It was the shock of seeing the headline that did it. “Puppet Prodigy Disappears.”
I stopped crying. I stopped patting. I just stared at the paper.
It was over. The cops were probably looking for me. They probably thought I stole Bitsie, and no matter what I said they’d never believe the real story. The word “hopeless” popped into my head again. Several times.
I made myself move. I took out Kathleen’s cell phone. I was going to call the police. Tell them to pick me up at the next stop. I knew I’d be in big trouble, but at least I’d get something to eat.
The only problem was that the cops would call my parents and then they’d be really worried and probably get upset with Kathleen for not taking better care of me, and then Kathleen would probably fire Zola for not putting Bitsie away herself—and in the end, Bitsie would still have to work at a job he hated.
I realized that turning myself in might be the right thing to do, but no one would be happy if I did it. No one.
Not a soul.
I looked out the window. It was dark. I couldn’t see very much. I just kept thinking, No one would be happy if I did.
I decided not to call the police. I decided to fix this mess.
I didn’t know how, but I was going to try. If it didn’t work, they could arrest me then.
For a long time there was just a whole bunch of stupid ideas banging around in my brain like bumper cars. A lot of them started with “I wish everything could just be…!” and a lot of others started with “It’s not fair!”
I probably did an hour of that before I had a plan. I realized there were three things I had to do. Quit wasting time wishing everything was going to be perfect again. Quit wasting time thinking everything was a complete disaster. And find out what else it said in the newspaper about me.
It took a while to make out the rest of the article because I had to read it upside down, but basically it was all about Bitsie. (“Don’t let the frumpy glasses and the little-girl braids fool you. This puppet is the hottest comedy act to hit the streets of Toronto since Jim Carrey was a rubber-faced boy.”)
There was also some stuff about my wicked stepfather. Police were apparently trying to “trace the story.”
The photo was blurry and only showed my back because I was running away, the description of Bitsie was wrong and nobody could remember what I looked like. I was insulted, of course,69 but relieved.
So it wasn’t a complete disaster. No one would be able to recognize us.70
That was fine, but there was still the problem of Bitsie’s nose.
It was 11:30 Saturday night. Bitsie had to be back in the studio with a beak by 7 a.m. Monday. That gave me thirty-one and a half hours to fix his face. I thought maybe if I phoned Laird at The Puppet Plantation he’d be able to do something for us.
I explained the situation to Bitsie.
He stopped hugging me and said, “I’m never going back to that studio and you can’t make me!”
He was right. I couldn’t. Not after all we’d been through.
69 Nobody noticed my green eyes? Or my height? Or even my T-shirt? Kathleen spent $48 for that T-shirt. You’d think someone would have noticed it.
70 I hoped.