a make-believe story.”
“Yeah, well, I’m making up a story, too,” said Eddie. “And in my story, I’m making believe I can write!”
He stamped his front foot for emphasis.
Min’s cackle filled the drawer. “Eddie, you’re one in a million. Yes, of course, anything’s possible. You must go ahead and try.”
“Great!” said Eddie. “I’m ready to start!”
“Maybe so,” said Min. “But I think you’ll have to wait.”
She pointed up. Dark clouds had rolled across the sky. They blocked the moonlight and were starting to send raindrops onto the skylight with a sharp rat-a-tat. The pad of stickies was now almost invisible.
“Rats!” said Eddie. He hated waiting. He was so ready to be a writer.
“Never mind,” said Min. “Morning will come soon.”
But it didn’t. Morning seemed to take a whole week. Eddie paced their small space restlessly.
“Relax,” said Min. “You’re as jumpy as a grasshopper.”
It was true. He was practically vibrating. To calm himself, he began to do some practicing. Of course, he couldn’t actually write anything. But it wasn’t hard to imagine making letters—the lovely swirls of an s, the jagged lines of a z. He remembered watching the children write in Room 19—the way they held their pencils and moved them across the paper. All night long, using his right front foot, Eddie formed letters in the air, mimicking the movements of the children while his aunt snoozed nearby.
Just before dawn, the rain stopped. As the first light crept into the drawer, Eddie assembled his tools.
The berry chunk.
The stickies.
His foot.
“What are you going to write?” asked Min.
Eddie smiled. “I thought you might know. You said you wanted to talk to her, Aunt Min. The Grischer. You wanted to give her a piece of your mind. What would you say if you had the chance?”
“Well,” said Aunt Min, “the first thing I’d say is—leave this Library alone! I’d say that I need books to read, and so does Eddie, and so do reading bugs everywhere. And so do the children, by the way. Those children are hungry for stories—I’ve seen that day after day!—and what are you thinking, robbing them of stories and giving them tests instead? I’d tell her that books are exactly what children and bugs need. They’re good for reading, yes, but they’re also good for touching and smelling and turning the pages, and cuddling up on, and sharing.”
She paused, panting loudly.
“Aunt Min?
“Yes?”
“That was great.”
“Thank you, Eddie.”
“But I think it’s . . . er . . . a bit long.”
“Oh,” she said. “I suppose it is a lot to ask of blueberry juice and a sticky.”
He nodded.
“Well then, Eddie, put it in your own words. You’ll know what to say.”
Eddie took a deep breath.
He dipped a front foot in the juice and swooshed it around till it was good and wet. Then, holding his foot high, he used his other legs to climb onto the sticky pad.
He stared at the big yellow square. Where to start?
Top-left corner, he decided. Just like for reading.
Reaching out with his juice-covered foot, he placed it on the sticky. Slowly, he dragged it down.
It worked! He was making a line!
Then he stopped. Stared.
“Aunt Min, it’s not right. The line is too thin!”
No use pretending. Eddie’s line was a poor, weak thing. Almost invisible. Far too pale for a Squisher to read.
“Your foot is very tiny
,” Min reminded him. “Why don’t you try again? With two feet.”
Eddie dipped both front feet in the blueberry chunk and tried again. He wiggled backward to take a look.
“Better!” said Min. “Much better.”
Eddie agreed. And if two feet worked better, then three might be better still. Or four? Balancing on his two back feet, Eddie dipped all his other feet into the blueberry chunk . . . and promptly fell over!
Min smiled. “Two feet seems best for writing. But it never hurts to experiment.”
“Did you see me, Aunt Min?” said Eddie. “I was standing on two legs. Like a Squisher! Here, I’ll do it again. I’m a Squisher, see? I’m a Squisher.”
As Eddie balanced on his two back legs, he and his aunt laughed heartily.
“How do the Squishers do it?” said Min. “Wobbling along that way. They look as though they should topple over.”
“Maybe their feet keep them up,” said Eddie. “Their feet are huge.”
“Good golly, yes. Imagine having those big floppy feet!”
“Imagine having six of those feet!”
At that, they both rolled about, laughing.
But as Eddie settled onto all his legs again, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the Squishers. What a nuisance it must be, having to keep your balance all the time.
“Eddie?” said Min.
“Yes?”
“Your sticky?”
“Oh. Right.” Eddie returned to his task. Using his two front feet to write, he added a round shape to the line he had made, so that it looked like this:
P
“That’s a p,” cried Aunt Min. “Eddie! You’re doing it! You’re actually writing!”
“More juice,” said Eddie.
Concentrating hard, he printed two more letters.
Ple
“Ple?” said Aunt Min. “I don’t understand. What’s ple?”
“I’m not finished,” said Eddie.
And he wasn’t. But new as he was to writing, he had already figured something out. Writing took a long time. And it took up a lot of space on the sticky.
He glanced up at the light, shining in now through the drawer opening. It was brighter every minute. Soon the Squishers would arrive.
“I may not be able to write the whole message now,” he said.
“Oh, Eddie darling,” said Aunt Min. “Don’t you see? This is already a miracle! A bug writing a message.”
“It’s not a message yet.” He plunged his feet back into the chunk.
As quickly as he could, he added three more letters. An a. An s, which was the trickiest of all, so far. And finally, another e.
“There,” said Eddie.
His word pretty much filled the sticky.
Please
Aunt Min stared at it. “Please? Your first word is please?”
“Yes,” said Eddie. “Is that okay?”
“Well, please is a fine word. But I don’t know. Please? To the Grischer?”
“Why not? I’m asking for something.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“And you know what Pa always says.”
“What?”
“He says that everyone has a soft spot under their shell. I’m saying ‘please’ to her soft spot.”
Min was silent a moment. Then she started to laugh.
“What can I say? You’re a better bug than me, Eddie. Please is the perfect choice for your first word.”
“Gee,” said Eddie, “thanks!”
“So what’s next?”
“I’m going to stick this sticky onto one of the Library books—where the Grischer will see it and read it. Then I’ll write another word, and another, and another. I’ll stick them all on books. Little by little, she’ll get the message.”
“Good plan,” said Min. “Which book?”
“I thought you might have an idea. You know everything about the Library.”
“Not everything,” said Min. “But I think I know a good book for your sticky.”
“Which one?”
“It’s about a bug,” she said. “Well, sort of. It’s called The Very Hungry Caterpillar. It’s about a caterpillar who eats and eats. And everything he eats makes a hole in the book! Isn’t that clever? The children can poke their fingers through the holes.”
Eddie grinned. “Sounds great. Where can I find it?”
Aunt Min gave him directions. “You’ll have to hurry. It’s almost time for school to start.”
Eddie took a deep breath. It had been a long night. The thought of yet another trek was daunting.
But the sooner the Grischer got the message, the better.
He stuck the yellow sticky to his back and crawled into the bright morning light.
CHAPTER
15
It wasn’t hard to find the C books.
That’s where Aunt Min had told Eddie to go. She said that the author of The Very Hungry Caterpillar was Eric Carle. “Carle” started with C, so the book would be in the C section of picture books. Picture books were right beside the story-time carpet. Easy!
What Aunt Min hadn’t mentioned was how many other authors had names that started with C.
Cleaver, Cooney, Crews, Cronin . . .
I’ll be here all day, thought Eddie.
But of course, that couldn’t happen. A bug with a sticky on his back would be spotted in an instant.
So Eddie started to run along the C shelf. As he beetled past the books, his eyes skimmed the titles. Was this speed-reading, he wondered? He had heard the Teacher mention such a thing but had never guessed he might actually do it. If his mission hadn’t been so important, this speed-reading might be fun.
Then, suddenly, there it was! The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
Closed, of course. Tucked among the others. One day, Eddie might be lucky enough to find it open. . . .
For now he focused on getting the sticky off his back. Without Min’s help, it was tough. He had to do a lot of grunting, pulling, and twisting before the sticky came free. Then he had to figure out how to attach it to the book—without re-gluing it to himself. Lastly, there was the problem of size. The spine of the book was much narrower than the sticky. Eddie had some tricky moments trying to be loyal to the caterpillar hero inside. There were so few insect heroes—the caterpillar book really did deserve a sticky all to itself. But in the end, he had to attach the sticky to several other books as well.
And finally, there it was. His first written word. And it was on a library shelf! Eddie beamed like a glowworm.
He was walking proudly away along C Shelf when . . . he sensed something.
A change.
That’s when he heard it—the faint click of the Library door being closed, when he hadn’t even heard it open.
“Ohmygosh. She’s here? Already?”
He turned.
The Grischer moved quickly—from door to desk in a gray-beige blur. Pulling a wet wipe from her purse, she swished it across the desktop, then placed the purse neatly on one corner. Her pale gray coat was hanging on a hook almost before she took it off.
Then she turned.
“Hmm,” she muttered. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” echoed Eddie in his head.
But he knew.
Eric Carle’s sticky. She had already spotted it.
Yes. Here she came, charging across the room like an army ant. Before Eddie could react, there she was.
At C shelf!
Limbs shaking, he tried desperately to think.
Run?
She’d see him.
But if he stayed where he was, she’d see him anyway.
She snatched up the sticky and raised it to her metal-rimmed glasses. “‘Please’?” she read out loud.
Slowly, she glanced around the Library. Eddie could see her eyes now. Blue with pink edges. He could hear her suck in her breath.
She spat out a single word.
“Bug!”
The pale hands groped wildly—a weapon, a wea
pon! Eddie watched, still paralyzed, as she snatched up a magazine.
A nanosecond later, it was rolled and in the air. Eddie gasped! He skittered between two books just as the magazine smashed—THWACK!—where he’d been standing, frozen.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Eddie raced to the rear of the shelf and zoomed left.
THWACK!
The space behind him was suddenly empty. C books were disappearing! The Grischer was ripping them off the shelves!
THWACK!
Eddie ran on. And then—
A hole! At his feet. A tiny gap where C shelf and the back of the bookcase didn’t meet. Big enough? Eddie jammed himself into the hole. Wriggling hard, he managed, barely, to squeeze through.
He skittered to the shelf below and glanced around. Was this D shelf? Wedging himself into a corner, he stopped. Listened.
CRASH! BONK! THUNK! The Grischer was still yanking books off C shelf and hurling them to the floor.
He waited. Would she empty D shelf next?
“Could I have a word, Ms. Grisch?” Someone had entered the Library.
“Oh, thank you!” whispered Eddie to his rescuer. “Whoever you are, thank you.”
He took a long gulping breath. Listening, he heard children’s voices as a class arrived. He heard the Grischer greet the new arrivals. He tried to calm himself.
Once again, books helped. Of course, they did.
If a time ever comes in your life when you have to hide from an enemy, as Eddie did, and if you happen to be a passionate reader, as Eddie was, then there is no better place to hide in all the world than behind a wall of books. The smell soothed Eddie’s raw and jangled nerves. He breathed it in deeply. He leaned hard against the covers. Inside those covers, he knew, there were characters just as frightened as he was—pursued by evil forces, running for their lives, desperate to escape. Anything awful that comes along in life—anything!—has always been felt first by a character in a book. Eddie understood this. And even though he couldn’t open the books, he was calmed by their presence. Surrounded by stories, he felt less alone.
He didn’t mean to doze off. Not on a library shelf, for Pete’s sake. But it had been such a long night.
