Laura Ruby - The Boy Who Could Fly

Georgie staggered away on her mangled foot, making it all the way down the stairs and out the front door of the museum before realising that perhaps this wasn’t the best idea. It was one thing to defy her parents about the invisibility thing – even though this was clearly an exception to the rule, being an emergency and everything – but it was another thing to skip out on a school trip. You have to go back , she told herself. You have to find some private place to reappear and then you have to go back to Ms Storia’s group and be appropriately fascinated by all the fascinating things at the museum. Just like any normal girl on any normal day .

Except she wasn’t a normal girl. And nothing was going to make her one.

So, instead of rejoining the girls of the Prince School, Georgie limped home. She’d forgotten how much she liked wandering (er, hobbling) the city streets unnoticed. It was spring, and people were springing: some hopping, some floating, some zipping along on flycycles, a few walking. And of course the birds were out in force along with their owners – mynahs, parrots, budgies, cockatoos – all flying lazily on thin rope leashes.

She approached her building and saw the tall and grave-looking new doorman standing at the door – Dexter or Deter or something. Georgie crept by him and slipped into the building after crazy old blue-haired Mrs Hingis. She waited until Mrs Hingis had been swallowed up by one of the lifts before catching the other one up to the penthouse. When she was safely on the top floor, Georgie reappeared, making sure to account for every single body part – even turning around to check to see that her bum wasn’t missing. Then she opened the door and walked inside. The Bloomingtons’ penthouse had windows that served as walls and high cathedral ceilings that made a person feel as if they weren’t living in a house as much as living on top of a mountain. Even now, even after coming to this penthouse for months, she was shocked that it was her home.

“Hello?” Georgie said. “Anyone here?”

“Hello!” Agnes the cook boomed. “Who is there?”

“The President of Moscow!” Georgie hobbled into the kitchen.

Agnes was cutting potatoes while watching the tiny portable TV she kept on the counter. “Russia is country. Moscow is city. Moscow can’t have president.”

“I know that, Agnes. I was just kidding.”

“Kidding?” said Agnes, as if such a thing was a foreign concept. The Polish cook put down her knife, scooped up a dish towel and snapped it at the open window, where a crow sat staring. “Shoo!” she said. “Go home!” She returned to her chopping block, muttering, “Nosy.” She frowned at Georgie. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look very bad.”

“Thanks,” said Georgie. “I work at it.”

“What’s that? More kidding?” said Agnes. She wiped her hands on a towel and opened the refrigerator. She pulled a plate full of Polish sausage and a jar of purple horseradish out of the fridge. Then she cut several slices of sausage and arranged them on the plate with a spoonful of the horseradish. “You eat. Horseradish clean out your head.”

“My head is fine,” Georgie said.

Agnes shook her own head. “Your head is not good. You do funny things.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to say?” Agnes said. She pursed her bow lips. Agnes was very small and pretty, with fluffy blond hair down to her shoulders. She would look much younger, Georgie was sure, if she didn’t wear baggy men’s jeans and oversized football jerseys. But no matter how weird her outfits or sense of humour, Georgie would never think of making fun of Agnes because Agnes knew things. She knew when Georgie was hungry and when she was full. She knew when Georgie wanted company and when she wanted to be left alone. Georgie thought that if she were to turn herself invisible, Agnes would be able to see her anyway.

“Agnes?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you my Personal Assistant?”

Agnes frowned. “I am cook.”

“Well, yeah, but are you my Personal Assistant, too? You know, kind of like a fairy godmother? Or father? I had one named Jules once, and I thought he’d come back. But maybe you were sent…” Georgie trailed off, realising as she spoke that she sounded completely nuts.

“Never mind,” said Georgie. “What’s on TV?”

Agnes shrugged. “News,” she said. “Not much news on news.”

Georgie turned up the TV. An overly tanned man with blinding white teeth and what looked like plastic snap-on hair said: “ And in other news, the American Museum of Natural History reported the theft of the remains of a colossal cephalopod. Try to say that ten times fast. Heh. Ahem. Apparently, a scientist was working on them in his lab, turned his back, and the remains disappeared. The cephalopod, a giant octopus, was the largest specimen scientists had ever discovered. It is estimated that the octopus might have weighed more than a hundred kilos when alive and had limbs more than six metres long. Whoa! Wouldn’t want to meet that in a dark alley, ay, Bob? Heh .”

“This guy is stupid,” said Georgie.

Agnes grunted. “He should eat horseradish.”

“ Here’s our entertainment reporter, Katie Kepley . Katie? ”

“ Thanks, Mojo. Well, here’s the question that’s on everyone’s mind: Is Bug Grabowski bugging out? ’”

“Bug?” said Georgie. “What’s wrong with Bug?”

“ It appears that Sylvester ‘Bug’ Grabowski had a mental breakdown and threw himself into the East River at a photo shoot this morning. Though he claims some sort of sea monster pulled him into the water, renowned fashion and advertising photographer Raphael Tatou disputes the story. ‘There was no sea monster,’ said Mr Tatou. ‘Only a very difficult child playing games and wasting everyone’s time. Or maybe he was having an attack of nerves, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m a professional, and I want to work with professionals .’”

Pictures of a wet and dishevelled Bug flashed on the screen. “ Hey! ” said Mojo the news reporter. “ Maybe it’s the giant octopus .” Katie Kepley giggled her signature giggle.

Agnes tsked and waved her knife. “Too much funny stuff for horseradish. Need something else.”

“What? Like pierogi?”

“No,” Agnes said. She thrust the handle of the knife at Georgie. “Chop. I be back.”

Agnes swept out of the kitchen. Georgie sliced potatoes until Agnes returned. Carrying a birdcage. With a bird in it. Noodle stopped batting the bit of sausage around the floor and stared at the cage.

“What’s that?” Georgie asked.

“Elephant,” said Agnes. “See? You not only kidding person.”

“What am I going to do with a bird? Noodle will eat him.”

“Bird is not for cat or for you,” Agnes said. “Bird is for Bug. You bring.”

Georgie looked at the TV screen, at the pictures of Bug, drenched and bedraggled and sad. She thought of the last time she saw Bug, how awkward she felt. “I don’t want to see Bug,” she said.

“Too bad,” said Agnes. “He wants to see you.”

“He does?” Georgie peered in at the bird. “Does it have a name?”

Agnes reached into her pocket and pulled out some sort of official-looking certificate. She handed this to Georgie.

“‘Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration, CD, Number Fourteen,’” Georgie read.