Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Sticky-Fingers Cure

by Ann M. Martin

  “Do you know what resolution I decided on?” Gabby exclaimed to Sven the moment they woke up. “Remember, I was deciding between helping out more in the restaurant and talking up more in class. Then I added on some other possibilities.”

  “Was one of them talking up less at home?” asked Sven.

  Gabby laughed. “No! Why would I want to do that?”

  That morning Gabby and Louie walked to school together as usual. Louie was wearing new earmuffs that Mama Tricia had bought for him at Aunt Martha’s. “So finally I decided that I’ll talk up more in class,” Gabby announced, even though Louie had not mentioned anything at all about resolutions. “That should please Ms. Porridge. It will let her know I pay attention to her. And that I care about what she says.”

  “My New Year’s resolution—”

  “I plan to put my resolution into effect today,” Gabby went on.

  And he did. During reading he gave a five-minute answer to the question, “Who is the main character in Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH?”

  Louie leaned across the aisle and whispered to Putney, “I could have answered that in two seconds.”

  During history Gabby went on at length about his favorite mayors, even though Ms. Porridge had asked about crops in the New World.

  Then came science class.

  “Finally!” Louie whispered to Putney. “Only half an hour until recess.” He thought fondly of his earmuffs. He planned to put them on first thing, even before his coat.

  “As you know,” said Ms. Porridge, “for the next few weeks we’ll be studying endangered species.”

  Louie looked continually at the clock. The hands ticked on and on toward 11:30. At last there were just five minutes to go. And that was when it happened.

  “Does anyone know,” began Ms. Porridge, “how many endangered species there are in the world?”

  Gabby shot his arm in the air. “Ooh! Ooh! I don’t know how many there are, but I was just wondering what would happen if people became an endangered species. Like, if we were wiped out by aliens and slowly cats took over the planet. There would just be more and more and more and more cats. Oh, hey! Maybe that’s where the idea for that book came from. Millions of Cats. Remember that one? My mom used to read it to my brother and me.…”

  Gabby talked about Millions of Cats for a while, which made him remember a book called Caps for Sale, which made him remark that, for some reason, everyone in his family preferred earmuffs to caps.

  Louie checked the clock: 11:27.

  “… that it would be very hard for dogs to become an endangered species,” Gabby was now saying, “because people love dogs so much and also dogs protect people, which would make people want to protect dogs. Dogs aren’t like scorpions, creatures that are scary to a lot of people.…”

  11:29.

  “… and my favorite breed of dog is the chow, which I think is actually called the chow chow, and it’s my favorite because it has not only a blue tongue, but blue gums and lips. It looks like it’s been eating a grape Popsicle. You can’t say that about any other kind of dog.…”

  The next time Louie looked at the clock, it read 11:31.

  He nudged Putney and pointed at the clock.

  “I know!” she said in a loud whisper. “It’s after eleven thirty.”

  At the front of the room, Ms. Porridge had stood up from her desk and was hovering over Gabriel.

  “… once ate three Popsicles, and my dad said I would get sick, but I only had a little stomachache.…”

  “Gabr—” began Ms. Porridge a few moments later, when Gabby paused for breath.

  “… this crumb of meat on my tray…”

  “Eleven forty!” Putney said to Louie.

  It was almost 11:50 by the time Gabby wound down, and Ms. Porridge loudly and hastily announced that it was time for recess and for everyone to hurry and put on their coats and go outside.

  “Yeah, for ten minutes,” Louie muttered. Earmuffs in place, he ran to the playground. The first person he saw was Sven, who was bouncing a basketball. Louie ran to him and grabbed the ball away.

  “Hey!” cried Sven. Then he added, “How come you guys are so late?”

  “Because of your brother! He wouldn’t stop talking!”

  Sven grabbed the ball back. “Well, that isn’t my fault.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  Putney and Almandine joined Louie. “Can’t you do something about Gabby?” Almandine asked Sven. “Please?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Putney regarded him. “Just. Make. Him. Stop.”

  * * *

  That afternoon no one would walk home with Gabby, not even Louie, even though he lived directly across Juniper Street from him. And not even his own brother. Sven sat in the school library reading a book until he was certain Gabby was at home. When he finally reached the Snack Shoppe, he peered through the window, saw no sign of his brother, and went quietly inside.

  “There you are!” cried Gabriel, leaping out from behind the counter. Sven jumped, but before he could say anything, Gabby went on, “Hey, who’s that sitting over there by the window? I didn’t notice him before. He doesn’t look familiar. He must be new here. Or maybe he’s a tourist. Or someone on a long trip.”

  Gabby hurried across the restaurant and sat down at the man’s table. “Welcome to our establishment,” he began. “I’m Gabriel Motormouth. My parents own the Snack Shoppe. May I recommend something for you? A lot of people like the wraps. We have meat ones and vegetable ones. Are you vegetarian, by any chance? Or maybe you’re vegan. We have vegan choices, too.”

  “I already ordered—”

  “Oh, look. Here comes my dad. Is that your hamburger? Oh, it is!” he said as Harley set the burger down in front of the man. “That’s a good choice. I guess you’re not vegan or vegetarian.”

  The man nodded at Gabby and sat politely waiting for him to leave, or at least stop talking, so he could start eating.

  “In school we’re learning about endangered species,” Gabby went on. “Not that anything on your plate is endangered.” (The man turned pale.) “And do you know what I said in class today? I said, ‘What would happen if people became endangered and cats ruled the earth?’”

  The man looked longingly at his burger. He reached for a fry but realized Gabby was nowhere near finished, so put his hand back in his lap. Ten minutes later he said, “Excuse me, would you mind if I started—”

  “… a crumb on my tray,” Gabby was saying.

  “I’m actually in a bit of a rush.”

  “… and it was meat!”

  Gabby was talking about the nine inches of snow and the day off from school when the man finally picked up his hamburger. He bit into it.

  “It’s cold,” he muttered.

  “Well, why did you wait so long to start eating it?”

  The man glared at Gabby, then looked around the restaurant and held up his finger.

  Harley hurried to the table. “Sir?” he said.

  “I’m afraid my burger has gotten cold.”

  Harley glanced at his son. “My apologies,” he said. “I’ll get you another. On the house.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right.” The man had pushed his chair back. “I’ll just, I’ll … Have a good day!” he said, and fled while he was still putting on his coat.

  “Gabby, how long were you talking to—? Never mind,” said Harley.

  In a quiet moment that evening, Sven crept downstairs to the Snack Shoppe and told his parents what had happened in Gabby’s class that day.

  Harley mentioned the customer who had left without eating, or paying.

  “What are we going to do?” wailed Letti, putting her head in her hands.

  “Didn’t the Grubbermitts call Missy Piggle-Wiggle for help with Louie?” asked Sven.

  “That’s right! They did!” exclaimed Letti, and she snatched up her phone and dialed Eloise.

  Sven listened to his mother’s end of the conversation. What h
e heard was: “You did?… It was?… He didn’t mind?… Completely cured?… Thank you so much.” Letti ended the call and immediately dialed Missy’s number. When she ended that call, she said, “I’m to pick up the cure tomorrow and administer it to Gabby in the afternoon.”

  Not one of the Motormouths asked what the cure was. They just put on their earmuffs, trundled up the stairs, went to bed, and in the morning found that they had all slept deeply.

  * * *

  When the phone had rung at the right-side-up upside-down house the evening before, Missy was just ending a call with Melody Flowers. Melody, who tended to worry, had been saying, “Isn’t the Effluvia over yet? It’s been weeks.”

  “Sometimes it takes a while. Lester still isn’t himself,” Missy replied. “Neither is Lightfoot.”

  “Are you worried?”

  Missy considered the question. Because she made it a policy not to lie to children, she said cautiously, “A little.”

  “And what about you? How do you feel?”

  “Still right as rain. Don’t worry about me.”

  Poor Mrs. Motormouth called then, so Melody hurried off the phone, saying, “I love you, Missy.”

  What Missy found most unbelievable about her conversation with Gabby’s mother was how long it had taken for her to call. Missy had been living in Little Spring Valley for some time by then, and Gabby had been gabby for as long as she’d known him. Missy already had the perfect cure set and ready to go. It was just a matter of putting it in a bag and leaving it on the porch in the morning.

  * * *

  “It says, ‘Give to Gabby as soon as he comes home from school,’” Letti told her husband when she rushed back into the Snack Shoppe that morning, a note from Missy in her hand.

  “Give what to him?”

  Letti held out a little tin. “There’s only one thing in here. It looks like a peppermint.”

  Harley peered inside the box. “Okay. And then what?”

  “I guess we just wait to see what happens.”

  Needless to say, Letti Motormouth gave her younger son the candy the moment he rushed into the Snack Shoppe after school that day.

  “Mmm. Tasty,” he said. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Letti waited for a torrent of words from Gabby, but instead she found herself saying, “Is it good? You know, peppermint is really my favorite flavor. Well, that and orange. When I was a little girl, I used to beg my mother to buy orange soda, but she said it would rot my teeth, so we only got orange soda for a treat. Well, sometimes grape soda, but mostly orange. Generally, we just drank milk or water. And the milk was skim, which I didn’t like, since it had a bluish hue to it. Somewhere along the line, I developed a taste for coffee, and then I forgot all about grape soda, or really any soda.”

  “Mom?” said Gabby, who was staring at his mother with very large dark eyes, like a nervous cat.

  “You know, your father likes his coffee now and then,” Letti continued, “but he doesn’t put either milk or sugar in it, so I suppose it’s healthier than what I drink. I just can’t stand the taste of black coffee.…”

  “Remember,” said Gabby suddenly, “the time Sven tried cof—”

  “… course, your father had that experience with…”

  Gabby, still wide-eyed, fled upstairs.

  “Sven?” he called. “Sven, are you here?”

  Sven appeared in the doorway to the bedroom. “Hey, there you are!” he exclaimed. “I was wondering where you’d got to. Look outside; it started to rain. Who said anything about rain this afternoon? I wanted to shoot baskets at the playground. I guess I’ll just have to wait. Or maybe I could try playing in the rain. I’ve seen people playing ball in the rain. I just need to find my old poncho. It’s probably in the closet. I hope Mom doesn’t make us clean out the closet this spring. There’s nothing worse than when she and Dad start talking about spring-cleaning. It is the most boring…”

  Gabby put his hands over his ears. Talk about boring. Why was his brother going on and on about ponchos and cleaning closets? Did he need to say everything that came into his head?

  Apparently he did. And so did Gabby’s parents. They chattered and talked nonstop. Later, when Gabby went downstairs, cautiously poked his head into the restaurant, and asked Mrs. Porridge, who was enjoying a scone at a table by the window, about his math homework, Mrs. Porridge said, “You know, I must not have been very clear about the assignment, because I’ve already gotten e-mails from Putney and Louie. Oh, and let me see, also from Almandine. I think everyone mistook the 5 I wrote on the board for a 6. That certainly wouldn’t have made sense! My sloppy handwriting. And here I’m constantly after you kids to be more careful.”

  “But that wasn’t—” Gabby began.

  “My third-grade teacher would be appalled if she could see how I write sometimes. She made us copy numbers and letters over and over and over and over. Sometimes forty times each. Or fifty.”

  Gabby, his question still unanswered, walked slowly back upstairs.

  * * *

  At school the next day, Gabby found that his classmates not only talked all the time, but they also all talked at the same time. His head began to ache. He put his hands over his ears. “Excuse me!” he called during a discussion about tigers. “Excuse me!” But no one heard him.

  At recess, standing alone by a tree, the only place where he could find some quiet, Frankfort Freeforall broke the silence by dashing across the playground to him and shouting, “Hey, we missed you yesterday. Where were you? I can’t believe you didn’t come! It was so much fun.”

  Gabby stared blankly at him. His hands gravitated toward his ears. But he couldn’t help saying, “What was so much fun?”

  “The hoops party. You know, Linden’s basketball birthday party. He tried about ten times to invite you, but you just kept talking about owls. And some other stuff I’ve forgotten. Seeds, maybe. And a flat tire on a delivery truck. Anyway, there was a basketball coach at the party and he gave us tips about free throws. I scored five baskets and got a prize! Boy, you sure missed a good party.”

  Gabby vaguely remembered Linden trying to talk to him. He remembered more vividly that he himself had nattered on and on about the calls of various owls and had gone into great depth about an argument he and Sven had had over the sound a barn owl makes. And now he had missed Linden’s party.

  After school Gabby rushed home, through the Snack Shoppe, which was as noisy as an airport waiting room because everyone there was talking, too, and upstairs, where he lay on the couch in the living room and hoped Sven wouldn’t come home. There were so many things he had wanted to say that day—for instance, about the bumblebee population. And just at that moment, he wanted to say to his mother, “I have a headache and I need a hug,” but he knew that if he went back to the restaurant, he wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise. At breakfast that morning, his entire family had talked about fleas for fourteen minutes.

  Gabby didn’t say a single thing for the rest of the day, and he wasn’t sure his family even noticed as they jabbered on and on about so many dull topics that Gabby lost count.

  It was during science class the next day, when all his classmates and Mrs. Porridge were talking, shouting even, about endangered species, that Gabby timidly uncovered his ears and raised his hand. Ms. Porridge stopped talking and looked at him. Gabby’s classmates stopped talking and covered their own ears.

  “Yes?” said Ms. Porridge, and she winced.

  “There’s a kind of bear, the Asian black bear,” said Gabby, “which is also called the moon bear, and I read that it’s considered ‘vulnerable.’ It’s in danger of becoming extinct.” He folded his hands and looked around the room.

  Louie raised his eyebrows.

  For a moment everyone was silent.

  “Part of the problem is deforestation,” said Ms. Porridge.

  Putney raised her hand. “What’s deforestation?”

  Gabby realized he didn’t know the answer, so he looked intently at his tea
cher. And then a nice conversation unfolded, just the way conversations are supposed to unfold, with one person talking and the others listening, one person asking a question, and one other person answering.

  Louie and Gabby walked home that afternoon, and when they reached Juniper Street, Gabby called, “See you tomorrow, Louie!”

  “See you tomorrow, Gabe!”

  Gabriel walked into the restaurant and wordlessly gave his mother a hug. She hugged him back. “How was school?” she asked.

  “Fine. Really good, actually. Anything happen at the restaurant?”

  * * *

  Around the corner at the right-side-up upside-down house, Missy said to Lightfoot, who was bobbing along the ceiling in the kitchen, “Ah! I think the peppermint drop worked,” and she went back to the book she was reading.

  7

  The Nitpicker Cure

  ON A BRIGHT day that felt more like April than the middle of January, Missy Piggle-Wiggle stepped out the back door into the farmyard and stood in her boots in the snow, breathing deeply. “Ahh, just like spring,” she remarked over her shoulder to Penelope.

  Penelope was perched on a chair at the kitchen table. “Do not wait; don’t hesitate!” she sang, bouncing up and down. “Call five-five-five-two-two-three-oh, and see your dentist now. Say good-bye to cavities!”

  Missy frowned. “Did you hear me?” she asked. “I said it feels like spring today.”

  “Order your sandwiches from the Snack Shoppe. Find us on Juniper Street or find us online. We deliver!”

  Missy felt her spirits sag. For the past few days, Penelope had done nothing but quote from jingles and commercials. It was impossible to have a conversation with her. “I’m afraid she’s finally come down with the flu,” Missy had said to Harold the night before. What a long, dreary winter this had been.

  But, she reminded herself, in just a few months spring would arrive. Warren and Evelyn Goose would be watching over goslings again, Missy could ride Trotsky in the field, and best of all the Effluvia would vanish—she was certain of it. The house would turn upside down, and children would be ringing the doorbell and running through the rooms making a great lovely mess.