Diary of a Mad Brownie Page 8

“I’ll hang a sheet over the front. That way you’ll have your privacy.”

  “And how will you explain having the thing in your room to begin with?”

  “I’ll tell Mom it’s for a secret art project. That will explain the sheet, too. Do you want it or not? I was just trying to be nice.”

  The girl has an answer for everything. But I have to admit that it warmed my heart to have her thinking of me this way.

  Undignified as it is, I will try living in the Pink Horror. At the least it will give me more space than the shoe box. And perhaps by keeping it prim and proper, I can set a good example for the slovenly Miss Alex.

  We did turn the open side to the wall, which makes things better.

  Even so, I still made her hang a sheet over it.

  October 21

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Carhart,

  I know I haven’t been doing that well at practice lately, and I apologize. The truth is, I’m distracted by all the beautiful poetry that keeps swirling around in my head. I just don’t think my heart is in soccer anymore, so I’ve decided to quit the team for the good of everyone.

  Sincerely,

  Bennett Carhart (Poet)

  Thursday, October 22

  Yesterday I told Alex that the furniture that came with the Pink Horror was a problem.

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Well, it’s hard, which is uncomfortable. It’s plastic, which is disgusting. Worst of all, my bum doesn’t fit in most of the chairs.”

  She laughed, which I thought was rude, then said, “Yes, Barbie’s butt is definitely smaller than yours.”

  “Who is Barbie?” I asked, suddenly wondering if there was another wee person about the house after all.

  “You never heard of Barbie? Where have you been living for the last hundred years?”

  “In Scotland, as you well know.”

  “Well, I bet they have Barbies in Scotland.”

  “Aye, we have Barbies and Mollies and Marys and Fionas and all sorts of other female types. But we don’t make special furniture for every girl that comes along!”

  “No, silly—”

  “I am nae silly!”

  She rolled her eyes at me (a very unappealing habit). “No, Angus. Barbie is a fashion doll. I gave most of mine to Destiny a while ago, but if I can find one, I’ll show it to you.”

  I didn’t think finding anything likely, given how disorganized she is, so I forgot about it for the time being. But it was to prove a great embarrassment to me when I went to bed that night.

  I had spent part of the evening having a conversation with Bubbles, who turns out to be not a bad sort for a cat.

  We have a space in the guest bedroom where we meet to talk without being noticed. I did have to clear out an appalling amount of dust from under the bed to make it fit for a sit, but now it’s quite pleasant.

  We started by telling each other some jokes. Alas, that didn’t go very well. As it turns out, brownies and cats have very different senses of humor. Cat jokes are mostly about how stupid mice are. Brownie jokes are mostly wit and wordplay. However, Bubbles did tell me some amusing stories about the Carharts, such as the time Bennett was locked out of the house in only his underwear. So we did have a few good laughs.

  I have to say, a cat’s laugh is an odd sound.

  We also talked about some more personal matters, such as our tempers. It turns out that Bubbles is now on his third veterinarian due to bad behavior during routine appointments.

  We are considering forming an anger-management group.

  When I returned to Alex’s room, it was dark and she had gone to bed. I was drowsy myself. Half asleep, I dragged myself up the stairs of the Pink Horror to the bedroom where I had placed my shoe box, which is far more comfortable than that plastic bed.

  When I climbed into the shoe box, I got the shock of my life!

  “Alex!” I screamed. “Alex, there’s a dead girl in my bed!”

  Normally I am not one for screaming. However, I feel strongly that climbing into your own bed and finding yourself beside a cold, hard body is fair reason to let out a good shriek.

  I heard Alex rouse.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, sounding groggy.

  “There’s a body in my bed!”

  The wretched child laughed!

  “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

  She switched on the lamp that sits on her nightstand. “That’s not a body. It’s a Barbie doll! I told you I was going to get one out so you could see what they look like.”

  Oh, didn’t I felt a right fool. Even so, I think it was a fair mistake. But now that the light was on and I got a good look at the thing, I was horrified all over again.

  “No human being looks like that!” I cried. “What are they puttin’ into girls’ heads, givin’ them dolls like this?” I studied her more closely and added, “And why does she have a mustache?”

  Alex made a face. “There’s a reason I call my brother Bennett-the-Booger. He did that with a Sharpie.”

  “Well, why doesn’t she have any clothes on? It’s nae decent.”

  Alex sighed and took the awful naked plastic thing out of my shoe box.

  “All right?” she asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  She returned to her bed, switched off the lamp, then called softly, “Good night, Angus.”

  “Good night,” I growled.

  As I lay down to sleep, I could hear her chuckling.

  “It’s nae funny!” I shouted. Only I knew that, really, it was. If she had planned to scare me on purpose, it would have been a truly first-rate bit of mischief.

  Which reminds me—I need to get to work on my own mischief!

  Charter of the Fierce Poets Society

  We hereby declare that the world is too much interested in fame and glory and money, and not enough in what really matters in life, which is poetry.

  In response to that tragic fact, we now form this society, father and son against the world, dedicated to bringing truth, beauty, and enlightenment to the masses through the art of poetry, whether to be read (Bennett) or sung (Dennis).

  Our motto: Verse you can trust, or your head will bust!

  Our mission: Poems to brighten, enlighten, and frighten!

  Our vow: To devote ourselves to poetry, no matter how we may suffer for our art!

  Signed,

  Dennis Carhart, songwriter

  Bennett Carhart, poet

  Friday, October 23

  Today when little Destiny came home from school, she was sobbing as if someone had just stepped on her kitten. Mrs. Carhart was at work, of course, and Mr. C was locked away down in his Man Cave (as usual). So it was to Alex’s room that the girl came.

  It did my heart good to see how tender my lass was with her little sister. But what the wee girl was crying about made me fiery with anger.

  “Teacher said…said…said…”

  She was hiccuping from crying so hard, and it was difficult for her to get the words out.

  “Said what?” Alex asked patiently.

  “She said Herbert the Goblin wasn’t real!”

  Oh, my blood went aboil at hearing this. I’m pretty sure that there is no Herbert the Goblin here. (I’ve checked Destiny’s room several times to be certain.) Even so, we of the Enchanted Realm know well and well how important a child’s imagination is. The thought of Destiny’s teacher squashing it this way…well, it was a good thing the woman wasn’t in front of me at that moment. I don’t think there’s a number high enough for me to have counted to.

  No matter how high I got bad things would likely have followed.

  Dear Mr. Carhart,

  We recently received your collection of songs and asked one of our interns to give it a listen.

  She resigned an hour later.

  We must respectfully request that you please never, never, never send us any samples of your songs again.

  Ever.

  Sincerely,

  Ann Thracks

&n
bsp; cc: Dee Umbo

  Saturday, October 24

  When Alex came home from soccer this afternoon, I went out to talk. After we had chatted for a bit, I said, “I want you to take me to school with you on Monday.”

  “Why in the world do you want to go back?” she asked. “You told me you’re not supposed to be seen.”

  “I’m going to break that rule,” I said. “I want to have a little chat with Destiny’s teacher.”

  Alex’s smile was so big, it lit up my heart. “Thank you!”

  Soon we arranged that I would ride in her backpack in the morning. (She gave me a spit swear she would clean it out first.) The point of this was to get me inside the building without me having to climb the walls in search of an open window. Then at the end of the day, she would walk past Destiny’s classroom and let me out nearby.

  I should sleep now, but I am too excited about Monday to settle down. I wish Fergus were here so I could talk to him about this. I think what I have in mind qualifies both as a mischief and cleaning up a mess all at once, which counts as a double score. With luck, maybe even enough to cover the bad thing I am planning to do of letting myself be seen.

  (When I think of the number of times I have broken the Great Oath since Sarah died, it fills me with fear and apprehension.)

  10/24 (Sat.)

  Well, it’s not journal day, but I’m writing here anyway because there’s a lot on my mind.

  Maybe Mrs. W was right about this.

  So…first off, big things going on with the ’rents. Mom found out that Dad’s old boss offered to take him back and she is NOT HAPPY that Dad isn’t going for it.

  I know this because Ben and Destiny and I sat on the stairs and listened while they fought about it.

  When Mom told Dad he should “come to his senses,” he answered that he had finally come to his senses and that was why he quit to begin with.

  “How are we going to pay the mortgage?” Mom said. “We’ll be out on the street in six months!”

  I think she was exaggerating.

  I HOPE she was exaggerating.

  I don’t want Dad to be unhappy. He is always telling us we should follow our dreams, and I think he should be able to do the same thing.

  On the other hand, I don’t want to end up being an eleven-year-old bag lady!

  In other news, Bennett’s girlfriend broke up with him.

  Turns out she didn’t like his poetry.

  Sunday, October 25 (evening)

  Quiet day. Family all at home, so I am mostly staying inside the Pink Horror.

  Alex and I have set our plans for tomorrow. It should be an interesting day.

  Monday, October 26

  What happened when I went to talk to Destiny’s teacher today was stranger than I expected, and quite troubling.

  Things started out well enough. I rode to school in Alex’s pack, as we had planned. She really had cleaned it out, mostly. I see glimmers of hope for the girl. I had a wee bottle of water and some provisions, so I did not get too hungry as the day went on. To my surprise, I enjoyed listening to the things that went on in the classroom, especially when Mrs. Winterbotham was reading to the students.

  In the afternoon I dozed off for a while—it was fair hot in that backpack. I woke only when Alex picked up the pack and whispered, “Here we go!”

  We stopped outside Destiny’s room, where the teacher was bidding the children good-bye for the afternoon. Alex set down her pack and said, “Destiny is going to walk home with me today.”

  “That’s nice,” said the teacher. Though she was all sweetness and light, I could see that the wee girl had been crying again.

  While Alex and Ms. Kincaid were talking, I climbed out of the pack and scurried into the room. Fair quick I found the perfect thing for what I had in mind. On the shelf beneath the windows was a puppet of a purple dragon. I leaped up to examine the thing. It was beautifully made. Even better, it had plenty of room for a brownie to hide inside it.

  I lifted the puppet’s tail and slipped up its behind. A perfect fit!

  Finally Ms. Kincaid came back into the room. She went to her desk and started correcting papers. I waited until she was occupied, then shoved my hands into the puppet’s head and began to flap its jaws. Next I let out a roar. Then I shouted in the fiercest voice I could muster, “You were not at your best today!”

  Oh, I was fair beside myself with delight at my cleverness!

  Ms. Kincaid looked up, startled, and stared around the room.

  “Who said that?” she called.

  I stood up, bringing the puppet to a rearing position, then flapped its jaws again as I bellowed, “You were not at your best today! You made a child cry!”

  The teacher leaped to her feet. I pulled my hands out of the puppet’s jaw and thrust them into its armholes. Then I began to dance on the counter, waving the dragon’s arms.

  “What is this?” cried the teacher. “Who are you?”

  She looked around wildly and I knew she was trying to spot someone playing a trick on her. So I backed out from the puppet. Once clear of it, I spread my arms and said cheerfully, “Here I am!”

  Ms. Kincaid staggered back. “Who are you? What are you?”

  “I’m Destiny’s friend Herbert. The one you said doesn’t exist. Oh, I know she says I’m a goblin when I’m really a brownie. But she’s just a wee girl, so I’d think you could forgive her for the confusion. The question is, what excuse do you have for stomping on her imagination? What are you going to do next? Tell her Santa Claus is dead, the Easter Bunny just got served for dinner, and the Tooth Fairy is in jail for stealing molars? In which case you would be wrong, wrong, and wrong.”

  Ms. Kincaid put her hand to her mouth and stared at me with an expression so strange and wild it baffled me. I had expected her to be surprised, and perhaps a bit frightened. But there was something else in her face, something I could not understand.

  I leaped from the counter to the floor, hurried to her desk, then bounded up onto it.

  “Are you listening to me?” I demanded.

  She closed her eyes, pressed her hands to her temples, and murmured, “The pressure has been too much. I’ve started to hallucinate.”

  I leaped to her shoulder, grabbed a lock of her hair, and tugged, saying, “Does that feel like a hallucination? Now listen, I have something important to tell you. I know it’s hard to believe in a little girl’s imagination, but if you are going to be her teacher, you need to let her have her dreams, not stomp and squash them. When you decided to become a teacher, you didn’t start out to be a dream squasher, did you?”

  “Of course not! I want to build dreams. But I…I…”

  I heard so much pain in her voice that I felt confused. Leaping from her shoulder to the desk, I stood in front of her and said, “Listen to me, miss. Everyone has a bad day. I ought to know, having had plenty of them myself. But having a bad day does not make you a bad person. I myself have a notoriously horrible temper. Really, it’s quite appalling sometimes.”

  She was listening, I could tell. But something else was going on, too. She reached out a hand to me. I should have backed away, but the move was slow, tentative, and I could sense that she was scared but also—and this was strange—filled with some odd sense of hope.

  “May I touch you?” she asked. “Just to see if you’re real? I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  “Will you let Destiny keep her imaginary friend?” I asked.

  She nodded, then put the tip of her finger on my shoulder.

  Then she fainted dead away!

  At first I thought I had killed her with shock. But that made no sense, and when I checked, I could tell she was still breathing. So I went to one of those long, narrow windows and (using my brownie strength) wrenched down the handle and pulled it open.

  I climbed out and went to meet Alex.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you when we get home,” I said, still shaken.

  After the Carh
arts were done with supper that night, Alex brought me some milk and a nice bit of tattie, though when I thanked her for it, I had to explain that “tattie” was just a word we use for potato back in Scotland.

  I am often amazed that though we speak the same language, we have so many different words for things. Sometimes it makes communication quite difficult. Anyway, while I was eating we talked about my meeting with Ms. Kincaid. Alex agrees that there was something more going on than we can understand right now. I am mystified, and somewhat nervous.

  CASE NOTES ON BENNETT CARHART

  10/26

  First meeting with BC this afternoon. He seems a nice-­enough teenager, and a very intelligent one.

  His mother’s concern, the reason she brought him to me, is that Bennett has undergone a rapid personality change, shifting from a sports orientation to an obsession with writing. Specifically, he has recently developed an overpowering urge to write poetry.

  Unfortunately, he is appallingly bad at it. He brought some of his poems with him. I was hard-­pressed to maintain a professional air while reading them. The truth is, I nearly snorted coffee through my nose. They are hilariously awful!

  Early diagnosis: Bennett seems to be suffering from some odd version of hypergraphia.

  It is an interesting case, and I look forward to working with him.

  I just hope he won’t ask me to read his poems every week!

  From the files of Dr. Eli Vator

  Tuesday, October 27

  Things are tense in the house, what with Mr. Carhart mooning and moaning down in the cellar over his horrible songs, and Bennett moaning and mooning in his room over his wretched verse, and Mrs. Carhart fretting and fussing about both of them. However, things have been getting friendlier between Alex and myself.

  Alas, I fear I made a grave mistake this night and that friendliness may come to an end.