CHAPTER 11
The trouble with Pflemba was that she refused to be reasonable.
Annaruth had given her everything a self-respecting, misunderstood, slightly amphibious-looking anti-heroine could possibly have wanted: motive, backstory, a complicated relationship with her mother, an enviable hat collection, and the thrill of an impending gruesome battle against the Duke of Murgmire. And still the stubborn goblin queen stood right smack in the middle of chapter 7 with her warty arms crossed and her best hat on and had the nerve to argue back.
“It has to be the hatpin.”
“It most certainly does not have to be the hatpin when we’ve already set up the reader to be suspicious of soup. Soup, Pflemba. Soup.”
“Hatpin. You know I’m right.”
“Remind me again who is the author of this story?”
“Miss Glubson!” The deep voice was grating, peevish, and decidedly un-goblin-like. Instantly, Pflemba disappeared. The Duke of Murgmire disappeared. Chapter 7 disappeared—what little there was of it, anyway. Annaruth reluctantly brought her mind back to the chilly office with its imposing row of cold metal chairs and the cold faces of the Council of Muses who sat in them. The owner of the peevish voice leaned forward and rapped impatiently on the table. “As I was saying, Miss Glubson . . ."
“Yes, Grand Inspirator,” said Annaruth encouragingly, “as you were saying.”
And as he continued saying it, whatever it was—something about improper filing procedures and dereliction of Muse duties and maximum monetization potential and the Circumstellar Authenticity Index—her eyes drifted down the table. The Undersecretaries of Poetry, Prose, and Pretty Pictures were diligently writing numbers on spreadsheets, while the Undersecretary of Oversight snored softly beside them. The Adjudicator of Creative Compliance hadn’t moved in 11 minutes, his pen poised over a blank notebook page. The Director of Originality Assessment was scrolling through videos on her phone. The Celestial Branding Consultant was carefully emptying a packet of artificial sweetener into a sequined plastic coffee cup.
“—conduct unbecoming,” the Grand Inspirator droned on, “of a Muse at any level, let alone one on Level IV Probationary Status—“
Annaruth remembered, dimly, when she had dreamed of being exactly where she was sitting right now. Back when she was just a young girl whose brain was brimming with stories, and she’d felt the strange music ringing in her bones and tingling all the way down her arm to the tip of her pencil till it practically sang on the paper. Back when she’d innocently believed the Muses were the ones who heard the music best, the ones who’d vowed to keep its signal clear and strong. Back when the Singing Star was bright and loud and on key, and the Circumstellar Band was still, well, a Band—all of them together, each in their own circuit, playing in harmony and filling all the sky and all her heart with wonder.
Everyone wants to be a Star, she thought, but no one wants to orbit one.
CHAPTER 12
Sitting before the Council of Muses, Aunt Annaruth’s stomach growled and she thought longingly of the other half of her blueberry scone still lying in crumbles on her desk. It had been dropped there mid-bite when she suddenly found herself lifted out of her seat, swung over the shoulder of the Associate Manager of Narrative Merchandising like a sack of potatoes and carried to the Council Chamber (so she didn’t get distracted by the library along the way and forget about the meeting, they told her—as if she’d do that again!) Which reminds me, she thought, I need to remember to remind Charlie to buy more potatoes for dinner.
"—which is why the Council feels it has been more than patient—” the Grand Inspirator was saying, “and that the time has come for Miss Glubson to demonstrate, in clear and unambiguous terms, her commitment to the Council’s Declaration of Acoustic Independence—”
Beyond his balding head, the wall of windows looked out over the rooftops of the city to the faint stony cliffs of the Cumbersome Gorge. A tiny flycycle with something dangling from the handlebars flew across a cloud. Which was odd, but even odder was the shape of the cloud itself—like a well-fed turnip, or the rotund belly of the villainous Duke of Murdmire.
“Gosh darn it, Pflemba is right,” Annaruth sighed and scribbled in the margin of Form Z-492-XVII-b: Hat pin. Chapter 7.
“Well, obviously,” the goblin queen whispered over her shoulder.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, Grand Inspirator. Carry on.”
“Let me come straight to the point, Miss Glubson.”
“Yes, please do.”
“There have been reports of unauthorized communications with individuals of dubious intent . . . Evidence of—er, organized resistance—to the Council’s glorious guidelines and goals.”
The metal chair Annaruth was sitting on grew even colder, and she was suddenly, fully, frighteningly alert. For once in her life, her brain was empty of stories, or even one good whopping lie.
She felt a lingering crumb of blueberry scone tickling a tonsil and she swallowed hard. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grand Inspirator.”
He rested his bony elbows on the table, clasped two hands with impeccably clean fingernails, and smiled at her. “Then perhaps you can explain why you are currently wearing a red pennant around your neck.”
She looked down. There it was—bright red, slightly crumpled where she’d been absentmindedly twisting it between her fingers for the past hour. Unmistakably, undeniably, a pennant. The pennant. The one she’d hung on the agreed-upon tree this very morning, as soon as she’d seen the blue-fringed cowboy with his green guitar and ridiculous hat strutting purposefully down Main Street.
But if the red pennant was still around her neck, then what did she hang on the tree?
At that moment Annaruth felt as if Pflemba had jabbed the much-disputed hat pin straight through her heart. Or who?
CHAPTER 13
“Charlie! Get over here!” Junie hollered from the other room.
Charlie had been ransacking Aunt Annaruth’s bedroom trying to find any clue as to where she’d been taken, but at the sound of Junie’s voice, he charged down the stairs and out into the front yard, where Junie, Arlo, and Cliff were staring up at the strangest interaction they’d ever seen.
Misty the Morphable had been roused from her post breakfast nap by another sentient cloud, a little larger than she, who was simply bursting with news. To anyone fluent in cloud language, the result would have been a quite ordinary, if somewhat urgent, conversation. To everyone standing in the yard, it looked like the two of them were creating a weatherman’s worst nightmare.
Strange Cloud: Thunder
Misty: Thunder louder
Strange Cloud: Morph into a cluster of snowflakes
Misty: Produce hail
Strange Cloud: Produce rain
Cliff and Arlo stood beneath this bizarre interaction, mouths agape. Junie turned to Charlie. “What in tarnation is…?”
But Charlie was no longer there. He was tearing about the house, looking for Aunt Annaruth’s Complete Dictionary of Morphables, Manifestations, and Other Sentient Weather Patterns. He found it underneath a well-loved copy of Goblin Heroines and the Importance of Soup, grabbed a piece of paper for translation purposes, and rushed back out into the yard. He flopped down on the grass with his pencil poised and the book opened in front of him.
“Junie!” he yelled over the noise of the two clouds, who were now creating a roaring wind and spinning about one another at a blinding speed. “Tell me what they do next!”
Junie fully thought her friend had lost his mind, but she did what he said anyway. If she were averse to strange happenings, she wouldn’t be friends with Charlie and Annaruth. “Okay, she said, “the new cloud is forming little icicles on top of itself, like a crown.”
Charlie flipped through the dictionary. “It either means the destruction of all polar bears, or it means the council has gathered.” He wrote down both options.
“Now Misty is letting out little puffs of air, like she’s sneezing.”
Charlie found the entry. Misty was either displaying rampant curiosity or an obsession with hedgehogs.
It went on like this for some time until Charlie was staring at the piece of paper and doing his best not to cry. Circling the most likely translations of the new cloud’s message, the page now read:
“The council has gathered. Your owner is being questioned. She wears a red cloth. I am worried.”
If his translations were correct, his Aunt was sitting before the Council of Muses with a red pennant around her neck and no one there to help her.
Charlie turned to tell everyone that they had to go and save her, only to see Junie already wrestling Arlo back into the flycycle and Cliff pumping up the wings.
“Let’s go!” Junie yelled over the sounds of the clouds saying their thunderous goodbyes. Charlie climbed aboard and off they rode towards one of the most important, dangerous, and well-protected buildings in Downtown Knashville–The Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory, where sat the Council of Muses and one unfortunate Aunt.
CHAPTER 14
Perhaps it was naive for three children, a diminutive stuntflyer, and an emotional Morphable to imagine they could descend into the airspace over the Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory in a banged-up flycycle without causing a ruckus.
Perhaps, had they given it any thought whatsoever, the band of would-be heroes might have considered the advanced technology, armed guards, armored doors, biometric access, and round-the-clock surveillance which now stood between them and rescuing Annaruth.
Being both short on time and long on blind optimism, however, the kids clambered aboard the flycycle while Cliff situated his goggles over his eyes and plugged the Observatory’s coordinates into his Galactic Positioning System. Then, with gears grinding, engine sputtering, and pistons clanking, up, up, up they flapped.
At cruising altitude, careening high above downtown Knashville, Charlie and Junie’s eyes watered with the force of the wind buffeting their faces. Arlo’s eyes, it must be admitted, hadn’t stopped watering since his miserable mistake of following Junie to the bus stop that fateful morning.
As Misty sailed along beside them—throwing in an occasional loop-de-loop just to show off her superior aerodynamics—Cliff Anger the Danger Ranger turned tour guide, exclaiming, “Hooeee, would you look at that? If you’ll direct your attention down below, my fair and fearless passengers, you’ll have the profound privilege of laying eyes on the world famous RhymeMan Auditorium, home of some of the most stupendous musical performances the Circumstellar Band has ever laid ears on!”
Charlie squinted down, and through the blur of tears could just make out a red brick building on a bustling city street. As Cliff continued to expound upon all the famous musicians who’d graced the RhymeMan stage, Charlie’s thoughts drifted anxiously to Aunt Annaruth—
Was she alright? Would they make it to the Observatory in time?
Perhaps most worrisome of all—Charlie had a terrible, sinking feeling the red cloth Aunt Annaruth was wearing might just be the Red Pennant itself. If that was the case, their mission to rescue her was more urgent than ever.
At that precise moment, the flycycle entered the protected airspace over the Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory, and the crew was greeted with the earsplitting alarm of Klaxon bells.
Over the blaring sirens, the kids heard Cliff bellow, “Hang on, everyone, I’m gonna land this baby on the roof!!” With a downward crank of the controls, a stomp on the rudder pedal, and a “Yippee Ki YAAAAAY!!!!” from the Danger Ranger, the flycycle gave an almighty lurch into a precipitous nosedive.
Charlie clung with white-knuckled terror to his harness straps, clamped his eyes shut, and braced for impact.
But the impact never came.
At the last possible second, Cliff executed a flawlessly smooth landing on the flat expanse of the Observatory roof.
Heaving a deep sigh of relief at being back on solid ground, Charlie unclipped his harness and leapt down from his seat, his knees shaky beneath him. The others scrambled down beside him on the roof.
His relief was short-lived.
Bursting through the rooftop exit came an armed troop of guards.
Charlie, wide-eyed with fear, gulped down the panicky scream bubbling up in his throat and raised both hands above his head as the guards formed into a tight circle, their weapons drawn, all pointed straight at Charlie and his friends.
CHAPTER 15
In the long and storied career of Ribeye Gwinett, he’d often found that the least talent for music often resided in those most assured of its expansive presence, and as he sat at the mixing board of his studio and listened to the blue-spangled singer belting predictably about dirt roads, beloved trucks, and mid-summer nostalgia, he came to a troubling conclusion: this man was going to make a great deal of money with his lack of talent.
When the song came to an end, Ribeye sighed a deep sigh of musical defeat, pressed the intercom button, and said pleasantly: “That was great.”
From inside the vocal booth, the blue-spangled man grinned from left to right and said, “I felt pretty good about that one.”
Ribeye nodded at him. He had no doubt at all that the man felt good about what had just happened–no doubt at all.
Within a couple of hours (for it did not take long with so little to work with), they had a brand new single ready for the airwaves. Ribeye quietly leaned back in his chair as the song played over the speakers and the blue-spangled man listened to himself with growing satisfaction.
Hometown boy with a cow-town girl
Back when the times was a simpler world
Never been realer than it was back then
Never been better than the way back when
Never been, never been
Never been gooder than the good days since
Never been better than it was back in
that hot sticky Knashville summertime wind
Summertime wind
Oh that hot sticky summertime wind
Back then
Back when
Hot wind
Sticky wind, ooh yeah
Sticky wind stuck on me
Stick, stuck, stanky wind
Stuck on me
Stuck on you
Way back when?
Back then
Back when?
(Back wind)
Back when?
(Back wind)
Yeah
(Back wind)
Yeah
“Just make it fade out.” Blue Spangles nodded matter of factly as the music died. Then he said, “I’ll call it ‘Hot Sticky’.”
Who was Ribeye Gwinnett to argue? “I guess that’ll be a hard one to top.”
Blue Spangles tipped his hat back on his head and said, “Oh, I got a lot more where that one come from.”
And that’s exactly what Ribeye was afraid of.
CHAPTER 16
After the recording of the third song (not to mention the third death of Ribeye’s soul), another party arrived at the studio unannounced. In walked a stubbly man in a white shirt and bowtie. He had a head like a turnip–splotched red and white with a tuft of unruly hair sprouting from the top.
Ribeye swiveled his chair dejectedly and stared at the intruder as if to say: Well? Get on with it.
“Oh, I’m happy to see you’ve met. The Grand Inspirator sent me to…manage…things. I trust all has gone well?” said the turnip-topped man.
“It has certainly gone…somewhere,” said Ribeye. “Grand Inspirator sent you?”
“Well, certainly. I assumed–”
Blue Spangles leaned forward abruptly. “It’s all part of the plan, Mr. Gwinnett. All indeed part of the plan. This is Mr. Fummicle. Underseer of Oversight to the Committee for the Establishment of the Knashville Solo Singing Star.”
Ribeye did not like the sound of that. The Singing Star of Klumph and the Circum-Stellar Band (of which Knashville was merely one member) had been in concert since time began (so far as anyone knew). The Band were the very source of the Music of the Spheres–the cosmic music that held away the “un-sound” of the nearby black hole that no one had yet found any way to chase off entirely. If the Grand Inspirator and his ilk were planning to leave the Band and go solo, this seemed to Ribeye an ill omen indeed.
“Knashville Singing Star, huh?”
Blue Spangles spread his arms and nodded. “Yours truly.”
“We believe that his musical compositions will provide us with just the sort of auditory wallop we need to push us out of the Singing Star’s orbit entirely and set us up as a rival act that will be able to chart its own course and destiny.” Mr. Fummicle’s turnip turned a shade redder as he smiled.
“Do you hear that, Gwinnett? Destiny. That’s what we’re doing here today. That’s what’s brought us together. You and me. We’re crafting music for a whole new age. The people are going to love it. They are going to love us! Isn’t that right, Fummicle?”
“The Grand Inspirator certainly hopes so. Our research suggests that your themes and your chords will appeal to listeners at the optimal resonant frequencies and elicit the purest state of economic growth. Our best algorithms predict that this album will provide almost limitless energy and potential.”
“Limitless! Oh, I love limitless.” Blue Spangles leapt out of his seat and danced happily without any discernable rhythm or skill.
“If you’d just sign here, Mr. Gwinnett,” Fummicle laid a contract on the table, “we’ll be sure to see you’re handsomely compensated.”
Ribeye Gwinnett rocked gently in his chair as he considered all of this. He certainly did not exist beyond the basic human desire to profit from his work. But he did prefer to work only on those things he considered worthy of doing, and this Blue Spangled, get away from the Band business did not quite align with that preference. But, he thought, if he continued the questionable production, perhaps he could steer it in precisely the wrong direction and therefore corrupt it from within and assure the failure of this upstart attempt to break up the Band. For, in fact, if he refused, they would surely find some other rube to con (and to profit).
Ribeye Gwinnett smiled as genuinely as he could (which wasn’t very), and leaned forward. “Why, that sounds fine. Where shall I sign?”
CHAPTER 17
Charlie had given up trying to count the doors and turns several staircases ago. The labyrinthine corridors of the Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory wound and forked and doubled back on themselves so often, even a flycycle's Galactic Positioning System would have called it quits by now. Judging by the dull, unchanging, metronomic rhythm of the guards’ boots on concrete, however — not to mention their firm grip on the intruders’ shirt collars — they knew exactly where they were going.
Then they rounded another corner, and the perfectly synchronized steps of the guards who were leading Charlie, Cliff, Junie, and Arlo faltered for the first time. A second guard party had rounded the same corner at the same instant from the other direction, and for one glorious, unrhythmic moment the hallway was a cacophony of boots scuffing, helmets bonking, Councilmen grunting, stunt pilot yelping, guitar case bouncing, and overdue paperwork scattering. In the stunned silence that followed, a single sheet of paper drifted gently to the floor in front of Charlie. Form Z-492-XVII-b, with a scribble in the margin: “Hat pin. Chapter 7.”
“Charlie?”
Charlie disentangled himself from the guards’ elbows and looked up. There, blinking back at him, was his aunt. Her wrists were bound in front of her. The Grand Inspirator held her firmly by the arm. Around her neck hung a bright red pennant. But her face . . . he’d only seen that look one time before, when she’d thought she left her only handwritten draft of a favorite half-finished story on the bus seat and was certain she’d lost it forever and spent the entire day in a torrent of tears to rival Misty’s worst thunderstorm — only to discover it later tucked into a kitchen drawer among the forks. But the relief and joy in her face on that occasion paled in comparison to the expression now.
Me, thought Charlie. I’m the lost story, this time.
Then he smiled. And I’m a cliffhanger.
CHAPTER 18
The heavy, armored door on the Observatory roof so far had not given Misty the slightest indication that it ever intended to open again. It was the rudest door she’d ever met. Not only had it swallowed Charlie, Junie, the blubbering boy, the begoggled one, and half a dozen tall men in silly hats, but nowhere on its grim metal face was there so much as a knob, a keyhole, or even a polite “Please Knock” sign. She had checked.
Of course she tried all her unusual tricks—lightning bolts, hailstones, tornadoes, and even a sly, secretive wisp of air that could have slid past a dewdrop’s wink. But the door just stared back at her, airtight and unmoved, infuriatingly Morphable-proof. For the first time in her short, vaporous life, Misty felt out of shapes, and she did not like the sensation one bit. Her cumulous bouffant unpoofed. Her underside began to drizzle onto the abandoned flycycle with its folded-up wings, and she didn’t even try to suck the sadness back in.
Hic —
The sound was muffled and distant, but Misty would have known that anxious hiccup anywhere.
Leaving the ill-mannered door behind, she floated over the edge of the roof and paused just outside the top-floor windows to peer inside. At first, all she could see was a reflection of herself in the glass, and she was momentarily distracted. Out of shapes indeed! What had Charlie called her this morning? Oh yes. Effervescent . . . stratospherically beautiful . . . a vision of atmospheric elegance . . .
Hic —
Misty reluctantly tore herself away from her own radiant visage and flew towards the sound, peeking into every window she passed. She could hear it more clearly now, coming from several floors below her and slightly to the left. Window. Empty room. Window. Empty room. Window. Empty room.
HIC —
Louder this time. Charlie must really be scared. Misty sped up.
Window window window window window window window —
HICCUP—
There.
She felt it reverberating through a high, narrow window that overlooked a long corridor. The tinted glass pane turned everything inside wobbly, but Misty could see a pile of wriggling limbs sprawled on the floor and a piece of red cloth bouncing wildly from hand to hand to hand. They were playing a game! Without her? The little cloud was tempted to be indignant—no one was better at Morphable-in-the-Middle than she was. But her wounded feelings were quickly overcome by relief at seeing one, two, three, four, five of her Lost People safe and sound, if slightly crumpled.
Annaruth had the red cloth now. Of course, she did — Annaruth was always captain. She cleverly slipped it around Charlie’s neck while the bald, bony man holding her elbow was distracted by a fallen clipboard. Misty let out a poof of applause, fogging up the window. When it cleared, Charlie was upside-down, hiccupping uncontrollably as someone on the other team shook him by the ankles —foul! foul! The red cloth tumbled to the floor and disappeared again beneath the puddle of people. For a few moments, the only familiar face Misty could see was the blubbering boy, Arlo, curled up in a ball alone, his mouth wide open in a long wail of defeat.
But no! There was begoggled Cliff who’d hung her Charlie so inelegantly from his handlebars earlier, leaping from the fray and kicking the red cloth high into the air where it sailed over a dozen reaching arms, bounced off a fluorescent light bulb, and landed squarely in Junie’s hands. A beautiful recovery! Misty’s excitement was about to fog up the glass again when she saw the bald man raise a long, bony finger and point toward Junie—or rather, toward what was strapped to Junie’s back. His face twisted into an ugly smile. His mouth formed words Misty couldn’t make out, except for one: Wampuswood. What on earth could Baldy be saying that would turn the girl’s face as pale as an ice cube and make her hug the silly guitar case so tightly?
After that, everything happened so fast that all Misty had time to think was, This is NOT how you play Morphable-in-the-Middle. Baldy lunged at the guitar. Annaruth tripped him with her boot. Junie yelled something to Cliff and tossed him the red cloth (which no one else seemed to care about now). Then she turned and ran, Wampus swinging from her arm as she rounded the corner with three guards close at her heels. Furious and upright again, Baldy swung Annaruth over his shoulder with surprising strength, opened a door, and disappeared. Charlie tried to follow, but another guard yanked him by the collar so hard they both tumbled backwards down a flight of stairs. Arlo was suddenly nowhere to be found.
Misty had seen enough. If this was a game, her team was losing. Badly.
She bolted upwards, up to the roof again, sailing past the rude door without even a disapproving glance. She knew Charlie would probably come up with a better plan if he were here. He would be calculating wind speed, air resistance, angles of approach, and propulsion force. But Misty couldn’t do math; she could only do weather.
And so, if anyone on the busy streets of downtown Knashville had been gazing at the sky instead of gawking at a singing cowboy, they would have seen a riderless flycycle lift off the roof, spin wildly in midair, then shoot like a comet straight through a forty-third-story window of the Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory.
CHAPTER 19
Junie heard the feet of the guards clatter past the door of the broom closet where she crouched in the dark, hugging her guitar case to her chest. From the moment she glimpsed the greedy glint in the guards’ gimlet eyes, she knew they would do anything to get Wampus. But they couldn’t have her Granddaddy’s guitar.
Junie had to get Wampus out of the Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory. But how? The crisscrossing corridors were an absolute warren that she could never navigate alone. Even if she did know the way out, the place was crawling with guards. But she couldn’t just sit there in the broom closet. The guards would be back any second.
Junie felt like crying. “Stop it!” she scolded herself. “You don’t cry. You’re the strong one in the family. You keep it together. You aren’t Arlo.”
For the first time since they had dismounted from the flycycle on the Observatory roof, Junie thought of Arlo. In the fracas with the guards, he had just disappeared. Where could he be?
Junie felt a surge of worry for her little cousin. But she quickly tamped it down. Arlo would have to take care of himself this time. For once. If Junie knew how to help, maybe she would. But she didn’t, so she couldn’t. She didn’t even know how to help herself. And her first responsibility was to keep Wampus out of the clutches of the Observatory guards. No, Arlo was on his own. Hopefully the guards would go easy on him, seeing as how he was a little crybaby.
As Junie was forming this resolve, she heard a plinking from the guitar case, right next to her heart:
Plinka plink plink plink plinka plink plink plink
Plinka plink plink plink plinka plink plink plink
Plink, plink plinka plink plink plink.
Junie would know that tune anywhere: “The Absconder’s Lament,” Granddaddy’s first radio hit. This didn’t seem like a great time for Wampus to put on a concert.
“Wampus, hush,” Junie hissed. “The guards will hear you.
But Wampus played louder, more insistently.
Plinka plink plink plink plinka plink plink plink
Plinka plink plink plink plinka plink plink plink.
The words to the song were as familiar to Junie as her own name.
I’ve had a sad and a restless mind
Since the day I left my folks behind.
Oh, don’t leave your folks behind.
Junie felt a pang of conscience as she thought again of Arlo. “Wampus, don’t start that with me. I’m doing this for you, and for the Resistance. Arlo can take care of himself.”
Again, Wampus plunked out a line from “The Absconder’s Lament,” much louder this time:
PLINK! PLINK PLINKA PLINK PLINK PLINK!
Junie supplied the lyric.
No! Don’t leave your folks behind!
Junie knew Wampus was right. They would have to go find Arlo.
CHAPTER 20
Slinging Wampus over her shoulder, Junie opened the broom closet door just enough to stick her head out into the corridor. “The coast is clear,” she said. But I don’t know what good that does us, since we don’t know which way Arlo is.”
Plink plinka plinka plink.
Wampus was back on the chorus of “The Absconder’s Lament”—”I never shoulda left.”
Junie sighed. “Wampus, would you leave off? You’re right. It was a mistake to leave Arlo. I’m trying to fix it. But at the moment I don’t even know whether to turn right or left.”
Plink plinka plinka PLINK.
. . . plinka PLINK.
“I never shoulda LEFT
. . . shoulda LEFT.”
“Aha!” said Junie. She turned left down the corridor.
At the next turning, Wampus plinked up again.
Plinka plinkety plink plink PLINK.
“Now I know it wasn’t RIGHT.”
Junie turned right.
Thus they navigated through The Inter-Circumstellar State Observatory–”I never shoulda LEFT,” “I knew it wasn’t RIGHT,” “My heart is DOWN in my boots.” After ten or eleven turns, seven flights of stairs, and two near-misses with Observatory guards, Wampus plinked out the first few bars of Grandaddy’s hit song: “STOP before you break my ever-lovin’ heart.”
So Junie stopped in front of a door marked “Laundry Room.” She wasn’t sure what to do next.
Wampus plinked out the jaunty, upbeat tune with which Granddaddy opened every show at the Rhymeman Auditorium:
“Open the door and come on in!
I’ll do the picking, you just grin.”
So Junie opened the Laundry Room door and went on in. When she had closed the door behind her, Arlo appeared from behind a an ironing board. Junie blinked in amazement, not just because Wampus had led her straight to her little cousin, but also because her little cousin was wearing a comically large Observatory guard uniform. Well, the uniform wasn’t comically large. Arlo was comically small.
But as if inspired by the uniform, Arlo was 100% business and 0% crybaby. Betraying no surprise that his cousin had suddenly appeared in this laundry room, he scanned the wall of cubbies above the dryers and pulled a uniform out of the cubby marked “Xtra Small.”
“Here, put this on,” he said, handing the uniform to Junie. “We’ve going to find Ribeye Gwinnett.”
“Ribeye Gwinnett?” Junie repeated. “Granddaddy’s friend?”
“Yes,” said Arlo. “That Ribeye Gwinnett.”
“But why?” asked Junie.
Arlo was filling his pockets with fabric softener packets. “No time to explain. Pull that uniform on over your clothes and let’s get out of here.”