notice how the stairs in the lobby were all sopping wet. I heard it’s ’cause the stairway transformed into a waterfall.”
“Do you think Fattler made a mistake?”
“Well, some are saying he’s just lost his touch. But do you know what else I heard? Someone told me he said he never was a genius, that it was all a big mix-up and he’s just ordinary.”
Fern shut her eyes tight. Fattler. He couldn’t be ordinary! She’d read all about how he was a legend in a long line of legends, famous for grand Anybody hospitality and innovations. He didn’t need to rely on anyone but himself. What would he think of what had just happened in this room, in his very own hotel? He needed to know that Ubuleen Heet was the Blue Queen, was killing books, was probably bound to ruin his hotel, and worse. Fern had to get to Fattler before the Queen did.
The exploded-bun woman said, “I heard some computers turned into tortoises and waddled into the swimming pool.”
“Yes, yes, a whole school of tortoises, and when Fattler tried to transform them back, they short-circuited.” The wrestler woman went on, “But Fattler’s keeping a lid on it. He doesn’t want people to know.”
Was Fattler really in trouble? Fern thought back to her grandmother’s warning: Fern will be a target. A target for what? Fern wondered now.
The two women pulled out aerosol cans and started spraying the air. One revved the vacuum, and that madethe pony stir and then wake up. He tottered to a stand, then shook his mane. He started to bolt out from under the bed.
Fern grabbed him and said, “No, come back,” just at the same moment that the vacuum cleaner plug popped from the wall. The vacuum died, and Fern’s voice rang across the room.
“What was that noise?” the exploded-bun woman said.
Fern clamped her hands over her mouth, which meant that the pony was free. He bounded out from under the bed. The wrestler screamed like she’d seen a mouse. Fern watched the pony dodge the exploded-bun woman’s broom and slip out the door to run loose in the hotel.
“It come from under the bed,” the wrestler screamed.
The exploded-bun woman marched to Howard’s side of the bed with her broom in hand. She took the stick end and was about to drive it into Howard’s belly when Fern grabbed his arm and pulled him. Howard clutched the book and they both rolled out the other side. Howard scrambled back over the bed, the wrestler woman reaching for him.
“Vermin! Stowaways!” she screamed. “Get ’em!”
While the wrestler woman screamed and the exploded-bun woman swung her broom around like a bat atHoward, Fern dashed to the desk. She grabbed two jars and shoved them quickly into her sweatshirt pockets. Howard swayed this way and that, until he got a straight shot out of the room. Fern turned to go grab the fishbowl, but there was no time. She jumped onto the cart, rolled across the room, then hopped off. Fern and Howard both ran as fast as they could down the blue then pink then orangey hall.
1
OH, CONVENTIONS!
SOMETIMES I FORGET THAT YOU’RE STILL YOUNG . This is because you are such a wise and thoughtful reader. But the fact is, that despite your maturity, you are not a grown-up and you probably do not sell flood insurance or condos in Florida. You probably do not dress up in itchy wool pants, carry a musket and do Civil War reenactments. And you probably do not belong to the High Order of Hairless Persian Cat Breeders. And because you are not shouldering the burdens of grown-up life (as if kid life doesn’t have its own burdens! Ha!), you have probably never been to a convention.
Conventions can be big, sprawling, ugly ordeals thattake place mainly in hotels. Much like any good birthday party, a convention always has a theme, but unlike a good birthday party, it often has little joy (and rarely cake with cursive lettering and candles). Amid meetings and booths (of freebie pencils with slogans printed on them in tiny letters), there’s often
“Do you think Fattler made a mistake?”
“Well, some are saying he’s just lost his touch. But do you know what else I heard? Someone told me he said he never was a genius, that it was all a big mix-up and he’s just ordinary.”
Fern shut her eyes tight. Fattler. He couldn’t be ordinary! She’d read all about how he was a legend in a long line of legends, famous for grand Anybody hospitality and innovations. He didn’t need to rely on anyone but himself. What would he think of what had just happened in this room, in his very own hotel? He needed to know that Ubuleen Heet was the Blue Queen, was killing books, was probably bound to ruin his hotel, and worse. Fern had to get to Fattler before the Queen did.
The exploded-bun woman said, “I heard some computers turned into tortoises and waddled into the swimming pool.”
“Yes, yes, a whole school of tortoises, and when Fattler tried to transform them back, they short-circuited.” The wrestler woman went on, “But Fattler’s keeping a lid on it. He doesn’t want people to know.”
Was Fattler really in trouble? Fern thought back to her grandmother’s warning: Fern will be a target. A target for what? Fern wondered now.
The two women pulled out aerosol cans and started spraying the air. One revved the vacuum, and that madethe pony stir and then wake up. He tottered to a stand, then shook his mane. He started to bolt out from under the bed.
Fern grabbed him and said, “No, come back,” just at the same moment that the vacuum cleaner plug popped from the wall. The vacuum died, and Fern’s voice rang across the room.
“What was that noise?” the exploded-bun woman said.
Fern clamped her hands over her mouth, which meant that the pony was free. He bounded out from under the bed. The wrestler screamed like she’d seen a mouse. Fern watched the pony dodge the exploded-bun woman’s broom and slip out the door to run loose in the hotel.
“It come from under the bed,” the wrestler screamed.
The exploded-bun woman marched to Howard’s side of the bed with her broom in hand. She took the stick end and was about to drive it into Howard’s belly when Fern grabbed his arm and pulled him. Howard clutched the book and they both rolled out the other side. Howard scrambled back over the bed, the wrestler woman reaching for him.
“Vermin! Stowaways!” she screamed. “Get ’em!”
While the wrestler woman screamed and the exploded-bun woman swung her broom around like a bat atHoward, Fern dashed to the desk. She grabbed two jars and shoved them quickly into her sweatshirt pockets. Howard swayed this way and that, until he got a straight shot out of the room. Fern turned to go grab the fishbowl, but there was no time. She jumped onto the cart, rolled across the room, then hopped off. Fern and Howard both ran as fast as they could down the blue then pink then orangey hall.
1
OH, CONVENTIONS!
SOMETIMES I FORGET THAT YOU’RE STILL YOUNG . This is because you are such a wise and thoughtful reader. But the fact is, that despite your maturity, you are not a grown-up and you probably do not sell flood insurance or condos in Florida. You probably do not dress up in itchy wool pants, carry a musket and do Civil War reenactments. And you probably do not belong to the High Order of Hairless Persian Cat Breeders. And because you are not shouldering the burdens of grown-up life (as if kid life doesn’t have its own burdens! Ha!), you have probably never been to a convention.
Conventions can be big, sprawling, ugly ordeals thattake place mainly in hotels. Much like any good birthday party, a convention always has a theme, but unlike a good birthday party, it often has little joy (and rarely cake with cursive lettering and candles). Amid meetings and booths (of freebie pencils with slogans printed on them in tiny letters), there’s often
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