A Valiant Quest for the Misfit Menagerie

by Jacqueline Resnick

  “You have the cutest squeak,” Chrysanthemum declared, ruffling Tilda’s fastidiously groomed fur. “You’re like my real, live squeak toy!” She gave Tilda a final pat before prancing out of the room, her dress flouncing behind her.

  “Why is she so happy?” Tilda pouted as she moved on to step two of her grooming process, picking an invisible speck of dirt out of her fur. “She’s never happy! And doesn’t she know this is not a happy day? A whole night has passed and Wombat still hasn’t returned! When is he going to come save me?” She stomped her paws against the purple carpet. “If I have to spend one more day locked in this bedroom, I swear I’m going to . . . to . . . EXPLODE!”

  “Tsk, tsk, sweetie. No need to yell.”

  Tilda jumped. Kay had landed soundlessly on the windowsill. “Stop sneaking up on me like that,” she said with a scowl.

  “My, my,” Kay replied. “Aren’t we in a funk today?”

  “Maybe we are,” Tilda sniffed. “But we have a right to be! Wombat was right here, Kay! He was so close! And now he’s gone again.” She dropped her head on her paws, looking utterly forlorn. “I’m never going to be saved.”

  “Well, look at that,” Kay said, applauding with her wings. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves a damsel in distress!”

  Tilda glared up at Kay. “I’m not a damselfly. I’m a long-furred, snow-white Angora rabbit!”

  “You’re missing the point, honey.” Kay paused, studying Tilda. “You know what I say? I say it’s time you get off that long-furred butt of yours and save yourself.”

  “My long-furred what?” Tilda replied.

  “Think about it, sweetie. Sometimes we’re our own best hero.” She waved a wing at Tilda. “I’m heading off now to fly south for the winter. Maybe I’ll see you when I return. Or,” she added with a wink, “maybe I won’t.” With that, she took a swan dive off the window, flapping into the horizon.

  Tilda buffed her tail against the carpet, looking bewildered. “Save myself?” she murmured. “That’s impossible!” She twitched her nose, buffing faster. Minutes passed, and nothing. Then slowly a look of excitement crept onto her face. “Or maybe,” she said, climbing to her paws, “it’s not.”

  Super Spies to the Rescue

  “Are you dead?” Bertie felt a poke in his side. He rolled over, clinging to his dream. In it, his mom was about to tell him something important about the wooden boy. “Of course he means something to us, Bertie,” she began. “He’s—”

  “Hell-oooo? Yoo hoo!” A finger jabbed Bertie again, and this time his eyes reluctantly fluttered open. A small boy, maybe four or five, was leaning over him, his forehead wrinkled up in concern. “You’re alive!” he said breathlessly.

  Bertie sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes. For a second, he couldn’t remember where he was. Then, all at once, it came rushing back. Eating candy. Brainstorming ways to find Tilda. Falling asleep on Smalls. Just after dawn, he’d left Smalls and Wombat in the Stuffed Jungle and crept into the wooden tree to hide. He must have fallen back asleep—and, judging by the clamor of voices outside and the little boy staring down at him, slept right through opening.

  “Do you speak?” the little boy asked. “Or are you a ghost? Is that why you’re so quiet? The kids are all saying there’s a dead boy in the tree, but what if they meant a dead ghost?” He inched away from Bertie, his face looking slightly green.

  “I’m not a ghost,” Bertie said groggily. His tired brain was suddenly kicked into overdrive. How many kids had seen him sleeping? How long, exactly, had he been asleep? “Do you know what time it is?” he asked the boy.

  “Almost lunchtime,” he replied. He beamed, revealing three missing teeth. “I can’t wait, wait, wait for lunch! My mom says I can have a brownie-butter sandwich. ‘Just this once,’ she said, but I’ll take it because once is better than never, right?”

  “Lunchtime?” Bertie leapt to his feet, keeping his head low as he scrambled down the stairs. He was supposed to meet Chryssy at noon! If he was late, he could miss his only chance to get back into the woodshop.

  “Wait!” the little boy called after him.

  But Bertie didn’t even pause. “Enjoy your sandwich!” he called back, jumping down from the last step. The store was only slightly less crowded than it had been yesterday. He had to squeeze through twins arguing over a doll and leap over a circle of kids rolling a chattering globe across the floor. “Alaska is America’s largest state!” Bertie heard the globe announce.

  He made a quick stop in the Stuffed Jungle to make sure Smalls and Wombat were safe before dashing across the main floor and up the stairs. He kept his eyes peeled for Susan as he ran, but he didn’t see her anywhere. That means nothing, he assured himself. He planned to do a thorough search for her and Rigby after he left the woodshop. Then he’d go straight to the Toddles’ house. He hadn’t forgotten his promise to Smalls. He would find a way to get to Tilda today, no matter what it took.

  Bertie was short of breath by the time he reached the Fine Woods room. Chryssy was leaning against a shelf of wooden houses, her arms crossed over her chest. Her poufy dress was black today, and on her feet were a pair of glittery black Mary Janes.

  “It’s twelve oh three,” she snapped.

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Are you wearing the same thing as yesterday?” she interrupted. Her eyes trailed from his shirt to his pants, clearly horrified.

  Bertie looked down. For the first time, he noticed the truly terrible state his clothes were in. His shirt was wrinkled and splattered with dirt, there was a chocolate stain on one of his suspenders, and his pants—too short for him as it was—were now grass-stained and sticky with marshmallow residue. “I like this outfit,” he said defensively.

  Chryssy wrinkled her nose. “Luckily, I brought you a change of clothes.” She held out a massive pair of sweatpants and an equally large T-shirt. Both had been sloppily painted black, so that big goops of paint were clumped all over them.

  Bertie raised his eyebrows. “You want me to wear that?”

  “Of course.” Chryssy gave him an exasperated look. “Everyone knows that spies are supposed to wear black to blend in.”

  “Since when did we become spies?”

  Chryssy sighed dramatically. “Bertie, Bertie, Bertie. You have so much to learn.” She tossed the clothes at him. “There’s a bathroom down the hall. Go change. Now!”

  A hundred different retorts sprang to Bertie’s tongue, but he swallowed them all back. He needed Chryssy to get him into that room. If that meant wearing black clothes, then black clothes it was. After this, I’ll never have to see her again, he reminded himself as he pulled the outfit on over his own clothes. He had to roll the sweatpants over four times to get them to stay up. He cringed as he faced the mirror. He looked as though he’d been sent through the washing machine, and he’d come out shrunken instead of the clothes.

  Gritting his teeth, he stepped back into the hall. “Here I am,” he said. “All spied up and ready to go.”

  No one answered him.

  Bertie looked around. He didn’t see Chryssy anywhere. All he saw were the bewildered stares his outfit was getting. “Is that boy supposed to be a clown?” a little girl asked, making a stuffed bird swoop through the air.

  “Clowns don’t wear black, Sarie,” a girl who was clearly her older sister scoffed. “He must be dressing up as a mime. Maybe he’s doing a show later!”

  “Don’t stare, girls,” their mom scolded. She lowered her voice, wrapping her arms around her daughters. “Maybe he’s from another country where that’s the style.”

  Bertie pushed past them, his face flushing red. “Hello?” he called out. He poked his head back into Fine Woods. “Chryssy?”

  “Pssst.”

  Bertie tilted his head, listening.

  “Pssst.”

  There it was again! And now a soft whistle accompanied it, floating out from inside an antique-looking cupboard in the hallway. He walked over to it, trying to ignore the way p
eople’s eyes kept following him as they wondered about his outfit. “Chryssy? Are you in there?”

  The door to the cupboard opened a crack. Out sprung a single strand of curly hair. “Shhhh,” Chryssy whispered.

  Without meaning to, Bertie broke out laughing. “What are you doing?”

  The cupboard door opened all the way. Chryssy climbed out one limb at a time. “A spy must be able to hide in any locale,” she said knowingly. “I read about it in one of my dad’s spy novels last night.”

  Bertie laughed even harder. “You did research for this?”

  In response, Chryssy clasped her hands together, pointer fingers up, mimicking a weapon. “I learned this move from a film,” she said, whipping her hands from side to side.

  Bertie could barely breathe now, he was laughing so hard.

  Chryssy aimed her pretend weapon at his forehead. “Spies don’t laugh, Bertie! They prepare.”

  Bertie choked back another burst of laughter. Chryssy looked so solemn. And she was doing this for him, after all . . . He clasped his hands together, giving it a try. He grinned a little as he whipped them from side to side. “This is kind of fun,” he admitted.

  Chryssy smiled smugly. “Now,” she said, lowering her voice. “Time for Code WW300. When I blink three times, that means to follow me.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to tell me—”

  Bertie snapped his mouth shut when he saw the glower creeping onto Chryssy’s face. “Three blinks,” he said quickly. “Got it.”

  Chryssy glanced stealthily around. Then she squeezed her eyes shut three times in the most exaggerated blinks Bertie had ever seen. She took off running, keeping her back to the wall.

  Bertie watched her for a second. “When in Toddle’s,” he murmured. He took off after her, his back to the wall as well.

  They were nearly there when Chryssy made a sudden stop. “Hide!” she mouthed. An instant later, the echo of footsteps rang out in the hallway. Bertie looked frantically over his shoulder. He spotted only one door that wasn’t plastered in STAY OUT! or DANGER! signs. He dove for it, Chryssy close on his heels.

  They threw themselves inside at the same time. It was a supply closet, brimming with mops and brooms and cleaning supplies. Bertie yanked the door shut behind him, just as the footsteps grew closer. “We did it!” he exclaimed. He looked over at Chryssy, expecting to find her bursting with pride. If she hadn’t heard those footsteps so early, they would have been caught for sure. But instead of Chryssy, he found himself face to face with a mop.

  Chryssy spit several strands of mop out of her mouth. “Blech!” she shrieked.

  Bertie tried not to laugh. He really did. But she just looked so funny with the mop hanging over her face, only her eyes peeking out—almost like Rigby. He couldn’t help it; a laugh just slipped right out. Glaring at him, Chryssy grabbed another mop off the ground and dropped it onto his head. “There,” she said. “Now we’re both mop heads.”

  For a second, they stared out at each other through their mops. Then at the same time, they broke into peals of laughter. “Now we’re really in disguise,” Chryssy choked out.

  “Super Spies to the rescue,” Bertie wheezed. “Wherever you need cleaning!”

  They were still laughing as they shook off their mops. But when Chryssy opened the door an inch to peek outside, they both fell silent. “Coast is clear,” she told him in a hushed tone.

  Once more, they kept their backs to the wall, hurrying the rest of the way. It took Chryssy a total of four seconds to pick the lock this time. And then they were in.

  The room looked exactly as it had yesterday: bare, clean. The only change was a new note on the chalkboard: Toddle’s Staff Meeting, 1:30 p.m., Room 21R. “I’ll stand watch,” Chryssy said.

  Bertie nodded. His eyes were already on the cabinet. Quickly, he rolled a log of wood over to it. When he climbed on top, he could just reach the key.

  “What’s in it?” Chryssy asked from the doorway. Her eyes were trained on the hallway, darting left and right, right and left.

  “Give me a second to get in!” Bertie slid the key into the lock, and the cabinet swung open with a creak. In the center sat the small glass box. This time, Bertie had a clear view of what was inside.

  It was a carved wooden boy. The boy looked like all the others: blue eyes, a smattering of freckles, a baseball cap over his painted red hair. But there was something different about him too. He’d clearly been made a long time ago, for one. He was a little faded, like a picture that had been left out in the sun too long. And there was something about the details—the curve of his hands, the swoop of his hair—that set him apart from the others.

  Carefully, Bertie removed the top of the box and slid the boy into his hand. Where the wood on the others had been smooth and glossy, this one was softer, worn around the edges. Bertie turned it over, admiring the workmanship. That’s when he noticed it. On the sole of the boy’s shoe, where the wooden toys were all stamped with two green T’s, a name was carved instead. It had faded over the years, and Bertie had to look closely to make out the letters. ESME.

  “Esme,” Bertie murmured. He turned the word over on his tongue, testing it out. It was an unusual name, but it felt familiar to him somehow, as if he’d heard it before . . . He closed his eyes, thinking hard. He could feel a memory tugging at him, like a flounder on the end of a fishing line. But no matter how hard he pulled, it refused to break through the surface.

  “Bertie!” Chryssy’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Code XYZ!”

  “What does that mean?” he asked absently. He ran a finger slowly over the four letters.

  “It means our time is up. We need to get out of here!”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Bertie dropped the wooden boy back into the glass box and shoved it into the cabinet. He was just about to follow Chryssy into the hall when an idea tiptoed its way into his mind. His looked up at the note on the chalkboard. Staff meeting, 1:30 p.m. That meant Stan would be out of the wood shop again . . . His eyes flickered over to the desk, where a spool of tape was sitting.

  “Come on!” Chryssy hissed from the hallway.

  Bertie didn’t have time to think it through. He quickly tore off a piece of tape. When Chryssy wasn’t looking, he plastered it to the lock on the inside of the door. He had no idea if it would work; he’d never tried to jam a lock before. But he knew he had to get back into that woodshop. Down the hallway, Chryssy glared at him over her shoulder, gesturing wildly for him to follow. Bertie took one last glance at the door. Then he broke into a sprint, holding up his sweatpants as he hurried back to the store.

  A Photograph

  He’d done it! The tape Bertie had put on the door had actually worked.

  After he and Chryssy had made it safely back to the Fine Woods room—and he’d stripped out of his second layer of clothing—Chryssy had taken off to have lunch with her parents. She’d told him she’d be back at the store soon, and made him promise not to go home while she was gone. He’d almost laughed at that. “Believe me, I’m not going anywhere,” he’d told her. “Not if I can help it.”

  He’d spent the next half hour waiting anxiously for one thirty to roll around. He didn’t want to draw attention to Smalls and Wombat by visiting them yet again in the Stuffed Jungle, so instead he’d walked up and down the aisles of the store, staying on constant lookout for Susan and Rigby. He’d passed a demonstration for the Ice Spinner, Toddle’s newest toy, paused to admire fossils in the Prehistoric Cave, and caught author Julie Heckles reading from her latest book in the Reading Room. But even his search couldn’t distract him from what he’d seen in the woodshop.

  He just couldn’t stop thinking about that name. Esme. He kept hearing it in his head, over and over, like a song lyric stuck on repeat. But still, no memories came to him. All he had were four little letters, tickling at the back of his mind like a headache.

  The instant the clock struck one thirty, he’d raced back to the woodshop and found he
could actually get in. Now, for the first time, he had the place to himself. He couldn’t help but stand there for a moment, just looking around. Before, with Chryssy chattering and his pulse racing, he hadn’t noticed the room’s smell. But suddenly he couldn’t not. He breathed in deeply. The fresh, crisp scent of wood seemed to dust every surface, lingering faintly in the air. It was a good smell, and it brought a string of pictures to his mind. A warm bed. An early morning chill. A glass bottle sitting open on a bedside table, trying to capture that very smell.

  Bertie’s hands tightened at his side. Was that a memory?

  He breathed in deeper, trying to remember more. But minutes passed, and nothing else came. He blew out a long, slow breath. His chest felt twisty all of a sudden, and there was a pesky burning behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly. Sometimes a glimpse of a memory was almost worse than no memory at all. It was like someone giving him a beautifully wrapped gift, then snatching it away before he could open it.

  Frustrated, Bertie sulked over to the desk. Deep down, he’d been hoping to find some kind of magic button in the woodshop, a switch to flip his memories back on. But there was no such thing as magic. If there was anyone who should know that, anyone who’d had the terrible un-magic-ness of the world shoved at him again and again, it was Bertie. He blinked back more tears. “My memories are gone,” he muttered to himself. “There’s no magic switch. There’s no magic trigger. There’s no magic.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when he saw them. Two new wooden carvings, sitting unassumingly on the edge of the desk: a long-tongued sun bear and a hairy-nosed wombat. Bertie’s heart squeezed. Those carvings hadn’t been there earlier; he was sure of it.

  He picked them up carefully. Had Stan made them? Did that mean he’d seen Smalls and Wombat? That made no sense at all. If someone had seen the animals, there would have been chaos. Screaming. Running. Sirens. Bertie had witnessed what had happened in the city. So then where had these come from?