“Good luck with that,” Lord Jest snorted. Smalls looked up to see Lord Jest watching him in amusement. He was standing in the middle of his cage, his head dipped slightly so as not to hit the ceiling. For a second, Smalls wished he could sleep standing up like an elephant.
“I’m fine,” Smalls said coolly. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that he did not like Lord Jest. “But where are the other animals?” It was getting late, and still the other cages sat empty and unlocked.
“They didn’t do so good at practice today.” Lord Jest smirked. “So Claude made them stay for a night practice with the Lloyds. Better get ready for that. I gotta feeling you’re gonna have plenty of night practices of your own.”
With a sigh, Smalls dropped his head onto his paws, trying to ignore the way his back jutted into the wall. All he wanted was to fall into a deep sleep and dream his way back to Mumford’s. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut. In his mind he could see the farm, the way it always seemed cloaked in velvet at night, darkness wrapping around him like a cocoon. And then he was there: stretched out in his favorite oak tree, the leaves soft under his head and the smell of apples filling the air . . .
“Who do we have here?” An unfamiliar voice shook Smalls awake.
The other animals must have come back from their night practice, Smalls realized groggily. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep. He was much too tired for any more introductions.
“Why hello, sweet thing,” the voice went on. It made several loud kissing noises. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“She’s asleep, Buck,” another unfamiliar voice, this one female, said sternly. “Plus, she’s a rabbit.”
“Yeah and you’re a zebra,” a third voice chimed in. “Isn’t that against the natural order or something?”
The animals kept talking, but with his eyes closed tight, Smalls began to drift off again. Before he knew it, their voices were fading into nothingness and, in his dreams, Smalls was back on Mumford’s farm, the moon glowing above him like a night-light.
Chapter Fifteen
A Thumping Tail
Bertie stifled a yawn as Claude dragged him away from the animals’ caravan. They’d just led the Lifers back in from their night practice, and Bertie was more than ready to climb into bed and dream the whole world away. Then tomorrow, he could see Smalls again. The thought made his lips curve up in a smile—just as Claude looked over at him. He quickly wiped the smile off his face, but it was too late.
“Are you smiling?” Claude spit out. “How many times do I have to tell you? There is nothing worse than a happy boy. Now go clean the Big Top for tomorrow’s practice.” He gave Bertie’s nose a hard yank, dragging him toward the red tent billowing in the distance. It was dark and still now, but Bertie knew that on show night, it would light up like a thousand stars. “I want it to be sparkling clean by morning.”
Bertie stifled another yawn. His eyelids felt heavy, like Lord Jest was standing on top of them. “By morning?” he repeated.
“That’s what I said,” Claude snapped. He adjusted his top hat, looking satisfied. “Now stop wasting my time and get to work!” He gave Bertie a rough shove, sending him stumbling forward. He landed on his knees in the dusty ground. “Worthless boy,” Bertie heard Claude mutter as he stalked off toward his caravan.
Bertie grumbled under his breath as he pulled himself back up, brushing the dirt off his hands and knees. Forget Invisible Boy, he decided. He would be Invincible Boy: so strong he could lift cars and break open cages and send Claude crashing to his knees. “Invincible Boy to the rescue!” he tried out as he headed toward the Big Top. He imagined lifting Claude with a single hand and chucking him into the air like he was nothing but a rag doll. This time, when a smile crept onto his face, he didn’t bother wiping it off.
Bertie was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the soft whooshing sound drifting out of the Big Top. “Invincible Boy Saves Family from Burning House!” he murmured to himself, imagining the newspaper articles he would spawn. “Invincible Boy Rescues Kitten from Very Tall Tree!” he continued, pulling open the door to the Big Top. “Invincible Boy Locks Claude Magnificence Up in a Cage!”
His smile widened at that one, but as he stepped into the tent, it quickly faltered. Because there, in the ring, letting out a whoosh as it sliced through the air, was the acrobatic rope. And swinging from the top of it was Susan.
As the rope whipped around the edge of the ring, Susan gripped it with her toes and ever so slowly released her hands. Soon she was soaring upside down through the air, held to the rope by only her legs. Bertie sucked in a breath. It didn’t matter how many times he’d seen Susan perform in the past six months; it still amazed him. With her back arched and her arms spread wide and her long, blond hair fanning out behind her, Bertie thought she looked like a bird, like at any moment, she could spread her wings and fly.
Bertie knew he should turn, look away, run—return to clean after she’d left. Claude had made it abundantly clear that Bertie was to have nothing to do with Susan unless Claude specifically ordered it. But he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. He watched as Susan lifted her hands and gripped the rope. She began twirling her way down it, faster and faster, until it looked like the rope was a part of her, just another arm or leg. Unable to stop himself, Bertie took a step closer. And then another. He would have taken another too, but at that second, Susan looked down.
She froze on the rope, stopping mid-twirl. Bertie opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, an image of that cabinet flashed through his mind—so dark and cramped and sweltering—the very place he’d end up if Claude ever found out he’d spoken to Susan behind his back. The thought filled him with an icy terror, and suddenly he found himself snapping his mouth shut. Turning on his heels, he ran out of the tent.
Susan shook her head as she watched Bertie retreating from the Big Top. With a sigh, she jumped down from the rope, not bothering to finish her twirling. She’d thought Bertie was actually, finally going to say something to her. But apparently not. She’d been at the circus for six months now, and in all that time he hadn’t uttered a single word to her. By the way he acted around her or, more accurately, avoided her, you would have thought she had the bubonic plague.
And he wasn’t the only one who seemed to feel that way. The foreign family of tumblers she shared a sleeping caravan with—the five Nilling cousins—had made it abundantly clear how little they liked living with a ten-year-old girl. They wouldn’t admit it out loud, of course, but she was positive that the scorpion she’d found under her pajamas and the manure that had made its way into her sheets were their way of trying to force her out. Sometimes they’d talk late into the night in their own language, throwing shoes at her curtain just to keep her awake. It all made Susan wonder if she had some kind of sign plastered to her forehead in flashing neon lights. I’M AN ALIEN, maybe. Or better yet: I’M CONTAGIOUS!
She flinched slightly as she wrapped an old piece of gauze around her rope-burned hands. Seeing Bertie had made her feel all antsy, like she’d just downed three colas. Ever since she’d come to the circus to work off her parents’ debt to the Magnificence family, all she’d wanted was someone to talk to. She was sure she would have heard from her parents by now, but she hadn’t received a single phone call or letter. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Claude scoffed any time she asked him. “They were chomping at the bit to get rid of you. I doubt you’ll ever hear from them again.”
Susan pulled the gauze even tighter, ignoring the pain. There was only one thing that helped when she was feeling like this. She went over to the long rows of seats that surrounded the ring, crouching down to pull out her paint set from where she’d hidden it earlier. That paint set was the only thing she’d managed to take with her from her old home; she’d snuck it out under her jacket, where Claude couldn’t see it. She shuddered w
henever she thought about what Claude would do if he found her with it. But she refused to let it stop her. She’d rather eat cockroaches than not be able to paint.
Clutching the tin to her chest, she took off for the woods that bordered the circus grounds. Soon after arriving at the circus, she’d quickly realized that the best way to paint was to get out from under Claude’s watchful eyes. So she’d begun sneaking away at every venue they stopped at, finding secret places to paint in peace. She’d found her best spot yet here: a cave not far from the edge of the woods. Its tall, smooth walls were the palest shade of gray, perfect for painting.
She’d loved going to that cave these past few days. Like most circus venues, this one was a dry, barren stretch of land, filled with pock holes and ditches, the type of place where dust settled over everything like ash. Nothing grew on land like that. But by the cave in the woods, everything changed. The ground became softer and smoother, and the air took on the dewy smell of wild grass and fresh flowers.
Susan moved quietly down the long line of caravans, keeping her head low. The last thing she needed was for Claude to find her wandering around and assign her some atrocious task, like emptying the caravans’ toilets. Her dinner of dry oats rose in her throat as she remembered the last time she had to do that, how the stench had seemed to follow her around for days. She picked up her pace. But halfway down the line of caravans, a strange noise made her stop short.
It was a bark, coming from the animals’ cages.
She thought quickly of all the animals in the circus. They hooted and growled and trumpeted and brayed, but not one of them barked. Susan’s heart gave a thump. Her whole life she’d wanted a dog, but it was never something her parents could afford. Another bark drifted out from the caravan, this one a little louder.
Susan glanced quickly around. The circus grounds were quiet and still. Before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried over to the caravan. Standing on her tippy toes, she grabbed onto the bars of the window, pulling herself up. It was the only good thing about the ropes: they’d made her stronger than she’d ever been. Pressing her forehead against the bars, she peered inside.
There, locked up in the row of cages across from the Lifers, were four new animals: a bear, a rabbit, some kind of extra-large-looking guinea pig, and a dog. Her chest squeezed tighter as the dog looked up at her. His wide brown eyes peeked out from a mass of white fur as he tilted his head to the side. She couldn’t help but smile at the inquisitive look in his eyes. Immediately, his tail began thumping softly against the floor.
SLAM!
The sound of a door shutting in the distance made Susan’s breath catch in her throat. With one last glance at the dog, she let go of the bars, dropping easily to the ground. But as she took off at a sprint for the woods, she couldn’t shake the image of that dog and his thumping tail.
Chapter Sixteen
A Very, Very, Very Large Number
Claude sat at the table in his caravan, staring longingly into an empty silver jug. Behind the jug was a tall ceramic urn, and every few seconds his eyes would flit over to it. “Just one more glass,” he said finally. Smiling to himself, he grabbed the urn and spooned three scoops of cocoa powder into his jug, mixing in hot water. “Ahhh,” he murmured as he lifted it to his lips.
The jug must have been ornate once, made of hammered silver with a handle covered in glittering red stones. But the years hadn’t treated it well, and now the silver was dented and tarnished, the stones dulled and chipped. Everything in Claude’s caravan was like that, from the carved wooden table that was now splotched with cocoa stains, to the green velvet couch that must have been truly elegant before the cushions began to rip, to the silk bedding in his sleeping compartment that would have been lavish if it hadn’t worn thin in so many spots. Even Claude’s letter opener must have been beautiful once: made of the finest jade. But it was now so scratched and nicked, he barely afforded it a glance as he lifted it off a thick stack of mail.
“Let’s see who wrote to Claude Magnificence this week,” he murmured to himself. “Magazine . . . magazine . . . magazine.” He tossed three magazines into a wrought iron basket by the door. One by one, they landed on top of each other: Circus Today, Circus Digest, Better Circuses & Plays. “Ad . . . ad . . . ad.” With a smirk, he tossed three glossy envelopes into the garbage.
The next envelope he came upon was different: smaller, dirtier, with a name written across the front in shaky handwriting. Susan Ward. He let out an annoyed grunt, tossing it aside. “Ooh, catalog,” he said, turning back to the pile of mail. “Now that I want.” He grabbed at it eagerly. “‘Order here for all your cocoa needs,’” he read out loud. He stroked his white beard thoughtfully. “I do have a lot of cocoa needs.” Leaning back in his chair, he began to flip through the catalog, letting out murmurs of exclamation as he dog-eared page after page.
He was so entranced by his cocoa catalog that he almost didn’t notice the final envelope sitting on the table. It was creamy white and thick, something bulging inside. It was only when he reached for his urn for a third helping of cocoa that he saw it. With a sigh, he dropped the catalog, picking up the envelope instead.
Inside was a scroll of paper. He furrowed his brow as he unrolled it—and unrolled it and unrolled it. By the time he was done, the bottom of the scroll was resting on the floor. Printed on it was some kind of list. BILL, it said at the top, in bold black letters. Claude’s eyes widened as they ran down the list. Finally he reached the bottom. There, printed in red, was a very, very, very large number.
Claude let out a gasp, dropping the scroll on the floor. “This can’t be,” he sputtered. He stood up, pacing across the length of his caravan. “I don’t have debts like this! I collect debts like this.” But every time he passed by the scroll, he would peek down at it, and that same number would stare back up at him.
He walked by the scroll once more. “Still there,” he muttered. Pulling off his top hat, he hugged it to his chest as he gazed down at the number for several long minutes. “Well, I guess it’s time then,” he said finally, a strange note in his voice. Carefully, he placed his top hat back onto his head, adjusting it so it sat just so. Squaring his shoulders, he stalked over to the phone. For a second he hesitated, his hand hovering over the mouthpiece. But then he took a deep breath and picked it up, quickly dialing a number.
“Ames?” he said into the phone. “It’s Claude Magnificence. Remember that deal we talked about? Well, I’m ready to consider it. Come to our next performance, and we’ll talk.” With a click, he hung up.
* * *
Meanwhile, in a different caravan, Lloyd, Loyd, and the circus’s clowns were waking for the day. As they grumbled and groaned, banging elbows and heads climbing out of their bunk beds, Bertie slept on in the closet behind them.
Bertie was dreaming. In his dream he was a brave hero, fighting pirates on the high seas to rescue a blond-haired maiden. He was tall and he was strong and he said no all he wanted, shouting it out for the whole world to hear: “NO, NO, NO!” But as sunlight oozed in through the tiny slit of a window above his bed, Bertie’s dream began to fade and break apart. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, fighting to hold on to it. I’m not ready, he thought. Nights were his favorite time. In his dreams there was no circus, there was no Claude, there was no yes, yes, yes. In his dreams he could be anyone, even a hero.
“What are you doing, you worthless boy?” Claude’s nasal voice floated into Bertie’s room, and the last of Bertie’s dream
shattered into pieces. Just like that, reality sank back in. He wasn’t a hero on the high seas; he was in his closet bedroom, curled up on the old, burlap sack of straw that was his bed.
Bertie scrambled to his feet as Claude stormed into his room. But it didn’t matter. Claude had caught him lounging. Claude was wearing one of his typical outfits, green today: shiny green shoes, green pants made of brushed velvet, a
tight green vest with green buttons that looked ready to pop at any second, a green topcoat, and of course a green top hat, with green sequins around its brim.
Bertie’s room was so small that he and Claude had no choice but to stand nose to nose in it. “I didn’t realize it was nap time,” Claude said. Bertie’s fists clenched at his sides as he smelled the cocoa on Claude’s breath. When Bertie first came to live with his uncle after his dad died, he’d asked if he too could have a jug of cocoa in the morning. Claude had laughed so hard his face had turned purple. “You,” he’d told Bertie, “are not worth the hot water I mix my cocoa with.”
“We have our first training session with the new animals today,” Claude continued. “And there will be a very important guest at our next show.” Claude chewed on one of his fingernails, spitting it out in Bertie’s face. “So hurry up and get dressed, boy.” With a swish of his green coattails, Claude stormed out.
Bertie waited until he was gone to scoop up the fingernail Claude had spit out. Holding it as far from his face as possible, he slipped it into the jar he kept hidden under his bed. He’d been collecting the fingernails for years now, every time Claude spit one out in his face. Soon the jar would be full, and when it was, Bertie had a plan. A tiny smile tugged at his lips as he got dressed. One day, somehow, he was going to find a way to dump those nails into Claude’s urn of cocoa powder. Then Claude could mix his precious hot water with that.
Chapter Seventeen
The Daring Escape of the Misfit Menagerie Page 6
