Laura Ruby - The Boy Who Could Fly

“You know the answer to that.” The Professor looked to his right, where a rusted grate sealed off another tunnel. “Can you open it?”

No , The Hand replied. But the budgie can get through the openings in the grate. And so can the cats. The tunnel goes all the way to the surface. They’ll be fine .

The Professor nodded. He heard the distant roar of water rushing. He unlatched the door on the gilded birdcage. The budgie flew in circles around The Professor’s head. “Go,” he told the bird. “Find Gurl. Find Bug. Do what you can.”

The budgie, who spoke English, French, Italian, German, Polish, pig Latin, and could request a cab in Croatian, said, “Ood-gay uck-lay!” before darting through the grate. The army of cats followed suit, shrinking their seemingly boneless bodies through the slats, mewling their farewells as they did. Last to leave was the tiny white kitten, who licked The Professor’s face before disappearing.

The Professor watched them go. “Well,” he said to The Answer Hand. “It looks like it’s just you and me.”

Yep , signed The Answer Hand.

“That guy’s going to be really mad,” said The Professor mildly. Mr Fuss was still upside down in the tunnel, but now he was the one running. Underneath the man, a frothing wall of water surged towards The Professor.

He’s mad all right , signed The Answer Hand, just before the water hit them.

Mr Fuss punched open the manhole cover and climbed up on to the street, ignoring the cars that swerved to avoid him. As The Professor had predicted, Mr Fuss was mad. More than mad. He was irked, vexed, and most definitely put out. He had never thought that the crazy old man would just allow the tide to sweep him out to sea, and with him The Answer Hand, the location of the pen, and certain other items of interest. His employer would not be happy, that was certain. Even if it was an accident. (And it absolutely was an accident.)

Pushing through the crowds of would-be flyers – fools! – he strode across the street and found a bench. He sat, pulled his phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. “It’s me,” he said. “He’s gone.” Pause. “No! High tide rolled in and took The Professor with it.” Another long pause. “What do you mean, forget about it?” Mr Fuss’s eyes widened. “What about the pen?” His fingers scratched at the wood of the bench, dragging up paint and slivers of wood. “Yes, sir, but what if the pen isn’t at The Professor’s apartment? What if he gave it to someone else to hold for him? What if he’s invented other things? There’s no telling how much chaos—” The splinters of wood bit into the tips of Mr Fuss’s fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I know there are plenty of other things to do, but-”

He rifled through his pockets with his free hand and found his day planner, in which several newspaper articles were clipped. These he unfolded. “There were two children he spent some time with several months ago. Maybe he told them something. Maybe—” He made a fist and pounded the seat of the bench, but didn’t change his tone. “Yes, I understand. I won’t approach the children.” He shook his head no while saying, “Yes, I will move on to the next item on my list. I will not jeopardise my employment. I won’t—” He looked at the phone. His employer had hung up. Again.

Mr Fuss squeezed the phone so hard that he crushed the metal. Then he tossed the phone over his shoulder. His employer was losing his touch. How were they supposed to keep control of this city if there was no follow-up? No follow through?

No , thought Mr Fuss. This would not do at all. If his employer was not willing to step up to the plate, then Mr Fuss would have to take matters into his own hands. And he wouldn’t have to jeopardise his employment, either. As a matter of fact, if Mr Fuss were to find the pen on his own, he was certain that he would be compensated handsomely. Perhaps he’d even take his employer’s job.

A small, unpleasant smile played at Mr Fuss’s lips as he consulted his notes and the newspaper clippings. The girl was living with her ludicrously wealthy parents now, and the boy was starring in television adverts. Wasn’t that special? There was a chance that one or the other had information about The Professor and his various inventions and could be convinced to give that information up. It was a small chance, but it was one that must be taken.

But the children would be difficult to get to. Freelancers, unfortunately, would have to be hired. Mr Fuss could not afford to be associated with the plan until the mission was completed.

Mr Fuss refolded the articles and clipped them into the planner. The planner then went back into the coat pocket. Suddenly, Mr Fuss was very tired. And in addition to formulating some sort of plan to find the pen, he still had four other unfinished tasks on his list for today. Ah well. He could go get himself a “magic” pretzel first. And he would take the subway uptown. Unlike most people who lived in the city, Mr Fuss enjoyed the subway. It was quiet and gloomy and most of the idiots who thought they could fly didn’t bother with it. He didn’t even mind the alligators. Sweet, really, when you got to know them. Mr Fuss took a moment to admire his own alligator-skin boots.

Mr Fuss stood up from the bench, walked over to the Bleecker Street subway station and trudged down the steps.

There, at the bottom of the steps, was a leather-clad, Mohawk-haired, combat boot–wearing Punk spray-painting a message on the wall: SID WAS HERE. Next to this, the Punk had painted something that looked like a beetle or maybe a happy face with a birthday hat. It was difficult to tell. Still, the Punk was concentrating on this bit of nonsense as if it were the finest work of art that had ever been painted.

Hmmm , thought Mr Fuss. This could work .

After about ten minutes, the Punk noticed Mr Fuss. “Whatcha lookin’ at?” he snarled, his wolfish eyes black as, er, black.

Mr Fuss smiled politely. “You’re quite the artist.”

The Punk blinked. “Not that anyone appreciates it.”

“Oh,” said Mr Fuss, “I am a great appreciator of art like yours. Outsider art – art produced by those people outside the traditional art establishment.”

“I’m not in any tradition ,” the Punk barked. “I’m not in any establishment .”

“Of course you’re not,” said Mr Fuss smoothly. “You know, I believe you could make a lot of money. If you knew the right people.”

“I could?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

The Punk set his spray can on the ground. “Are you the right people?”

Mr Fuss smiled. “I am exactly the right people.”

Chapter 1

Her given name was Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington, and she was, literally, The Richest Girl in the Universe. Most people would find this to be a pleasant situation involving lots of shopping and diamonds and yachting around the Mediterranean, but not Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington. She didn’t care much about having more money than everyone else.

But other people cared.

A lot.

People like Roma Radisson.

Roma Radisson was officially The Second-richest Girl in the Universe. And she was not happy about it. Roma was doing her very best to make sure that everybody, especially Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington, knew it.

“I hope you all found the dinosaurs as fascinating as I did! Next up is the Hall of Primitive Mammals,” said Ms Storia as she led the girls of the Prince School through the American Museum of Natural History.

“ Primitive Mammals,” Roma repeated. “Well, Georgetta Bloomington should be right at home.”