“And we don’t have any time to waste thinking of anything else,” Isadora added. “We’d better hurry if we want to snitch the bag of flour and not be late for class.”
“And we’ll need a string, or something, so we can drag it along and make it look like Sunny crawling,” Duncan said.
“And I’ll need to snitch some things, too,” Violet said, “for my staple-making invention.”
“Nidop,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of “Then let’s get moving.”
The five children walked out of the Orphans Shack, taking off their noisy shoes and putting on their regular shoes so they wouldn’t make a lot of noise as they walked nervously across the lawn to the cafeteria. They were nervous because they were not supposed to be sneaking into the cafeteria, or snitching things, and they were nervous because their plan was indeed a risky one. It is not a pleasant feeling, nervousness, and I would not wish for small children to be any more nervous than the Baudelaires and the Quagmires were as they walked toward the cafeteria in their regular shoes. But I must say that the children weren’t nervous enough. They didn’t need to be more nervous about sneaking into the cafeteria, even though it was against the rules, or snitching things, even though they didn’t get caught. But they should have been more nervous about their plan, and about what would happen that evening when the sun set on the brown lawn and the luminous circle began to glow. They should have been nervous, now, in their regular shoes, about what would happen when they were in each other’s.
CHAPTER
Eleven
If you’ve ever dressed up for Halloween or attended a masquerade, you know that there is a certain thrill to wearing a disguise—a thrill that is half excitement and half danger. I once attended one of the famed masked balls hosted by the duchess of Winnipeg, and it was one of the most exciting and dangerous evenings of my life. I was disguised as a bullfighter and slipped into the party while being pursued by the palace guards, who were disguised as scorpions. The moment I entered the Grand Ballroom, I felt as if Lemony Snicket had disappeared. I was wearing clothes I had never worn before—a scarlet cape made of silk and a vest embroidered with gold thread and a skinny black mask—and it made me feel as if I were a different person. And because I felt like a different person, I dared to approach a woman I had been forbidden to approach for the rest of my life. She was alone on the veranda—the word “veranda” is a fancy term for a porch made of polished gray marble—and costumed as a dragonfly, with a glittering green mask and enormous silvery wings. As my pursuers scurried around the party, trying to guess which guest was me, I slipped out to the veranda and gave her the message I’d been trying to give her for fifteen long and lonely years. “Beatrice,” I cried, just as the scorpions spotted me, “Count Olaf is
I cannot go on. It makes me weep to think of that evening, and of the dark and desperate times that followed, and in the meantime I’m sure you are curious what happened to the Baudelaire orphans and the Quagmire triplets, after dinner that evening at Prufrock Prep.
“This is sort of exciting,” Duncan said, putting Klaus’s glasses on his face. “I know that we’re doing this for serious reasons, but I’m excited anyway.”
Isadora recited, tying Violet’s ribbon in her hair,
“It may not be particularly wise,
but it’s a thrill to be disguised.”
“That’s not a perfect poem, but it will have to do under the circumstances. How do we look?”
The Baudelaire orphans took a step back and regarded the Quagmires carefully. It was just after dinner, and the children were standing outside the Orphans Shack, hurriedly putting their risky plan into action. They had managed to sneak into the cafeteria and steal a Sunny-sized bag of flour from the kitchen while the metal-masked cafeteria workers’ backs were turned. Violet had also snitched a fork, a few teaspoons of creamed spinach, and a small potato, all of which she needed for her invention. Now they had just a few moments before the Baudelaires—or, in this case, the Quagmires in disguise—had to show up for S.O.R.E. Duncan and Isadora handed over their notebooks so the Baudelaires could study for their comprehensive exams, and switched shoes so the Quagmires’ laps would sound exactly like the Baudelaires’. Now, with only seconds to spare, the Baudelaires looked over the Quagmires’ disguise and realized instantly just how risky this plan was.
Isadora and Duncan Quagmire simply did not look very much like Violet and Klaus Baudelaire. Duncan’s eyes were of a different color from Klaus’s, and Isadora had different hair from Violet’s, even if it was tied up in a similar way. Being triplets, the Quagmires were the exact same height, but Violet was taller than Klaus because she was older, and there was no time to make small stilts for Isadora to mimic this height difference. But it wasn’t really these small physical details that made the disguise so unconvincing. It was the simple fact that the Baudelaires and the Quagmires were different people, and a hair ribbon, a pair of glasses, and some shoes couldn’t turn them into one another any more than a woman disguised as a dragonfly can actually take wing and escape the disaster awaiting her.
“I know we don’t look much like you,” Duncan admitted after the Baudelaires had been quiet for some time. “But remember, it’s quite dark on the front lawn. The only light is coming from the luminous circle. We’ll make sure to keep our heads down when we’re running, so our faces won’t give us away. We won’t speak a word to Coach Genghis, so our voices won’t give us away. And we have your hair ribbon, glasses, and shoes, so our accessories won’t give us away, either.”
“We don’t have to go through with this plan,” Violet said quietly. “We appreciate your help, but we don’t have to try and fool Genghis. My siblings and I could just run away right now, tonight. We’ve gotten to be pretty good runners, so we’d have a good head start on Coach Genghis.”
“We could call Mr. Poe from a pay phone somewhere,” Klaus said.
“Zubu,” Sunny said, which meant “Or attend a different school, under different names.”
“Those plans don’t have a chance of working,” Isadora said. “From what you’ve told us about Mr. Poe, he’s never very helpful. And Count Olaf seems to find you wherever you go, so a different school wouldn’t help, either.”
“This is our only chance,” Duncan agreed. “If you pass the exams without arousing Genghis’s suspicion, you will be out of danger, and then we can focus our efforts on exposing the coach for who he really is.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Violet said. “I just don’t like the idea of your putting your lives in such danger, just to help us.”
“What are friends for?” Isadora said. “We’re not going to attend some silly recital while you run laps to your doom. You three were the first people at Prufrock Prep who weren’t mean to us just for being orphans. None of us have any family, so we’ve got to stick together.”
“At least let us go with you to the front lawn,” Klaus said. “We’ll spy on you from the archway, and make sure you’re fooling Coach Genghis.”
Duncan shook his head. “You don’t have time to spy on us,” he said. “You have to make staples out of those metal rods and study for two comprehensive exams.”
“Oh!” Isadora said suddenly. “How will we drag this bag of flour along the track? We need a string or something.”
“We could just kick it around the circle,” Duncan said.
“No, no, no,” Klaus said. “If Coach Genghis thinks you’re kicking your baby sister, he’ll know something is up.”
“I know!” Violet said. She leaned forward and put her hand on Duncan’s chest, running her fingers along his thick wool sweater until she found what she was looking for—a loose thread. Carefully, she pulled, unraveling the sweater slightly until she had a good long piece of yarn. Then she snapped it off and tied one end around the bag of flour. The other end she handed to Duncan. “This should do it,” she said. “Sorry about your sweater.”
“I’m sure you can invent a sewing machine,”
he said, “when we’re all out of danger. Well, we’d better go, Isadora. Coach Genghis will be waiting. Good luck with studying.”
“Good luck with running laps,” Klaus said.
The Baudelaires took a long look at their friends. They were reminded of the last time they saw their parents, waving good-bye to them as they left for the beach. They had not known, of course, that it would be the last moment they would spend with their mother and father, and again and again, each of the Baudelaires had gone back to that day in their lives, wishing that they had said something more than a casual good-bye. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked at the two triplets and hoped that this was not such a time, a time when people they cared for would disappear from their lives forever. But what if it were?
“If we never see—” Violet stopped, swallowed, and began again. “If something goes wrong—”
Duncan took Violet’s hands and looked right at her. Violet saw, behind Klaus’s glasses, the serious look in Duncan’s wide eyes. “Nothing will go wrong,” he said firmly, though of course he was wrong at that very moment. “Nothing will go wrong at all. We’ll see you in the morning, Baudelaires.”
Isadora nodded solemnly and followed her brother and the bag of flour away from the Orphans Shack. The Baudelaire orphans watched them walk toward the front lawn until the triplets were merely two specks, dragging another speck along with them.
“You know,” Klaus said, as they watched them, “from a distance, in the dim light, they look quite a bit like us.”
“Abax,” Sunny agreed.
“I hope so,” Violet murmured. “I hope so. But in the meantime, we’d better stop thinking about them and get started on our half of the plan. Let’s put our noisy shoes on and go into the shack.”
“I can’t imagine how you’re going to make staples,” Klaus said, “with only a fork, a few teaspoons of creamed spinach, and a small potato. That sounds more like the ingredients for a side dish than for a staple-making device. I hope your inventing skills haven’t been dulled by a lack of sleep.”
“I don’t think they have,” Violet said. “It’s amazing how much energy you can have once you have a plan. Besides, my plan doesn’t only involve the things I snitched. It involves one of the Orphan Shack crabs and our noisy shoes. Now, when we all have our shoes on, please follow my instructions.”
The two younger Baudelaires were quite puzzled at this, but they had learned long ago that when it came to inventions, Violet could be trusted absolutely. In the recent past, she had invented a grappling hook, a lockpick, and a signaling device, and now, come hell or high water—an expression which here means “using a fork, a few teaspoons of creamed spinach, a small potato, a live crab, and noisy shoes”—she was going to invent a staple-making device.
The three siblings put on their shoes and, following Violet’s instructions, entered the shack. As usual, the tiny crabs were lounging around, taking advantage of their time alone in the shack when they wouldn’t be frightened by loud noises. On most occasions, the Baudelaires would stomp wildly on the floor when they entered the shack, and the crabs would scurry underneath the bales of hay and into other hiding places in the room. This time, however, Violet instructed her siblings to step on the floor in carefully arranged patterns, so as to herd one of the grumpiest and biggest-clawed crabs into a corner of the shack. While the other crabs scattered, this crab was trapped in a corner, afraid of the noisy shoes but with nowhere to hide from them.
“Good work!” Violet cried. “Keep him in the corner, Sunny, while I ready the potato.”
“What is the potato for?” Klaus asked.
“As we know,” Violet explained as Sunny tapped her little feet this way and that to keep the crab in the corner, “these crabs love to get their claws on our toes. I specifically snitched a potato that was toe-shaped. You see how it’s curved in a sort of oval way, and the little bumpy part here looks like a toenail?”
“You’re right,” Klaus said. “The resemblance is remarkable. But what does it have to do with staples?”
“Well, the metal rods that Nero gave us are very long, and need to be cut cleanly into small, staple-sized pieces. While Sunny keeps the crab in the corner, I’m going to wave the potato at him. He—or she, come to think of it, I don’t know how to tell a boy crab from a girl crab—”
“It’s a boy,” Klaus said. “Trust me.”
“Well, he’ll think it’s a toe,” Violet continued, “and snap at it with his claws. At that instant, I’ll yank the potato away and put a rod in its place. If I do it carefully enough, the crab should do a perfect job of slicing it up.”
“And then what?” Klaus asked.
“First things first,” Violet replied firmly. “O.K. Sunny, keep tapping those noisy shoes. I’m ready with the potato and rod number one.”
“What can I do?” Klaus asked.
“You can start studying for the comprehensive exam, of course,” Violet said. “I couldn’t possibly read all of Duncan’s notes in just one night. While Sunny and I make the staples, you need to read Duncan’s and Isadora’s notebooks, memorize the measurements from Mrs. Bass’s class, and teach me all of Mr. Remora’s stories.”
“Roger,” Klaus said. As you probably know, the middle Baudelaire was not referring to anybody named Roger. He was saying a man’s name to indicate that he understood what Violet had said and would act accordingly, and over the course of the next two hours, that’s exactly what he did. While Sunny used her noisy shoes to keep the crab in the corner and Violet used the potato as a toe and the crab’s claws as clean cutters, Klaus used the Quagmire notebooks to study for the comprehensive exams, and everything worked the way it should. Sunny tapped her shoes so noisily that the crab remained trapped. Violet was so quick with the potato and metal rods that soon they were snipped into staple-sized pieces. And Klaus—although he had to squint because Duncan was using his glasses—read Isadora’s measuring notes so carefully that before long he had memorized the length, width, and depth of just about everything.
“Violet, ask me the measurements of the navy blue scarf,” Klaus said, turning the notebook over so he couldn’t peek.
Violet yanked the potato away just in time, and the crab snipped off another bit of the metal rods. “What are the measurements of the navy blue scarf?” she asked.
“Two decimeters long,” Klaus recited, “nine centimeters wide, and four millimeters thick. It’s boring, but it’s correct. Sunny, ask me the measurements of the bar of deodorant soap.”
The crab saw an opportunity to leave the corner, but Sunny was too quick for it. “Soap?” Sunny quizzed Klaus, tapping her tiny noisy shoes until the crab retreated.
“Eight centimeters by eight centimeters by eight centimeters,” Klaus said promptly. “That one’s easy. You’re doing great, you two. I bet that crab’s going to be almost as tired as we are.”
“No,” Violet said, “he’s done. Let him go, Sunny. We have all the staple-sized pieces we need. I’m glad that part of the staple-making process is over. It’s very nerve-wracking to tease a crab.”
“What’s next?” Klaus said, as the crab scurried away from the most frightening moments of his life.
“Next you teach me Mr. Remora’s stories,” Violet said, “while Sunny and I bend these little bits of metal into the proper shape.”
“Shablo,” Sunny said, which meant something like “How are we going to do that?”
“Watch,” Violet said, and Sunny watched. While Klaus closed Isadora’s black notebook and began paging through Duncan’s dark green one, Violet took the glob of creamed spinach and mixed it with a few pieces of stray hay and dust until it was a sticky, gluey mess. Then she placed this mess on the spiky end of the fork, and stuck it to one of the bales of hay so the handle end of the fork hung over the side. She blew on the creamed-spinach-stray-hay-and-dust mixture until it hardened. “I always thought that Prufrock Prep’s creamed spinach was awfully sticky,” Violet explained, “and then I realized it could be used as glue.
And now, we have a perfect method of making those tiny strips into staples. See, if I lay a strip across the handle of the fork, a tiny part of the strip hangs off each of the sides. Those are the parts that will go inside the paper when it’s a staple. If I take off my noisy shoes”—and here Violet paused to take off her noisy shoes—“and use the metal ends to tap on the strips, they’ll bend around the handle of the fork and turn into staples. See?”
“Gyba!” Sunny shrieked. She meant “You’re a genius! But what can I do to help?”
“You can keep your noisy shoes on your feet,” Violet replied, “and keep the crabs away from us. And Klaus, you start summarizing stories.”
“Roger,” Sunny said.
“Roger,” Klaus said, and once again, neither of them were referring to Roger. They meant, once again, that they understood what Violet had said, and would act accordingly, and all three Baudelaires acted accordingly for the rest of the night. Violet tapped away at the metal strips, and Klaus read out loud from Duncan’s notebook, and Sunny stomped her noisy shoes. Soon, the Baudelaires had a pile of homemade staples on the floor, the details of Mr. Remora’s stories in their brains, and not a single crab bothering them in the shack, and even with the threat of Coach Genghis hovering over them, the evening actually began to feel rather cozy. It reminded the Baudelaires of evenings they had spent when their parents were alive, in one of the living rooms in the Baudelaire mansion. Violet would often be tinkering away at some invention, while Klaus would often be reading and sharing the information he was learning, and Sunny would often be making loud noises. Of course, Violet was never tinkering frantically at an invention that would save their lives, Klaus was never reading something so boring, and Sunny was never making loud noises to scare crabs, but nevertheless as the night wore on, the Baudelaires felt almost at home in the Orphans Shack. And when the sky began to lighten with the first rays of dawn, the Baudelaires began to feel a certain thrill that was quite different from the thrill of being in disguise. It was a thrill that I have never felt in my life, and it was a thrill that the Baudelaires did not feel very often. But as the morning sun began to shine, the Baudelaire orphans felt the thrill of thinking your plan might work after all, and that perhaps they would eventually be as safe and happy as the evenings they remembered.