The flu was forgotten. Missy was forgotten. Even Almandine was a little forgotten.
“You must bring your guitar over sometime and give us a private concert,” Nana said to Putney.
Putney turned to Almandine. “Maybe I could play ‘If I Had a Hammer’ and you could sing along with me.”
Almandine was familiar with the song all right, thanks to the Minstrels, but she hung her head because her entire family knew that her singing sounded like mooing. There was a little silence, and then Grandmother said brightly, “We’ll be sure to attend the holiday program, Putney.”
“Yes, all of us,” added Auntie Adelaide.
“I’m going to be a snowflake in our class play,” Almandine reminded her family.
“Lovely, dear,” said Mr. Clavicle.
The next week report cards came out. “Straight Bs again,” said Almandine with relief when she and her parents logged on to the website.
Putney got straight As. Luckily, the Clavicle adults didn’t ask about her grades. But the next time Putney sat down around the fancy dining table and placed her napkin in her lap, she told Almandine’s family that after Christmas she and her brothers were going to fly by themselves all the way to California to visit their grandparents. “We just found out about the trip,” she said. “We’re so excited.”
“You’re going by yourselves?” Almandine repeated. “Aren’t you scared?”
“Oh, no. We’ve done it before.”
“What? Flown, or visited your grandparents in California?”
“Both.”
“My,” said Mother.
The next evening, Almandine was seated around the Cadwalladers’ table, eating macaroni and cheese from a paper plate, Harry the beagle drooling pleasantly on her ankles, when suddenly she found herself saying, “Next summer my friend is going on a trip down the Nile River.”
“Really? Cool!” exclaimed Joseph.
“Yeah, cool,” said Putney. “Which friend?”
“Um, you don’t know her. Her name is … Candy.”
“Candy. That’s a funny name.”
“She’s going to go animal watching and see gorillas and pandas.”
“On the Nile?” asked Mr. Cadwallader.
“I believe so,” Almandine replied primly.
The next night, when Putney was at the Clavicles’ again, she didn’t even wait for the food to be served before she said, “Almandine told us about Candy’s trip to Africa.”
“Excuse me?” said Father.
“Who’s Candy?” asked Grandmother.
“You know,” said Almandine, sounding faintly cross.
Putney looked from face to face to face.
“My friend. Candy,” said Almandine.
Mother frowned. “Do we know her? Who are her parents?”
“She’s just … at school.”
“She isn’t in our class,” spoke up Putney.
“So what? She’s still going on a trip down the Nile. To see the pandas and jungle animals.”
“That doesn’t sound quite—” Grandfather began, but stopped himself. “Well, that will be some trip,” he said after a moment.
Almandine looked thoughtful, then added, “And she’s going all by herself.”
Later that week, when the best friends were eating dinner at their own houses for once, Almandine suddenly announced to her family, “Guess what. Today during art, Mrs. Hambly said I made the best painting in the class, and she, um, hung it by the front entrance of school … so it’s the first thing anyone sees when they walk through the door.”
“Honey, how wonderful!” exclaimed Auntie Columbia.
“We’ll have to drop by school so we can see it,” said Father.
“I’ll take a picture of it,” said Nana.
“Well,” said Almandine, “it might not be up for very long.”
“Then we’ll go first thing in the morning,” said Father, smiling.
“On our way to work,” added Mother.
“Oh, no,” said Almandine. “It might have been taken down already. It was just a sort of, um, one-day honor kind of thing.”
“Odd,” murmured Grandmother.
“But still it’s an honor,” said Mother.
* * *
Three miles away, in the right-side-up upside-down house, Missy Piggle-Wiggle stood at her front window, looking over the top edge of the quarantine sign, and sighed. Lester, who was sitting on the couch holding a lukewarm cup of coffee, glanced at her.
“Someone will be calling soon,” Missy told him. “I sense a problem somewhere. Someone needs my help.” She sighed again as Lightfoot floated out of the parlor and into the hallway, bobbing gently against the ceiling like a balloon. “No sign of the Effluvia letting up,” she added, “although I still feel right as rain.”
* * *
In the Clavicle home later that evening, the adults kissed Almandine good night one by one, and then gathered around the table in the dining room.
“There’s no one at school named Candy,” Father announced. “I’ve asked around.”
“I’d be surprised if a painting by Almandine was hanging by the front door today,” said Nana.
“Do you know what she told me after dinner?” asked Mother. “That on the way home from school today, she found a giant diamond on the sidewalk but that she left it where it was in case its owner came looking for it.”
“She told me,” said Auntie Adelaide, “that last year she found an injured dog and saved its life.”
“Tall tales,” said Grandfather. “Every single one of them.”
“She’s never lied before,” said Mother.
“Well, it has to be stopped,” said Father. “Who knows what lying could lead to. A life of crime.”
“I hardly think she’s a criminal,” Mother replied. “But I’m not sure what to do about this.”
“Punish her?” suggested Auntie Columbia weakly.
No one could bear the thought. Almandine had never before needed to be punished. The adults sat silently around the table until finally Mother said, “I suppose we could call Missy Piggle-Wiggle. That’s what all the parents do when there’s a problem. Tricia Grubbermitts was telling me about the miracle Missy worked with Louie.”
“And,” added Nana, “Missy cured those insufferable Forthright children of their whining.”
“I’ll call her right now,” said Mother.
When Missy’s phone rang, she wasn’t one bit surprised. “Ah,” she said to Lester, “here’s the call.”
Almandine’s mother introduced herself to Missy and inquired politely how the battle with the flu was going. Then, quite suddenly, she burst into tears and cried, “Our lovely Almandine has become a liar!”
“A liar. Goodness. When did this begin?”
Mother paused and thought. “I suppose it began shortly after Putney Cadwallader moved next door. She’s Almandine’s first real friend, and she’s just lovely. So accomplished, too. She plays the guitar and she’s very bright. And bold! She thinks nothing of hopping on a plane without her parents and traveling all the way to California. Why, our Almandine has never even been on a sleepover.”
“Ah. I think I see the problem,” said Missy.
“Really? Do you know Almandine?” Mother was fairly certain that Almandine had never been to the upside-down house.
“I feel that I do,” Missy replied cryptically.
“Well, what’s wrong? What happened to her?”
“And I know just the cure,” Missy continued.
In the background she could hear a voice, presumably the voice of Almandine’s father, say, “We’ll do anything.”
“Do we give her pills? A tonic?” asked Mother.
“It’s easier than that. A simple air freshener. Just hang it somewhere in your house and let it do its work.”
“Our house is quite large,” said Almandine’s mother uncertainly.
“I’ll give you two, then. Can someone pick them up tomorrow? I’ll leave them on the porch
.”
When Missy had finished the call, she sat thoughtfully in a right-side-up chair for a few moments. Penelope flapped into the room. “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” she squawked.
Missy smiled. “But the problem isn’t Almandine’s,” she told her.
* * *
The next morning Missy carried a small paper bag to the front door. Inside were two bars of something that looked like soap and smelled pleasantly like Christmas—pine and cinnamon and peppermint. Attached to each was a red ribbon for easy hanging. The air fresheners, which did not have labels, had come from the dark recesses of Missy’s cabinet, where the cures were for things such as Judginess and Comparisonitis, cures that, in Missy’s mind, were intended for use on parents, not children.
Ten minutes after Missy left the bag on the porch, Grandmother Clavicle picked it up, moving faster than usual in order to outrun the Effluvia, and drove the lovely-smelling fresheners back to the house in the country. She hung one in the dining room and one in the second-floor hallway.
She wondered what would happen next.
At first nothing at all happened except that the scent of peppermint made Almandine want a candy cane.
Then two days later, Mr. and Mrs. Clavicle were cleaning up the kitchen after dinner when Mr. Clavicle suddenly said, “Did you know that Ellie Cadwallader plays the guitar just like her daughter? Turns out she’s Putney’s music teacher.”
Mrs. Clavicle handed him a dishcloth. “That house certainly attracts musicians.”
“Ellie has even played professionally. I ran into her at the bank today, and she told me all the places where she’s performed.”
Almandine’s mother tried to think of something interesting that she could mention.
“Imagine performing in New York, in Paris, in Vienna,” her husband went on.
“Did I ever tell you about the time,” began Mrs. Clavicle, “that I caught a five-pound fish?”
“When you were in second grade?”
“Well, yes.”
Almandine’s father lifted his head and sniffed. “I do like the scent of Missy’s air freshener. I wonder what it’s doing.”
The day after that, Saturday, Mrs. Clavicle looked out the front door and caught sight of Putney’s father raking a flower bed in his lawn. A box of tulip bulbs sat beside him. She hurried into the Cadwalladers’ yard and looked approvingly at the bulbs.
“I do all the gardening myself,” Mr. Cadwallader informed her. “Don’t hold with gardening services.” When Almandine’s mother peered into the carton, he added, “There are a hundred and fifty bulbs in there. Next spring this yard will look like Holland.”
“How lovely,” said Mrs. Clavicle approvingly. She hurried home to report this to her husband. “The Cadwalladers’ yard will be the showpiece of the neighborhood come spring! And Robinson does all the gardening himself.”
“I could do our gardening if I had the time,” said Mr. Clavicle.
“No. You couldn’t. Remember the cactus? We barely even had to water it, and it died.”
Over the next week the names Ellie and Robinson Cadwallader seemed to be mentioned frequently in the Clavicle home.
Ellie decorated Putney’s house with the most tasteful lights Mr. Clavicle had ever seen.
Robinson brought over homemade Christmas cookies that were the best Mrs. Clavicle had ever eaten.
Ellie could make things with a needle and thread that were fancier than anything Mr. Clavicle had seen in a store.
Robinson shoveled his own driveway after the first snowfall and announced that he didn’t hold with plowing services any more than with gardening services.
And on and on and on.
After dinner one night, Almandine’s father set out a chocolate torte he had picked up at the bakery on his way home from work. Mrs. Clavicle put a bite in her mouth and said, “Mmm.”
“I know, I know. Robinson could probably make a better one,” muttered Mr. Clavicle from the other end of the table.
“Dear, I said, ‘Mmm.’ I love this. Why are you bringing up Robinson?”
“Well, you did say you thought his cookies were good enough to get him on The Great Baking Championship.”
“I was paying him a compliment.”
“It sort of sounded like you think I can’t bake.”
“I have an idea!” said Grandmother brightly. “Why don’t we leave the dishes for later and sing Christmas carols in the living room?”
Mrs. Clavicle glared at her husband. “No. I’m afraid amateur music won’t do.”
Almandine stared down at her plate. “I’m sorry I moo when I sing.”
“Oh, no, darling! That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean? We all know I moo. And anyway, Father, why do you care if you can’t bake? You’re the best storyteller I’ve ever heard.” Almandine turned to her mother. “And you always recommend the best books. Your recommendations are even better than Ms. Porridge’s.” (Ms. Porridge was Almandine’s teacher, the one who had suggested she read Understood Betsy.)
After Almandine went to bed that night, Mr. and Mrs. Clavicle sat by the Christmas tree, smelling pine.
“Is that the tree or Missy’s air freshener?” asked Mrs. Clavicle.
Mr. Clavicle shrugged. There was a little silence before he said, “I know what you’re thinking, dear. I’m thinking it myself.”
“Then I’ll say it straight-out. We’ve been comparing each other to Putney’s parents, just like we compared Almandine to Putney.”
“It doesn’t feel very nice.”
“Plus, what’s the point?”
“I have an idea,” said Mr. Clavicle, and he got out a piece of paper and a pen.
When Almandine awoke the next morning, she found something taped to her mirror. She pulled it off and crawled back in bed to read it. It was a list:
Things We Love About Our Daughter
1. She’s the most cheerful person we know.
2. She’s a hard worker.
3. She tries her best.
4. She secretly does nice things for people.
5. She’s a good friend.
6. She’s kind to animals.
The list went on for two pages and was slightly longer than the longest list Almandine had ever made. She read it through twice, then ran downstairs and hugged her parents. “Thank you,” she said.
Suddenly she raised her head and sniffed the air. “What happened to Missy’s freshener?” she asked. “I don’t smell it anymore.”
“Neither do I,” said Mrs. Clavicle.
“Neither do I,” said Mr. Clavicle.
Almandine ran into the dining room. “It’s gone!” she exclaimed. “Only the ribbon is left.” She ran upstairs. “This one’s gone, too,” she called.
“Oh dear,” said Mr. Clavicle. “I hope Missy didn’t expect us to return them.”
“Well, anyway,” added Mrs. Clavicle, “I think they did the trick.”
Across town, Missy, who was tidying up her bedroom, suddenly sniffed the air. “Ah. Pine and cinnamon and peppermint. I believe the Clavicles have been cured,” she said, and she plumped her pillow with satisfaction.
5
The Who’s-the-Boss Cure
THE HOME BELONGING to the Cupcake family was small and tidy and, at least from the outside, cheerful. Bright yellow curtains hung in the downstairs windows, and bright blue curtains hung in the upstairs windows. In the spring tulips and daffodils poked out of the lawn, in the summer roses spilled from the gardens, in the autumn pumpkins lined the steps to the porch, and in the winter golden lights twinkled from the trees. Anyone passing by the house would say, “What a sweet home.”
But if you paused there long enough, eventually you might hear something like this from behind the sweet walls:
“I WANT TO WEAR MY PURPLE DRESS! YOU SAID I COULD!”
“I said that before I knew it was in the washing machine.”
“BUT YOU SAID I COULD WEAR IT!”
“I made a mistake
.”
“BUT I WANT IT! I WANT IT, I WANT IT, I WANT IT!”
Or you might hear something like this:
“I’M NOT READY TO GO TO BED YET!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s bedtime.”
“BUT I’M NOT READY! I JUST SAID SO!”
“Veronica, it’s eight o’clock.”
“I DON’T CARE! I WANT TO STAY UP!”
Veronica Cupcake, who could be a perfectly nice little girl when she felt like it, lived in this house with her parents and her sister, Isobel, who was a senior in high school and practically another mother to Veronica. Isobel was ten when Veronica was born. When the Cupcake parents had brought Veronica home from the hospital, they held hands with Isobel and stared down at the baby lying peacefully in her crib.
“She’s so sweet,” said Mrs. Cupcake.
“She’s an angel,” said Mr. Cupcake.
“She’s perfect,” said Isobel.
Every minute of every day, the Cupcakes hovered around Veronica. At her slightest cry, they rushed to her side.
“Here’s another toy,” Isobel would say.
“I’ll rock you,” her mother would say.
“Let’s change your shirt,” her father would say, and hurry to the bureau overflowing with new clothes.
You would think that Veronica’s first word might have been “yes” since people were always offering her wonderful things. “Do you want the hat with the flowers?” “Do you want to ride in your swing?” “Do you want your new stuffed teddy?”
Instead Veronica’s first word was “no.” And not just “no,” but “NO!”
“Don’t cry, Veronica. Do you want me to play house with you?”
“NO!”
“Oh dear. You aren’t eating your supper. Do you want me to make you spaghetti?”
“NO!”
The next two words Veronica learned to say were “I want.” They were followed by all sorts of other words, such as:
ice cream
your shoes
to go outside right now
a dog. No, not a stuffed dog, a real dog. A REAL DOG!
“She certainly does know her mind,” said Mr. Cupcake one afternoon.
“Only three years old and already she has a sense of style,” added Mrs. Cupcake.
The Cupcakes were having this conversation in the car on the way home from a department store in the city, where they had gone to buy Veronica some new pants. The trip had started off well because just as they were getting into the car that morning, Veronica had said, “I WANT CHEERIOS!” so Mr. Cupcake had hurried back inside and found the Cheerios and also a juice box, since you never knew what else Veronica might need, and need very loudly. Consequently, Veronica had been quiet all the way to the mall. But then the trip had fallen completely apart. As soon as they entered the Clothes Line and found the girls’ department, Veronica had run to a rack of velvet dresses and proclaimed, “I WANT THE BLUE ONE!”
Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Sticky-Fingers Cure Page 5
