by R. A. Spratt
“What can we do?” asked Derrick.
“Make another soufflé,” said Nanny Piggins.
“How will that help?” asked Samantha.
“It will give us something to eat while we wait for him to come to his senses,” explained Nanny Piggins.
The next three days were long and wearisome for Nanny Piggins and the children, because Boris’s behavior only grew more and more obnoxious. He had taken to eating caviar, laughing loudly at things that were not funny, and looking at himself doing ballet moves in the mirror all the time.
On the third day, when Nanny Piggins had just put another soufflé in the oven and it had just been ruined, again, this time by the phone ringing loudly at the crucial moment—it was the doorman from the ballet theater calling to say that Boris would not be coming home for dinner—Nanny Piggins decided she’d had enough.
“What are you going to do?” asked Derrick.
“I am going to give my brother a piece of my mind,” said Nanny Piggins. “Come along.”
“You want us to come with you?” asked Samantha. She was used to adults preferring to yell at one another behind closed doors, while pretending that the doors were entirely soundproof.
“I will need witnesses if things turn violent,” explained Nanny Piggins. “And bring along the ruined soufflé as evidence to show how sorely I was provoked.”
And so they went to the theater, Nanny Piggins muttering all the way as she practiced all the really cutting things she was going to say to Boris.
When they arrived at the theater building, Nanny Piggins did not hesitate. There was a stage door around the side where they could easily be let in. But Nanny Piggins preferred to kick in the main doors at the front. (If you are going to tell someone off, it always helps to make a dramatic entrance first.) And so they burst into the theater foyer.
But it was not the people inside who were shocked and surprised. The shocked and surprised ones were Nanny Piggins and the children, for they had just burst in on Svetlana and Mikhail as they danced about the room (to loud music, which is why they had not noticed Nanny Piggins’s dramatic entrance). They saw Mikhail pick Svetlana up and throw her in the air, where she spun around three times before landing on what was supposed to be her injured foot.
Nanny Piggins went over to the stereo and switched it off. Mikhail’s and Svetlana’s heads whipped around.
“Either your broken ankle has healed quicker than any broken ankle in the history of broken ankles, or there is something fishy going on here,” said Nanny Piggins.
Svetlana sat down quickly and clutched her foot. “The pain, it comes and goes.”
“You might be a world-famous ballerina, but you are not a very good actress,” said Nanny Piggins. “You are clutching the wrong foot.”
Svetlana hastily clutched both feet.
“We don’t have to explain ourselves to a common pig,” said Mikhail, puffing out his chest.
“Really?” said Nanny Piggins, her eyes narrowing.
“You’re going to regret saying that,” warned Derrick.
“Michael, run and fetch Boris,” said Nanny Piggins.
Michael rushed off.
“I’m leaving,” said Svetlana.
Nanny Piggins blocked her path. “Don’t for one moment think that the fact that I am wearing a vintage designer outfit (which looks really lovely) will stop me from wrestling you to the ground and holding you in a body lock,” said Nanny Piggins.
Svetlana looked at Nanny Piggins. Nanny Piggins glowered back. And Svetlana decided today was not the day she would try pig wrestling.
Just then Michael reentered, dragging Boris.
“This had better be good,” said Boris. “The choreographer gets cross if I miss practice.”
“Boris, I have reason to believe you have been hoodwinked,” said Nanny Piggins. “Svetlana’s ankle is not really broken!”
“But that’s good news, isn’t it?” said Boris.
“What?” said Nanny Piggins.
“If someone thought their ankle was broken and then it turned out it wasn’t, you’ve got to be happy about that,” said Boris.
“But the question is—why was she pretending it was broken?” asked Nanny Piggins.
“You’ve been reading too many historical romance novels again, haven’t you?” said Boris as he patronizingly patted his sister on the head.
Nanny Piggins began to shake with rage. For the first time since she had adopted him, Nanny Piggins was actually considering biting her own brother on the leg.
“Why would anyone want to pretend to have a broken ankle?” continued Boris.
Just then a caretaker entered the lobby carrying an armful of rolled-up bill posters. “Is it all right if I start putting up the new posters?” he asked.
“Nyet!” screamed Mikhail and Svetlana (which is Russian for “No!”). Mikhail actually lunged forward to try to grab the posters away, but Nanny Piggins was too quick for him. When it comes to lunging, no one lunges like a flying pig. She threw herself at the caretaker and his posters with the speed and precision of a heat-seeking missile.
“Why don’t you want us to see this?” asked Nanny Piggins as she unfurled the rolled-up posters. The children gathered around to look at it over their nanny’s shoulder. The poster was an advertisement for a new show the Russian Ballet Company would perform when they returned to Russia. It was called The Ballet of Baris the Dancing Buffoon. The poster showed a large bear, dressed as a clown and lumbering about as a group of beautiful skinny people laughed at him.
Boris gasped. “Nyet!” he exclaimed.
“Da,” said Nanny Piggins (which is Russian for “yes”).
“You told me if I came back to Russia with you, I would get to dance Romeo in Romeo and Juliet,” said Boris.
Mikhail snorted (which is Russian for contemptuous laughter). “As if we would let a bear play such a great and important role. No, we have to stage this new ballet to get government funding. But none of us wanted to play the buffoon.”
“Then we think of Boris the bear,” said Svetlana. “For you, this role is perfect.”
“You mean this whole thing, the broken ankle and letting me dance Odette, was all a trick?” said Boris.
“Of course it was,” snapped Mikhail. “We only toured here so we could lure you back. We couldn’t believe it when you did not buy tickets to the show.”
“We had to break into your shed and put a three-week-old newspaper in there,” added Svetlana. “I almost broke my ankle for real climbing in through the window.”
“Wow! That was a really elaborate trick,” said Michael, struggling not to be impressed.
Boris looked at the poster. “So you only want me so I can dance like a buffoon?”
“Of course. You are perfect for the role,” said Svetlana. “The crowds would flock to see you lumber about like a giant idiot.”
Boris drew himself up to his full height (ten and a half feet when he stood up straight) so his head brushed the theater’s huge chandelier. “I, Boris the bear, am the greatest ballet-dancing bear in the world. It is you who are the fools, for spurning my superior talent and trying to make a mockery of me. I spit on your job offer.”
“Boris,” chided Nanny Piggins.
“At least I would, if spitting weren’t vulgar,” added Boris. “You can go back to Russia and play your own buffoon. Farewell forever!”
With that, Boris spun on his heel and strode dramatically out of the theater.
Nanny Piggins glowered at Mikhail and Svetlana. “Samantha, do you still have that notepad?”
“Yes,” said Samantha, taking the soufflé notepad and pencil from her pocket.
“Write this down: ‘Note to self—get revenge on the Russian Ballet Company,’ ” dictated Nanny Piggins.
“Got it,” said Samantha as she wrote down every word.
“And be sure to stick that on the refrigerator when we get home so I don’t forget,” added Nanny Piggins.
Then she a
nd the children left in search of Boris. They found him sitting on the curb, crying.
“There, there, you’ll get another dancing job,” Nanny Piggins assured him. “You are the best dancing bear in the world.”
“You’re the best dancing anything in the world,” said Michael.
“Everyone loved your Odette,” Samantha reminded him.
“When they hear that you have come out of retirement, all the ballet companies will want you,” assured Derrick.
“That’s not why I’m crying,” sobbed Boris. “I know I am a much better dancer than those double-left-footed idiots. I’m crying because I’ve been such a bad brother and friend. Can you ever forgive me?” He grabbed Nanny Piggins and the children in such a tight bear hug it was several minutes before they had enough air in their lungs to assure him he was entirely forgiven.
“But aren’t you sorry to leave the ballet theater behind?” asked Samantha.
“Well, I do like some parts, like starring in the show, throwing the other dancers high in the air, and everyone in the audience cheering and clapping. But I’d forgotten about all the bad parts,” confessed Boris.
“What bad parts?” asked Michael.
“You have to practice every single day. Even on days when your toes are tired,” said Boris.
“How awful,” sympathized Michael.
“And they don’t let you sleep peacefully in your shed until two in the afternoon,” said Boris. “They make you get up early in the morning. Sometimes as early as ten AM!”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Nanny Piggins. “You need your rest; you’re a growing bear.”
“But that’s not the worst part.” Boris started to tear up again.
“You can tell us, Boris,” said Samantha, gently patting his paw.
“They made me go on a diet!” he wailed, before completely breaking down into wracking sobs. It was hard to understand what he said next because he was weeping so loudly, but it was something like, “They said I weighed nine hundred pounds more than a normal ballet dancer.”
“You poor, poor bear,” said Nanny Piggins, hugging him tightly. “We rescued you not a moment too soon. Come along; we will take you home. And if you promise to cry quietly in another room while we make it, we will give you a slice of The Boris.”
“You named a dessert after me?” asked Boris, cheering up immediately. “What is it? A cake? A steamed pudding? Something meringue-based?”
“No, The Boris is a chocolate and honey soufflé!” announced Nanny Piggins.
“With a great big piece of honeycomb stuck in the middle,” added Michael. “That part was my idea.”
Nanny Piggins hugged Michael proudly. “Not since Mozart has one so young created something so beautiful. Now let’s go home and whip up a few dozen Borises so we can all have lots and lots for lunch.”
And things in the Green household soon returned to normal. With one exception. While he did not want to be an international ballet superstar, Boris did still love to dance. So Nanny Piggins introduced him to the old lady who ran the local ballet school, and she gave him a job teaching a preschool ballet class on Saturday mornings. The little girls and boys loved Boris because he was such a great teacher. And he loved choreographing little ballets for them—about the delight of eating cotton candy, the fun of making mud pies, and the joy of having a sister who makes delicious soufflé. All of which were far better than that very silly story about a tights-wearing hunter and a depressed swan.
CHAPTER NINE
Nanny Piggins and the Cake Stall
t the back of the school hall, Boris was fast asleep and snoring loudly while Nanny Piggins and the children avidly read a thrilling vampire novel. They read it in an unusual way. After Nanny Piggins finished a page she would tear it out and hand it to Derrick, who read it and handed it to Samantha, who read it and handed it to Michael. They often enjoyed books this way—they found it saved arguments (and the subsequent wrestling matches) over who was going to read the book first. And this is how they always whiled away the time when they went to the school’s monthly PTA meetings. Nanny Piggins did not believe in listening to all the boring things that Headmaster Pimplestock blathered on about. She was just waiting for the good part, when the chairman would ask, “Any other business?”
This was when Nanny Piggins would leap to her trotters and start giving the parents and teachers a piece of her mind. The subject of her ranting was always the same—school uniforms. She would begin by denouncing the concept generally, then go on to specifically list every one of the design faults in both the boys’ and girls’ uniforms.
The PTA had heard this speech many times before. They even mouthed along with the words in the good bits. They all enjoyed the part where Nanny Piggins pointed her trotter at Headmaster Pimplestock and accused him of being an alien from a distant galaxy who had come to Earth and abducted the real headmaster’s body just so he could inflict his own terrible taste in clothes on the citizens of this planet. When Nanny Piggins finished and sat down, everyone clapped. Her speeches were the only interesting thing ever to happen at the PTA meetings (if you don’t count the great pizza versus lentil burgers debate of 1972).
“Please, Nanny Piggins,” pleaded Headmaster Pimplestock. “I have told you time and time again, the school just does not have the money to fly in a leading Italian designer to overhaul the school uniform.”
“Well, what are you wasting the school fees on?” demanded Nanny Piggins. “I’ve seen the checks Mr. Green writes out to you, and they are enormous!” (They were not enormous at all. Mr. Green had enrolled his children in the cheapest private school he could find, because he wanted the status of having privately educated children without actually having to bear the cost. But you have to understand, Nanny Piggins only earned ten cents an hour, so to her, any figure above three digits was huge.)
“The fees pay for books, electricity, and building maintenance,” said Headmaster Pimplestock.
“Pish!” said Nanny Piggins. “I’ve seen how many chocolate cookies you have with your morning tea. I know how you really spend it.”
The crowd giggled. Headmaster Pimplestock was a little tubby. He went bright red in the face. “Perhaps we should move on to the next item on the agenda. The school carnival is coming up. Who is going to volunteer to run a stall?” he asked, frantically trying to change the subject.
Nanny Piggins leaped to her feet again. “The carnival is a fund-raising event, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Headmaster Pimplestock warily.
“Then why can’t that money be used to fly in the Italian designer?” asked Nanny Piggins.
“Because we need that money to repair the hole in the library roof you made when you fired yourself out of a cannon during book week,” Headmaster Pimplestock said accusingly.
“Oh,” said Nanny Piggins. (She could not deny she had made a rather large hole.) “But the children did learn a lot about physics from my demonstration.”
“Ballistics is not the type of physics we want them to learn here,” said Headmaster Pimplestock crushingly.
“Which is why so many of them fall asleep in class,” muttered Nanny Piggins. (No one ever fell asleep during one of her cannon demonstrations, not unless they got hit on the head by a falling roof tile.)
“So as I was saying, the school carnival—” began Headmaster Pimplestock.
“Wait a moment,” said Nanny Piggins as she rubbed her snout in concentration. “If the carnival makes more than enough money to fix the roof, can we use the extra money to hire the designer?”
Headmaster Pimplestock just laughed. “The estimate for the roof repair is $50,000, and given that the school fete has never raised more than $6,000, I don’t think that is going to happen.”
“But if we do, can we?” pressed Nanny Piggins.
“Sure, why not,” said Headmaster Pimplestock, anxiously wanting Nanny Piggins to take her vampire novel and go home. “If we raise more than $50,000, then I promise to hire the greatest
fashion designer in all of Milan to fly in on Monday.”
“Excellent!” exclaimed Nanny Piggins. “Then I volunteer to run the cake stall.”
At this point everyone burst out laughing.
Now, Nanny Piggins enjoyed a joke as much as the next pig, but she did not like being laughed at. (Nobody does, not even clowns, which is why they cry themselves to sleep every night.) Nanny Piggins particularly did not like it when a whole hall full of people laughed at her and she did not understand why.
“What?” she demanded.
“Nanny Anne runs the cake stall,” explained Headmaster Pimplestock. “She always does. It is the most successful part of the carnival.”
Nanny Piggins scowled across the hall at Nanny Anne. Nanny Anne was her nemesis. She had perfect hair, perfect manners, and perfect etiquette, which made Nanny Piggins want to be sick. Right at that very moment Nanny Anne was sitting in her chair with perfect posture, as if the school had not bought three hundred of the most uncomfortable plastic chairs ever made. Everyone else in the room slouched, slumped, leaned, or teetered on their seats, desperately trying to find a half-comfortable position. But not Nanny Anne. She sat perfectly upright and still, because Nanny Anne thought it was much more important to be perfect than to be comfortable.
“Last year Nanny Anne made $7,000,” praised Headmaster Pimplestock.
Nanny Anne smiled.
“I thought you said the fete had never made more than $6,000?” said Nanny Piggins.
“The apple-bobbing stand ran at a loss after Mrs. Arjuana got giddy and ran off to Vanuatu with the cash box,” explained Headmaster Pimplestock.
It was Mrs. Arjuana’s turn to blush.
“That was money well spent as far as I’m concerned,” said Nanny Piggins. “I’ve seen your vacation snaps, Mrs. Arjuana, and you obviously had a lovely time.”
Mrs. Arjuana smiled at Nanny Piggins.
Headmaster Pimplestock sought to move the meeting along. “If you want to be involved, Nanny Piggins, why don’t I put you down for the bookstall, since you so clearly enjoy reading?”
