“I was collecting, not stealing,” said Louie, raising his chin.
At dinner that night he found that he couldn’t hold a fork in his right hand, because of the pen and the feather, and he couldn’t hold one in his left hand, because of the book and the iPhone.
“Would you like me to feed you?” asked Elena.
“No!” Louie asked Mama Tricia for some soup, which he drank through a straw, the yo-yo unspooling beside his face from time to time.
* * *
That night Mama Eloise looked at her wife and said, “Missy Piggle-Wiggle is certainly clever. Louie will be cured in no time.”
But Louie found his habit difficult to break. By the end of the week, he looked like a walking rummage sale. His friends had little to say to him except, “Hey, that’s my watch!” or “Is that my comic book?” or “That’s mine! Give it back!”
“You can barely move!” Elena exclaimed to her brother on Friday. “In fact, I can barely see you. Where’s your face?”
Louie didn’t answer her. He knew he had a big problem. And like all the children in Little Spring Valley, he knew that the best way to solve a big problem was to talk to Missy Piggle-Wiggle. “I’m going outside,” he called to Elena, and off he went to Missy’s.
When he reached her house, he stood uncertainly on the sidewalk and stared at the right-side-up doors and windows and chimney. At last he made his way to the porch. He read the signs, then knocked on the door and called, “Missy? Are you in there? It’s me, Louie. Can I talk to you?”
“If you don’t mind a conversation through the door,” replied Missy.
“No.” Louie sighed. Then he said, “I have a big problem.”
Missy looked at him through the window. “So I see.”
“Can you help me?”
“Sometimes we have to help ourselves.”
Louie thought about that. “I’ve tried. I told everybody they could have their things back, but my friends, um, aren’t strong enough to pull them off.”
“Maybe there’s another solution,” said Missy.
“And I have to think of it myself, don’t I?” grumbled Louie. He turned around and clanked his way back home.
After dinner he knocked politely on his sisters’ door. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he told them. “I shouldn’t have taken these things. They aren’t mine. Can you please help me get them off? I’m hungry.”
“Fine,” said Rachel. She and Elena grasped a pair of sneakers and pulled.
“That doesn’t really work,” Louie told them. “Other people have tried. Maybe you could break them off.”
“You can’t return broken things to their owners.”
Louie slumped into his room.
That night he lay uncomfortably in bed. He thought and thought about how he could release all the shoes and toys and books from his body. By the next morning, he had made a decision. As soon as breakfast was over, he took the elevator to the third floor and rang the bell at the apartment of a third grader named Sampson Checkers.
“Hi, Sammy,” said Louie. Sampson began to back away from him. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to take anything from you.”
“You mean, anything else.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for taking your comic book.”
“Are you going to give it back?”
Slowly Louie shook his head. “I want to. But I can’t. It won’t come off. I’m sorry.”
Even though Zelda the ferret wasn’t stuck to Louie, he stopped off at the next floor of the building on his way outside and rang Stephanie’s bell. Stephanie opened the door holding Zelda, and she whisked her above her head and jumped backward.
“Don’t worry,” said Louie for the second time in three minutes. “I’m not going to take anything. I just wanted to apologize again. I’m sorry about what I did.”
“Really? Well … thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Louie said, and realized he felt a bit better.
Outside on Juniper Street, Louie took inventory of the things that were clanking around on his body. He realized he had dozens of visits to make. In one block alone, he made three stops.
“Mr. Spectacle,” he said, after waiting patiently in line in Harold’s bookstore, “I’m very sorry I took your closed sign, but it was just hanging on your door and I really wanted it.”
Harold didn’t think this was much of an apology, but he said “That’s all right” anyway.
On and on and on went Louie’s apologies. He stopped in stores. He rang doorbells. He tracked down his friend Linden Pettigrew at basketball practice. He yelled an apology to Georgie Pepperpot since Georgie was too mad at Louie to open the door.
“I’M REALLY SORRY I TOOK YOUR SHOES!”
The door opened a crack. “You are? Thank you.”
“Yes. I am. Are you still mad?”
“A little.”
“Okay. I guess I would be, too.”
It was after lunch when Louie walked tiredly up the steps to Ashleigh Dalmatian’s house. “Ashleigh,” he said, after she had let him inside, “I came to tell you that I’m sorry I took your pen.”
Ashleigh nodded and looked longingly at the pen waggling around on Louie’s crowded right hand. “It’s kind of special. My aunt gave it to me for my birthday. She gave me a journal, too, and she said she thinks I can be a writer one day—which is what I want to be more than anything else! So those were my best birthday presents this year.” She regarded Louie. He was standing stiffly by a chair, and he looked exhausted. “Can you sit down?” she asked.
“Not really.” Louie turned around so she could see the board game and the football attached to his backside.
“Gosh. You must be really uncomfortable.”
Louie stared at the floor. “You’re worried about me after what I did?”
“I can’t think only about myself. What’s the point in that?”
Louie blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I mean, really sorry. I didn’t know the pen was special. I should have asked you before I took it.”
And just like that, the pen dropped off Louie’s palm and fell to the floor. “Hey!” he exclaimed.
Ashleigh dived for the pen. “Thanks, Louie!”
“You’re welcome,” he murmured in amazement.
At his next stop, which was Veronica Cupcake’s house, Louie said, “Veronica, I’m sorry I took the picture you made. I don’t even know why I took it, except that it was really pretty and—”
“You thought my picture was pretty?”
Louie nodded. “But I didn’t think about how much it might mean to you. You probably wanted to show it to your parents.”
Before Louie had even finished speaking, the picture had drifted off his shirt and floated to the floor.
“Thank you!” cried Veronica.
Suddenly Louie didn’t feel tired. He continued his apologies, and at each stop another item unlatched itself. By the time he walked through the door to his apartment, the only things on his body were his clothes. His moms and his sisters looked at him in amazement. Louie smiled at them and then shrugged. “I’m going to go clean out my room,” he announced.
Then, as so many parents in Little Spring Valley had done at one time or another, Mama Eloise picked up her phone and called Missy Piggle-Wiggle to say thank you.
4
The Pants-on-Fire Cure
AT THE VERY edge of Little Spring Valley, on the other side of town from the elementary school, began a lane that wound far out into the countryside. Near the beginning of that lane, where the air smelled more like country than town but where neighbors could still see the houses on either side of them if they looked hard enough, was a rambling old home belonging to the Clavicles. It was the sort of country house with a wide porch, where the Clavicle aunts hung pots of bright red and pink flowers in the summer. There were gables on the roof, and windows poking out where you wouldn’t expect them, and three staircases inside, and lots of hidey-holes fo
r Almandine Clavicle, who was ten. The Clavicles were a largish family, and even so there were more bedrooms in the house than people to sleep in them.
Almandine liked to make lists, and she pasted them (every single one of them since her very first list, written when she was six) in a book she’d entitled The Collected Lists of Almandine Clavicle. That first list read:
My Pets
1. None
(Some of Almandine’s lists were on the short side.)
A recent list read:
The People in My Family
1. Me, Almandine, 10
2. Mother, 40
3. Father, 41
4. Grandmother (Father’s mother), 72
5. Grandfather (Father’s father), 75
6. Nana (Mother’s mother), 74
7. Auntie Adelaide (Mother’s sister), 45
8. Auntie Columbia (Mother’s brother’s sister-in-law), 48
Almandine had made lists of the furniture in her room, her favorite names for dogs, the types of potatoes she had eaten, the colors of a zebra (1. Black, 2. White), the brands of all the sneakers she had ever worn, and on and on and on.
Mother and Father Clavicle thought Almandine was extraordinary.
“She’s so precise,” said her mother.
“She’s so creative,” said her father, although secretly he wondered about the zebra list.
The Clavicle household was quiet, and Almandine was sweet and obedient. Every day after school she came directly home, ate a snack with her grandparents, and settled down to do her homework. She sat at the desk in her sunny pink-and-yellow room and diligently filled out worksheets and wrote essays. Her report cards were filled with Bs.
“She’s such a wonderfully above-average child,” Auntie Adelaide commented to Auntie Columbia one night.
“And it’s so nice that she always wants to be at home with us,” replied Auntie Columbia. “She’s never even been on a sleepover.”
Almandine had once read a book called Understood Betsy, about a little girl named Betsy (of course) who lives, at least in the beginning of the story, with two older relatives who dote on her and who shelter her from the hardships of life. Then she moves to a farm to stay with different relatives, who expect Betsy to do everything for herself and even give her chores. At the end of the story, Betsy decides she likes these relatives better and wants to live with them. Almandine had been puzzled and didn’t understand the point of the story. “It’s a very strange tale,” she had informed her teacher when she handed in her book report.
Almandine enjoyed her quiet life with all the grown-ups, but every now and then she did wish she had a friend. Sometimes she even dared to wish for a best friend. Most of her classmates had best friends. At the end of every school day, Almandine started off her walk home with six or seven other children who lived nearer to town, but she eventually finished off the walk along the lane all by herself. She would often stand for a few moments in front of the house next door to hers and look at the FOR SALE sign in the yard. The house had once been owned by the Minstrels, a very nice man and woman who were folk singers but who didn’t have any children. They had moved away over a year earlier, and the house was still empty. The FOR SALE sign had become gray and lopsided. Almandine would feel lonely for a few moments, looking at the leaning sign and the empty house, but then she would step through her front door and the grandparents would hug her and give her a snack.
One afternoon Almandine was startled to find Nana waiting for her at the beginning of the lane.
“Is something wrong?” asked Almandine.
Nana smiled at her. “No. I have a surprise for you. Keep your eyes closed.”
Almandine didn’t like walking along the lane with her eyes closed, even if Nana had taken her hand and was leading the way. But she did so—slowly, in case there should be a rock or a snake in her path that Nana didn’t see. At last Nana came to a stop, turned Almandine so that she was facing away from the road (as far as Almandine could tell), and said, “Open your eyes!”
Almandine opened her eyes and squinted in the sunshine. They were standing in front of the Minstrels’ house. She glanced up at her grandmother. “What?”
“Don’t you notice anything? Look around the yard.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Almandine after a moment. “The for-sale sign is gone.”
Nana smiled. “We’re going to have new neighbors.”
After her snack Almandine rushed to her room and began a list:
Things I Hope the New Neighbors Will Have
1. Children, three would be good
2. Dogs, five would be good
3. A trampoline
4. A girl exactly my age
5. Twin girls exactly my age
6. Someone who will be my best friend
Almandine knew this was a lot to hope for, but she couldn’t help herself. She peppered her parents and aunts and grandparents with questions: When will the new people move in? Where are they from? Do they have any children?
Nobody knew the answers.
Every morning Almandine looked out her window first thing to see if a moving van had pulled into the driveway next door. Every afternoon she rushed home from school expecting to see the new neighbors lugging boxes and suitcases out of their car and up the steps of the porch. Finally, finally, after two weeks of waiting, Almandine ran along her lane after school, and there in the Minstrels’ old yard were two cars, a moving van, a man, a woman, three children, and five people wearing BOHREN’S MOVERS jackets. Almandine stopped in her tracks and stared at all the activity. Eventually she noticed that one of the kids, a girl, was looking back at her from the porch.
The girl waved. “Hi!” she called.
“Hi.” Almandine set her backpack down and started across the yard, feeling excited and shy.
“My name is Putney,” said the girl. “Putney Cadwallader.”
“I’m Almandine Clavicle. I live next door.”
“What school do you go to?”
“There’s only one here. Little Spring Valley Elementary. I’m in fifth grade.”
“I’m in fifth grade, too!”
“Maybe we’ll be in the same class,” said Almandine, even though she privately thought this was too much to hope for.
Almandine got busy with her lists that evening:
Things the Cadwuh Cadd New Neighbors Have:
1. Three children
2. A girl exactly my age
3. Two dogs
Things the New Neighbors Do Not Have:
1. Five dogs
2. A trampoline
3. Twin girls exactly my age
Things the New Neighbors Might Have—I’m Not Sure Yet:
1. Someone who will be my best friend
Two mornings later, as the Cadwalladers were settling into their new home and new town, Almandine walked to Little Spring Valley Elementary with all three Cadwallader children—Putney; Joseph, who was eleven; and Benny, who was seven.
“I’m a girl sandwich,” Putney announced. “My brothers are the bread.”
“Do you play an instrument?” Joseph asked Almandine. Before she could answer, he went on. “We all do. Putney plays the guitar, Benny plays the piano, and I play the flute.”
“We’re a trio,” added Benny.
“I don’t play an instrument,” said Almandine, who couldn’t carry a tune and sounded like a cow when she tried to sing.
Benny patted her hand. “That’s okay.”
Two weeks went by before Almandine realized that she did in fact have a best friend, her first best friend ever. She and Putney were in the same class at school. They did their homework together in the afternoons. Sometimes Putney ate dinner at the Clavicles’ house, and sometimes Almandine ate dinner at the Cadwalladers’ house. Almandine and Putney were exactly the same size and could share clothes. They liked to read. They liked dogs. Almandine learned how to spell Putney’s last name.
One night in November, Putney was at the Clavicles’ ha
ving her third dinner with them. The Clavicles always ate in the dining room using their good china. They spread cloth napkins in their laps. This was why Putney liked dinner at Almandine’s house. The Cadwalladers ate in their kitchen using paper plates and paper cups to avoid breakage. They used paper towels instead of napkins. Sometimes the dogs drooled under the table. This was why Almandine liked dinner at Putney’s house.
On this particular evening, Grandmother wiped her mouth with a lace-edged flowered napkin and said, “Has anyone heard about the Winter Effluvia?”
“What’s the Winter Effluvia?” asked Putney.
“It’s a particular kind of flu,” replied Auntie Adelaide.
“We only have it here in Little Spring Valley,” added Almandine. “Luckily it doesn’t come around very often.”
“I heard that it’s across town at the funny lady’s house,” said Mr. Clavicle.
“What funny lady?” asked Putney. There was so much about her new town that she didn’t know.
“Missy Piggle-Wiggle,” answered Almandine. “She lives in an upside-down house, only now it’s right-side-up because of the flu.”
“It’s quarantined,” added Nana with a shudder.
“Missy can cure problems,” announced Almandine.
Putney looked from face to face as the story of Missy and her magic and the flu unfurled. At last she said, “My brothers and I are going to perform in the holiday program at school.”
The conversation about the flu came to an end. All eyes turned toward Putney. “Perform?” repeated Mrs. Clavicle.
“On their musical instruments,” said Almandine proudly.
“Oh, my,” said Auntie Columbia. “All three of you play?”
“Piano, flute, and guitar. I play the guitar.”
Grandmother’s eyes shone. “And what will you be performing?”
“Two songs. The first—”
“Two!” exclaimed Grandfather. “Imagine.”
“So talented,” murmured Mr. Clavicle, who had put down his fork and stopped eating.
“The first,” Putney began again, “will be ‘Up on the Housetop.’ The second will be ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ Benny wanted that one. And then I’m going to play a guitar solo. Probably a Beatles song.”
Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Sticky-Fingers Cure Page 4
