“He looks like a younger you,” Susan interjected. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned about whether it was technically a doll or a figurine. She touched a finger to the boy’s red hair. “Exactly like a younger you, actually.”
“That’s why I took him,” Bertie admitted. “That and . . . he reminds me of my mom.” He blinked in surprise. He’d said it. And hearing it out loud, in his own voice, had actually felt good. “I have this memory of her giving the same kind of figurine to me when I was younger. When I look at him, it’s like the fog in my head clears a little, and I can remember things about her again. Just bits and pieces: her voice, her hair, the way she laughed. But it’s more than I’ve had in a long time.”
“Like a memory trigger,” Susan said thoughtfully. “We did an experiment like that in school once. All different things can trigger memories: images, sounds, even smells.”
“Well, what’s not triggering a memory is this.” Bertie reached over, turning the boy upside down so Susan could see the two green T’s stamped onto its foot. “I’ve been trying like crazy to figure out what it means.”
Susan burst out laughing. “Every kid in America knows what that means!” She paused, her face darkening. “Well, every kid who didn’t grow up with Claude un-Magnificence,” she amended, crossing her eyes at the memory of Bertie’s uncle. “It’s the logo for Toddle’s Toys.”
Bertie plucked a blade of grass, wrapping it slowly around his finger. “Toddle’s Toys,” he repeated.
“Toddle’s Toy Emporium is the biggest toy store in the country,” Susan told him. “Probably even the world. I’ve never been, but kids at school used to talk about it all the time. It’s this huge building, supposedly, and it’s filled with every toy imaginable, tons you’ve never even heard of before . . .”
Susan kept talking, but Bertie had stopped listening. Because in his head several pieces were suddenly clicking into place, one after another.
Toddle’s Toy Emporium. An image of a watery-eyed woman flashed through Bertie’s mind. That was it. That was where she’d said she’d taken Tilda! He’d been struggling to remember ever since their escape. But he could swear he’d seen that name elsewhere too . . .
Everything had happened so quickly the night of their escape that he’d forgotten all about the check he’d taken out of Claude’s cocoa urn, the one inscribed with the words For the rabbit. Bertie dug into his pocket. Please still be there, he begged silently.
At the very bottom, he felt it: a thin sheet of paper coated in lint and crumpled into a ball. His breath released in fast spurts as he smoothed it out on the grass. For the rabbit, someone had written along the bottom, just like he remembered. Typed in the top left corner of the check was a name: The Toddles. And beneath that name was an address: Toddle’s Toy Emporium, 1 Toddle Lane, Hoolyloo City.
Click. The final piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Tilda was at Toddle’s Toy Emporium, the very place where Bertie’s wooden boy had come from.
And he had the address.
“I know where Tilda is!” he burst out. Nearby, Smalls, Rigby, and Wombat all bolted upright, almost as if they’d understood Bertie’s words. “She’s at Toddle’s Toy Emporium,” he continued. He held up the check for Susan to see. “The same place where the wooden boy came from.” He paused, excitement zipping through him like a bolt of lightning. He would look for Tilda at Toddle’s, but he would also look for that wooden boy—his memory trigger. Maybe it would help him remember something more about the past, about his home. A smile spread across his face. “It looks like we’re going to the biggest toy store in the world.”
Jumping Through Hoops
In the highest room of a tall stone house, Tilda was suffering through a game of dress-up with her new owner, Chrysanthemum. “You look marvelous,” Chrysanthemum screeched as she yanked a frilly pink doll’s dress over Tilda’s head.
“I look like an oversized Barbie,” Tilda grumbled. She knew all about Barbie dolls now. She also knew about Pretty Princess dolls and Kangaroo Pocket dolls and Chrysanthemum’s personal favorite, I-Pee-Like-You dolls. Tilda twisted out of Chrysanthemum’s grip, backing up into the fluffy purple blanket that dangled off the canopy bed. Across from her, Toddle’s Toy Emporium rose on the other side of a large, arched window.
Chrysanthemum giggled. “You have the funniest squeak, Carnation.”
“My. Name. Is. Tilda!” Tilda yelled. But it only made Chrysanthemum laugh harder. On Tilda’s first day living with Chrysanthemum, she’d renamed her Carnation, so they could both be named after flowers. “Like twins!!!” she’d squealed.
Tilda shook her head. “Why does no one seem to understand that I already have a name? A very pleasant one, if you ask me! Wombat would agree with me if he were here.” A sad look flitted across her face. “Where are you now, Wombat?” she whispered. She glanced hopefully back out the window, as if at any second a hairy-nosed wombat might come crashing through it.
“Time to walk the runway,” Chrysanthemum announced, patting the red sheet she’d rolled out across the purple-carpeted floor. “Just wait until Lauren Nicola sees you in this outfit,” Chrysanthemum said, twirling down her makeshift runway. “Especially when I show her this.” Chrysanthemum held a small, sparkly hoop in front of Tilda. “Jump!” she commanded.
Tilda rolled her eyes. “I thought I left the circus.”
“Jump!” Chrysanthemum repeated, her voice leaping into a screechy whine. “We only have an hour before I leave for school!”
“If it will keep you quiet . . .” Tilda leapt through the hoop, landing smoothly on the other side.
“Again!” Chrysanthemum cheered, clapping her hands together.
Tilda let out a loud sigh as she jumped back through the hoop. As she landed on all fours, she looked longingly up at the window once more. “Please save me, Wombat,” she whispered.
The Wombatopolis Theorem
The group had been walking for over an hour when Smalls, Wombat, Rigby, Susan, and Bertie found themselves facing a soaring oak tree with the initials NJR carved into its trunk. “Not again,” Bertie groaned. This was the third time they’d ended up in front of this very tree. Bertie clenched his hands into fists at his side. They’d been following a wisp of gray smoke they’d seen curling into the sky, in the hope that it would lead them out of the woods, to wherever there might be a chimney. Instead, it had led them right back to where they’d started. “And now I can’t even see the smoke anymore.”
Susan tilted her head up, using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. A single white cloud drifted lazily along in the sky, marring the otherwise spotless stretch of blue. “It’s gone,” she confirmed.
A few feet away, Smalls rubbed nervously at the horseshoe on his chest. “Holy horseshoe,” he muttered. “This is not good.”
“This simply cannot be,” Wombat balked. He furrowed his snout as he stared up at the tree. “According to the ancient Greek Wombatopolis Theorem, the sun should be leading us forward, not backward. And certainly not in circles!”
“Where did you learn this Wombatty theory anyway, Wombat?” Rigby asked, flopping down next to him with a yawn.
“Wombatopolis Theorem,” Wombat corrected indignantly. “And it is simply part of my innate set of knowledge. It would be part of yours too if you were a wombat with an IQ of five thousand.”
Rigby plucked a purple wildflower with his teeth and wove it into his fur. “Can your IQ of five thousand explain why we’re right back where we started?”
Wombat glanced up at the blazing sun, which was making them all pant in spite of the cool autumn air. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The sun must have risen incorrectly today.” He shook his snout, looking frustrated.
Behind Wombat, Bertie was pacing in tight circles. “One Toddle Lane, Hoolyloo City,” he murmured, as if the words could somehow make the Emporium magically appear. Instead, they just made him wince. His throat felt as dry and cracked as a piece of sandpaper.
“If
only we could blink our eyes and be there,” Susan sighed.
“Blinking Boy,” Bertie said wistfully. “That’s a hero I wouldn’t mind being.” Bertie had spent his whole life dreaming up hero counterparts for himself, alter egos that would allow him to escape his dreary, dismal life. When he’d run away from the circus, he’d felt like a true hero for the first time—no alter ego necessary. But here in the woods, homeless and lost, he felt very much like a plain, ten-year-old boy again. A hero wouldn’t just sit here, he thought angrily. He would do something. He would fix this.
Susan let out a dry cough. “I would take Water Boy too,” she said with a weak laugh.
Bertie straightened up. Susan was right. He could hear Smalls clearing his throat and Rigby barking hoarsely. They all needed water. Bertie paced faster. He might not be able to blink them to Hoolyloo, but he could do this.
A few years ago, back when he was traveling with the circus, Bertie had snuck out to follow Alfredo, one of the circus’s old performers. Alfredo was known in performance circles as a Purveyor of Natural Wonders, and Bertie had been dying to follow him on one of his famous treks into the woods. That day, Bertie had followed Alfredo down a long, steep hill. When they’d finally reached a tiny creek at the bottom, Alfredo had pumped his fists triumphantly into the air. “Just like I thought,” he’d said. “Water always drains downward.”
Now, Bertie turned slowly around, studying the leaf-speckled ground. Off to his right, the grass sloped downward the slightest bit. “That way!” he exclaimed.
Susan raised her eyebrows. “That way what?”
“See how the ground slopes downhill? I’m going to follow it until I find us some water,” Bertie declared.
“Not alone you’re not,” Susan countered. She fixed Bertie with a steely gaze. “If you go, I go.”
Bertie’s dry, chapped lips curled up at the corners. “I know better than to say no to that look.” Turning to Smalls, he lifted his hand in the air. It was a gesture he’d used countless times during their training sessions at the circus. “Stay,” Bertie said firmly, using a command he was sure Smalls would recognize. Instantly, Smalls sat back on his haunches. “Good boy,” Bertie beamed. “We’ll be back soon.”
The instant Susan and Bertie were out of sight, Smalls jumped back to his feet, making his four-leaf clover flap behind his ear. “If Bertie’s getting water, then it’s our job to find food,” he told the others. He pawed thoughtfully at the ground. “And in honor of our mission, I’ve created a new game.”
“Game?” Wombat spit out. “There’s no time for games on a quest, Smalls. This very minute Tilda is probably waiting for me, perfectly coiffed!”
Smalls suppressed a groan. He’s hurting, he reminded himself. Last night, Smalls had woken up to the sound of Wombat whispering Tilda’s name in his sleep. “This game is part of our quest,” he said gently. “We’ll never make it to Tilda on empty stomachs.”
Wombat let out a begrudging sigh. “All right, just make it très rapide.” He stuck his snout in the air. “That means ‘very fast’ in French.”
Rigby shook several strands of fur out of his eyes. “I’m ready,” he panted. “What’s the game?”
“I call it Food-and-Seek,” Smalls announced. “The first one to find food in the woods wins! And extra points for honey,” he added quickly. At the thought of his favorite food, a list unrolled in his mind.
Times I’ve Gone without Honey:
1. When it was offered to me by a hyena who wanted a bear claw in return.
2. When that pesky squirrel Lorenzo decided to make my honey dish his own personal toilet.
3. At the Most Magnificent Traveling Circus.
Smalls had no interest in adding a number four to that list.
“My burrowing skills will make me a perfect candidate for victory,” Wombat said. “I bet I dig up a whole beehive.” He cleared his throat. “In a très rapide fashion, of course.”
Smalls nodded solemnly. “Of course. Okay, on three we disperse. Good luck, fellow players.” He reached up to touch his four-leaf clover, which was slowly beginning to wilt behind his ear. “One. Two—”
“Trois!” Wombat cut in. With an excited grunt, he took off waddling through the woods.
Smalls gave Rigby a nod. “Three,” he confirmed. Instantly, he and Rigby galloped off in different directions.
Smalls’s eyes jumped expertly from bush to plant as he loped through the woods. The sun bore down on him, making his black fur feel lit with flames, but he willed himself to ignore it. He had a game to win. His legs pumped faster. His eyes doubled forward and backward, not wanting to miss a thing. But it wasn’t until he scrambled up a tree for a better vantage point that he finally saw it.
His breath caught in his throat. Just a few yards away was a bush crowded with fat, pink berries. Smalls was back on the ground and in front of the bush in two seconds flat. A syrupy scent wafted off the berries. His stomach let out a hungry growl at its pungent sweetness.
But as Smalls stepped closer, he caught a whiff of another smell too, a darker, denser scent. It lingered among the leaves, as if under all those ripe, juicy berries, something was rotting. Smalls sniffed furiously at the air. One second the berries smelled sweet, and the next sour. Deep down inside him, something began to tingle—a gut feeling, the kind that told him when snow was on its way or a storm was brewing. This time, it was telling him he didn’t want those berries.
Still, Smalls moved closer. He was so hungry, and the berries looked so delicious. Besides, if he brought some back, he would win the game! He stretched out his long pink tongue.
“Stop!” Wombat flung his small furry body between Smalls and the bush. “I forbid you to lay a tongue on those berries! Those are billyons, the most poisonous berries known to bear.” He shuddered. “Just one bite and all your fur would have fallen out. And then every one of your claws and each of your eyeballs and—”
Smalls held up a paw to stop Wombat. “I get the picture,” he said shakily, stepping away from the bush.
“Just wait until I tell Tilda that I saved your life!” Wombat said proudly. “She’ll think me a hairy-nosed hero!”
Smalls looked over at his friend. His stomach was growling louder than ever. “Did you find anything better?” he asked hopefully. “Honeycomb, perhaps?”
“I saved your life, Smalls,” Wombat sniffed. “I can’t do everything.”
Smalls turned longingly back to the billyon berries. It took every ounce of his willpower not to tear into them, let their juicy sweetness pool inside him. “Let’s just hope Rigby is having better luck than we are.”
• • •
Rigby was deep inside a tangle of branches. They snagged and yanked at his long tufts of fur, but still he pushed forward. He chanted a pep talk to himself as he did. “I will find food. I will find food. I will . . .” He trailed off as an unusual smell caught his attention.
“Musky yet sweet . . . spicy yet pleasant . . .” He crouched down in front of a small spiky rock with an excited bark. “Coconut,” he decided. “No, kiwi. No, an oversized nut!” He crept closer, sniffing wildly. “Yes, definitely some kind of—OW!”
Rigby let out a howl as his nose bumped up against the spiky rock. He leapt backward, pawing frantically at the spot where the spikes had stabbed his muzzle.
“Serves you right for thinking I was a nut.”
Rigby froze. Slowly, his eyes traveled down to the ground. There, standing in the grass, was the spiky rock. Except it wasn’t a rock. And it wasn’t a nut. It was an animal.
Rigby let out a surprised yelp.
“What, you’ve never seen a hedgehog before?” the animal demanded. He plucked one of the long, sharp spikes off his back, holding it in front of him like a sword. “State your name and purpose!”
Rigby stared silently at the hedgehog, his muzzle trembling.
The hedgehog took a step toward Rigby, waving his quill-sword menacingly. “Declare yourself as friend or foe instantly, or I’ll
be forced to battle you!”
“I’m a friend!” Rigby croaked. “My name is Rigby.”
Slowly, the hedgehog lowered his quill. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” He tucked the quill back in among the others. “Welcome to Maplehedge Woods, Rigby. I’m Alfie.”
An IQ of Seven Thousand
A scream. At the sound, every strand of fur on Smalls’s body stood on end. He would know that voice anywhere. Bertie was in trouble. Kicking up his paws, he took off racing toward the sound. Somewhere in the woods, Wombat and Rigby were still caught up in their game of Food-and-Seek, but eating was suddenly the last thing on Smalls’s mind. He threw back his head, letting out an earth-shattering roar. “I’m coming, Bertie!”
Smalls’s paws ate up the ground as his muscles clenched and released, instinct taking over. The memory of Bertie’s scream looped through his mind again and again, urging him on. He leapt over a fallen tree and tore through a patch of bramble. He trampled through overgrown grass and plowed through a pile of fallen leaves. Under branches and over bushes, around a poison ivy patch and over a gaping, muddy hole. To his right, he caught a glimpse of what looked to be fruit, but he didn’t even slow. Only when water rushed over his paws, dampening his fur, did he skid to a stop.
There, letting out a yell of joy as he splashed in a river with Susan, was Bertie. Smalls heard the growl of relief before he realized it was coming from him.
“Smalls!” Bertie broke into a huge smile when he spotted him. “Look what we found.” He threw his arms up, spraying water through the air. “Drink up!”
A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie Page 2
