Louise Trapeze Did NOT Lose the Juggling Chickens

by Micol Ostow

  A chicken blowing bubbles! Can you even?

  Loona and Maude agreed. Soon they were pecking the soapy water and blowing bubbles, too. Oona’s bubbles were the biggest, but Loona’s were the funniest shapes. And Maude blew the most bubbles at one time. It was so-so-so funny!

  Actually, I was laughing so hard at the chickens blowing bubbles that I didn’t notice one extremely important thing:

  The bubbles in the water were rising high-higher-highest. Very quickly!

  The bubble bath had gone completely loony-crazy.

  “Yikes!” I cried.

  The bathwater sloshed over the side of the bin. Soap bubbles frothed up like a giant, foamy mountain. The chickens began clucking from scaredness. Maude’s eyes were very wide. All three chickens were completely covered in bubbles.

  And then!

  There was a terrible oh no! moment:

  Oona jumped out of the tub and bobbled off!

  For a chicken, she was really very fast at running.

  “No!” I tried to go after her. But the ground was all muddy from the hose sprayer. I slipped!

  “Wait!” I called. I reached out a muddy arm.

  But it was no use. Loona and Maude were off, following Oona!

  (Oona really is the boss of the three sisters.)

  By the time I pulled myself out of the mud, the juggling chickens were G-O-N-E—gone!

  I had to figure out where the juggling chickens went! I called to them, but there was no answer.

  They were such fast runners! Maybe they’d run all the way to Timbuktu!*

  That was when I saw it.

  There was a trail of bubbly foam leading out of the bathing pen, off into the grass beyond the Big Top tent.

  I was messy and sticky from bubbles and mud, but that didn’t matter. I was responsible for those chickens! I had to find them and get them back to their coop right away.

  I followed the bubble trail around the back of the big tent and past extra boxes of juggling pins, swords for swallowing, and an old red-and-white kettle corn cart that Ethel Teitelbaum says is definitely not forever broken. The bubbles got smaller and more watery the farther I went. It was harder and harder to spot the soapy patches in the grass.

  Then the bubbles stopped completely.

  And a squeaking sound started.

  Oh no! It was Tolstoy the Clown’s giant squeaky shoes! He must have been coming from Ringmaster Riley’s meeting.

  What if he guessed what I was doing? What if he figured out that I lost the juggling chickens? That would be the worst.

  “Hey, Louise,” Tolstoy said, smiling. His smile seemed extra big because he was wearing his bright red clown-makeup lips. “What are you up to out here?”

  I had to quick-think of something to say. “I am…practicing some of the contortions Petrova taught me!” I said.

  (It was a brilliant answer, if you ask me.)

  I continued, “I came over here for some privacy.”*

  “I understand,” Tolstoy replied. “I like to practice new routines in private, too. I’ll leave you to it!”

  Phew, I thought as he walked off. That was close! Thank goodness gracious he didn’t guess my secret problem.

  But then I remembered: I still had a secret problem! And I needed to solve it.

  There were no more bubbles in the grass. I’d hit a dead end. Was this it? Was I never, ever going to track down those chickens?

  No way, Jose, I thought. I looked up. I was standing right in front of two sets of metal bleachers, stacked together like a puzzle for storage.

  That was when I heard it—a smallish clucking sound. That cluck sounded just like Maude!*

  “Maude?” I called. “Is that you? Oona? Loona?”

  The clucks got a little bit louder. They sounded like they were coming from…

  …under the bleachers?

  I kneeled down in the grass. I bent over and flattened my head against the ground. It was hard to see under the bleachers, even in the bright-and-shiny sun.

  Cluuuck!

  “Eek!” All of a sudden, there was an Oona-sized beak close-close-close to my face. It peeked out from the dimness.

  “Oona!” I could barely see her in the darkness. But there was a for-sure scared look in her little chicken eyes. “What are you doing under there?”

  I heard the rustly sound of a wing flapping. “Are you stuck?” I asked.

  Maude clucked sadly in a yes way.

  “Are Maude and Loona back there with you?”

  I heard two more yes-ish clucks from behind Oona.

  “Don’t worry!” I told them in my most calm, grown-up voice. “I’ll get you guys unstuck.”

  And I would. I had to!

  But how?

  Those were three things I knew.

  But also, there was a fourth fact inside my brain. And that was:

  I TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY have no idea how to unstick a chicken from under a bleacher!

  I needed to do some crinkly forehead thinking to fix this problem.

  I scrunched up my face tight-tight-tight. I took very deep breaths. I even closed my eyes so I could really concentrate.

  But it didn’t help. Not even a smidge. My brain was empty like the inside of one of Tolstoy’s super-gigantic helium balloons.

  Then I remembered:

  Last night, when I was trying to cook spaghetti, I didn’t ask for help. And the spaghetti spilled.

  And this morning, when I was giving Clem a bath, I didn’t wait for help. And I got water in her ear!

  I wanted to be a mature, grown-up person who didn’t need to ask for help, ever.

  But maybe…just maybe…asking for help is sometimes the most grown-up thing you can do.

  It was definitely a theory.*

  Fact: I couldn’t make my arms bendy enough to get to the stuck chickens. But there was someone else in our circus who maybe could!

  Lickety-split, I ran to Petrova the Human Pretzel’s tent. But when I got there, she was nowhere to be found! “Petrova?” I called. “Are you here?”

  There was a small white steamer trunk right in front of her tent. It was smaller than the tank for our dancing sea horses.*

  Slowly, the lid to the trunk opened. A long, skinny, Petrova-shaped back rose up. And then! Petrova popped her head upright, unfolded her arms, and stepped right out of that eensy-weensy box!

  “Sorry,” she said. She wiggled her arms and shook her head so her short, straight hair tickled her cheeks. “I was practicing a new contortion.”

  “Wow!” I said. That was some trick!

  Then I remembered why I was looking for her in the first place. “Except, if you have a minute”—I took a deep breath—“I need your help.”

  “Of course. What’s wrong, Lou?” she asked.

  “Follow me,” I said.

  I took her back to the bleachers. She bent down on the ground the same way I had. She called out to the chickens the same way I had, too. They clucked sadly at her—just the way they’d clucked at me.

  Petrova made herself long and slitherish like a snake. She went flat down and wiggled so the whole top of her body disappeared under the bleachers. But after a minute, she slid back out again. She was completely chickenless.

  “Sorry, Louise,” she said. “I can get in and out of there, but the chickens aren’t flexible* like I am.”

  My shoulders slumped. “Oh well,” I said. “Thanks for trying.”

  Now what? The chickens were still stuck. I was totally out of eureka! ideas. And I needed to get the chickens free before Chuck Cluck came back from town.

  And before Mama and Daddy discovered my un-responsibleness.

  “Lou! I was looking all over for you.” It was Stella. She was still in her practice leotard. Clementine the Elephant followed right behind her. (Clementine always follows right behind Stella. They are like two peas in a pod, as Mama says.)

  “I saw Chuck Cluck when he was leaving for town. He said you’re watching the chickens. That is so mature,”
she said.

  Stella knows exactly how important being mature is. That is one of our friendship things.

  “But when I went to the chicken coop to find you, it was empty.” Stella looked at me closer now. “Why are you so muddy? Where are the chickens, Lou?”

  Clementine lowered her trunk to the bottom of the bleachers. She sniffed. Then she trumpeted softly.

  I nodded. “They’re stuck under there.”

  Stella gasped. “How did that happen?”

  “I was giving them a bath,” I explained. “But the bubble-gum soap went crazy. And when I was trying to stop the bubbles from foaming all over, the chickens flew the coop! I mean, the tub.”

  “I tried to get under there to help them out,” Petrova said. “But it didn’t work. We need to go get Ringmaster Riley. Or your parents, Lou.”

  “No!” I shouted. That was the worst idea in the universe. “If we tell my parents what happened, they’ll never think I’m grown-up enough!”

  “It was a mistake, Louise. Even mature grown-ups make mistakes,” Petrova said. “I’m sure your parents know that.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t understand. This is my third mistake today! First there was Clementine’s ear. Then I overoiled Clara Bear’s unicycle. She went sliding all over.”

  “Uh-oh,” Stella said, her eyes wide.

  “Uh-oh is right! That wheel was so-so-so slippery…,” I started.

  But then I stopped.

  Because when I said slippery, an imaginary lightbulb popped up over my head.

  There it was: my eureka! idea!

  I knew exactly how to rescue the chickens.

  “You’re a genius!” I told her, giving her a great big hug.

  “I am?” Stella asked. “Hooray for me!” She waved her arms like she was excited. “But what now?”

  “Just wait,” I told her. “We are totally and completely going to fix this!”

  Stella and I ran to the supply trailer, fast-fast-fast. The oil for Clara’s unicycle was just where I’d left it.

  Perfectamundo!* This was definitely going to work!

  I grabbed the oil can. Stella grabbed one of her own for good measure.

  “Let’s go!” I said. Quickly, we raced back to the bleachers. Petrova was stretched out flat on her stomach again, waving at the chickens to keep them calm. Clementine was sitting back on her hind legs. They both looked very still-worried.

  “So, what are we going to do with these?” Stella asked, holding up her oil can.

  “When I used extra oil on Clara’s unicycle, it went too slippy and she almost crashed,” I said. “So if we rub a bunch on the chicken’s feathers, they’ll be oily enough to unstick from under the bleachers.”

  Stella looked like she wasn’t sure. But then she shrugged. We didn’t have any better ideas.

  I leaned down and called to the chickens in my softest voice. One by one, they waddled over to me, as close as they could (Oona leading the way, of course). I poured oil all over my hands until they were super slidey. Then I rubbed those chickens’ feathers so that they were slick-slick-slick, too.

  Slowly, I wiggled Oona through the slats of the bleachers. She cooed a little, but mostly she was very brave.

  Sliiiip! Out she popped!

  “Yay!” She was free. I hugged her slippery-ish little body, and she gave me a thank-you flap of her wing. She clucked at Loona and Maude so they’d know she was fine. Clementine made a little happiness trumpet.

  Next came Loona and Maude. Maude was a tiny bit shaky when it was her turn. But sure enough, we got those chickens nice and slippy, and out they came! When they were all safe and sound, there was lots of cheery clucking and trumpeting (and also laughing and relief-sighing from the actual human people).

  “We did it!” I said to Stella. We did a giant squish-hug for saving the day.

  I was just the proudest. Yes, I made an eensy mistake when I was bathing the chickens. But then I solved the problem!

  “That was some good eureka! thinking, Louise!” Stella said. She smiled at me.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I told her.

  “Chuck Cluck will be back soon,” I said.

  We looked at the three chickens. They were still very drippy with oil. Stella said, “We need to clean you guys off for real before he gets here!”

  Clementine pointed with her trunk. She led the three of us back to the bathing pen. Petrova and Stella filled one of the bigger tubs with water. I lifted the chickens into the bath.

  And then! Clementine used her trunk as if it was an actual hose!

  She sucked up the water in her trunk and sprayed it all over the chickens until they were squeaky-clean again. Then she sprayed me! Now I was all wet, but at least I wasn’t muddy anymore. I laughed and laughed. Asking my friends for help was probably my best eureka! idea yet!

  “Louise! There you are!”

  It was Chuck Cluck, back from Funky Town. And right behind him were Mama and Daddy.

  “Louise! You’re soaking wet!” Mama’s eyebrows went way-high-up on her forehead. “Chuck told us he had to leave the chickens with you while he dealt with an emergency. Did everything go okay?”

  “Everything went perfect!” Stella said quickly. “Lou just wanted to give the chickens a bath after their snack time.”

  Stella reached over and gave my hand a best-friend squeeze. I squeezed her hand right back.

  I could tell Mama wasn’t sure she was getting the whole story. But she didn’t ask any more questions.

  “A bath! That’s great!” Chuck Cluck said. “That’ll save me a bunch of time tonight.”

  “Well, Lou,” Daddy said, “we had our doubts when you talked to us this morning. But I guess this is proof—you’re getting more responsible every day.”

  “Holy trapeze!” I shouted.

  I did it! I showed Mama and Daddy real live proof of being grown-up-ish!

  Yes, I spilled the spaghetti.

  Yes, I got water in Clementine’s ear.

  Yes, I overoiled Clara Bear’s unicycle.

  And, yes, I accidentally a-little-bit lost the juggling chickens.

  But then, with help from my friends, I found them again!

  Now the chickens were squeaky-clean and Chuck Cluck was extra happy.

  Everything was totally and completely almost perfect.

  But there was one more thing I had to do to make this the extremely best day ever.

  “I have something to show you,” I told Chuck Cluck.

  I poured some of the bubble-gum soap into one of the smaller tubs. Then I nodded at Oona, Loona, and Maude. They bobbed their heads at me for a minute, thinking in a chicken way. Slowly, they made their little chickeny aha faces. Oona waved one wing at her sisters so they’d follow her lead.

  They chicken-walked over to the tub. One by one, they dipped their beaks into the soapy water. Then they each bobbed their heads back up and squawked.

  Cluck! Oona blew a perfect, shimmery soap bubble.

  Cluck! Loona blew an even bigger bubble! It floated up to Clementine’s forehead and pop-pop-popped.

  Cluuuuck! Eensiest little Maude blew the very biggest bubble of all times! It landed on Chuck’s nose.

  Everyone burst out laughing. I was happy-happy-happy!

  “It’s a new trick!” I said. “We learned it today. What do you think?”

  Chuck chuckled. “I think it’s one hundred percent perfect,” he said with a wink.

  Mama, Daddy, and Chuck made a glance over my head. That meant they were thinking serious thoughts.

  “I know Louise is doing her special tightwire routine tomorrow,” Chuck said. “But do you think you could spare her for the chickens’ act, too? Since she taught them to blow bubbles, she should be the one performing with them.”

  My eyes went wider than Tolstoy’s hula hoops. “Are you for serious?” I asked.

  “I for-seriously am,” Chuck said.

  Mama and Daddy looked at each other again. They both had thin
king faces on. But they were smiling, too.

  “That sounds like a great idea,” Mama said.

  “Perfectamundo!” I shouted.

  I was still only seven years old. I had a long way to go before I’d be a real live grown-up who never, ever made mistakes.

  But in the meantime, being just normal responsible Louise was a-okay. Especially when there were bubble-blowing juggling chickens around!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MICOL OSTOW has never seen a juggling chicken in her entire lifelong time—yet. But she does have a French bulldog, who, sadly, does not know any circus tricks (though she is excellent at siesta-ing). Micol lives and works in Brooklyn, New York, where she reads books, drinks coffee, and usually tries her hardest to be a real live grown-up. (Sometimes it even works!) She is the author of numerous books for young adults and children, but Louise Trapeze is her first chapter book series. You can visit her at micolostow​.com.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  BRIGETTE BARRAGER is an artist, illustrator, designer, and writer of children’s books. She recently illustrated the New York Times bestseller Uni the Unicorn by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. She resides in Los Angeles with her handsome husband, cute doggy, and terrible cat. Visit Brigette at brigetteb​.com.