Little Bigfoot, Big City
Page 21
In spite of everything Benjamin Burton had told him, in that office in the subbasement of Carnegie Hall, there were still about a hundred things Jeremy didn’t know. Like whether Skip Carruthers had been hunting for Alice all along, or whether they’d started looking for Millie, and Alice was just a kind of bonus prize, like putting a quarter in the gumball machine at the Standish Diner and getting two balls instead of just one.
“I come in peace!” he shouted, and shut his eyes again. Still nothing. He kept walking.
He hadn’t told his parents about what had happened on his so-called field trip. If they’d asked how his day in New York City had been, he would have said, “Fine,” but neither of them asked. When Jeremy came home on Saturday afternoon, his mother was closed up in her office, the rattle of her fingers on the keyboard suggesting that she was working on a new poem. His father was with Ben at some kind of tournament, and Noah was in his basement lab. Which meant that there was no one to stop him from putting down his backpack, taking the long, hot shower he’d dreamed about during the hours of Benjamin Burton’s interrogation, and then gathering his binoculars, his compass, and his maps and walking into the woods, walking with direction and purpose, not just wandering, but, for once, knowing exactly where he was going and what he’d say—and hopefully find—when he got there.
“Do not be afraid!” he shouted . . . and did he hear something? The crack of a branch beneath a large, hairy foot? A voice? He paused, then yelled something that wasn’t on the approved list of phrases that Benjamin had given him. “Benjamin Burton told me to come!”
He stood still. He counted slowly backward from one hundred. At forty-nine, a figure slipped out of the shadows and moved noiselessly toward him. Jeremy felt his heart pounding, rattling his ribs, making black spots dance in front of his eyes. He made himself hold still as the creature—a female, large, furry, and in a dark blue dress—came closer.
From the top of her head to the tops of her feet, she was covered in dark, curling fur. Her brown eyes were large and frightened. She was wringing her hands, and the fur on her face was soaked, as if she’d dipped her face in water or been crying. Something about her looked familiar: the shape of her eyes or her mouth; the way she held herself as she edged toward him. She stopped at about fifty yards away, poised on the balls of her feet, ready to turn and run.
Jeremy held out his open hands. “I’m a friend,” he said.
“Please, sir,” she said in a whispery voice that Jeremy could barely hear, a voice that tore at his heart. He’d imagined this moment, pictured it for so long, thought about how proud he’d feel, how triumphant. But now that it had happened—now that he, Jeremy Bigelow, had actually found a real, live Bigfoot—he only felt sad.
“I’m not a sir,” Jeremy said. “I’m just a kid.”
The Bigfoot stretched out her arms, beseeching.
“Please, sir kid,” the lady said . . . and now Jeremy could hear, for sure, that she was crying. “Please help me find my lost Millietta.”
Author Photograph by Tamara Staples
JENNIFER WEINER is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of fourteen books, including The Littlest Bigfoot and her memoir Hungry Heart: Adventures in Life, Love, and Writing. A graduate of Princeton University and a contributor to the New York Times Opinion section, Jennifer lives with her family in Philadelphia. Visit her online at JenniferWeiner.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Aladdin hardcover edition October 2017
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ISBN 978-1-4814-7077-3 (hc)
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