“I think we’ll just stop in at A to Z Books,” Missy said to Wag. She checked her watch. “We have time, and I’d like to chat with Harold for a bit.” Missy noticed that when she said Harold’s name aloud, the oddest feeling came over her. A pleasant warm feeling, like sunshine. She smiled.
“Harold?” called Missy as she and Wag entered the bookstore and the door sneezed behind them.
Harold hurried out of the storeroom. “What a nice surprise!”
“Just stopping in to say hello.” Missy was aware that her cheeks were burning. She paused to glance at herself in a mirror and saw that under her straw hat, her face had turned as red as her hair. Then she turned around and noticed that Harold’s face was the same fiery shade.
“Well,” said Harold.
“Well,” said Missy.
They stared uncomfortably at each other. Finally Harold said, “Read any good books lately?”
“Oh, um, well,” stammered Missy. And then she caught herself. It would never do to appear so flustered. “Absolutely,” she said firmly. “Absolutely. Melody and I are reading Chitty Chitty Bang Bang together. After that we’re going to start Harriet the Spy.”
“Brilliant choices,” said Harold.
Missy patted the invisible satchel, clapped her hands together once, and said crisply, “Wag and I must be on our way. It’s our afternoon at the Freeforalls’.”
Harold had been about to say, “How’s that going?” but Missy was already halfway out the door. From the sidewalk, she waved to Harold, and then she and Wag launched themselves down Juniper Street.
“Extraordinary woman,” murmured Harold. He stood at the window and gazed after Missy.
* * *
Honoriah Freeforall leaned against the kitchen sink, her arms crossed over her chest. “That’s not the way I would do it!” she exclaimed. She was watching Petulance make chocolate milk. Missy was watching, too.
“That’s not the way you would do what?” asked Petulance.
“Make chocolate milk.”
Petulance shrugged. “It’s how I do it. Why do you care? And anyway, what’s wrong with the way I’m doing it?”
“You should have put the chocolate powder in first, not the milk. Now the powder’s just floating on top.”
Petulance shrugged again.
“Give it to me,” said Honoriah, reaching for the glass.
Petulance snatched it away, and milk slopped onto the floor. “Now look what you made me do!”
“It was your fault,” said Honoriah.
“Hmm,” said Missy, and she reached into her satchel.
Honoriah and Petulance stared in fascination as a small glass vial appeared in Missy’s hand.
“You must feel awfully frustrated, Honoriah,” Missy said, “when people don’t take your suggestions.”
“Oh, I do. No one ever listens to me.”
“Perhaps a bit of magic is called for.”
Honoriah’s eyes grew wide. “Your magic?”
“Who else’s?”
Honoriah frowned. “What will the magic do?” After a moment she added, “I don’t have to swallow a potion, do I?”
Frankfort, who had been watching from the table where his homework was spread in front of him, said, “Of course you do. And it’s made from your own ground-up toenails.”
“Missy!” cried Honoriah.
“The cure,” Missy said calmly, “is just a vapor that will waft around you. You don’t have to drink a potion.”
“See?” said Honoriah, and she stuck her tongue out at Frankfort. “You don’t know anything.”
“Whatever.”
Missy uncorked the bottle. A cloud of pink seeped out and wound its way toward Honoriah. It twined around her until she was enveloped in a pale fog.
“It smells like roses,” whispered Honoriah.
The vapor became wisps that trailed away to nothing.
“Now what?” Petulance asked Missy.
“Wait and see.”
The twins joined Frankfort at the table. Petulance pulled out her science book and got to work. Honoriah leaned over and peered at her brother’s project. “What’s that?” she asked.
“We’re supposed to make a collage about birds in our region.”
“A collage?” said Honoriah. “But that’s not how you make a collage.”
“It isn’t?” exclaimed Frankfort. “What am I doing wrong?”
Honoriah looked surprised but said, “You’re just drawing pictures of birds. You’re supposed to go through magazines and catalogs and cut out photos and arrange them artistically to make a statement.”
“Really? Gosh, I guess I don’t know anything about collages. What kind of pictures am I looking for?”
“Pictures of birds,” said Honoriah. “Or birdhouses or wings or beaks.”
Frankfort gazed helplessly at his sister. “What if I don’t find the right pictures?”
“I don’t think there’s any right or wrong with a collage,” said Honoriah, turning to her own homework.
Frankfort retrieved a magazine from the recycling bin. He paged through it. “Is this a good picture?” he asked his sister. “Is this? How about this one?”
“They’re all good.”
“Well, how do I arrange them?”
“Frankfort, I can’t do your work for you.”
“But you’re an expert.”
Honoriah’s cheeks turned faintly pink, the color of the magic vapor. “I guess that’s true,” she said, and took the scissors from Frankfort’s outstretched hand.
When homework time was over at last—and it took a lot longer than usual since Petulance and Frankfort seemed to need an awful lot of help from Honoriah—Petulance said, “Let’s go play on our scooters. Missy, can Wag come with us? I want to give him a ride.”
“You can’t take Wag on a scooter!” exclaimed Honoriah. “Besides, you don’t ride your scooter the right way.”
“I don’t?” said Petulance. “What do I do wrong?”
“Everything.”
“Will you show me the right way?”
“Can you give us lessons?” asked Frankfort. “I’d like a scooter lesson.”
“Yeah, give us lessons,” said Petulance.
Missy watched the Freeforall children disappear out the door, a smile on her face.
By the end of the day, Honoriah found that she was rather tired. She had finished Frankfort’s collage for him, given scooter lessons, shown Frankfort the proper way to make a peanut-butter sandwich, and answered about a thousand questions. It seemed that every two seconds, either Frankfort or Petulance was at her bedroom door, looking confused and helpless.
Petulance held out her knitting. “I dropped a stitch! Can you show me how to pick it up?”
Frankfort held out a necktie. “How do you tie this?”
Petulance held out her science book. “What are your tips for memorizing?”
Frankfort held out a pad of paper. “I want to make a card for Missy. How do you draw a dog?”
Honoriah overslept the next morning. Her head hurt and her eyes ached. She’d had a long dream about giving piano lessons to Peony LaCarte. Peony kept saying, “Show me how to play ‘Chopsticks,’” and Honoriah had played the song for her 112 times.
Honoriah nearly fell asleep in school. Her eyelids drooped, and she woke up only when Humphrey Baton tripped over her foot and fell down in the aisle.
“Goodness, Humphrey,” said Mrs. Justice, rushing to his side. “Are you all right?”
“I banged my knee.” Humphrey sounded tearful.
“You should get him some ice,” said Honoriah. “That’s what you do for a bump.”
“Good thinking,” said Mrs. Justice. “Why don’t you run to the nurse’s office and get an ice pack for Humphrey?”
Honoriah sighed and set off through the hallways. She didn’t want to go to the nurse’s office. Often, someone in there was bleeding. When she reached the office, she closed her eyes and asked Mrs. Pazden for an ice pac
k for Humphrey.
“Why are your eyes closed?” said a small voice from the bench by the door.
Honoriah opened her eyes to find out who had spoken and saw a kindergartener with a horribly bloody knee. She clapped her hands over her eyes and kept them there until Mrs. Pazden had handed her the ice pack. She hurried it back to Mrs. Justice.
That afternoon, which was not a Tuesday or a Thursday, turned out to be one of those afternoons when half the children in Little Spring Valley gathered at Missy’s. The day was rainy, and the children were all crammed indoors.
“What a crowd! What a crowd!” Penelope screeched.
Lightfoot arched her back and swatted at passing feet.
Wag ran from room to room, leaping on furniture.
In the kitchen, where four children were eating spaghetti, Lester politely passed around napkins.
Melody Flowers peeked into the dining room and found Heavenly Earwig and Honoriah and Petulance Freeforall sitting cross-legged on top of the table (Missy never seemed to mind if they didn’t use chairs), hunched over a large piece of paper. Melody watched them for a few moments.
“Want to help us?” asked Heavenly.
“What are you doing?” Melody remained planted in the doorway.
“Inventing a game,” Honoriah replied.
“What kind of game?”
“A board game.”
“But what’s it about?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Petulance. “We’re still deciding.”
“Maybe it should be about cats,” said Heavenly.
Honoriah wrinkled her nose.
“Baseball,” suggested Petulance.
“How about a game about the people of Little Spring Valley?” said Melody, and the other girls turned to look at her.
“That’s perfect!” exclaimed Honoriah.
Melody edged into the room and climbed onto the table.
“The object of the game,” Heavenly said, “will be to go all the way around the board and get home on time.”
“Really?” said Honoriah. “That’s kind of boring.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about making a game,” said Heavenly.
“Yeah, how do you make a game?” asked Petulance.
“Maybe you start with rules,” Heavenly replied.
Petulance looked thoughtful. “Okay, how about: Rule number one—if you roll double sixes, you get a free turn?”
“A free turn to do what?” said Honoriah. “You have to decide the object of the game first. Then you make up the rules.”
“The object is traveling around town and getting home on time,” Heavenly insisted.
“No, that’s no good,” said Honoriah.
“Then you make up the game,” said Heavenly. “We’ll do something else while we wait.”
Melody handed Honoriah a pen, and Honoriah began writing down rules and drawing a game board. Heavenly, Petulance, and Melody decided to give Wag a makeover.
“You just keep working on the game,” Petulance called to her sister as she tied ribbons around Wag’s ears.
“Yeah, call us when it’s ready,” added Heavenly. “Hey, Melody, do you want to come over to my house tomorrow? We could give my brother a makeover.”
It took Honoriah, working all by herself, nearly two hours to invent a game called Trouble at the LaCartes’. “Finished!” she called, just as Petulance stuck her head into the dining room and said, “It’s dinnertime. We have to go home now.”
“But—but—” stammered Honoriah. “I worked all afternoon on this.”
“Take it home with you,” suggested Missy. “You and Petulance and Frankfort can play it tonight.”
“No,” said Honoriah dully. “It’s a game for eight people. I’ll leave it here.”
* * *
On Saturday Mr. Hudson Freeforall sat before the computer in his home office. In the room next door, his wife sat at her computer. Through the window he could hear faint sounds from Frankfort and the twins. They had been very quiet for over an hour. Mr. Freeforall began to feel nervous, and he peeked outside.
A rickety wooden structure had appeared in the fork of an oak tree. Honoriah, wearing a pair of overalls, was standing under the structure holding a can of paint. At her feet were a hammer, a jar of nails, and a pile of scrap lumber. Petulance and Frankfort were reclining on lawn chairs, looking at her.
Hesitantly, Mr. Freeforall raised the window. “What’s going on out there?” he asked.
“We’re building a tree fort,” said Frankfort.
“It looks like Honoriah’s doing all the work.”
“Well, that’s because I said, ‘Let’s build a tree fort,’ and Honoriah said, ‘Okay,’ and I said, ‘It should be four feet off the ground,’ and Honoriah said, ‘How about six?’ and I said, ‘I guess I don’t know a single thing about building forts.’”
Petulance got to her feet. “And then I said, ‘The fort should have three windows and one door,’ and Honoriah said, ‘Don’t you think too much rain will get in?’ and I said, ‘Why don’t you just go ahead and build the whole fort since we’re clueless?’ So that’s what’s happening.”
“Tell us again how you make the windows,” Frankfort said to his sister.
Honoriah set down the can of paint. Then she sat on it, her chin in her hands. She yawned. “I suppose you have to saw pieces of wood into different lengths.”
“What lengths exactly?” asked Petulance.
Honoriah glanced at a measuring tape. “Well—”
“Will the door be able to open and close?” Frankfort interrupted.
“I’m not sure yet. Do you want the door to open and close?”
Frankfort looked at Petulance. He opened his mouth and closed it. Then he opened it again. No sound came out.
Mr. Freeforall watched his children with interest. Petulance seemed to be speechless, too. He was glad his children weren’t arguing, but he felt that Honoriah looked tired and a bit pale. And nobody seemed to be having much fun.
He poked his head into his wife’s office. “Dear,” he said, “when did Missy give Honoriah the Know-It-All Cure?”
“Last week sometime, I think.”
“I have a feeling it’s worked.”
“Really?” replied Mrs. Freeforall. “That Missy is a genius.”
“Doesn’t she have to reverse her spell, or whatever it is she’s done?”
“Hmm? Oh. I don’t know. Why don’t you call her?”
Mr. Freeforall phoned the upside-down house and explained the situation.
“No arguing?” asked Missy.
“Not a single cross word. But Honoriah’s doing all the work, and the others are just watching.”
“Why don’t you send Honoriah over here?” suggested Missy. “I’ll take care of things.”
* * *
Honoriah made her way to Missy’s. She waved to two boys who were digging a hole in the front lawn and said hello to Harold Spectacle, who was sitting on the front porch filling up water balloons with Melody and Heavenly.
“Come into the kitchen!” Missy called to Honoriah.
Honoriah sat at the table. “Everyone listens to me too much now,” she said.
“Do you listen to them?” asked Missy. She was patting all the pockets of her dress, searching for something.
“Yes,” said Honoriah solemnly.
Missy brightened. “Ah! Here we are.” From a pocket on the very back of her dress, she withdrew the small glass vial that Honoriah had seen before. “Hold still,” she said.
Honoriah watched as pink fog seeped out of her skin and hair and gathered itself into a rose-scented ball. The ball hung in the air for a moment, and then with a whoosh, the vial drew it in, like Frankfort slurping up a strand of spaghetti.
“That should do it,” said Missy. “Would you like some lemonade?”
Honoriah sat on the porch with Harold and Missy and her friends and drank lemonade served by Lester the polite pig.
8
The
I-Spy Cure
THERE WAS TROUBLE at the Goodenoughs’ house. Everyone in Little Spring Valley agreed about that. And they were very grateful that this particular kind of trouble hadn’t affected their own families.
“It’s Rusty,” the grown-ups whispered to one another at the supermarket.
“Spying,” they said as they sipped coffee and watched their children’s early morning soccer games. “Eavesdropping.”
Even Rusty’s teachers noticed. “I’m glad he’s not in my class,” Mr. Bovine said to Mrs. Justice.
“Try being his sister,” Tulip said to Melody as they walked to school one day.
Melody didn’t have a brother (or a sister) but had always thought she would like one. “He spies on you?” she said.
“All the time. He’s getting ready for a career in espionage.”
Rusty was quite a nice boy apart from his unwelcome dedication to espionage. He was polite to his teachers. He brought home report cards with mostly As and only a few Bs and Cs, and once a D. He did his chores without being prodded. He didn’t interrupt, even when adults were telling boring, meaningless stories about their childhoods. He could make sad people laugh and lonely children feel that they belonged. He always volunteered to show new students around school.
But he spied. He wanted to hone his skills early to one day get the best possible job in the spy trade.
“He spies through keyholes and underneath doors,” Mr. Goodenough told his next-door neighbor, Mr. Potter. “It’s like his eyes are everywhere.”
Mr. Potter’s face grew red. “Last weekend I snuck out to our garden shed to eat a cupcake. Harriet and I have been on a diet for two weeks. That was the first time I cheated, and Rusty caught me. I looked at the window of the shed, and I could just see his hair and the very tops of his eyes. Then he slowly ducked down.”
Mr. Goodenough shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he added, “I think he has a periscope, in order to see around corners and above his head.”
“How annoying.”
At Melody’s house one afternoon, Tulip exclaimed, “He knows everything about me! Things that are supposed to be secret.”
Melody hadn’t known Tulip long enough to ask what her secrets were. Instead she said, “How does he find out your secrets?”
Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Whatever Cure Page 7
