Escape from Castaway Island

by Constance Lombardo

  Before climbing into the barrel, Chet put a paw on my shoulder. “Mr. Puffball,” he said, “when you first came to Hollywood, you were so sweet.”

  My eyes welled up with nostalgia. “Thanks, old friend.”

  WHAM! Chet hit me with his cane. “You let fame change you. You got lean and mean, like a shark.”

  Something stirred inside me. Could it be remorse? Then my brain steered me back to the whole reason I came to this island: two million dollars. “Don’t worry, Chet,” I said. “I’ll share my winnings! You’ll get at least a hundred bucks.”

  As Bruiser pushed the dolphins aside and sped Chet and himself into the waves, my stomach felt weird. Focus, Mr. Puffball! In it to win it! Right?

  Rosie did that thing where you point at your own eyes with two fingers and then point them at someone else—which means “I’m watching you!” And “You stink.” Which equals “I’m not your girlfriend now, and I never will be.”

  I’d thought I’d hit rock bottom when my gold limo ran out of gas and I had only one dollar to my name. But I didn’t know what rock bottom was. Until now.

  15

  Descent into Island Madness

  If you made a chart of the worst desert island problems, what would it look like?

  Good chart. But you forgot something: the unrelenting sun. Causing sweat to pour from your head to your toes, tail included. Making your throat feel like there isn’t enough water in the world to quench your thirst. Burning the delicate skin under your fur and singeing the tips of your ears.

  The sun. Why does it have to be so hot?

  With that in mind, check out the prize for the next challenge:

  The cat who shoved and yelled at his former friends, threw sand at a movie star, and lied to an adorable kitten in order to win the Maze Race at Dead Man’s Cove and get that hat was ruthless. But I hope you can forgive me. My mind was twisted by one goal, which blurred the lines between good and evil:

  Hanging over the next few days of sweat-inducing challenges was this question: Who would be voted off next? Then, on the ninth day since we’d first arrived on the island, it was time to find out—at the second Tribal Council.

  A half hour before, El Gato dragged me back to the Food Shed.

  “I’m craving canned corn,” said El Gato. “Aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I think Brock is getting suspicious.”

  Just as I’d once again broken through the lock, this happened:

  We dashed off, covering our tracks as best we could, jumping into the river to throw them off our scent, and finally dragging ourselves out and collapsing on the ground.

  I looked at El Gato and shook my head. “We’re not doing that anymore.”

  “Agreed,” said El Gato. “At least not until tomorrow.”

  Worst of all, El Gato’s escapade made us miss the Relic Hunt. Meaning guess what?

  At Tribal Council that night, Whiskers was voted off Team Gray. Whiskers was too nice to be a serious contender.

  It was time to vote El Gato off Team Orange. His Food Shed obsession put my future in jeopardy. I convinced Kitty that she had a better chance against Team Gray with me by her side.

  With two coconuts on his head, El Gato was out.

  “Mr. Puffball,” said Whiskers, “you used to put friends first. What happened?”

  Whiskers’s words echoed in my head. What had happened? And then I realized something. Everybody was trying to psych me out. I steeled my mind against their negativity. I deserved that money!

  A few days later, after a meager breakfast of coconut milk and macadamia nuts, Brock led Kitty, Rosie, Pickles, and me (the only celebrities left on the island) to Suspension Cliff.

  Suspension Cliff was a cruel place with a rock face rising into the sky, interspersed with ledges. Cords of twisted vine hung from spots high in the cliff down to the ground where we stood. Several monkeys were visible at an upper ledge.

  “See those monkeys?” said Brock, pointing. “I’ve ordered them to fill a giant picnic basket with hearty food, plates, forks, and even some moist towelettes, for the first cat who gets there.”

  “You mean for the first team who gets there?” asked Kitty.

  “No more teams!” yelled Brock. “From now on, every cat goes solo. Climb the vines, pull yourself up to a rocky ledge, climb halfway up the next vine, and then swing over to where your picnic awaits. We’ve applied butter to the vines to make them extra slippery.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Rosie. “Kitty can’t do that.”

  The cameras turned on Rosie, whose whiskers were very close to Brock’s. Her tail was flicking about angrily, and she emitted a low growl.

  “Quitters are welcome to quit anytime they want,” said Brock.

  I agreed with Rosie. “Maybe you should sit this one out,” I said to Kitty, touching her elbow gently.

  “I’ll be all right,” she said, smiling bravely. “I’m tougher than I look.”

  AH-OOOH-AHHHH!

  Pickles and Kitty ran toward the vine that would bring them closest to the picnic basket. Rosie and I hung back a moment. We wanted to give Kitty a fighting chance. Rosie looked at me with softer eyes than I’d seen in a while. Then the conch shell blew a second time.

  At first, climbing the rope vine was easier than I’d expected. The butter had melted off—plus I’d built up some serious muscles over the past few weeks. We all had.

  We pulled ourselves up to the first ledge, then climbed the second set of vines until we were close enough to swing over to the picnic basket. That’s when I decided that if we all made it, we’d share the feast! The time felt right to show my friends I was still good old Mr. Puffball. I’d even make sure we all made it:

  I wanted to give Kitty a helpful push.

  But I pushed too hard.

  I tried to save her, but . . .

  The wrong cat became a hero that day.

  Somehow we all leapt and landed safely on the ledge with the picnic basket.

  “Kitty, I was trying to—” I started to explain.

  “Mr. Puffball,” interrupted Rosie. “You have a talent for making things worse. Let’s just eat.”

  I sat on the edge of the cliff, sadly nibbling my salmon wrap and sipping milk from my canteen. I’d lured my friends to this island. I’d treated them like enemies. I’d put Kitty in danger. All because I wanted to ride around Hollywood in a solid-gold limo. I felt so dejected, I didn’t even care about the sharp rock poking the back of my leg.

  We had all the next day to find the relic that would grant us immunity from being voted off the island. I couldn’t shake the urge to win and believed losing would make me feel even worse. So I woke early and searched under every rock, fern, and crab. And yet:

  Back at the Tribal Council Grotto that night, my stomach was one big knot. Kitty shook her head at me. Rosie glared at me. Pickles wouldn’t stop chatting. It was horrible.

  And then it was time to vote.

  “Sorry,” I said as I voted against Kitty. “I hate seeing you in danger.”

  Pickles forgot where he was and put the coconut shell on his own head. Kitty voted against me. Rosie held the deciding vote. Gulp. Good-bye, two million dollars!

  “This was always meant to be between you and me, Mr. Puffball,” said Rosie. “Sorry, Kitty.” She put the coconut on Kitty’s head.

  Rosie looked at me, and I realized I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time. I have to admit, my eyes welled up. Was my dream of gold and glory going to cost me my friendship with Rosie?

  We said good-bye to Kitty. Now Pickles, Rosie, and I were the last cats on the island. I slinked off to my hut, more miserable than ever, threw myself onto my pile of comfy pillows, and fell into a night of disturbing dreams.

  16

  Lost in the Jungle

  Early the next morning, each of us was awoken by a monkey.

  These were the monkeys who worked for Brock. Though they rarely spoke, and smelled unpleasant, they seemed harmless enough
. Not like the monkeys who lived deep in the jungle, whom I’d only spied from afar.

  Brock Showman was waiting for us with a mean grin. “Today is a very special day, castaways.”

  “Chocolate-chip pancake breakfast?” asked Pickles.

  Brock laughed again. “No, Pickles. No pancakes. And no breakfast. We’ve prepared a backpack for each of you with one water-filled canteen, a bandanna, and very chewy trout jerky. Everybody, go to your hut and get your map and one item to help you during your final challenge. Choose wisely, for you will be all alone, deep in the jungle, surrounded by carnivorous plants, angry bugs, and poisonous berries. Then meet me on the beach for further instructions.”

  Back on the beach, this is what we saw:

  “Can I bungee into the volcano?” asked Pickles.

  “Stay away from the volcano!” said Brock, louder than necessary. “Whoever finds his or her way back to this beach first will be the winner. No more relics. No more voting. Just a race against time and danger to see who will be the next Celebrity Castaway Island champion and take home two million dollars. Now, what item have you chosen to help you survive in the jungle?”

  Rosie’s lip quivered as she stared at the proffered hat. She slowly reached for it. . . .

  WHOOSH! The blades of all three helicopters started up, creating a sudden and mighty wind. The hat slipped from my grasp, flew up to the blades, and was chopped to pieces.

  “That’s gotta hurt!” Brock said, laughing. Never have I wanted so badly to punch somebody. “Castaways and camera cats, time to board your helicopters!” I climbed inside, and we rose into the air in a whirl of dust and noise. My camera cat came up behind me:

  Was this what I’d signed up for? Hunger, blindfolds, being pushed out of a helicopter, only to stumble around the jungle for hours with this heartless camera cat filming my every humiliation?

  No. I’d had enough. I took a deep breath, yanked off my blindfold, shoved the camera cat to the back of the helicopter, and . . .

  Bam! I hit the ground running, unhooked the parachute, and kept running. Yes, thorns pierced my fur. Yes, I stumbled over roots. Yes, my stomach complained that I’d jumped from a helicopter after no breakfast whatsoever. But I kept moving. That camera cat would never find me. If I was going to be lost in the deep, deep jungle, at least I’d have some privacy.

  After a while, I stopped and looked around.

  Where was I? I had no idea. The humid heat clung to my fur as the smell of rotting papayas filled my nostrils. Worst of all, a spider rappelled down, nearly landing on my head.

  Shudder!

  Man up, Mr. Puffball! I sat on a log and opened my backpack. A swig of water. A few vigorous chews of trout jerky. A bandanna secured around my head. I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and listened to the sounds of the jungle: the calling birds, wind through the leafy canopy, a river somewhere nearby. I let my breath out in a big life-affirming whoosh.

  And, just like that, I was a new cat, ready for adventure.

  “Which direction now?” I asked myself, speaking extra loud for courage. Then I remembered—the map! I found it and studied it as hard as I could. But there was no “you are here” anywhere. How could I use a map if I didn’t know where I was?

  “Walk until you find something familiar,” I advised myself. But I didn’t get far before:

  I struggled against the sinking sensation. Then I remembered a list I’d seen in the pamphlet “Quicksand and You.”

  WHAT TO DO IF YOU STEP INTO QUICKSAND

  Remove your backpack or other heavy objects.

  Breathe deep for increased buoyancy.

  Move slowly.

  Don’t panic.

  That was all I remembered. I slipped off my backpack and tossed it. Not far enough—it sank into the quicksand, taking my water and food with it. Glug, glug, glug.

  I thought of how Bruiser could pluck me out of there like he was picking a grape from fruit salad. How Chet could use his cane to pull me out. I pictured Whiskers and Kitty each grabbing one paw and yanking me out. Pickles bungee-ing me out, Rosie talking me out with her calm and soothing voice. Even if they couldn’t save me, just seeing them would’ve been sweet.

  But the truth was: I’d behaved badly, I’d hurt those who loved me, and now I was alone. Sinking into quicksand.

  Yes, it was time for remorse. But, more than that, it was time to panic.

  My ears pricked up. Rustling leaves. Snapping twigs. Was it just the wind, or could it be—

  “I’m tempted to leave you here,” said Rosie.

  “I know. I’ve been awful.”

  “Yes, you have! You used to be Mr. Puffball, kindhearted, funny, and loyal. But your desire to be famous and rich has ruined you!”

  I wanted to answer but was afraid of getting quicksand in my mouth.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” Rosie glared at me, then realized how close I was to extinction and leapt into action.

  “Rosie, you’re my hero!” I said, paws extended. “A hug of forgiveness?”

  Rosie looked at my gunk-covered fur and said, “Let’s wash you off in the river first.”

  “Looks like you ditched your camera cat too,” I said as we trudged through the jungle. “Tired of having your every nose hair caught on film?”

  Rosie laughed. But it was a sad laugh. “I’m tired of a lot of things. Especially of watching my old friend turn mean. I know you want that money, Mr. Puffball, but has it really been worth this stupid reality show ordeal?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I was thinking.

  “Has it?” she asked again.

  “Um . . .”

  “Has it?” she repeated.

  “I do like money,” I said, smiling. I did not get a return smile.

  Rosie crossed her paws and said, “I want a real answer.”

  I mentally reviewed all my actions over the past few weeks and knew what I wanted to say.

  I took Rosie’s paw and stared into her eyes. “No, it has not. I was a cat obsessed. But that quicksand washed the blinders from my eyes. I will make it up to you and everybody. Promise!”

  “That’s the best thing I’ve heard in a while,” said Rosie, smiling. “There’s the river!”

  We ran and jumped in with big splashy cannonballs.

  We were having a blast until:

  And that’s when we knew: Pickles was in trouble.

  17

  Pickles in a Pickle

  We hurried through the jungle, until we peeked through some ferns and found this:

  “Oh no! They’re going to poke Pickles to death!” Rosie whispered into my ear.

  “What can we do?” I whispered back. “There are so many of them!”

  “True,” said Rosie. “We’re just two cats. But we have Hollywood on our side.”

  Rosie was right. There’s a scene from a Hollywood movie to fit almost any situation. Like this one from The Hobkit: Bilbo’s friends had been captured by giant spiders (yikes!) and he alone could save them. Bilbo knew that giant spiders hate to be dissed. So he leapt out in front of the oversize arachnids and lured them away with taunts like “Spiders are so dumb!” and “Hey, crazybugs!” Then he put on his ring of invisibility to really mess with their heads.

  True, I did not have a powerful invisibility ring. But I did have plenty of cat-titude.

  “I’ll do it!” I said.

  “Mr. Puffball, use my knife to free Pickles from the net while I distract the monkeys—”

  “No way, Rosie,” I interrupted. “I got us into this mess! I will face the wild monkeys. You rescue Pickles and get away from here as fast as you can. I will find you.”

  Rosie looked at me with those big eyes, and then:

  Now I could do anything—even be the bait that led dozens of ferocious monkeys deep into unfamiliar jungle. I leapt into the clearing. Silence fell as each monkey face turned and stared.

  “HEY,” I yelled, “you silly monkeys, it’s Puffball time, and I’m going to—”

 
I stopped. Because I saw what was at the end of the stick each monkey held: a marshmallow. In every other monkey’s hand sat a chocolate-covered cracker. Pickles was lounging in the net, holding a bag of marshmallows.

  “Are you making s’mores?”

  One of the monkeys came toward me with a stick. And then . . .

  When everybody burst out laughing, Rosie lowered her Swiss Army knife.

  “Welcome to the funnest spot ever,” said Pickles, popping a marshmallow into his mouth.

  “I’ll get you out of there,” said Rosie, extending her knife toward the net.

  “No need,” said Pickles. “I can slip right out.”

  “Pickles,” I said as he landed on the ground. “We heard you mewling.”

  “And yelling ‘Bungee cord!’” said Rosie.

  “True,” said Pickles. “Because that tiny monkey took my bungee cord without asking.”

  “What happened to your camera cat?” I asked.

  “Ditched him,” said Pickles.

  At the monkeys’ invitation, we settled in around the fire to join the s’mores feast. “I don’t get it,” Rosie said. “I thought you monkeys were ferocious.”

  The monkeys all glanced at each other, their eyes shifting back and forth.

  “What’s really going on here?” asked Rosie.

  “Should we tell them?” asked the biggest monkey. Murmurs and glances were exchanged throughout the circle—followed by lots of nodding and “yeses” and “why nots.”

  “That’s exactly what Brock wants you to think,” said the biggest monkey. “He pays us in marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate to do the whole ‘wicked monkey’ routine. It’s an offer we can’t refuse.”