discovery without a valid quest pass.’ ”
“This isn’t a personal quest,” I said. “It’s for the Park.”
Mukuti, who was clearly going to be an expert on rules when she grew up, said, “You should have one anyway. A lot of Miss Van Loon’s rules are against things you need to do on a quest, like going places without permission. A quest pass lets you break rules without getting in trouble.”
Fortran wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. I was surprised it didn’t have a permanent red-orange stain on it, he did it so often. “It’s no fun breaking rules if you’re allowed to do it.”
“She’s not doing it for fun, Fortran,” Stonewall said. “She’s doing it for real.”
In fairy tales, quests fall into three parts:
1. Find out about a magical thingummy.
2. Go look for it.
3. Get it away from whoever has it.
There are rules governing each of these parts. Be kind to animals you meet in the forest. If an oven asks you to clean it, get out your rubber gloves and start scrubbing. Ask birds for directions, but not rocks or mysterious little men. If somebody offers you a choice between a box of gold, a box of silver, and a box of lead, take the lead. If you’re offered three coffee mugs, take the gold one.
They don’t always make sense, but it doesn’t matter. They’re rules , and you have to follow them. If you don’t, there are consequences .
When a quest begins with the quester not knowing the location of the object she’s looking for, the rule is that she should start walking until she meets somebody magical to give her advice. There’s nothing, not even in the most obscure fairy tale, about waiting for a quest pass.
The day after the Lincoln Center conversation, I skipped lunch again, went to the Schooljuffrouw’s office, and knocked.
“Come in, dear.”
It was not the Schooljuffrouw’s voice, and it wasn’t the Schooljuffrouw’s office. Everything in it was pastel and cozily cushioned, including the man who’d called me “dear.” When I came in, he removed his glasses and let them dangle against his Inside Sweater, which was a delicate leaf green.
I pulled myself together. “Hi. Um. I’d like to speak to the Schooljuffrouw about a quest pass?”
“A quest pass. Well.” The man fiddled with the cord holding the glasses around his neck. “That’s not . . . I don’t think . . . I’m not authorized , you see. I’m just the Secretary. Are you sure you really want a quest pass, dear?”
“I’m positive,” I said. “It’s very important.”
He put the glasses on again. Behind them, his eyes were like fish eyes, big and goggling. “You’ll have to talk to the Assistant, then. In there.”
He pointed to a door I hadn’t noticed before and I went through it into the next room.
The Assistant’s office was as spare as the Secretary’s had been cluttered. The Assistant was kind of spare, too. She was all angles and bones, with hair scraped back in a painful-looking bun and a nose like an eagle’s beak. Her eyes, behind thick square glasses, were like twin gray poached eggs.
I went up to her desk. “I need to talk to the Schooljuffrouw about a quest pass, please.”
“No,” the Assistant said briskly. “The very idea! You haven’t even filled out the paperwork.”
“Paperwork?”
“There’s always paperwork.”
As her poached-egg eyes glared into mine, daring me to argue, I suddenly realized what was going on.
When I was little, one of my favorite stories was “The Magic Cigarette Lighter.” It’s about this young policeman, down on his luck, who has to get past three dogs, each with progressively huger eyes and huger bodies to keep them in, before he can get to the Magic Cigarette Lighter that will give him his heart’s desire. There was a lot more to the story, about the policeman’s adventures with the cigarette lighter. But the important point to remember right now was that the guard dogs at the beginning didn’t attack the
“This isn’t a personal quest,” I said. “It’s for the Park.”
Mukuti, who was clearly going to be an expert on rules when she grew up, said, “You should have one anyway. A lot of Miss Van Loon’s rules are against things you need to do on a quest, like going places without permission. A quest pass lets you break rules without getting in trouble.”
Fortran wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his sweater. I was surprised it didn’t have a permanent red-orange stain on it, he did it so often. “It’s no fun breaking rules if you’re allowed to do it.”
“She’s not doing it for fun, Fortran,” Stonewall said. “She’s doing it for real.”
In fairy tales, quests fall into three parts:
1. Find out about a magical thingummy.
2. Go look for it.
3. Get it away from whoever has it.
There are rules governing each of these parts. Be kind to animals you meet in the forest. If an oven asks you to clean it, get out your rubber gloves and start scrubbing. Ask birds for directions, but not rocks or mysterious little men. If somebody offers you a choice between a box of gold, a box of silver, and a box of lead, take the lead. If you’re offered three coffee mugs, take the gold one.
They don’t always make sense, but it doesn’t matter. They’re rules , and you have to follow them. If you don’t, there are consequences .
When a quest begins with the quester not knowing the location of the object she’s looking for, the rule is that she should start walking until she meets somebody magical to give her advice. There’s nothing, not even in the most obscure fairy tale, about waiting for a quest pass.
The day after the Lincoln Center conversation, I skipped lunch again, went to the Schooljuffrouw’s office, and knocked.
“Come in, dear.”
It was not the Schooljuffrouw’s voice, and it wasn’t the Schooljuffrouw’s office. Everything in it was pastel and cozily cushioned, including the man who’d called me “dear.” When I came in, he removed his glasses and let them dangle against his Inside Sweater, which was a delicate leaf green.
I pulled myself together. “Hi. Um. I’d like to speak to the Schooljuffrouw about a quest pass?”
“A quest pass. Well.” The man fiddled with the cord holding the glasses around his neck. “That’s not . . . I don’t think . . . I’m not authorized , you see. I’m just the Secretary. Are you sure you really want a quest pass, dear?”
“I’m positive,” I said. “It’s very important.”
He put the glasses on again. Behind them, his eyes were like fish eyes, big and goggling. “You’ll have to talk to the Assistant, then. In there.”
He pointed to a door I hadn’t noticed before and I went through it into the next room.
The Assistant’s office was as spare as the Secretary’s had been cluttered. The Assistant was kind of spare, too. She was all angles and bones, with hair scraped back in a painful-looking bun and a nose like an eagle’s beak. Her eyes, behind thick square glasses, were like twin gray poached eggs.
I went up to her desk. “I need to talk to the Schooljuffrouw about a quest pass, please.”
“No,” the Assistant said briskly. “The very idea! You haven’t even filled out the paperwork.”
“Paperwork?”
“There’s always paperwork.”
As her poached-egg eyes glared into mine, daring me to argue, I suddenly realized what was going on.
When I was little, one of my favorite stories was “The Magic Cigarette Lighter.” It’s about this young policeman, down on his luck, who has to get past three dogs, each with progressively huger eyes and huger bodies to keep them in, before he can get to the Magic Cigarette Lighter that will give him his heart’s desire. There was a lot more to the story, about the policeman’s adventures with the cigarette lighter. But the important point to remember right now was that the guard dogs at the beginning didn’t attack the
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