The Troll Who Cried Wolf

by Rob Harrell

  Chester sniffed loudly and hiked up his pants.

  “Any more wolves come around here, they’ll have to get through ‘The Chester-ster.’” He looked a little awkward when he realized adding a “ster” to the end of his name didn’t really work.

  I tried to help him out. “The Chesternator?”

  Chester sniffed and looked away sheepishly. “That’ll work, I guess.”

  The knight leaned down closer. “Listen. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all Deputy Knights until I get back. I want you on high alert.”

  Then he straightened up, yelled to his men, and they galloped off in a cloud of dust.

  While Kevin let out a high-pitched whimper, Chester fist-pumped and did an awkward little jump for joy on his one good foot.

  “That’s the raddest thing I’ve ever heard!” I wasn’t sure when the term rad had come back into popularity, but I knew this was a big moment for Chester, so I let it slide.

  Goldie pulled up in her banged-up Grub-Mobile and told us all to pile in and she’d give us rides home. Chester said he had a ride and limped over to hop onto the back bumper of the paddy wagon as it left for the castle.

  When we got to Littlepig Manor, the rides and booths from the festival were still set up, looking kind of spooky in the dark. Kevin mumbled that the high school volunteers wouldn’t be back to tear everything down until the following weekend.

  “And don’t ask about playing the games or bringing Sierra over for a Ferris wheel ride or anything. My folks won’t even let me play with the stuff.” Kevin slid out of the cart like an old man, looking sad and tired. “See you tomorrow, guys.”

  As Goldie pulled away down the driveway, I could feel her looking at me. I tried my best to ignore her.

  I sank down in my seat. “Goldie, I am not in the mood.”

  • 12 •

  COTSWIN ABUZZ

  When I got home that night, my family had just heard about the whole thing. My mom was in what can only be described as a tizzy. (Her word, not mine.) I could tell she’d been crying from the pile of wadded-up Kleenex in her lap. My mom goes through Kleenex like other people go through oxygen.

  My dad and Gramps were pretty upset as well, but at one point, when my mom wasn’t looking, Gramps elbowed me in the side and gave me a quick thumbs-up.

  The next morning, Kevin wasn’t his usual frantic self—he was almost like a robot whose circuits had finally overloaded.

  It looked like he hadn’t slept, and he barely raised an eyebrow when my mom gave him a couple of mutton cakes to put in his lunch.

  We were about a block from my house when Kevin said something—but barely. He spoke so quietly, I almost didn’t hear him.

  Then I saw his face and realized he was really upset. His eyes were all glassy with tears. “Oh! Hey! What’s . . . Are you okay?”

  Kevin sniffed and looked away. “No. I’m really not.” He took a few deep breaths.

  “What?” I stopped.

  It all came flooding out at once. “My folks were already all tweaked that I freaked people out about the festival food and then had to sleep with the lights on ’cause of the wolves and the test and then I get taken by a wolf and I’m such a wimp I need saving and I squealed the whole way through town and Meredith the Meat Girl probably saw me and I’m embarrassed and I don’t even want to go back to school where people are gonna look at me like a little baby and point and stuff.” Then he took an enormous breath.

  I reached over and punched him in the arm. You survived a run-in with a WOLF, Kevin.”

  Kevin pulled out his handkerchief and blew his snout. “It’s not like it was the Big Bad Wolf.”

  That got me laughing. “Well, that’s a good thing, him being dead and all.”

  Kevin started walking again. “Look, it’s just . . . my dad and my uncles faced the worst wolf ever. I face one Awkward Awful Wolf and I fall apart. It’s humiliating.”

  “Kevin.” I stopped him again. “You came up against a wolf—doesn’t matter what wolf—and you’re ALIVE! That’s amazing!”

  Kevin just kicked at a pebble with his hoof.

  He mumbled something under his breath.

  “I’m not moving ’til you say it, Kev. Now, who’s the pig?”

  Kevin looked off to the side. “I’m the pig.”

  I punched him on the arm again. “Louder.”

  Kevin looked up and a weak grin slid over his face. “I’m the pig!”

  “Darn right you are.” With that taken care of, I gave Kev a friendly push and we started walking again.

  * * *

  The janitor, Mr. Heffernan, was standing in the bushes cleaning the cafeteria windows, and gave us a shout when we he saw us coming across the field.

  “If it ain’t the men of the hour. You guys’re the talk of the school! That and the whole Ridinghood thing, of course.”

  He told us there was going to be an assembly in the gym during second period to discuss the events of the night before. It was probably a good thing too, because once we walked through the front door, we could feel the jittery energy in the air . . . like the entire school was hopped up on energy drinks.

  April Jeffries, a pig cellist in the orchestra, ran over as soon as she saw Kevin. She swept him up in a big hug and said how glad she was that he was okay. Kevin seemed to be too stunned to react other than letting out a little sound somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.

  She let him go and looked over at me, and I could see in her eyes she wasn’t sure what to do. I honestly think she was happy for me, but hugging a troll was out of the question. She pointed at me awkwardly.

  “And you . . . Um . . .”

  Then she scrambled away like she’d survived an encounter with a festering Sewer Mutant.

  Just then the front doors slammed open behind us. I turned to see the silhouette of someone standing there in the bright doorway, fists on hips. It wasn’t until he sauntered in a few steps that I realized it was Chester, wearing aviator sunglasses and a homemade “Deputy Knight” T-shirt.

  My eyes rolled so hard, I almost fell over.

  Chester sauntered up and pointed a finger gun at one of the Cheer-Maidens gossiping in the corner. “How you doin’, ma’am?”

  She looked at him like she smelled something bad before walking away. “Whatevs, clown.”

  Chester winked at us over the top of his glasses.

  The first part of first period was kind of a blur. The office administrator, Miss Poodle, was acting as our substitute teacher—and wasn’t really making any effort to control us. She told us that the test was canceled.

  I watched as Kevin almost fell out of his chair with relief.

  All anyone could talk about was wolves and Ridinghoods and Miss Flett—until the PA system started to crackle. There was some amplified fumbling before a nervous metallic voice rang out.

  I turned around and Kevin’s face was in the early stages of a Kevin meltdown. His snout was flushed and starting to twitch around. His ears were standing up straight and I swear there was a low hum coming off of him.

  On a good day, a trip to the restroom can be a hyperventilating-worthy ordeal for Kevin. Getting called urgently to the principal’s office was likely to put him in the hospital.

  “It’s fine, Kev. I’m sure they just want to check in with you.” I grabbed his arm firmly, hoping it would calm him down. “To make sure you’re not gonna turn into a werewolf or sue them or anything.”

  Kevin just swallowed loudly, stood up, and stumbled out of the room like a zombie.

  I got concerned when first period ended and Kevin hadn’t returned.

  * * *

  I was looking for the little guy everywhere as we were all herded like cattle into the gymnasium.

  As Chester and I shuffled in, he got a number of pats on the back for his part in the wolf chase, while I got a
“Musta got lucky” and a shake of the head from one of the grungier-looking eighth-grade orcs.

  Chester and I climbed to the top of the rickety bleachers and slid into a row. I was craning my neck looking for Kev, and sat on a half-invisible gnome wizard. (Man, I hate Spell Month.) He was disgruntled, to say the least.

  Calling the crowd restless would be a huge understatement. It was like there was a school-wide Ants-in-Pants epidemic.

  Principal Haggard waddled out to a microphone at center court—one of his loafers squeaking with every step.

  “Good morning, Prancing Knights.” Even from this distance I could tell he was sweaty and nervous.

  “I’m sure most of you have heard about the whole substitute wolf thing last night. As well as the rescue mission the knights have embarked on to retrieve our beloved Miss Flett from the wolves at Snuff’s Pillow.” He kept his eyes glued to the court in front of him as he let out a long sigh.

  “I want you to know that I hold myself responsible for yesterday’s events. I allowed a wolf into our midst, and I blame no one but myself . . . You all have my sincere apologies.”

  Wow. THIS was awkward.

  “Well.” He paused again. “I’m afraid I have more bad news. Very bad, actually.”

  For once in this school you could have heard a pin drop.

  “At eight o’clock this morning, just as you were settling into your first class, the unthinkable happened.” The principal paused and rubbed one of his big ink-stained hands over his face. “A large pack of wolves attacked Littlepig Manor. They have taken control of the home and everyone in it.”

  My stomach dropped as the gym exploded in whispering and murmuring. I was on my feet and fighting my way out of the row as the principal started shouting for everyone to be quiet. Some elf girl from my social studies class screamed.

  “Please, everyone! Please! I know this is frightening, but please stay calm.” He went on talking about the extra safety precautions that were being taken and blah blah blah, but I barely heard him. When I reached the bottom of the bleachers, Mr. Hirsch stopped me—as well as Chester, who was right behind me.

  Mr. Hirsch grabbed us both by the arms. He had a powerful grip for a social studies teacher. “Kevin’s in the office. He’s fine. Let’s hear what the principal has to say.”

  Mr. Haggard was now yelling to be heard over the gym full of panicked students. “Listen! Please! The authorities are at the house, and they are in communication with the wolf pack. They have heard the wolves’ demands—ridiculous as they may be.”

  The room quieted as he let that sink in.

  “The wolves are demanding that the son or daughter of Red Ridinghood, who they claim attends this very school, be turned over to them.” His voice even got a little louder, and you could tell he was angry.

  He cleared his throat and crossed his arms defiantly. “No child of Little Red Ridinghood attends this school. The wolves are WRONG, plain and simple. If there was a Ridinghood attending this school, I can assure you with every fiber of my being that I would be the first person to know about—”

  “It’s me, Principal Haggard!”

  Time stopped. I knew that voice.

  She was in the second row.

  Shoulders back, head held high. Defiant.

  Sierra.

  • 13 •

  BOMBSHELL

  Everyone stared, stunned. Principal Haggard’s mouth was hanging open so wide, he could have caught a lot more than flies.

  “Wha . . . ? I . . . ? Sierra, please, I . . .” He was so flustered, he couldn’t form a sentence. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to . . .”

  “It’s okay, Principal Haggard. No one knows. My mother went to great lengths to make sure of that.”

  My brain was quickly connecting the dots. Sierra Scarlet. The basket purse. Could that be from her mom’s basket? The famous one?

  The principal’s flytrap was hanging open for business again.

  The entire student body looked like it had been hit with a Freeze Spell—myself included.

  Sierra went on in a voice so calm it was eerie. “The woman you know of as my mom is my aunt—my mom’s sister. My mom had to . . . had to leave. The wolves were after her and she had to flee the kingdom.” She paused like she was swallowing some pretty heavy emotion. “I’ve kept the secret the way my mom said it had to be . . . but there’s no way I’m going to stay quiet if it puts innocent people—or pigs—in danger.” She stepped through the students in front of her to the gym floor.

  For three seconds, no one moved. I could hear my voice saying “No. No. No.” I’m still not sure if it was out loud or if I said it to myself.

  The gym suddenly erupted. There were people yelling NOOO! and people yelling TURN HER OVER! and all sorts of unprintable things, all at once.

  Much like the crowd, I was upset, angry, worried, confused (and maybe a little hungry) all at the same time. It was too much, and I felt like my brain was going to explode.

  The gym was going nuts. Everyone was shouting at once, and I saw at least two elves pass out (as they tend to do). Principal Haggard swept over and put a protective arm around Sierra, moving her swiftly toward the exit, all the time yelling into the microphone.

  “Okay, students! We’ll sort this business out—ha-ha! Assembly over! Carry on! Back to class! Nothing to see here.” He dropped the microphone and signaled Mr. Hirsch, indicating we should follow.

  The gym looked like a minor riot as we shuffled out. For reasons I don’t fully understand, people were throwing paper and pens and pre-packaged snack foods. I remember seeing a small gnome hanging from the edge of the bleachers as I dodged a gruntberry granola bar.

  Sixty seconds later, we were following Sierra and Principal Haggard into the office. Sierra was explaining something about her mom not wanting her to live a life on the run. The principal looked like he’d aged twenty years in the last few minutes. But I was most concerned by my quick look around the office. There was no sign of Kevin.

  “Where is he?” I yelled as I continued to look behind doors and under lamps. (I’m well aware Kevin couldn’t fit under a lamp, but desperate times make you do some stupid stuff.)

  It took Principal Haggard some effort to turn his attention away from Sierra. “It’s . . . What? He’s right over . . .” He turned and looked at the couch, and his face fell even further. “He was right there! With a pack of ice! He fainted and I . . .”

  I was suddenly furious. All that practice at controlling my troll anger went right up in smoke.

  The principal was really sweating now. “There was the assembly! And he was . . . out cold, and . . . And don’t take this the wrong way, but I locked him in here. For his own good! So he didn’t try to run home and do something stup—” He froze. We all followed his line of sight to the open window above the couch. It had sweaty little hoof prints on the glass.

  With about two bobs and one weave, Sierra, Chester, and I were past Principal Haggard and Mr. Hirsch and out the door of the office, out the front doors, and flying across the field at top speed. Haggard and Hirsch tried to catch us, but Mr. Haggard wasn’t exactly in great shape and it was well known that Mr. Hirsch had a bad hoof from an old minotauring accident.

  As we bolted across the Carousel Street bridge that passed over my house (yeah, yeah—the trolls live under a bridge—let’s move on) I managed to huff out a quick question. “So . . . is your name even . . . Sierra?”

  It took her a second to time her breathing so she could answer, but she managed a sideways glance at me—sort of a “Seriously? Is this important now?” look.

  “It’s Sierra.”

  I glanced over at Chester, who was gasping and panting like a Wheezing Bush—but not slowing down in the least.

  We turned to cut through the woods to Kevin’s house, which slowed us down a bit. As we came up the hill, we saw them. Knig
ht Service trailers and wagons and—more alarmingly—SQUAT team tents lined the top of the ridge.

  I should probably explain. The SQUAT team is an elite group of volunteer, highly skilled, crime-fighting archers. It actually stands for Super-Qualified Uniformed Archery Team. (I never understood why they needed the word Uniformed in their name. I mean, if you had eyes you could see they were in uniforms—but whatever. I guess they needed the U in there or they’d be the SQAT team, and then nobody’d know how to pronounce it.)

  Seeing those SQUAT tents was alarming. I could only remember seeing the SQUAT team once before—when a Steam Dragon with a stomach bug tried to bathe in the town’s fresh water supply—and knew they only came out when the situation was really serious. We were almost to the tents when there was a loud amplified squawk and some ear-piercing feedback.

  “STOP!!” A large SQUATist (I kid you not, that’s what they prefer to be called) with a bullhorn in front of their face stepped out of the closest tent.

  The sinister voice was so deep and booming that it brought us all to a screeching halt. “WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE . . . WAIT . . .”

  The figure lowered the horn and started fumbling with the volume knob—revealing that it was Miss Locks. I had no idea she was on the SQUAT team, but I’d learned that Goldie was full of surprises.

  She chucked the bullhorn back into the tent. “That stupid piece of crap has been acting up all morning. Makes me sound like Darth Vader running a drive-thru window.”