Missy Piggle-Wiggle and the Whatever Cure

  “Well, give it. It has extra frosting and I want it.”

  Frankfort looked incredulously at his parents.

  “Dear,” Mr. Freeforall said to his wife, “I have an early meeting today, so I’ll be going.” He stood up and reached for his briefcase.

  Petulance stood, too. She leaned over, pulled the remainder of the cinnamon roll out of Frankfort’s hands, and stuffed it in her mouth.

  “That was mine!” shouted Frankfort.

  The Freeforalls didn’t eat many meals together, but when they did, Petulance could be counted on to be greedy and grabby, demanding the biggest piece, the ice cream with the most chocolate chips, a drumstick (thank goodness there were two), the reddest strawberries, or the wishbone from the turkey. Petulance always demanded the wishbone and then decided whether Honoriah or Frankfort would get to break it with her. This meant that someone was left out, of course, but it was never Petulance. The last time the Freeforalls had eaten turkey, Hudson Freeforall decided to avoid trouble, and he secretly removed the wishbone and stuffed it down the garbage disposal before Petulance could ask for it.

  Mrs. Freeforall watched her husband hurry out the front door. She looked at the remains of the once peaceful breakfast. Crumbs littered the table. A bottle of soda was overturned. Petulance had spilled it after she’d claimed it was hers. “It is mine! It is!” she had cried. “See? I wrote my name on it.”

  Her brother and sister leaned in for a look.

  “Where?” Honoriah had demanded, clutching the bottle. “I don’t see your name.”

  “I wrote it so tiny it’s invisible,” Petulance replied. “Now give it.” And she’d grabbed it from Honoriah, and of course it had spilled.

  Now Honoriah removed a package of gummy worms from the snack cabinet.

  “Gummy worms for breakfast?” said her mother wearily.

  “Yup,” Honoriah replied.

  “Hey, how many are left in there?” asked Petulance.

  Honoriah thrust the package behind her back. “It’s a full bag.”

  “It is not! I saw it yesterday, and it’s almost empty. Give it to me. I want the red ones.”

  “They all taste the same!”

  “Do not.”

  “Do, too. Don’t they, Frankfort?”

  “What-ever.”

  Petulance tackled her sister and pounced on the bag. “Look! It is almost empty. You were going to eat them all up, and I want some.”

  Mrs. Freeforall put her head in her hands. “I need to get to work,” she said, “and you need to leave for school.”

  Twenty minutes later Mrs. Freeforall sat in the quiet of her office, Muffet in her lap. Her computer was turned on, but she was staring blankly at five tropical fish swimming around on the screen. She thought about breakfast. She thought about Petulance. In her mind she saw her grabbing food from her brother and sister. She saw her taking chalk out of poor Peony LaCarte’s hand the previous Saturday, in full view of Mr. and Mrs. LaCarte. She saw her in the shoe store, demanding the most expensive shoes in her size simply because they had the most sparkles on them.

  At last Mrs. Freeforall made a decision. She reached for the phone. Before she could pick it up, it rang. She jumped. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Freeforall? This is Missy Piggle-Wiggle.”

  “Missy! How odd. I was just about to call you.”

  “I wanted to confirm that I’ll arrive at your house this afternoon at three to begin my job.”

  “Yes. Oh, thank you. Yes,” said Mrs. Freeforall. Her head swam with relief. She took a deep breath. “About Petulance,” she began. “I’m having a bit of trouble with her. She’s just so…”

  Grabby? thought Missy.

  “Willful,” offered Mrs. Freeforall limply. “Well, no, that’s not quite it.”

  “She wants what others have?” suggested Missy.

  “Yes, exactly. And I wondered if you might have a potion or tonic that could—”

  “I know just the thing,” said Missy. “I’ll bring it with me this afternoon.” She refrained from mentioning that the potion, which would simply be mixed into a glass of milk, was in a bottle labeled GREEDINESS CURE.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Freeforall again, sagging back in her chair. Her computer pinged then, and she hung up the phone abruptly.

  “Goodness,” murmured Missy. “She didn’t even say good-bye.”

  * * *

  The three Freeforall children trailed home from school that afternoon behind Peony and Della LaCarte.

  “Want to play tattoo parlor?” Frankfort yelled to them.

  Della screamed and burst into tears, and Peony shrieked, “Stay off of our property! Please!”

  Honoriah waited until she was standing on her own front porch before she shouted back, “No, you stay off of ours, or I’ll call the police and they’ll put you in the kids’ jail!”

  She opened the door, and there were Missy and Wag.

  “Oh, it’s you, Missy,” said Honoriah. “Um, I don’t suppose you heard what I was saying to—”

  “Come into the kitchen for snack time,” Missy interrupted her.

  “What are we having?” Frankfort asked. “I want—”

  “I made oatmeal cookies,” said Missy. She knew how hungry children were when they came home in the afternoon. School schedules often made no sense, and sometimes children had eaten their lunch at ten thirty in the morning.

  The Freeforall children rushed into the kitchen and began rummaging through the refrigerator.

  “You each have a place at the table,” Missy informed them. “Please sit down.”

  Petulance looked at the table and realized that five places had been set with plates and cups and napkins. There was a name card in front of each plate.

  “Honoriah,” Petulance read. “Petulance—that’s me.”

  “Duh,” said Frankfort.

  Petulance ignored him. “Frankfort, Missy, and Wag.” She glanced at Missy. “Wag eats at the table?”

  “Sometimes. Now take your places.”

  The Freeforall children slid into their spots. Their cups had been filled with milk. Missy set two oatmeal cookies and four apple slices on each plate.

  Petulance reached for her milk and drank it down. She ate both of her cookies and then removed one from Honoriah’s plate. “Still hungry,” she said.

  “Missy!” cried Honoriah indignantly. She was about to add that Petulance hadn’t even eaten her fruit, but instead she gasped as the cookie in her sister’s hand suddenly became the size of a shirt button.

  “Hey!” said Petulance, frowning at her twin. “You take that back.”

  “Take what back?”

  “Whatever you did to my cookie.”

  “I didn’t do anything. And anyway, it was my cookie.”

  Petulance narrowed her eyes but swallowed the teensy cookie. “Mmmm, tasty,” she said, even though it was hard to ignore the fact that Frankfort and Honoriah were laughing at her.

  “Now,” said Missy, watching out of the corner of her eye as Petulance retrieved a bag of chocolate drops from the cupboard and began peeling one, “here’s the schedule for this afternoon.”

  “Why does she get chocolates?” Frankfort cried.

  Petulance gave him a smile. “Because I want them.”

  “You want chocolate crumbs?” asked Honoriah.

  The chocolates in Petulance’s hand had begun to shrink. She leaned over and peered at them.

  “I can barely see them,” said Honoriah.

  “You’re going to need tweezers to peel them,” added Frankfort.

  “They’ll still taste good,” said Petulance loftily. “I’ll just need to eat more of them.” She began using her fingernails to tear at the wrappers.

  “As I was saying,” said Missy, “the schedule for this afternoon is as follows: Homework time—”

  Frankfort erupted from his seat. “Homework time?”

  “Yes, homework time followed by arts and crafts followed by supervised free time??
?ten minutes—followed by dinner-prep time.”

  “What’s dinner-prep time?” asked Petulance. She had rummaged around in a drawer until she’d found a magnifying glass, which she’d propped up on the table. Now she was trying to peel the chocolates behind it.

  “Wow, your fingers look like giant pink sea worms,” Frankfort told her.

  “Dinner-prep time,” said Missy, “is when we all fix dinner together.”

  “But—but—” spluttered Honoriah.

  “Now clear the table, please,” said Missy. “Plates and glasses in the sink.”

  Reluctantly, the Freeforalls cleared the table and spread out books and work sheets. Honoriah industriously began writing ten sentences in Spanish. “There,” she said after a while. “All done.”

  Petulance reached across the table and took her paper. “Let me copy yours. I can’t think of any sentences.”

  “You haven’t even tried,” said her sister.

  “Hey!” exclaimed Petulance. “I can’t read this! What did you do to it?” The paper had become the size of a postage stamp.

  “Maybe she used tiny, invisible letters,” spoke up Frankfort, “like when you wrote on the soda bottle.”

  Petulance scowled at him.

  Honoriah drew the paper back, and it returned to its proper size. “Thank goodness,” she said. “Mrs. Peabody would have given me an F. Now write your own sentences, Petulance.”

  At six o’clock that evening, Mr. and Mrs. Freeforall returned, briefcases in hand. Honoriah greeted them at the door and exclaimed, “Come look at the dining room!”

  Candles were burning, and the table was set with the china that was ordinarily reserved for holidays.

  “Doesn’t it look like a party?” asked Frankfort.

  “We did it all ourselves,” added Petulance.

  “And we helped make dinner,” said Honoriah.

  Mr. and Mrs. Freeforall glanced at each other in astonishment.

  “Well,” said Missy, “Wag and I will be off. We’ll see you again on Thursday.”

  Mrs. Freeforall wanted to say, “No, don’t leave!” but just in time she remembered that she was a grown-up.

  “What’s for dinner?” asked her husband.

  “You’ll never guess,” replied Petulance with excitement. “Turkey!”

  “Sliced turkey?” Mr. Freeforall asked her hopefully.

  “Nope, a whole turkey. And I claim the wishbone. Oh, and a drumstick!”

  Mrs. Freeforall sighed and watched helplessly as Missy and Wag disappeared through the front door.

  “Let’s eat right now,” said Frankfort. “Come on, everybody.”

  The Freeforalls sat at the table. It was spread with dishes of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and peas and olives.

  And the turkey.

  “I guess I’ll carve,” said Mr. Freeforall reluctantly.

  “Remember, I want a drumstick,” announced Petulance.

  “So do I,” said Honoriah.

  To her surprise, Mrs. Freeforall found herself saying, “So do I.”

  “Well, there are only two,” Petulance reminded her unnecessarily. “And I want one.” She paused and added, “I WANT one!”

  “Settle down,” said her father. He sliced off a drumstick and dropped it on Petulance’s plate. Then he stared at the plate in astonishment. “What happened? Where’s the drumstick?”

  All the Freeforalls leaned in for a good look. “Oh, there it is,” said Honoriah, whose nose was practically touching the plate. She pointed at a speck by the rim.

  “That’s the drumstick?” asked Mrs. Freeforall.

  Petulance picked it up between her thumb and forefinger as if it were an ant and handed it to her father. “Take it back. I don’t want it anymore.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Freeforall gazed at the drumstick as it crossed the table. By the time it returned to the turkey platter, Mrs. Freeforall thought that it might be even bigger than it had been in the first place. Her husband handed it to her and gave the other one to Honoriah.

  “Remember about the wishbone,” said Petulance.

  “Hard to forget,” muttered her father. He continued carving.

  Frankfort reached for the olives, but Petulance got to them first and selected the largest one. It disappeared altogether. She pursed her lips and said nothing.

  “Have a roll, dear,” said her mother, passing her a plate.

  “Thanks,” said Petulance. Her hand hovered over the fattest, fluffiest one, with the brownest top, and then she took a small one from the side of the plate.

  She held her breath. Nothing happened.

  Nothing happened when she helped herself to the mashed potatoes, either, not saying a word even though Frankfort had gotten the spoonful with the best lumps.

  It was in the kitchen later that evening when trouble erupted. “Carve up the rest of the turkey now, Dad,” said Petulance.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, I want the wishbone. Now!” Petulance couldn’t help but remember her sad little roll and her boring, lumpless potatoes and the sight of her mother and sister eating the drumsticks.

  Mr. Freeforall located the wishbone. “Here it is,” he said.

  Petulance grabbed it out of his hands. Naturally, it shrank to the size of a hummingbird wishbone. “Well, that doesn’t matter,” she said. “We can still break it. Frankfort, take the other side.”

  Frankfort reached out and pinched.

  “Ow! That’s my finger!” cried Petulance.

  “Well, this thing’s so tiny, I can’t see what I’m doing. Where’s the magnifying glass?”

  “Oh, never mind. Honoriah, you try.”

  Honoriah shook her head. “It’s too little. Here, let me have it for a second.”

  Petulance let go of the wishbone, and of course as soon as she did, it returned to its original size.

  Her lower lip began to tremble. Hudson Freeforall suddenly felt sorry for his daughter. “You need to let the wishbone dry before you break it anyway,” he reminded her. “Let’s set it aside for a few days.”

  Petulance slogged upstairs to her bedroom.

  By the next evening, Petulance had a collection of miniature items on her dresser: a half-inch-long barrette she’d taken from Honoriah’s room, two jelly doughnuts that looked like crumbs, and a magazine that had arrived in the mail and was now the size of a fingernail. She had tried turning the pages of the magazine but had given up when she realized the print was too small to read anyway. Next to all these items was the magnifying glass.

  Honoriah entered her sister’s room without knocking. Petulance was slumped on her bed, her head in her arms.

  “What’s the matter?” asked her twin.

  Petulance shrugged.

  “Do you know where my barrette is?”

  Petulance pointed to her dresser. “I took it. Sorry. You can have it back. In fact, you can have everything there.”

  “Really? Even the magazine? You always like to read it first.” Honoriah peered at it. “It is the magazine, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. You can read it first today. We might as well take turns anyway.”

  And just like that, the minuscule magazine inflated to its proper size, and another magazine appeared in Petulance’s hands.

  “Hey, one for each of us! Thanks, Petulance,” said Honoriah.

  The next morning Petulance announced that she was going to have a Popsicle for breakfast, and since her parents didn’t stop her, she opened the freezer.

  “Get me one, too,” said Frankfort.

  At this, Mrs. Freeforall let out a groan. She knew there was only one Popsicle in the freezer, and she foresaw a fight.

  To her mother’s surprise, Petulance withdrew the remaining Popsicle and handed it to Frankfort. “Here,” she said. As she turned to close the door, a second Popsicle floated out of the freezer and landed on her plate.

  This was when Mrs. Freeforall remembered Missy Piggle-Wiggle and her potions, and once again she was flooded with relief. r />
  “Petulance, that was very nice of you,” she said, and gave her daughter a hug.

  Petulance smiled. “I was thinking,” she said to Honoriah and Frankfort. “Tonight if the wishbone is dry, you two can pull it. I’ve had lots of turns.”

  “Really?” said her brother and sister.

  “Really?” said her father.

  Petulance nodded.

  “In that case,” said Honoriah, “tell me your wish and I’ll make it for you.”

  Hudson Freeforall looked as though he might faint. His wife hurried to his place at the table. “It’s Missy Piggle-Wiggle,” she whispered to him. “She really is magic.”

  The Freeforall parents listened to the happy chatter about the wishbone, and even though their children were eating Popsicles for breakfast and their hair was unbrushed and Frankfort’s hand was bandaged because he’d ridden a skateboard into the kitchen wall the evening before, Mr. and Mrs. Hudson Freeforall felt hopeful.

  6

  The Tardiness Cure

  MR. HAMILTON EARWIG looked at the ringing phone on the desk in his downtown office and sighed when he saw that the caller ID read LSV ELEMENTARY SCHOOL. He didn’t even have to check his watch to know that the time must be near three o’clock. He already knew who would be on the line and what he would be calling about.

  He held the phone to his ear. “Mr. Bovine?” he asked.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Earwig. I wanted to—”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Mr. Earwig. He knew he sounded rude, but he couldn’t help it. This was the fourth time in less than a month that Mr. Bovine had called to say that Heavenly Earwig had missed her bus home. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Mr. Earwig hung up the phone and fumed and muttered to himself for several moments. “No respect for anyone,” he mumbled. “You’d think she never learned to tell time.” He picked up a pile of papers and slapped them back down onto his desk. “Rude and thoughtless.”

  Mr. Earwig pictured Heavenly on the day she’d been born. She had been so beautiful and so sweet that he and his wife, who had planned to name their daughter Bertha, had changed their minds and named her Heavenly instead. And Heavenly had been heavenly right up until she turned ten. Then a change had come over her, and the Earwigs’ perfect little girl had become scatterbrained and absentminded, not to mention a dawdler and a daydreamer.