For Steve, for making order out of chaos.

- Laura

“I am always at a loss to know how much to believe of my own stories.”

Washington Irving, from Tales of a Traveller, 1824

Contents

Title Page Dedication Mr Fuss Makes A Fuss Chapter One: The Saddest Little Rich Girl In The Universe Chapter Two: Eight Arms To Hold You Chapter Three: Pinkwater’S Momentary Lapse Of Concentration Chapter Four: Bad Chapter Five: Punk Rock Chapter Six: Patience And Fortitude Chapter Seven: The It Club Chapter Eight: Good Dog Chapter Nine: How Much Is That Demon In The Window? Chapter Ten: Mega Megatherium Chapter Eleven: Hero Chapter Twelve: Maybe It’S The Fangs Chapter Thirteen: Old Crow Chapter Fourteen: Mandelbrot Chapter Fifteen: Running Amuck Chapter Sixteen: The Queen Says “Stupid!” Chapter Seventeen: Hitting The Books Chapter Eighteen: Woof Chapter Nineteen: Ok, Potato Chapter Twenty: Hello, Hewitt Chapter Twenty One: The Book Of The Undead Chapter Twenty Two: Like You, Like You Chapter Twenty Three: Art Appreciation Chapter Twenty Four: Hangman Chapter Twenty Five: The Temple Of Dendur Chapter Twenty Six: Goddess Worship Chapter Twenty Seven: Chaos Fussy Also By Laura Ruby Copyright About the Publisher

The Chapter Before the First

Mr Fuss Makes a Fuss

He was too old for this, far too old. The storm drain was cold and damp and smelled of mildew. A thin trickle of water that wended its way down the concrete tunnel splashed each time he planted one of his feet. At first, he’d tried flying, but found it too exhausting to do for very long. Instead, he’d settled for this ungainly shuffle-run. The floor was slippery and he’d already fallen once, his knee bleeding through a tear in one trouser leg. (Lord, how he hated wearing trousers.)

Still, he struggled on. In one arm, he held what looked like a human hand mounted on a black marble base; in the other, a tiny gilded birdcage in which a blue budgie twittered and sang. Various other items bulged in the pockets of his jacket. A white kitten popped her head from his breast pocket, saw where she was, squeaked, and pulled her head back in.

Where are we going? The Answer Hand said, using sign language.

The Professor grunted. “I hate it when you ask questions you know the answers to.”

The cats aren’t happy.

Behind The Professor, more than a hundred cats hopped daintily around the trickle of water and wrinkled their noses at the mouldy smell.

“Are cats ever happy?”

You’d be surprised, said The Answer Hand. Sun spots on carpets make them happy. A good long nap. Chewing on the houseplants. Sitting on the laps of people who can’t stand them. The Answer Hand pointed accusingly with its index finger before beginning again: Cats don’t like wet things. They don’t like stinky things. The cats, The Hand said, are very annoyed.

The Professor glanced back and had to agree, though he would never say so. “I thought you weren’t supposed to give any answers unless I asked you a specific question?”

You asked if cats were ever happy and I told you. As for the rest, maybe I’m getting tired of waiting to be asked.

“Perfect,” The Professor replied. “That’s just what I need.”

What you need is to move faster.

“You are so helpful. Where’s the man now?”

He’s still a few kilometres back, The Answer Hand signed. But gaining. He dislikes you intensely.

“I figured that out myself.”

Amazing! Well, that’s something to celebrate. Which we could do if we were back at home instead of running through the bowels of the city because we lost the most powerful object we’d ever invented.

“Who’s this ‘we’ that you’re talking about? I invented the pen.”

And then you lost it. And that’s not the only thing you lost. I wouldn’t be so proud of myself if I were you.

“I’m not proud of myself,” The Professor snapped.

Also something to celebrate, signed The Answer Hand. The Professor was astonished that something that didn’t even have its own face could achieve such magnificent sarcasm.

“At least we know the crows have the pen,” said The Professor.

I told you who had the pen. But that’s not going to help much if we can’t get to them before they do something stupid. You know how they are about shiny things. I think you need to reconsider my plan.

“It’s too complicated. It will never work. Besides, you also told me that the book is in the library. It’s safe.”

Is it? said The Hand.

“Of course it is,” The Professor huffed. “Nobody can awaken the book unless they use the pen, and then only if they write precisely the correct thing. Only if the pen wants it to happen. And the odds of that are—”

Fifteen trillion to one, The Hand said.

“See? Impossible.”

For once, The Answer Hand didn’t answer. Thoughtfully, it rubbed its thumb and middle finger together. Then: In this city, nothing is impossible. For example, take a look behind you. The Professor turned to see a large dark figure moving obscenely fast through the tunnel. The figure wasn’t flying. He was walking briskly on the side of the tunnel, his body perfectly parallel to the wet floor. As The Professor watched, the figure strode around to the top of the tunnel, so that he was walking upside down.

How does he keep his trench coat from flopping around his ears? The Answer Hand asked.

“I thought you knew the answer to everything,” The Professor said.

I don’t know the answer to that.

“You’re scaring me,” said The Professor.

It’s about time.

The budgie stopped twittering. Some of the cats began to growl.

“Is he afraid of cats?” The Professor asked hopefully.

No, signed The Answer Hand. Not even a little.

“Darn,” whispered The Professor.

Things were getting out of control, thought Mr Fuss. And Mr Fuss didn’t like when things were out of control. What made Mr Fuss fussy: messes, troubles, unruliness, vexation or chaos.

In short, Mr Fuss didn’t like fuss.

Odd, then, that he had chosen to live and work in this vast and sparkling city, this city at the centre of the universe, the city that was the very definition of messes, troubles, unruliness, vexation, and chaos. Odder still that it was his job to tidy things up.

What we do for money, thought Mr Fuss.

He could see the little man with his ridiculous green hair and his pathetic army of felines up ahead. Good. One thing he could cross off his list for the day. As Mr Fuss walked, he pulled his day planner and a tiny pencil from his pocket. He read through his list:

1 Bull in china shop.

2 Runaway carousel horses.

3 “Magic” pretzels for sale on the corner of Sixth and Thirty-third (if you ate one, you could understand any language spoken to you, though effects were temporary).

4 Fortune-teller on Upper East Side telling actual fortunes.

5 The Professor.

Mr Fuss put a check mark next to this last line and tucked the day planner and pencil back in his pocket.

The Professor started to run, if you could call the awkward hobbling of an ancient man running. Really. Such a waste of time and effort. Where was the man going to go? This storm drain went on for kilometres. Plus, high tide was coming. Any minute now The Professor and his nasty little menagerie would be washed out to sea. If it had been up to Mr Fuss, that’s exactly what he’d want to happen, too, a tidy ending to an untidy person. But his employer had other ideas.

Mr Fuss’s phone rang. Sighing, Mr Fuss flipped it open. “Fuss here,” he said. “Yes, I have him. Well, nearly. He’s about fifty metres ahead of me. I won’t lose him.” There was a pause and Mr Fuss rolled his queer, amber-coloured eyes. “Of course I won’t hurt the man. Why would I hurt the man?” Another pause. “But that was an accident.” More eye rolling. “And that was an accident too. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely an accident, but… Yes, yes. I promise, no more accidents. Yes, sir, we are clear. Clear as glass. Clear as water. Clear as air. Clear as….” He looked at the phone, frowning. His employer had hung up.

That was another thing about this city that Mr Fuss couldn’t stand: everyone was so unspeakably rude.

The Professor had sped up a bit, the awkward hobbling now a sort of crazed shambling.

Funny that he still gets reception even seventy floors below ground, signed The Answer Hand.

“Yes,” said The Professor. “Funny.”

Almost high tide, said The Answer Hand. What are you going to do?

“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

The Saddest Little Rich Girl in the Universe

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.”

As the other girls snickered, Georgetta, or Georgie, as her parents called her, flushed angrily and looked down at the floor. She had been at the Prince School for just three weeks, but she had already spent many days flushing angrily and staring at the floors. And now here she was, on her very first school trip, counting dots in the tiles while she tried to follow her parents’ advice. Just ignore it. But just ignoring it wasn’t going so well.

“I hear that those ancient mammals were giants, too,” Roma said. “Maybe there’s a giant monkey in there. Maybe it’s your long-lost aunt.”

You’re the monkey, thought Georgie. Except that was too stupid to say. Also, an insult to monkeys. Dunkleosteus, a vicious sea predator with jaws so sharp they could cut through bone – now that was more like Roma. Georgie almost said so, but she knew that just saying the word Dunkleosteus would get her labelled the worst sort of egghead-nerd-freak. At the Prince School, it was not cool to know things.

“That’s enough, Roma,” said Ms Storia, as if that was going to stop Roma. Roma had been keeping up a steady stream of insults since they came to the museum. Georgie was related to the walrus. Georgie was related to the squid (which Roma had wrongly called an octopus. Georgie made the mistake of pointing out the obvious differences between a squid and an octopus, something that Roma said only proved her point).

But this time Roma shrugged and flounced into the Hall of Primitive Mammals, her fire-red hair a beacon for the others. Wherever Roma went, the other girls of the Prince School quickly followed. The only one who didn’t was the senior girl acting as a chaperone, who seemed to prefer the long-dead animals on display to the pack of princesses she was supposed to be chaperoning.

Georgie tried to hide in the middle of the pack, tuning out Ms Storia’s talk about how the platypus had so many primitive features it was called a “living fossil” and wasn’t that just fascinating? Georgie wished she were back at home with her parents, discussing their plans for the day, the way they had all winter and into the spring. Some days, they went to one of the city’s many museums. Most days, they went to the library and picked out books for Georgie to read. Even though The Richest Girl in the Universe could have purchased every book in the city and still have enough left over to buy a few planets, Georgie thought it was lovely to be able to borrow any book you wanted, and then bring it back and exchange it for another.

Before you think Georgie a skull short of a full skeleton, you must understand that there were very good reasons for Georgie’s lack of interest in the truly mind-boggling amount of money she had. You see, Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington wasn’t always The Richest Girl in the Universe. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t always known as Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington. Just six months before, Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington was a girl named Gurl who lived in a miserable orphanage. There, she spent much of her time daydreaming about a happy life, a real life, without ever expecting to live one. But reality turned out to be more mind-boggling than any daydream. Half a year ago, she learned a lot of things about her life, among them:

1 That she had been kidnapped by the gangster Sweetcheeks Grabowski when she was just a baby.

2 That she was subsequently lost by the gangster Sweetcheeks Grabowski because of a special power she had, the power to turn herself invisible.

3 That she was found by a homeless woman and given to an orphanage called Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless.

4 That Georgie escaped Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless with the help of her good friend Bug, who turned out to be none other than the son of the gangster Sweetcheeks Grabowski.

5 That her real parents were The Richest Couple in the Universe. And finally:

6 That this was an awful lot for a person to take in and still remain sane.

But Georgie was doing her best to adjust to her new life as well as she could, and that included trying to ignore the snotty second-, third-and fourth-richest girls in the universe and paying attention on school trips. Up ahead, Ms Storia was yammering enthusiastically about the development of marsupials. At least that was better than the teachers at Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless. The only animals they ever wanted to talk about were the ones that could fly.

“Next up,” Ms Storia said, “is the Hall of Flight! We’ll see birds, of course, but also flying squirrels and insects! And we’ll see how scientists are studying the evolution of human flight! Isn’t that fascinating?”

Sigh.

“We are going to learn so many important things!”

Uh-huh, thought Georgie. The most important thing that Georgie had learned in the last six months was the fact that money does not buy happiness. Because as happy as Georgie was with her parents, there were many other things that made Georgie unhappy.

“Ow!” said Bethany Tiffany when Georgie accidentally crashed into her.

“Sorry,” Georgie muttered.

“That is the third time you’ve bumped into me!” Bethany said, rubbing her elbow as if Georgie had hit it with a hammer.

“I said sorry.”

“You’re always bumping into people and you’re always sorry.”

Georgie clenched her teeth to refrain from saying something rude about Bethany’s tiara. Georgie’d had a growth spurt that had happened overnight and her body wasn’t her own any more. The doctor said it was from good nutrition and seemed pleased by this turn of events. Georgie, whose joints ached and whose feet grew so fast that her parents couldn’t keep her in shoes, wasn’t as pleased. She felt like a marionette, all arms and legs jangling and none of them ever under her control.

This wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t a leadfoot – a person who couldn’t fly at all. Apparently, you can have more money than everyone in the universe put together, but if you can’t fly even a smidge, well, then you might as well be living in Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless, eating lard on toast and getting pounded by a girl called Digger (who got her name because she picked her nose). And it didn’t matter that Georgie had a special power all her own. The fact that she could turn herself invisible – that she was the first person in more than a century who could – was the reason she had been kidnapped by Sweetcheeks Grabowski in the first place. Her parents didn’t want to take the risk ever again. They had made her promise that she wouldn’t use the power or even mention it. They had told her to trust no one with her secrets. And that meant that it was impossible to make a real friend.

“Fly, I mean, walk with us, Georgetta.”

The red-haired goddess herself, Roma Radisson, appeared next to Bethany Tiffany and London England. Georgie was immediately suspicious.

“Georgie,” Roma simpered. “We were just kidding before. We didn’t mean anything by it.”

Right, thought Georgie. Roma meant every spiteful word she said. But then, even with everything Georgie had been through, she was a deeply curious girl, the kind of girl who watches the world and misses nothing; she wanted to know why Roma was talking to her. And though she would never have admitted it, Georgie was also a hopeful girl. In the back of her mind, a little voice told her that maybe, maybe, if she were nice to Roma, if she could joke and laugh like the rest of the girls, Roma might be nice to her.

“Tell us,” Roma said. “Were you really kidnapped when you were a baby?”

Even though the story had been in the papers for months and months, everyone always asked the same questions over and over again, as if Georgie would suddenly answer them differently. “I was kidnapped by Sweetcheeks Grabowski. He’s in jail.”

“Amazing!” said London. “And is it true that no one could find you for years and years, and you lived in an orphanage practically your whole life?”

Georgie nodded. “I didn’t even know my real name.”

“Speaking of real,” London said, eyeing Georgie’s thick silver ponytail and fluffing her own blond curls with her fingers, “is that your real hair?”

“Whose hair would it be?” Georgie joked.

The other girls gave each other funny looks, and not the kind that indicated they thought Georgie’s joke was amusing. “Well, anyway,” said Roma, fanning the air. “I bet that orphanage was just so grimy and horrible. I did a TV special once where I had to meet some poor people. They sent me to a farm. I had to pick tomatoes. Awful! I had dirt under my fingernails and everything!”

“At least you could have eaten the tomatoes,” Georgie said. “At the orphanage, I was always hungry.” The girls gaped at her. So much for joking. Since Georgie was always trying not to reveal too much, she was prone to saying strange and unfunny things. (When you’ve spent years in an orphanage shunned by everyone but a cat, you’re prone to saying strange and unfunny things.) Georgie cleared her throat. “So, you were on TV? Was it, uh, cool?”

“She’s been on TV thousands of times,” Bethany said, eyes so green that Georgie wondered if Bethany had ordered them from a boutique. “You haven’t seen Roma’s advert for Cherry Bomb lip balm?”

“Or the video from her new CD, Don’t Get Up, Get Down?” said London.

“Or the ads for Jump Jeans?” said Roma.

“No,” said Georgie. “I don’t watch much TV.”

“What do you do?” Roma demanded.

“Well,” Georgie said. “I’ve been reading a lot.”

“Reading!” London said, her sky-blue eyes wide. “Why would you do that?”

Roma admired her French manicure, glancing askance at London. “Have you ever thought, London, that she’s been reading my memoir, Fabulousity?”

“Oh!” said London. “Right. That’s a different story.”

Georgie didn’t believe that fabulousity was an actual word, but she decided not to say so. Instead, she said another wrong thing. “I’ve been reading From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankweiler.”

“The mixed up what?” London said.

“That’s a kid’s book!” said Bethany in horror.

Georgie was tempted to point out that, technically, they were still considered kids, at least by adults too dim to know better, so a “kid” reading a kid’s book wasn’t so surprising, but somehow knew that wasn’t the right thing to say. She was also tempted to tell the girls how thrilling it was to pore over all the books she’d missed reading as a child, but then she knew that wasn’t the right thing to say either. Georgie lumbered along, trying to figure out something fabulous and witty to talk about. Mechanical monkeys stole my memory? No, too crazy. My cat Noodle is really unusual, even for a cat. She’s what they call a Riddle, see, and she can put you in a trance if she wants to… no, too childish. Um, there are giant rats with filed teeth living underground that call themselves The Sewer Rats of Satan. They’re obsessed with kittens. No, too bizarre.

“So tell us about Bug Grabowski,” Roma said, stopping to stare at yet another mounted skeleton of something or another. “Is he really Sweetcheeks’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Oooh! A gangster’s boy! How dangerous!” said London.

“Well,” said Georgie. “It was until they threw Sweetcheeks in jail. Now he’s just a regular boy.”

“Not such a regular boy,” said Bethany. “Is he your boyfriend?”

Georgie felt herself flush. “No, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Did you see that advert he did for Rocket Boards?” Bethany said. “Those muscles!”

Ever since Bug was declared the youngest winner of the citywide Flyfest competition, he’d been spending hours and hours every day working out with his personal trainer. Like Georgie, Bug had also grown some centimetres… wider. His biceps bulged and his stomach now looked as if someone had carved furrows in it. Georgie still hadn’t decided whether she liked it or not, but it was clear that Roma, London and Bethany did.

“He’s got the most interesting face,” Roma said, which, to Georgie, was a polite way of saying that Bug looked a lot like a bug. “If he’s not your boyfriend,” said Roma, “you won’t mind setting me up.”

“Setting you up?” said Georgie. “But…” She trailed off. She wanted to say that she never saw Bug herself, now that he was so famous. And then she wanted to say that Bug was just another reason she knew money couldn’t buy happiness. That the last time she did see him, months ago, things hadn’t gone so well. He couldn’t seem to remember her real name and kept calling her Gurl, and she didn’t know what to say about his father being… well, his father. She asked him if he wanted to go flying and he bragged about a late-night photo shoot he’d been on and how that had made him too tired to do anything. He asked her if she wanted to turn them both invisible and wander around the city, but she told him that her parents didn’t want her to do that any more. They’d sat at the Bloomingtons’ huge dining room table and pushed the chef’s food around their plates in silence.

But Georgie wouldn’t talk about any of this with Roma, London, and Bethany. And even if Georgie wanted to talk to them, they wouldn’t have given her the chance.

“What?” said Roma. “You don’t think I’m good enough for him?”

You’re not, Georgie thought. “No!” Georgie said. “It’s just…”

“It’s just what?” Roma snapped.

“Nothing,” Georgie said. “I meant—”

“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean that you’re all that, OK?” Roma said, her voice icy. “Anyway, you don’t have that much money.”

A hot flash of annoyance made Georgie blurt, “I’m The Richest Girl in the Universe.”

“Oh!” said Roma, lavender eyes blazing. “Well. You might have more money than most people, but you’ve never actually done anything.”

Georgie, who had rescued her cat from an army of giant rat men, unwillingly stolen for a matron with a plastic surgery obsession, endured a makeover by a magical Personal Assistant named Jules, defeated a cabal of Punks, escaped a narcissistic gangster (twice) who just happened to be a former child model, evaded a zipper-faced pterodactyl, and befriended a genius Professor with grass for hair, said, “I’ve done a lot of things!”

Roma put her hands on her hips. “Have you made your own CD? Written a book? Had your own line of deodorants?”

Georgie, who didn’t think that having your own line of deodorants was anything to boast about, said, “No, but—”

“You can’t even fly!” exclaimed Roma. “You’re a leadfoot! And I know you haven’t trademarked your own slogan. Have you ever heard anyone say: ‘That’s so fab’? Well, I own that.”

“Own what?”

“The words! I made up that phrase all by myself!”

“But anyone can say that!” Georgie protested. Oops. Roma got so red in the face that she resembled a Roma tomato.

“Fine,” she said, glaring at Georgie with her lavender eyes. “I only invited you to walk with us because I was trying to be nice. I won’t bother any more!” She and the three girls sped ahead of Georgie, Roma announcing: “Georgetta Bloomington in is love. With herself. So not fab™.” The three girls flew off as if Georgie was just another dead thing the museum had mounted on a stick.

Georgie looked down at the floor and resisted the urge to call them all a bunch of Dunkleosteuses. Of course, Roma and her friends had only wanted to grill her about Bug because Roma wanted a new boyfriend. Who knew that the Prince School would turn out to be so much like Hope House for the Homeless and Hopeless?

Georgie paused in front of the skeleton of a spiny anteater. Oh, get a grip, Gurl, she told herself. So the other girls at the Prince School didn’t like her. And so what that Bug was running around the city, starring in adverts for Foot Fetish foot powder and Cheeky Monkey shaving cream, even though he didn’t shave yet? So what that he hadn’t called her in weeks and that was only for five minutes to tell her about the film roles he’d been offered? So what that the only time she got to see him was in magazine pictures? He was busy, that’s all. That didn’t mean they weren’t friends any more.

Did it?

Georgie realised that she’d got pretty far behind the group and had to run quickly to catch up. And that, you see, was her biggest mistake. When one has experienced a serious and dramatic growth spurt that has caused one’s feet and limbs to lengthen far beyond one’s brain’s ability to compensate, doing anything quickly is unwise. Georgie tripped over someone’s outstretched leg and crashed into an unfinished exhibit entitled “Mega Marsupials”. Georgie’s own mega-sized limbs took out the partially-assembled bones of a giant wombat, which then landed in a painful, thunderous heap on top of her. Georgie was dazed, but not nearly dazed enough to block out the loud, mocking laughter of the Prince Girls, Roma Radisson’s loudest of all.

Yes, her name was Georgetta Rose Aster Bloomington, and she was, literally, The Richest Girl in the Universe.

But all she wanted to do was disappear.

Chapter 2

Eight Arms to Hold You

“Good, good,” said the photographer. “Now hold that pose. Hold it, hold it, hoooooold it, just another minute.” The camera whirred and clicked.

Bug had been holding his arms over his head in a V – for victory! – for what seemed like hours now. Every muscle in his body ached, the tip of his nose itched, his feet were killing him, and he had spots burned into his retinas from the camera flashes. He never knew standing still could be such hard work.

It was a gorgeous April day – the sky a rich, robin’s-egg blue, the sea beyond the docks sparkling as if the surface were sprinkled with gems. A day perfect for flying. Bug was sure that Central Park was packed with people doing just that. The thought made him so wistful that he forgot to stand still; he looked up at the sky and sighed. Not because he wanted to fly, but because he didn’t want to. He didn’t know people could be this tired and live.

“That’s gorgeous,” said the photographer. “I love it! Now look towards the water; I need a profile shot. Come on, I need you to think regal, OK, Bug? You’re a duke! No, you’re a king! You’re the king of flyers!”

Bug rolled his over-large, buglike eyes, wondering how he could look like the king of flyers with both feet flat on the ground, but he turned his face to the sea anyway. He was being paid a lot of money to do this ad for Skreechers trainers, money that his agent, Harvey “Juju” Fink, said Bug could use. “What about all the money from all those other ads and posters and everything else?” Bug had asked. “What about the Cheeky Monkey campaign?” For that one, Bug had spent hours stuck in a hot bathroom with bitter-tasting shaving cream melting into his mouth. Ugh.

“What other adverts? Those little things? Pennies! Nickels! Dimes!” said Juju, who got his nickname because of his magical ability to promote athletes, and because all of his hair – including lashes and brows – had fallen out all at once on his twenty-fifth birthday. (There are two kinds of juju, superstitious people say. Good and bad. Juju seemed to have a little of both.)

“Skreechers trainer company is offering you your biggest contract yet,” Juju informed his youngest and most valuable client. “The biggest you could ever get, if you never win the Flyfest again.”

“What are you talking about?” Bug told him. “I’ll win Flyfest again. Wait and see. I’m going to win a whole bunch of Flyfests.”

“Of course you will, of course you will,” Juju said, his bald wrinkly head and naked eyelids making Bug think of a turtle in a suit. “But don’t you want to have another ten million in the bank for a rainy day? Just in case?”

So Bug had signed the papers. Here he was, posing on a dock at South Street Seaport in a pair of gold trainers called “Buggy Gs”, trainers the Skreechers people expected to sell all over the world. About thirty metres away, executives from the company watched the photo shoot, relaxing over lobster rolls and late afternoon cocktails, while Bug stood as still as possible and tried to look regal. Juju gave Bug the thumbs-up as he paced back and forth, barking into his mobile phone, and the photographer snapped, snapped, snapped his pictures, darting around Bug like a dragonfly.

It was all deeply boring.

Bug wondered what Gurl was doing. Probably hanging out with her rich friends from the rich school she went to. What was it called? The Princess Academy? Everyone that went there was loaded. Technically, Bug was loaded too, but he didn’t enjoy it the way other people seemed to. The only reason he was doing this whole endorsement thing was so that he didn’t have to touch his father’s money. He didn’t want to use a cent of that money – gangster money, hate money, blood money. Bug was not like his father at all. And he was going to prove it to the whole world. He would even prove it to Gurl and her parents, if he ever got a chance to see them. But Gurl was probably having a ball with all the rich girls. She wasn’t even calling herself Gurl any more; she was calling herself Georgie, a name that Bug still hadn’t got used to. He hadn’t seen Gurl – um, Georgie – in months, which made him feel guilty, but not too guilty, because Georgie didn’t seem to be trying too hard to see Bug. At first, it was because she finally found out who her parents were and she wanted to take the time to get to know them. (Bug understood that. He wasn’t an insect.) But then weeks went by, and then a month, and then the whole winter was gone. What was up with that? What was a person supposed to think?

Exactly what I am thinking, Bug thought. That Georgie had better things to do than hang out with the son of Sweetcheeks Grabowski, no matter how many stupid adverts that son had been in.

Bug heaved another sigh, trying to ignore the bright blue sky stretched overhead, trying to ignore his aching arms, trying to pretend he was back home in his apartment (but then, he didn’t want to be there either, because no one was there, and who wants to hang out all by yourself with no one to talk to, even if you don’t really want to talk, you just want to sleep).

Oh great, thought Bug, now my ankle itches. But this itch wasn’t really an itch. It was more like a gentle pressure, like a finger poking him. Bug looked down. There was something grey and slimy lying limply across his foot.

“What the…” said Bug. Was it a rope? Where did the rope come from? He tried to shake it off.

“Bug! What are you doing!” shrieked the photographer. “Stand still!”

“There’s a rope—” Bug began.

“Who cares?” the photographer shrieked again. “I’m shooting your face now. So stop frowning!”

Bug frowned even more deeply when the grey, slimy rope began to writhe, began to pluck at his shoelaces. He shook his foot again, this time more frantically.

“You’re ruining my shots!” the photographer wailed, turning round to look at Juju. “Juju! Tell your boy he’s ruining the shots!”

“Bug, baby!” Juju called. “Don’t ruin the man’s shots.” He gave the Skreechers execs a bright, toothy smile, waggling the skin where his brows would normally be. “These athletes. So twitchy. Can’t get ’em to stand still.”

One of the executives eyed him with eyes the colour and warmth of polar icecaps. “You better get this one to stand still. We’re paying you enough.”

But Bug was not standing still. He was staring down at the grey, slimy thing; he was trying to pull away from it.

It looked like a tentacle. Yes, it looked exactly like a tentacle. Suckers and everything.

And it was doing more than playing with his laces, it was curling around his foot, it was grabbing him by the foot, and it was dragging him towards the edge of the dock.

The photographer threw up his hands and whirled in a dramatic circle. “How am I supposed to work like this? I’m a professional! I want to work with professionals!”

Juju covered the mouthpiece of his phone, not even looking in Bug’s direction. “Bug!” he yelled. “Quit fooling around!”

Bug looked up, a wild and not very regal expression on his face. “I’m not fooling around. Something’s got me, something—”

His last words were cut off as the rope that was truly a tentacle jerked Bug right off the dock. He barely had a second to register that he was in the water before the tentacle was pulling him under the water, into the greyish murk, deeper and deeper. Bug flailed wildly and his lungs burned. His mind screamed silent, hysterical things like WHAT IS IT? and WHAT’S GOT ME? and I’M IN THE WATER!!! I CAN’T FLY AWAY IN THE WATER!!! Whatever held his ankle had him in an iron grip as it dragged him down, down, down.

And then, suddenly, it stopped.

Bug had the sensation of dozens of questing fingers running over his face, but he didn’t dare open his eyes for fear that he’d see a monster there, a monster with arms for legs and teeth for eyes and hooks for teeth and razors where its lips should be. His mind screamed more hysterical things, but these things weren’t words, they were just sounds, just bright bursts in his head, as the arms or legs or suckers of the razor-lipped, hook-toothed thing prodded him like a doctor feeling for swollen glands.

And then, just like that, the thing let him go.

His lungs close to popping, Bug kicked away from the monster and swam up towards the surface of the water. When he got his first lungful of oxygen, he launched his body from the murk like a rocket. Bug hovered in the air a moment before collapsing face-down on to the dock.

“Ow,” he said, and coughed.

“Bug,” said a stern voice.

Bug flipped to his back, still coughing.

“Bug!”

“What?” Bug managed to say. He opened his eyes, which had been squeezed shut, to see a great many very angry people glaring down at him.

Juju’s wrinkled turtle head was even more wrinkled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What?” Bug gasped. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean?” Juju said. “If you wanted to go swimming, we could have gone after the photo shoot.”

“Something pulled me into the water!”

The Skreecher execs shook their heads. “Mr Fink,” said the one with the polar-ice eyes, “we don’t appreciate these sorts of displays.”

“Well, neither do I,” bellowed Juju. “And I assure you it will never happen again. Will it, Bug?”

Bug was astonished. “Didn’t you see?” he said, coughing up more brackish water. “Didn’t you see the tentacle grab me?”

“What are you talking about?” said Juju. “What tentacle? You tripped over a rope.”

Bug squinted, focused in on the photographer. “Didn’t you catch it with the camera?”

“Catch what?” shrieked the photographer. “Who could catch anything with you shaking and dancing around like that?”

Another of the Skreecher execs shook his head. “Maybe we made a mistake hiring someone so young. They can never control themselves.”

“We could still cancel the contract, remember? We’ve got that ‘bad behaviour’ clause,” said Polar Ice Eyes. “I’ll talk to the boss.” He whipped around. “Darn it! Paparazzi!”

Everyone turned to see a small army of new photographers buzzing around like mosquitoes. “Hey, Bug! Look over here!”

“Don’t look!” screeched the Skreecher execs. But it was too late. Bug looked, the photographers snapped, and the execs freaked.

But Juju managed to work his juju. He convinced the Skreecher execs that Bug’s bad boy persona would only bring more street cred to the Skreecher brand.

“What do you mean, bad boy persona?” said Bug. “I don’t have a bad boy persona. I don’t even know what a persona is!”

“Sure you do,” said Juju, giving Bug a wink.

Mr Ice Eyes nodded. “I see what you mean. Skreechers are hip. They’re tough. They’re gritty. They’re mad hot.”

Mad hot? Bug wondered if the guy had eaten some bad clams.

Juju and the Skreecher execs were so excited about their trainers’ new street cred that they forgot all about Bug. He was left to dry alone on the dock like a fish at a seafood market. Even the paparazzi had got bored and moved off in search of other famous people doing humiliating things.

No one else had seen a tentacle; no one believed that there was a tentacle. After all that shrieking and lecturing, Bug was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t got his foot tangled in some rope and fallen into the water. It was possible. The photo shoot had gone on for hours; he was exhausted and distracted; he’d been holding his arms over his head for so long that perhaps not enough blood was going to his brain. Maybe he had got confused.

He should have taken the Bloomingtons’ offer, he realised. Right after Flyfest, they’d asked him to move in with them for a while, just till he got on his feet. But he’d said no. He’d said he wanted to do things on his own. He’d just got Juju appointed his agent and legal guardian, and he said he’d be fine.

Sure. Right. Fine. He was so fine he was conjuring up imaginary tentacles and flinging himself off docks. He could hear his father laughing now. You’re less than nothing, Sylvester. You’re just less, how about that?

Bug sat up. The water lapped gently, laughing at him. Nope. No razor-lipped monsters lurking there.

Geez, what a spaz he was. He made a fist and punched the dock.

Wham!

A strange sucking noise and a briny sort of smell made him glance towards the water.

A tentacle was patting the dock. Patting the dock as if it were looking for something.

Looking for him?

Bug scrambled backwards on all fours as another tentacle flopped on to the dock, then another, and another. As Bug watched in horror, two huge, dark eyes peeked over the surface of the dock. Then the tentacles curled themselves around the wooden columns all around the dock, and the biggest octopus Bug had ever seen – the biggest octopus Bug had ever imagined – hauled itself out of the water. Its skin was a mottled bluish-grey, with a craggy, rocklike texture that was all bumps and gnarls and knobs. So terrified that he forgot he could walk, run or fly, Bug scrabbled off the dock as fast as he could, not able to tear his eyes from the approaching monster. The octopus’s arms were at least six metres long and lined with rows of suckers the colour of teeth, while its weird, balloon-like mantle hung limply behind its eyes like an empty hood. The octopus used its insanely long tentacles to shimmy and curl and twirl itself across the surface of the dock to the street beyond. It paused as it passed Bug, blinking its large, unfathomable eyes.

Fish food, thought Bug. I’m fish food.

But the octopus wasn’t interested in Bug; it cycloned its rubbery limbs over to the table where the Skreecher execs had been enjoying a late lunch. The octopus snatched up big tentaclefuls of lobster rolls and shrimp cocktail and clams casino and shoved them underneath its head, where Bug knew its mouth was hidden, where its able-to-crush-shells-and-bone beak was neatly tucked. Bug glanced around, frantic to find a person, any other person, but this area had been closed off for the shoot and there was no one else to see what he was seeing.

The octopus ate all the food left on the table, right down to the lemon garnishes and the daffodil centrepieces. When it was satisfied, it turned on its coiling, muscular limbs and snaked its way back towards the dock. As it passed Bug, it paused again. The octopus reached out a single tentacle and, like a fond aunt, ruffled Bug’s hair. Then it was moving quickly past Bug, over the wooden dock. It slipped into the waves with the barest of splashes. When Bug could finally bring himself to the edge of the dock to look, the water murmured secretly to itself – as if there had never been anything there at all, and if there had, the sea wasn’t telling.

Chapter 3

Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration

“Are all you brats just going to stand there? Aren’t any of you going to see if she’s alive? Oh, never mind. Hello! Are you all right?”

Georgie opened one eye and peeked out through the pile of bones. It wasn’t Ms Storia. A stunningly beautiful girl with olive skin and white wrap on her head stood looking at her. Hewitt Elder, the senior chaperone.

Georgie tried to climb out of the pile. The tibia of the giant wombat rolled off her shoulder and landed on Hewitt’s foot.

“Sorry!” Georgie said.

A muscle in the girl’s cheek twitched, but otherwise she made no other movement. “Are you injured?” she said stiffly.

“Um…” Georgie flexed her arms and legs. “I don’t think so.”

“So nothing’s broken?”

Bethany Tiffany snickered. “Nothing except the entire exhibit,” she said.

Hewitt Elder ignored Bethany. “Next time, watch where you put your feet.” She glanced at Roma Radisson. “There are people in this world who enjoy tripping you up.”

“I’ll remember that,” Georgie said. The beautiful girl turned and walked away, moving so gracefully that she appeared to be flying, but she wasn’t. Georgie wished she could move like that. She wished she were small and graceful and beautiful enough to wear a wrap on her head instead of being huge and pale and clumsy enough to take out a mega marsupial.

Roma put her hands on her hips as she watched the beautiful girl walk away. “Who does she think she is?” But she didn’t say anything directly to Hewitt. Something about Hewitt cowed even Roma Radisson.

Ms Storia, who had been busy apologising to the museum employees because of her destructive student, marched to Georgie’s side. “Girls, the excitement is over now. Let’s get moving.” She hissed in Georgie’s ear, “Please be more careful next time!”

Georgie said nothing, the shame overwhelming her vocal cords. She waited till the last giggling, snickering, laughing Prince School girl passed her. Then, after ducking behind the nearest skeleton, she vanished.

Literally.

As soon as Georgie was invisible, relief flooded through her body. This way she could visit any exhibit she wanted without having Roma calling her a monkey or a marsupial or whatever else came into her vicious Dunkleosteus brain. And Ms Storia would be so busy being fascinated by all the sights in the Hall of Flight and so busy sharing that fascination with the girls of the Prince School, she’d never notice that Georgie was missing.

As she strolled the near-empty Advanced Mammals gallery, she did feel the merest, slightest twinge of guilt. Her parents had let her attend school on one condition: that she never use her power of invisibility in public. But, she told herself, this was an emergency. Her parents couldn’t expect that she wouldn’t use her power in an emergency. They wouldn’t want her to be humiliated by Roma Radisson, Walking Dunkleosteus. They wanted Georgie to be normal. They wanted Georgie to be happy.

And, looking at a skeleton of a sabre-toothed tiger, she was happy. There was something soothing about literally fading into the woodwork. No one to stare at her ridiculous mop of silver hair. No one to see her trip over her own feet. No one to ask her “How’s the weather up there?” and giggle as if that was the funniest thing anyone ever said. Nobody taking pictures of her when they thought she wasn’t looking because her parents happen to be The Richest Couple in the Universe. No one gaping—

—a little boy was gaping. But he couldn’t possibly be gaping at her, because she was invisible. And there was nothing else close but the sabre-toothed tiger. It’s OK, she thought, he’s just afraid of the tiger.

“Mummy?” said the boy in a quivering voice.

His mother, a largish woman in stretchy green trousers who was examining the skeleton of an ancient horse, said, “What, honey?”

“Mummy, look!” He tugged on her trouser leg. He had large brown eyes that seemed to grow larger by the second.

“What is it?”

“There’s a nose!”

“What did you say?” said his mother.

“There’s a nose floating in the air. Right there!”

“Oh my!” said the woman, clapping her own hand over her mouth in shock.

Oh no! thought Georgie, clapping a hand over her face.

Georgie fled the Advanced Mammals gallery, the woman’s shouts following her all the way down the stairs and through the Hall of North American Birds. She didn’t stop running until she reached the State Mammals gallery. Breathing heavily but trying not to, she lifted her hand and peered at her reflection in the glass of a display. There it was, as clear as the poor, sad stuffed bobcats behind the glass.

Quickly, she focused all her energies: I am the wall and the ground and the air I am the wall and the ground and the air I am the wall and the ground and the air… She looked into the glass again. Her nose was gone, just the way it was supposed to be.

What was that about? she wondered. Then again, she hadn’t disappeared in more than five months. And it’s not like anyone had ever explained invisibility. It’s not like there was anyone who could, except maybe The Professor, and she hadn’t seen him since Flyfest in November. She never understood how it worked, why her clothes disappeared with her, why objects or people she touched did too, but not, say, whole houses when she touched the walls. She’d brought these things up with her parents, but they never wanted to talk about it. They warned her against experimenting with it, as if the power of invisibility was some sort of weird itch one had to try not to scratch, like eczema or chicken pox.

She sighed and poked around the State Mammals Hall, which displayed the state’s most common mammals in dioramas. She studied the porcupines, hares, and shrews but swept right by the bats. (She heard enough about flying without having to see the bats.) She turned the corner to the next hall, where she caught her foot on a metal radiator, which might not have been a problem except that she was wearing open-toed sandals.

“OW!” she shrieked.

A family of four who had been waiting for their turn at the water fountain looked in her direction, then all around the hall. “Did you hear something?” the father said to the mother. “I thought I heard something.”

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.

Agnes nodded. “Purebred for bird show.” Deftly, she sliced the last potato and put the slices in a pot. “But bird not blue enough for show. Or something stupid like that. What I know?”

Footsteps echoed in the huge penthouse and Georgie’s mother, Bunny Bloomington came into the kitchen laden with bags. “Georgie! I thought I heard your voice,” she said. “What are you doing home so early? And when did we get a bird?”

“Wombat!” chirped Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration.

“What?” said Bunny.

“The wombat exhibit was, um, broken, so the tour was a little short. They sent us home. The bird must have heard me and Agnes talking about it. He’s for Bug. I’m going to bring it to him later.”

“That’s so thoughtful,” Bunny Bloomington said. “Well. It’s too bad that your very first school trip was cut short, honey.”

“Oh no. I wanted to come home.”

“Why?” said Bunny, instantly concerned. “Is anything wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?” When Georgie first came back to live with her parents, Bunny got more and more terrified she might lose Georgie again, that someone might kidnap her and take her away. After a while, she didn’t want to let Georgie out of her sight. Now it seemed that Bunny was calming down again, but she was still more nervous than the average parent of a thirteen-year-old. Which meant she was still very, very nervous.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mum,” said Georgie. “Everything’s great.”

Bunny unconsciously clutched at her heart. “Oh, I’m so glad. You know, I wasn’t sure about sending you to school. I would have been much more comfortable with a private tutor. I still would. But it does seem as if you’re having a wonderful time.” She studied Georgie’s face. “You are, aren’t you?”

Georgie forced herself to smile. “I am, Mum, I swear. If it was any more wonderful I would probably have to be hospitalised for over-joy.” She kept her lips peeled away from her teeth till her mum beamed back at her.

“I knew everyone would just love you. How could they not?”

After Bunny swept out of the room, Agnes shook her head. “Stop with that fake smiling. You’re giving me creeps.”

“You mean I’m giving you the creeps, Agnes.”

“Yes,” Agnes said. “Those too.” She thrust the cage at Georgie. “You bring Bug. He need friend.” Those sharp eyes appraised Georgie. “And so do you.”

Chapter 4

Bad

A few hours later, Georgie found herself nodding at Deter or Dexter or Derek the doorman and schlumping down the street carrying Pinkwater’s Momentary Whatever His Name Was in his tiny gold cage. Other people with birds stopped her every few metres to admire the budgie, ask his name, when she got it, etc. It was only after they’d been chatting for a few minutes that they noticed who they were talking to.

“My Lulabella is just four months old,” one man told her, holding out his arm so that Georgie could admire the scruffy little parrot perched there.

“She’s very pretty,” said Georgie.

“Don’t you just love birds?” the man said.

“Well, actually, this isn’t my bird. I’m bringing it to a friend. I have a cat.”

The man pulled his arm back in and stared at Georgie as if she’d just said, “I have a komodo dragon.”

“What in the world would you want a cat for?” he said. “Cats are the enemies of birds!”

“Cats are cute,” Georgie told him.

“Cute!” the man said. “Say, aren’t you Georgetta Bloomington?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And you like cats?”

“Yes, I do.”

He hurried away, his bird cawing, “Bad, bad, bad.”

“You hear that, Pinkwater?” Georgie said. “I’m bad.”

“Bad,” Pinkwater agreed.

Georgie switched the cage to the other hand. “And people want to know why I like cats.”

She kept walking, wishing that she was invisible again. But then, who knows if she would be able to do it right? Who knows if she’d leave something showing – a hand, a foot, or something totally bizarre like her rib cage or an eyeball? In the beginning, turning invisible was an accident, nothing she had to think about. And later, it always seemed to be something that she did when it was necessary to do, when her life or someone else’s might depend on it. When you’re being chased by a giant rat man with filed teeth or attacked by a bunch of Punks in the subway, you don’t have time to think, Hey, wow, I’m invisible, it feels so weird, I can’t see my hands and how will I reach that door handle, blah blah blah. When you’re being chased, there is no thinking, there is only doing.

But now when she was perfectly safe, when she had time to think and consider, she messed up. And the fact that every limb was about thirty centimetres longer than it used to be made it worse. A good day was a day she didn’t fall flat on her face.

It only took ten minutes for Georgie to reach Bug’s building. She followed a Mrs Hingis look-alike into the building. This old lady was juggling a pile of books and wearing a funny pink hat. Once inside the lift, the woman turned to Georgie.

“Do you like books? Or are you one of those young women who prefers to watch that insufferable celebrity nonsense on television? Or destroy your hearing by stuffing those little contraptions in your ears?”

“I like books,” Georgie said.

“Well,” said the woman. “Then you are an unusual young person. Perhaps you’d like to join our book group.” She handed the books back to Georgie so that she could open the suitcase-sized pocketbook again. She pulled out a flyer. “We meet on the third Thursday of every month.”

“Thanks,” Georgie said.

“But if you come, don’t expect to be reading any mysteries or romances or nonsense for babies.”

“OK.”

The woman grabbed for the pile in Georgie’s arms. “Books aren’t supposed to be fun.”

Georgie frowned. “They aren’t?”

The old woman sniffed and got off on the fifth floor.

As Georgie waited for the lift to get to the top floor, she got more and more nervous, though she wasn’t sure why. She was visiting a friend; people visited friends every day. But she didn’t feel right. She felt like disappearing. She told herself that she shouldn’t, that she would just get it wrong again, but she couldn’t seem to help it. By the time the doors opened, Georgie and the birdcage she held were invisible. She stepped out into the hallway and tripped as her foot caught the lip of the lift.

“Big feet!” chirped Pinkwater.

“Oh, shut up.”

From what Georgie remembered of their last conversation, Bug owned the whole floor. She wondered why he needed a whole floor. He was just one person. But maybe he had lots of friends now. Athlete friends, model friends, dancer friends, friends who all came to hang out at Bug’s enormous apartment. At the thought of this, she nearly turned around and left. But then the budgie chirped, “Agnes!”

Georgie scowled, but then walked to the end of the hallway towards a set of enormous double doors. She was about to set the cage down by the door when it flew open and Bug stomped out, carrying an armful of T-shirts and jeans.

“Ow!” Georgie yelled as he trod on her foot. Pinkwater zoomed around his cage, chirping furiously.

“What the heck?” said Bug. For a second, she just stared at him, knowing he couldn’t see her (at least, she hoped he couldn’t). He looked exactly the same but completely different. Bigger, a little taller, a lot stronger probably, but so worn around the edges that it could have been thirteen years rather than three months since they last saw each other.

“Gurl? Is that you?”

“Georgie,” she said, popping into view. “Who else would it be?”

“You got taller,” he said.

Georgie blushed, unconsciously slouching her shoulders. “So did you.”

Bug scowled as the bird raced around his cage. Georgie was surprised how much she missed that old scowl.

“Your bird’s a little hyper.”

“He’s not mine,” Georgie said. “He’s yours.”

“What do you mean?” said Bug.

“I mean, he’s a present. For you.”

“Oh. Well.” He looked at the budgie as if it were the last thing in the universe he needed. Georgie couldn’t believe Agnes had made her come here.

Bug shifted the pile of T-shirts in his arms. “Thanks. Um. You want to come in?”

“Sure,” said Georgie, certain she’d rather have gum surgery.

Bug led the way through the huge double doors into his apartment. Huge, with wide windows on two sides, it should have been bright and cheerful. Instead, the place had the look of a charity shop, packed with odd, unrelated items and not nearly enough actual furniture. A fine tapestry hung on a wall next to random posters of athletes. A giant stuffed gorilla sat in the corner of the living room. A suit of armour stood by the doors to the apartment. Georgie had heard that living alone made people weird, and this apartment was proof. She wondered where his agent, who was now his legal guardian, was. Bug always made it sound as if the guy was like a father to him.

“Sorry about the mess,” Bug said. “I was just going to do some laundry.” He dropped the clothes he’d been holding on to the ones strewn all over the floor. “There’s a chair around here somewhere.” He kicked through piles of junk to a lone chair set in front of a television the size of a cinema screen. “Here,” he said. “Sit down.”

“Thanks,” Georgie said.

Bug eyed Pinkwater’s cage. “I guess we can put that on the floor.” He set Pinkwater’s cage down. “Do you want something to drink? I’m not sure what I’ve got.”

“Anything is OK,” Georgie said.

He left, and Georgie could hear him banging around in the kitchen. “All I have is Kangaroo Kola.”

“That’s good,” said Georgie.

He came back with two cans, one for her and one for himself. “I did an ad for them,” he said. “They sent me a year’s supply.”

“Great,” said Georgie. She sipped her Kangaroo Kola. If you could fly, Kangaroo Kola could make you fly just a teeny bit higher (or so the advertisements claimed). Georgie supposed that was the only reason why people drank the stuff. It tasted like cough syrup.

“So,” Bug said. “Thanks again for the bird.”

“What’s a Wing without a pet bird, right?” She almost winced as she said this, it was so lame.

“Right,” said Bug. “Maybe I should let him out?”

Georgie shrugged. Bug crouched and opened the door to the cage. The budgie whirled around the room.

Bug said, “Does he have a name?”

“Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration, CD, Number Fourteen,” Georgie told him. “He’s a show bird. They all have names like that.” Abruptly, Pinkwater dive-bombed Georgie’s head, startling her so much that she spilled her Kangaroo Kola. She scrambled to her feet. “Oh no! I hope I didn’t get anything on your chair.”

“Nope. All over yourself, though.”

Plucking at the cold, wet patches on her thighs, she wanted to disappear again. She picked up one foot and shook it, spraying droplets of soda everywhere. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. All these companies are always sending me T-shirts and stuff that I never use. I’ll get you some.” His eyes brightened. “And you know I’m doing this big ad campaign for Skreechers, right? I’ve got a million pairs of Skreechers trainers. I’m sure I’ll have something that fits you.” He eyed her feet. “You look about the same size as me.”

He turned and walked to the bedroom while Georgie sat, blushing furiously. Great, she thought. She had feet the same size as a guy. Just what every girl dreams of. Maybe she’d grow a moustache, too. Yeah. That would be really cool.

She folded her arms and waited. It was so strange to be here, to see Bug in this big and messy place, like he was some little kid playing house. Which, she thought, he was. So many things here seemed familiar. Like the monkey in the corner. The suit of armour. The tapestry on the wall, just like Bug’s father had in his lair. She hugged herself even tighter.

Bug came out of the bedroom carrying jeans, a T-shirt, and a pair of trainers. “Here,” he said. “You can put these on in the bathroom.” He pointed. “Over there.”

“Thanks,” she said. She went to the bathroom and shut the door. She dropped the wet clothes to the floor and pulled on the dry ones. Thankfully, they were big enough to fit her. (It would have been horrible if the stuff had been too small.) Then she looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. The T-shirt said HOT STUFF in orange flames. She was hot stuff, all right. Her hair was in its customary thick ponytail, but random wisps stuck out all over, spraying sideways and tumbling down her shoulders and back. “Hi!” she said to the mirror. “I’m HOT STUFF!”

“What?” Bug called from outside the door. “Did you say something?”

“No!” Georgie said. And then, under her breath, “Just talking to myself like a complete lunatic.” She pulled out the ponytail and tried to comb her hair with her fingers as best she could, but it was no use. Her hair, like her body, was apparently intent on taking over the city.

Georgie threw open the bathroom door. “I have world domination hair,” she said irritably.

Bug frowned. “What?”

“Never mind,” Georgie said. She was going to sit in the chair, but Bug was sitting in it. She searched the room for another chair, but she didn’t see one. She settled for a coffee table shaped like a tree stump. Or maybe it was a tree stump, she didn’t know. Perching on the stump, she said, “Thanks for the stuff. I’ll give it back to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bug said.

Georgie frantically searched her feeble brain for something to say. “Do you know that pen that your… um… that Sweetcheeks wanted me to steal from my dad?”

“Yeah?”

“You won’t believe what it does.”

“Let me guess: writes?”

Georgie glanced up sharply, a little hurt that Bug sounded so sarcastic. “Yes, it writes. But it makes anything you write with it come true.”

Bug raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. But things come true only the way the pen wants them to come true.”

“No way.”

“That’s what The Professor told my dad. And that’s what my dad told me. That people wouldn’t even be able to fly if someone hadn’t written something about flying a long time ago.”

“I think I remember The Professor hinting around about that the first time we met him. Something about how people weren’t supposed to fly.”

“Yes,” Georgie said. “But whoever started it didn’t write, ‘I wish all people could fly’ or whatever, he wrote something else, something that had nothing to do with flying at all. The pen did whatever it wanted to do. And now, well… you know the rest.”

“Wow,” said Bug.

“Wow is right,” said Georgie. She waited for Bug to say something else, but he didn’t. “So, um, if you had that pen, what would you want to write with it?”

“What?” said Bug. “I don’t know.”

“Come on. You must want something. It’s a pen that makes dreams come true.” Yikes, she thought. She sounded like one of those chain e-mails people send to all their relatives. She was now giving herself the creeps.

“My dreams did come true,” Bug said, fidgeting. “I mean, I’m a Wing now, right? And in all these adverts. Did I tell you about the Skreecher campaign?”

So much for conversation. “Yeah, you did. Just before.”

“Oh.” He pulled the sleeves of his jumper over his hands. He tipped his head, as if he was considering something. “So, how do you like school?”

“OK,” said Georgie, too embarrassed to tell him about Roma Radisson. Too embarrassed to tell him that even though she might be The Richest Girl in the Universe, no one liked her any better for it.

“I’ve got tutors,” said Bug. “Too much work to do to go to school.”

“I don’t know that falling into the East River counts as work.” She hadn’t meant to say that, but out it popped. When your arms and legs and feet and hair are threatening to take over the world and you’re wearing a T-shirt that says HOT STUFF in orange flames, things that you don’t intend pop out.

“I didn’t fall,” Bug said. “Something pulled me into the water.”

“OK,” said Georgie. “Whatever you say.”

Bug’s cheeks got noticeably redder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Georgie said, backtracking. “I don’t know what happened. I heard about it on TV. I wasn’t there.”

“No, you weren’t there.” He muttered something under his breath, something that sounded like “You’re never there.”

“What?” Georgie said.

Bug shook his head, a lock of sandy-brown hair falling into his eyes. “Forget it.”

More silence. Pinkwater’s Momentary Lapse of Concentration seemed to feel the tension, seemed to want to fix it. He darted back and forth between Bug and Georgie, as if he were trying to stitch them together. “Hello!” he squeaked. “Hello, you person!” He alighted on Bug’s shoulder, and proceeded to bonk Bug in the cheek with the top of his little blue head. Bonk, bonk.

“I think he wants you to pet him,” said Georgie.

Bonk.

“Oh,” Bug said. He reached up and petted the bird.

“Purr,” the bird said.

“Once he stops dive-bombing, he’s OK,” Bug said.

“Purr,” said the bird.

Georgie watched Bug pet the bird. “I think he likes you.”

“I think he does too,” Bug said. “So where’s Noodle?”

“Home,” Georgie said. “Which is probably where I should be going.” She felt tired and she felt stupid and she missed Noodle and she missed Agnes and the edge of the tree stump was making her bum ache. Maybe, she thought, she was outgrowing more than clothes and shoes. Maybe she was outgrowing her friend, too. That thought made her achy right in the middle of her chest.

Bug looked down at the clothes spread across the floor like wads of seaweed left by a storm surge. “It’s OK. I’ve got lots to do anyway.”

He seemed so lonely that for a second Georgie almost changed her mind, almost said something crazy like “Hey, maybe we could go flying in the park. Maybe we could make ourselves invisible and sneak into the cinema.” But she didn’t say these things. What she said was: “I like your suit of armour.”

“Thanks,” Bug said. “I found it. Well, that’s not exactly true. There were these guys moving out a couple of floors down. I think they meant to take it with them, but they forgot it in the hallway.”

“So you stole it,” Georgie said.

“I didn’t steal it. They forgot it,” Bug said.

“You could have found them,” said Georgie.

“How would I do that?”

“You could have asked around for their new address.” She had no idea why she was saying this stuff. She didn’t care about the suit of armour. And for all she knew, those guys didn’t want it any more and left it on purpose. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. “You could have shipped it to them.”

“I said, they forgot it.”

“Fine,” said Georgie.

“Anyway, you should talk.”

“What?”

“You’ve stolen things before,” Bug said. “A lot of things.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” said Georgie, getting angry.

“No? There was Noodle. She was just wandering around, and you kept her. And you don’t seem to feel too bad about it. What’s so different?”

Georgie felt the rush of blood through her veins, as if all of sudden she had too much blood and not nearly enough vein. “You sound just like your father.”

Bug sounded like a robot when he said: “Get out.”

“Bug, I just meant—”

Bug flew forwards so fast that he blurred before her eyes, and Pinkwater exploded into the air in a burst of feathers. “Get out!”

Georgie jumped back, whipped round and charged towards the door. As she ran, she misjudged her footing, slamming into the suit of armour. It fell over like a stack of pots and pans. She opened the door, Pinkwater’s disapproving chirp following her out:

“Bad!”

Chapter 5

Punk Rock

Georgie sprinted nearly all the way home from Bug’s apartment, slowing only to catch her breath before she reached her building. She didn’t want anyone to think she’d been running from something. Because she wasn’t running. She’d just been in a hurry to get home, that’s all. Bug? Who’s Bug? Oh, that weird-looking guy in the Cheeky Monkey ads.

“Ha!”

Georgie focused in on the crow perched in a nearby tree. “What are you looking at?”

“Ha! Ha!” said the crow.

“Keep laughing, beak-face. I’m going upstairs to get my kitty.”

“Ha!”

Dexter the doorman was waiting at the entrance of the building. “Good afternoon, Miss Bloomington,” he said gravely. He said everything gravely. His grave manner went with the grey hair, the grey beard and the grey uniform.

“Good afternoon, Dexter.”

“It’s Deitrich, Miss.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Georgie. “Deitrich.”

“Are you all right?” Deitrich said. (Gravely.)

“Yes, why?”

Georgie was tall, but Deitrich was one of the few people who was much, much taller. He looked down at her, gravely, but kindly. “You seem sad.”

“Sad? No, I’m not sad. I’m absolutely fine. Great, even,” Georgie told him.

“Of course,” said Deitrich, opening the door so that she could enter the building, discreetly slipping her a tissue so that she could wipe her eyes and blow her nose before going up to the penthouse.

“Georgie? Is that you?” Bunny Bloomington drifted into the foyer. “You’re a little late.”

Georgie couldn’t imagine she’d been more than an hour, but she knew her mother. “I hope you didn’t worry.”

Bunny pressed a kiss to Georgie’s cheek. “I didn’t. At least, not that much. Well, a little bit. Some.” She looked at Georgie critically, as if seeing her for the first time. “Where did you get those clothes?”

Georgie had forgotten about the clothes. How could she forget about the clothes? And, duh! She’d left her own clothes at Bug’s! “I spilled some Kangaroo Kola on myself, so Bug gave me this stuff to wear.”

Georgie could see her mother working to take this information in. “Oh,” Bunny said. “Next time you’re on a long visit, could you give me a call, please? I’m not saying that I don’t trust you, please don’t think I don’t trust you, I know you’re thirteen, and—”

“I know, Mum,” Georgie said. “You’re right. I should have called.”

Bunny bit her lip. “You and Bug didn’t decide to go on any, um, outings, did you?” That was her mother’s word for invisible exploration. Outings. “Because I’m just not comfortable with that. That’s the very thing that got you kidnapped in the first place, and I’m so afraid that someone will see you popping in and out of sight and get ideas.”

“Mum, we didn’t go on any outings. We sat in his apartment for a while and I left.”

“His apartment,” Bunny said. “Was that man there? His guardian? What’s his name? Foo Foo?”

“Juju?”

“Yes, Voodoo. Was he there?”

Georgie got the idea that her mother would not be pleased to hear that she had spent some time with a boy alone in his bachelor pad. “Juju was there. He looks like a turtle.”

“Yes, well, it’s not his fault, is it?” Bunny said.

“Guess not.”

“So,” Bunny said. “How is Bug doing these days? I see him all over the television and in every magazine.”

“Bug’s a jerk,” said Georgie.

“What? Did you two have an argument?”

Georgie sighed. “Sort of. I don’t know.”

“Well, you are getting older. You’re changing. Becoming a beautiful young woman. Maybe,” Bunny said, “that’s confusing to your friend.”

Georgie sighed again. There was nothing beautiful about what she was becoming, she was sure of it. In the short time she had known her parents, she had grown to love them with all her heart. That didn’t mean she always understood everything they said to her. And it didn’t mean that they always understood everything she said to them.

“Maybe he’s confused because he didn’t know that a girl could actually get to be twenty metres tall,” Georgie said.

“Oh, honey,” Bunny told her, “there’s nothing wrong with being tall. It doesn’t mean boys won’t like you. Your Aunt Tallulah on your father’s side was very tall, and she had five husbands! Or was it six?”

“That’s something to look forward to,” said Georgie.

Bunny laughed. “Noodle missed you, you know. She’s been yelling at me for the last half hour. Sometimes I swear she’s trying to tell me something and if I listened hard enough, I’d understand.”

“Where is she?” Georgie said.

“In your room. The last time I checked, she was playing solitaire on the computer, but she might be napping. If people knew what that cat could do, everyone would want one.”

“I’m going to say hi to her,” said Georgie.

“Sure,” Bunny said. “I didn’t even ask you. How was the museum?”

“Filled with lots of stuffed dead things,” Georgie said.

“Just the way a museum should be,” her mother said. “Anyway, you can relax for a while. Maybe we can all watch a film after dinner. How does that sound?”

Her parents preferred films in black-and-white with people tap-dancing and twirling around in fedoras saying things like “swell” and “you don’t say?” but Georgie didn’t have the heart to tell her mum that the films all made her bored and sleepy. “That sounds great, Mum.”

Georgie went to her room, where she found Noodle sprawled across her bed. As soon as she walked in the door, the cat opened her eyes and began berating her with fierce yowls.

“I know, I know,” Georgie said. “Where was I all day long?”

“Yowl,” said Noodle.

“What was so important that I had to leave my favourite cat?”

“Yowl,” said Noodle.

“What’s my problem?”

“Yowl,” said Noodle.

“Why am I so boring? Why is Bug such a rock head? Why is my hair so weird? How come I’m built like a daddy longlegs?”

Noodle was silent, choosing to jump down from the bed and wind herself around Georgie’s legs until Georgie picked her up. “Why does everyone hate me, Noodle?” Georgie said again, her nose in Noodle’s fur. As usual, when she held Noodle, when she petted Noodle, a strange riddle came into her head: If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around, does it make a sound? If a tree falls, if a tree falls, if a tree falls…

The next thing she knew, her mother was calling her for dinner. She put Noodle back on the bed. Her head felt empty and clean and light, and she wasn’t quite so miserable.

“Thanks,” she said. She could have sworn Noodle nodded before curling up for yet another nap.

“How’s my best girl?” said Solomon Bloomington as Georgie came in to the dining room and kissed his cheek. It was what he always said.

“I’m your only girl,” Georgie replied. It was what she always said.

“Not such a girl any more,” he said. “A young woman!”

Georgie smiled, wishing that her parents would stop with the young woman thing. It made her tense. She’d barely had any time to be a girl with them. And now she had to hurry up and be a woman? No, thank you.

“Still a girl for a while,” Georgie said, and her father beamed.

“How was the school trip?” he wanted to know.

“OK,” she said.

“What did you learn?”

She shrugged.

Sol piled his plate with roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy and fluffy biscuits that Agnes had prepared. (Agnes didn’t believe in diets. Or cholesterol. Or vegetables.)

“You must have learned something,” Sol said. “A word in another language? The name of a former president? A major scientific discovery?”

“Let’s see,” said Georgie. “I learned that Roma Radisson is about as deep a thinker as this.” She held up one of Agnes’s biscuits.

“Hmmm. That might be an insult to the biscuit,” Sol said.

“Sol!” said Bunny.

“Well, you’ve met the girl,” said Sol.

“Sol!”

“What?”

Bunny clucked her tongue at them both, but Georgie could see that she was smiling. Georgie devoured many slices of meat, a pile of potatoes and four biscuits. She was about to reach for a fifth when she realised that perhaps it was Agnes’s high-calorie food that had caused her freakish growth spurt. She decided to skip dessert, which was some sort of quadruple-chocolate, triple-fudge, double-butter, possibly deep-fried cake.

After dinner, the family retired to the media room, which was set up like a cinema, complete with stadium seating and a popcorn machine. Sol cued up one of his favourite black-and-white films, one about a guy who goes to Paris and meets some beautiful girl who doesn’t talk that much but dances around a lot, and the two of them dance on the ground and dance in the air and the whole thing ends up in this long ballet sequence that Georgie didn’t entirely understand, but didn’t find entirely horrible. At least, she didn’t fall asleep. But her parents did. By the end of the film, the two of them were slumped in their seats, their heads tipped together, as if one were about to turn and whisper something to the other. Georgie watched them for a while as the credits rolled. They were nice people, her parents. Nobody had a right to be miserable with parents like these. So what if Bug was a jerk face? So what if Roma was an idiot? So what if the Prince School was packed with spoiled princesses who’d never had to work for anything in their whole entire lives? She wouldn’t be there for ever. As a matter of fact, she would only be going to the school for a few more months before she’d move on to high school. That would have to be better, wouldn’t it? She would have to try harder to be happy.

Georgie kissed her parents good night, careful not to wake them. She wandered back to her bedroom where Noodle was looking at a website called catsinexile.com, which seemed to be some sort of blog with photos. Georgie was amazed to see so many pictures of so many different cats, considering how rare cats were. Maybe some cats had escaped The Professor’s apartment. But then, she didn’t want to think about The Professor, not really. Cats reminded her of stealing, which reminded her of Bug, which reminded her of the mean, mean thing she’d said to him in his apartment and the way he’d yelled at her and told her to get out, and she didn’t want to think about that any more. She didn’t want to think about it ever.

She changed into a pair of pajamas and crawled into bed. She considered the pile of books on her nightstand before pulling Charlie and the Chocolate Factory from the pile. She was nearly finished with the book; she was right near the end where the glass lift flies. Georgie knew a lot of things that flew, but none of them were lifts. She liked this book very much.

She settled back into her pillow, opening the book with a sigh. She had just read a single paragraph when an odd noise caught her attention. An odd, shuffling sort of noise, like a cat wearing slippers.

She looked at Noodle, but Noodle was downloading a photo of a white kitten sleeping in a sink and seemed absorbed in the work. Probably the computer making the noise. Sometimes the computer whirred and chuffed like an animal. Georgie shrugged, and went back to her book.

Shush, shush, shush.

Georgie glanced up sharply. A shadow lurked under door. As if someone stood behind it. Listening.

“Mum?” Georgie whispered.

No answer.

“Agnes?”

There was someone behind the door, Georgie was sure of it. But who? The Bloomingtons had the most advanced alarm system in the universe. People couldn’t just walk into the building. And nobody could just walk into the Bloomingtons’ penthouse. It was ridiculous. It was imposs—

The door creaked open. There, in the doorway, was a man wearing skinny plaid trousers, combat boots and a spiked collar. A white T-shirt, emblazoned with the logo GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, was splattered with paint and food stains. His blue hair stood up in a stiff Mohawk. Though it was dark, he wore sunglasses.

“Oi, oi, oi!” he said. “You must be Georgie!”

Noodle hissed, leaping from the desk chair to Georgie’s bed. The fur along her back spiked in an imitation of the man’s Mohawk.

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