ON A BRIGHT day that felt more like April than the middle of January, Missy Piggle-Wiggle stepped out the back door into the farmyard and stood in her boots in the snow, breathing deeply. “Ahh, just like spring,” she remarked over her shoulder to Penelope.
Penelope was perched on a chair at the kitchen table. “Do not wait; don’t hesitate!” she sang, bouncing up and down. “Call five-five-five-two-two-three-oh, and see your dentist now. Say good-bye to cavities!”
Missy frowned. “Did you hear me?” she asked. “I said it feels like spring today.”
“Order your sandwiches from the Snack Shoppe. Find us on Juniper Street or find us online. We deliver!”
Missy felt her spirits sag. For the past few days, Penelope had done nothing but quote from jingles and commercials. It was impossible to have a conversation with her. “I’m afraid she’s finally come down with the flu,” Missy had said to Harold the night before. What a long, dreary winter this had been.
But, she reminded herself, in just a few months spring would arrive. Warren and Evelyn Goose would be watching over goslings again, Missy could ride Trotsky in the field, and best of all the Effluvia would vanish—she was certain of it. The house would turn upside down, and children would be ringing the doorbell and running through the rooms making a great lovely mess.
At that moment, though, spring seemed very far away.
Missy returned to the kitchen and set her snowy boots on a mat by the door. “I think I have cabin fever,” she remarked to Lester, who was resting his chin on one front hoof and slowly stirring a cup of lukewarm coffee.
The phone rang then, and Missy dived for it. “Hello? Hello?”
“Hi, Missy, it’s me,” said Melody’s voice. “I don’t suppose I can come over yet.”
“No, I’m sorry. Nothing has changed. I miss you!”
“I miss you, too. I have a question. What’s a nitpicker?”
“A nitpicker?”
“Yes. Tulip was over yesterday, and after she left I heard my mother say to my father, ‘Tulip certainly has become a nitpicker.’”
Missy had a feeling she might soon be getting a phone call from one of the Goodenough parents. “What do you think a nitpicker is?” she asked Melody.
“I think it might be a person who criticizes every little thing, even things you think are nice. Tulip doesn’t whine. And she’s not mean. It’s just that she’s always like, ‘Hmm, you have a green bedspread now?’ and ‘Huh, your hair ribbon is, well, yesterday it was tied all perfectly and now…’ and ‘That’s your new shirt? I don’t think it’s the best style for you.’ Are those the things one friend says to another?”
“Have you talked to Tulip about this?” asked Missy.
“I sort of tried to, and you know what she said? She said, ‘I was just trying to help you.’ But it didn’t really feel like help. I wish I could come over so I could talk to you in person.”
“So do I.” Missy heard a knock at the door then, but since Penelope no longer announced who had arrived, she had to hurry to the front and look out the window. She wasn’t surprised to see Rusty Goodenough standing on the porch next to the quarantine sign. “We’ll talk more tonight,” Missy said to Melody. She set her phone down as Rusty’s knock turned to pounding.
“Rusty!” she called. “I still can’t let you in.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you positive?”
“Yes.”
“Are you absolutely positive?”
“Rusty.”
“Well, can I talk to you from out here?”
“Of course.”
Rusty plopped down on the porch floor, even though it was wet with slushy snow. “My sister is driving me crazy!” he shouted in to Missy. “She criticizes everything I do. Everything. She says I don’t make my bed right, and I’m too loud, and I walk funny, and I fold my napkin wrong, and I also spread the peanut butter wrong. Why does she even care about those things? If she doesn’t like the way I make my bed, she should stop looking in my room.”
“I agree,” said Missy.
“Well, what should I do about it? Oh, hi, Linden. Where did you come from?”
Missy peered through the window again and saw that Linden Pettigrew was standing on the steps behind Rusty.
“I could hear you shouting from all the way over at my house,” said Linden. “Do you want to go sledding?”
“Missy, I’m going sledding with Linden. See you later!”
“Come back anytime,” replied Missy. She looked up at Lightfoot, who was drifting along above her head. “There will almost certainly be a phone call from the Goodenoughs by the end of the weekend,” she told her.
* * *
Across Little Spring Valley, Helene Goodenough, mother of Tulip and Rusty, sat on the couch in the living room and paged through Tulip’s baby book. She looked at photo after photo of her dear, sweet daughter in the lovely days before she could talk. There was Tulip hugging her father around his neck; Tulip with oatmeal smeared over her face and the tray of her high chair, grinning a grin that showed off her newest teeth; Tulip reaching out her hand to pat their neighbor’s dog.
Helene read some of the entries she had made in the book:
Tulip is an angel.
Tulip loved every moment of Barbara’s birthday party!
Tulip was a trooper on a five-hour car ride.
Helene sighed and set the book down. She recalled the previous day’s car ride to Juniper Street. In less than five minutes, Tulip had suggested that her parents take the car to the car wash, had remarked that Rusty’s sock had a hole in it, and had very pleasantly noted that Almandine’s parents always bought the good kind of peanut butter.
“What is the good kind?” Helene had asked wearily.
“The kind with the elephant on the jar. It’s creamier than the creamy kind we’ve been getting.” Then she added, “Mom, when did you get those earrings?”
“Last week.” When Tulip didn’t say anything, Helene added, “Do you like them?”
“Yes. It’s just that they’re kind of small and hard to see. I mean, you really have to look for them. It’s like, ‘Oh, there they are, behind all your hair.’ And they’re such nice earrings, you wouldn’t want to miss them.”
“Hey, Tulip,” said Rusty, from beside his sister in the back seat, “did you ever think that maybe—”
“I can see the top of your underwear,” interrupted Tulip. “About an inch of it. Mom, did you get Rusty new underwear? I think it’s too big for him.”
Mrs. Goodenough found a parking spot on Juniper Street and edged into it. “You’re supposed to be closer to the curb,” said Tulip.
Helene pursed her lips, even though she wanted very much to ask her daughter when she had gotten her driver’s license. After a moment she said, “Why don’t you two go off to the library while I run errands? We’ll meet back at the car in forty-five minutes.”
“Gosh, look at the window of Aunt Martha’s. That wreath is shedding needles everywhere,” commented Tulip. “I don’t know why they haven’t taken it down.”
Helene decided that her first stop that day would be for a cup of coffee at Bean’s. She hurried inside and sat at a table by herself, sipping her coffee and enjoying the nice, peaceful restaurant. Afterward, she went to the shoe repair shop to pick up Tulip’s good shoes, to Aunt Martha’s for thread and wrapping paper, and up and down the street until it was time to meet Rusty and Tulip at the car.
“Mom, you’re late. You were gone forty-eight minutes,” Tulip greeted her. She was leaning against the car. “Boy, this is dirty,” she said, turning to run her finger through the grit on one of the hubcaps.
“Well, it’s hard to keep it clean in the winter with all the slush and sand.” Mrs. Goodenough unlocked the car. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’s even later than you. Doesn’t anyone listen around here? Oh, Mom. I’m sorry. I should help you with those.” She took some of the packages from her mother’s arms.
“Why, thank you,” said Helene in surprise.
Tulip peered into the box containing her shoes. “Is this what you asked the repair guy to do?”
“Put on new soles? Yes.”
“But he put on white soles. Oh, well. I guess I can wear them anyway.”
* * *
Now Helene sighed and put away her daughter’s baby book. When exactly had Tulip become so nitpicky? It had happened recently, she realized, but slowly enough so that it seemed the nitpickiness had been going on forever. She looked at her watch. Tulip was at Samantha Tickle’s house and had said she’d be home in time for dinner. Helene was just thinking that she had about another two hours of peace when the front door opened and in walked Tulip, saying, “Hey, the door squeaks.”
“You’re home early,” replied her mother.
“Yeah. I don’t know. Samantha got into a really bad mood and said maybe we should work on our project separately.”
“I wonder what put her in a bad mood.”
Tulip shrugged. “We were at the table with our poster board and markers, and I was saying how we try to keep our kitchen floor from getting all yellow, and she just sat there for a minute, and then finally she said maybe I should work on my posters at home and she would work on hers at her house. Oh, well. My posters will look better with our markers anyway. Hers kind of have dried-up tips.” Tulip sat on the couch next to her mother. “You know, if your blouse was just a little bit darker, it would match your scarf exactly.”
“Well, I don’t have a darker blouse.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and work on the posters in your room?”
Tulip shrugged. “Okay.” She got to her feet. “Funny, I never noticed that.”
“What?” asked her mother warily.
“The edge of the rug is starting to curl up.” Tulip took a wide step over the curl, as if the rug might bite her, and ran to her room.
That evening while Helene and her husband were preparing dinner, she poked her head out of the kitchen, looked around, saw no sign of her children downstairs, and ducked back inside. She opened her mouth to complain to her husband, Marcel, about Tulip, but suddenly Marcel set down the bowl he’d been holding, slapped his hands on the counter, and burst out, “What on earth are we going to do?”
“About Tulip?”
“Yes! She’s driving me crazy. Isn’t she driving you crazy?”
Helene slumped into a chair. “The rug is curling up, the Tickles’ kitchen floor is yellowing, my earrings are too small,” she recited. “Rusty’s sock has a hole; I bought the wrong kind of peanut butter.”
“My glasses frames are too round,” said Marcel, “there’s a nick in the wallpaper, the toothpaste cap doesn’t close all the way, she can smell the garbage.”
“Maybe she’s just become very, very observant,” ventured Helene.
“Attentive to detail,” agreed Marcel.
“That must be a good thing. Right?”
They returned to the salad they were arranging. After a few moments, Marcel said, “We’re just making excuses for her.”
Helene sighed. She didn’t know it, but it was the sixty-fourth time she had sighed that day. “Tulip is so polite when she says these things. Have you noticed? She doesn’t say, ‘Mom, those are horrible earrings’ or ‘Why can’t you ever buy the right peanut butter?’”
“And yet,” said Marcel, “somehow we feel criticized.”
“Exactly.”
Fifteen minutes later the four Goodenoughs sat down to dinner.
“How come you got this kind of napkin?” Tulip asked her father, who had been to the grocery store that afternoon. “Was something wrong with the other ones?”
Mrs. Goodenough served the roast chicken. “You left the skin on?” said Tulip.
“May I please have the bread?” asked Rusty.
Tulip passed it to him, saying, “Gosh, your T-shirt is getting so thin.”
“I don’t care. It’s my favorite. It’s thin because I wear it all the time.”
“I have an idea,” said Marcel a few minutes later. “Why don’t you kids finish your dinner in the TV room?”
“Really?” said Rusty. “We can eat in there? Thanks!”
When their children had left the table, Helene and Marcel stared at each other, wide-eyed. “My heavens,” said Helene.
“I can’t take this any longer,” said Marcel.
“Should we call Missy? She did such a wonderful job with Rusty when he was spying on everyone.”
“I suppose so. But I’m not sure this is really a problem.”
“If it isn’t a problem, why do we feel so awful?”
Marcel picked up his phone and called Missy.
At the right-side-up upside-down house, Missy was enjoying an evening with her animals, even though Penelope was reciting an annoying commercial about a pillow and Lester was napping and Lightfoot was bobbing her way from room to room. When the phone rang, Missy said to Wag, “I imagine that’s the Goodenoughs. They’re calling sooner than I thought they would.” She looked at her phone. “Yup. It’s Tulip’s father.” She settled onto the couch next to Lester, and Wag hopped in her lap.
“Hello?” said Missy. “Mr. Goodenough?”
“Hello,” Marcel replied. He wanted to be polite and start off with some small talk, but instead he found himself saying, “It’s terrible! Tulip has become the worst nitpicker! She criticizes everything. Every. Little. Thing.”
Missy heard Helene say in the background, “She’s driving her friends away!”
“This has to stop!”
“What did we do wrong?”
“Nitpickiness,” Missy began calmly, “is fairly common. Don’t worry. You wouldn’t believe how often I get calls about it.”
“Is there a cure?” asked Marcel.
“Absolutely. It takes a few days, but it’s very effective. I’ll leave the cure on the porch for you. You can pick it up first thing tomorrow.”
“Couldn’t I come over tonight? We want to get started right away.”
* * *
An hour later, Mr. and Mrs. Goodenough were in their bedroom with the door closed, huddled over the small red box that had been left for them by Missy. Helene peered at the lid. The word Nitpickiness was scrawled in fancy gold script. “Did you ask Missy for instructions?” she said to her husband.
“She yelled through the door that they were in the box.”
Helene lifted the lid and removed a slip of paper. The box was divided into three sections, with a tiny brass plate in each. The plates read LEVEL 1, LEVEL 2, and LEVEL 3, and each section contained a single pink tablet. She unfolded the paper. “‘Give tablets exactly one day apart, starting with the Level 1 tablet at breakfast tomorrow morning,’” she read.
“And?” said Marcel.
“And that’s it.”
“But what’s supposed to happen?”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
The next morning Tulip took the tablet along with her vitamins. Her parents watched her closely.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked. Then she frowned. “What’s this green stuff in the eggs?”
“Parsley,” her father replied.
“Ooh, fancy!” said Rusty.
But Tulip frowned. “I don’t like green stuff in my food. It looks like mold.”
“You like grapes,” said Rusty.
“Grapes are green. They don’t have green stuff in— Hey!” Tulip stared at her plate. “The green stuff’s gone!”
“It’s parsley,” said her brother, “not green stuff.” Then he leaned over for a closer look. “It is gone!”
“How did that happen?” asked Tulip. She picked through the eggs to make sure a stray flake of parsley wasn’t hiding somewhere, and then she cleaned her plate.
Later that morning, as the Goodenoughs sat in their living room with books and newspapers, Tulip stared moodily out the window and remarked, “We’re the only people on the street whose Christmas lights are still up.”
It was on the tip of her father’s tongue to say, “Well, why don’t you go outside and take them down?” when he realized that the little fir tree by the driveway was bare. “What happened to the tree?” he asked instead. “The lights are gone.” He opened the front door and stood on the porch. “The lights around the windows are gone, too.”
“I’ll bet someone stole them,” said Rusty.
“But I just saw them!” exclaimed Tulip. She hurried to the closet under the stairs and hauled out the box the lights had been stored in. “They’re in here!” she exclaimed. “All neatly bundled up.”
“What on earth?” said Marcel.
“First my eggs, then the lights. How did that happen?” asked Tulip.
Her parents raised their eyebrows at each other. Then Mrs. Goodenough said sadly, “I kind of wanted to leave the lights up for another week. I hate to see all the decorations come down.”
“You do?” Tulip replied. “I didn’t know that.”
* * *
“What a weird day this has been,” said Rusty over dinner that evening.
“I think it’s been great!” exclaimed Tulip.
Her parents exchanged another glance. Her mother was thinking, Well, of course she does. Everything she complained about was magically reversed.
“The lights are gone, and they were so embarrassing,” said Tulip. “And those horrible yellow apples Mom bought changed to red.”
“I like yellow apples,” remarked Rusty.
“Plus, all I had to say was what a mess your room was and it cleaned itself up!”
“That was okay, except that now I can’t find anything.”
“Not my problem,” chirped Tulip. She glanced across the dining room. “There’s a dead fly on the windowsill!” Before she could add, “Doesn’t anyone ever clean up around here?” the fly disappeared. “I guess I have magical powers,” she said. “I’ve kind of been thinking that all day. Watch this.” She turned her attention to the offensive nick in the wallpaper and said, “This room would sure look a lot better if that nick got fixed.”
The wallpaper smoothed itself out. “There was a nick?” said Rusty. “I didn’t see any nick.”
“What do you care? Your room is clean.”
“I didn’t ask for it to be cleaned up. And I can’t find my homework. What am I going to do? I’m supposed to hand it in tomorrow.”
That night, after Tulip and Rusty had gone to bed, their parents sat in the living room and shook their heads.
“What kind of lesson is this teaching Tulip?” asked Marcel.
“I have no idea. She complains about something and—poof—she gets her way.”
“Maybe we should call Missy.”
“No. Not yet. Missy always seems to know what she’s doing. Let’s give Tulip the second pill and see what happens.”
On Monday morning Tulip pranced down the stairs and into the kitchen. “What a lovely day!” she exclaimed.
Rusty, who was already seated at the table and was sprinkling parsley flakes on his eggs just to make a point, looked out the window and said, “It’s raining. And it’s practically as dark as night.”
“Oh, well,” said Tulip gaily.
“You’re in a happy mood,” remarked her father.
“I just have a feeling it’s going to be a very good day.”
“That’s because for some reason you keep getting your way,” muttered Rusty. He still couldn’t find his homework, and furthermore, he wanted a yellow apple.
The Goodenoughs sat at the table with their eggs and toast. After a while Tulip set down her fork and watched her father.
“Yes?” he said.
“Dad, you eat so slowly. You take, like, one bite per minute.”
Mr. Goodenough was just about to say this was good for his digestion when his hand started shoveling food in his mouth so fast that the fork turned into a blur. His plate was clean in a matter of seconds.
Tulip stared at him. “Wow. I’ve never seen you eat like that before. It’s like you’re normal.”
But poor Mr. Goodenough put one hand over his stomach and the other over his mouth and let out a long, loud belch.
“Cool!” said Rusty. “I didn’t know grown-ups could do that.”
Mrs. Goodenough, however, looked alarmed. “Marcel? Are you all right?”
He groaned. “I already have heartburn. I think I’ll go lie down for a while. Can you call the office and tell them I’ll be late?”
Rusty glared at his sister. “See what you did?”
“Well, gosh, I didn’t know that would happen.”
On the way to school, Tulip told Rusty to hurry up. “No,” he said, “I don’t—” But suddenly his feet were hurtling him along the sidewalk, and he slipped in a puddle of slush and crash-landed on a snowbank. He stood up and faced his sister angrily. “Look what you made me do! Now my library book is all wet. I’ll have to pay a fine.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tulip, who looked much more awed than she did sorry. And in fact, the morning, as far as Tulip was concerned, was quite awesome. She pointed out to Samantha that her clothes were covered in cat fur, and the fur disappeared immediately. Tulip was pleased, but Samantha looked embarrassed.
She mentioned to Egmont Dolittle that he smelled like a wet dog.
“That’s what happens when you walk a dog in the rain,” Egmont informed her. “And anyway, it isn’t nice to point out things like that.”
But the wet dog smell went away, and Tulip felt satisfied.
It was during recess, which was held in the gym because of the rain, that trouble occurred. Melody and Samantha were standing under a basketball net, deep in conversation. Melody kept patting the French braids in her hair, and Samantha was turning Melody’s head from side to side.
“What’s going on?” asked Tulip.
Samantha and Melody looked at each other warily.
“We’re discussing Melody’s hair,” Samantha said after a moment.
“It’s finally long enough for braids!” exclaimed Melody. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for this. Now I can do anything with my hair. Braids, ponytails. I can put it up or let it hang loose. I can even—”
“What’s that?” said Tulip, squinting. She leaned forward and plucked something from the end of one of Melody’s braids. “Huh. A little piece of food. Your hair is too long now, Melody. You should get it cut.”
“But I just grew it out! It took forever!” She paused. “What?” she said when she saw the expression on Samantha’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh-oh. Um, your hair…” Samantha’s voice trailed off.
Melody reached for one of her braids and felt only the fabric of her sweatshirt. She patted her head. She felt a helmet of short hair and let out a shriek. “My hair! My hair!”
“It’s so cute!” cried Tulip.
“I don’t care. It isn’t what I wanted. And anyway, it’s none of your business what I do with my hair.”
“Call Missy. She’ll help you,” said Samantha. She took Melody by the elbow and led her to the principal’s office to use the phone. Before they left the gym, Samantha turned around and glared at Tulip.
Missy knew what to do, and by the time Melody had hung up the phone, her hair had been restored to the French braids. But neither Melody nor Samantha spoke to Tulip for the rest of the day.
“This is so unfair!” Tulip kept exclaiming as she hurried home behind her silent friends that afternoon. “All I said was you should cut your hair, and now you won’t even talk to me.”
At last Melody exclaimed, “Cut your own hair!” and ran ahead, arm in arm with Samantha.
The news of Melody and her hair spread quickly, and by dinnertime Helene and Marcel had heard all about what happened.
“Do you really think we should give her the last pill?” Marcel whispered to his wife. “It was one thing when she could change things. Now she’s changing people.”
“Missy always knows best,” Helene replied loyally.
* * *
Tulip went off to school the next day with the Level 3 pill in her stomach and new mittens on her hands. She was surprised to find Melody and Samantha waiting for her outside school. “I thought you guys were mad at me,” she said.
Melody shrugged. Samantha reached for one of Tulip’s hands. “New mittens? Hmm.”
“What?” said Tulip.
“They’re just a little babyish, that’s all. You should wear gloves.”
“Mittens keep your hands warmer than—” Tulip started to say, but before she could finish the sentence, her mittens had changed to a pair of gloves. “Hey!” she cried. “What happened? I like my mittens.”
“Oh, well,” said Melody gaily. “Time to go inside.”
Tulip stomped through the hallway to her classroom and plopped down at her desk. She pulled out a math worksheet. She had decorated the bottom with pictures of chickens wearing sneakers.
Melody leaned over for a closer look. “Did you draw those?” she asked.
“Yup,” said Tulip proudly. “And it was really hard to get their beaks just right.”
“But why are they wearing sneakers? I’d rather see their feet.”
Just like that, the sneakers erased themselves from the page and were replaced with wrinkly chicken claws and spurs. “But—but—” sputtered Tulip.
“Much better,” said Melody, and pulled out her own worksheet.
This was how Tulip’s entire day went. Petulance Freeforall mentioned that she felt Tulip’s jeans should be shorter, and—poof—they were shorter. “But I wanted them long!” cried Tulip.
“You’re stepping on them. The bottoms are getting all frayed.”
“That’s my business.”
Late that afternoon, Rusty stood in the doorway of his sister’s room and said, “You know what? I think your room is too neat.” Poof. Piles of clothes appeared on Tulip’s floor. Her bed unmade itself. Papers spilled off the desk, and dust bunnies floated into corners. A window shade fell down.
Rusty watched in satisfaction. “There. That’s better.”
“How is that better?” squawked Tulip.
“It looks like a normal bedroom.”
“It does not!”
“I think it does.”
“Well, that’s just your opinion.”
“And it’s just your opinion,” replied Rusty, “that Mom’s earrings are too small and Dad’s glasses are too round. Maybe they like them that way.”
“Oh,” said Tulip after a pause. She sat down on her rumpled bed in her too-short jeans. “And Mom did say she feels sad when the Christmas decorations come down.” Suddenly Tulip put her hand to her mouth. “Oh no!”
“What?” asked Rusty, alarmed.
“I made Melody’s hair short yesterday. I made her braids disappear. She must have felt awful.”
Rusty pulled out his big sister’s desk chair, shoved a heap of socks off it, and sat down. “You know,” he said, feeling very wise, “if you realized that, like, I don’t know, Dad was about to leave for work in his slippers, then you should say something to him. But you really don’t need to mention every single dead fly. Or comment on people’s habits.”
“You’re right,” said Tulip.
In the hallway just outside, Helene and Marcel clutched hands and listened to their children holding a thoughtful, reasonable conversation.
“It’s amazing,” whispered Marcel.
“Maybe it’s a dream,” said Helene.
If they had peeked through the doorway at that moment, they would have seen Tulip’s room tidy itself up, her jeans lengthen themselves, the gloves transform into mittens, and a line of chickens wearing sneakers march across a page of math problems.
On the other side of Little Spring Valley, Missy Piggle-Wiggle hummed a tune as she prepared supper.