17

Now clowns, at the best of times, can be pretty creepy. But this clown, sitting at his desk, in his dingy office, hammering away at a keyboard as old as my grandma’s galoshes, was downright frightening. I have no idea why I didn’t do an about-face and burn rubber back down that staircase. It was like my feet had suddenly been disconnected from my brain.

Luckily, the clown was too engrossed in cyberspace to notice the two of us peeping round the corner at him. Was he working? Twittering? Facebooking? I wasn’t going to hang around long enough to find out. Behind me, I heard a faint whimpering. Obviously, Hollis had a major clown-aversion, as well. I actually managed to lift one foot and move it slowly backward, but just as I began my careful retreat, wouldn’t you know it — Jordan’s cellphone rang.

Dun, dun, dun, dun, daaaah … dun, dun, dun, dah, daaaaah …

(Did I mention Jordan has this super-loud, super-annoying ringtone? It’s the Monday Night Football theme song, for crying out loud!)

Well. That did it. Any chance of escaping the situation unscathed evaporated. The clown looked up, and while I grappled for the phone, he got out of his chair (he had to be almost seven feet tall!) and began moving toward us at a steady pace. My thoughts scattered in a million directions. Should I run? Should I stay to get what I came for? Should I answer the phone? I decided on the latter — it made the best sense. If I was going to be attacked by a deranged clown, at least there would be someone on the other end of the phone line to witness it.

“Hello?” I said, my voice squeakingly high.

(The clown was smiling at me. At least I thought he was — tough to tell behind his painted-on grin …)

“It’s me, Jordan.”

(Hollis was pulling hard at my jacket. She nearly made me tip backwards.)

“Figures,” I said.

(The giant clown was waiting patiently — perhaps to welcome me, or perhaps to bludgeon me — at this point, his motives were unclear.)

“Are you okay?” asked Jordon.

(Hollis was pulling with all her might. Luckily — or unluckily, I suppose — she had no strength in her left arm.)

“Define okay,” I said.

(The clown waved at Hollis, who, not forgetting proper etiquette, stopped pulling on me long enough to wave back.)

“I’m calling from Mac’s phone,” said Jordan, oblivious to the clownish mayhem happening on my end. “Call me back at this number, if you need anything, okay?”

“Er, thanks,” was all I could think of to say. “I just might need to …”

I hung up and suddenly, I realized that my world had become a whole heck of a lot more complex. My horrible brother was acting really nice. Clowns were masquerading as regular people. My sworn enemy was hanging onto me for dear life. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit its neat little compartment anymore. My head began to spin.

“Can I help you little ladies?” asked the clown. His voice was calm and friendly — not remotely what one might expect from a deranged clown.

“I, er … we, well,” I stammered. Hollis squeezed me, her long nails digging into my upper arms. It jolted my mouth into action. “We were looking for Mixed Pickle Press.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place!” said the clown. “What can I do for you? Have you written a book? I have to warn you, I’m not actively seeking submissions at this point.” He motioned his head toward the staggering pile of manila envelopes polluting his desk.

“Um, no,” I said, trying hard to imagine the clown without makeup. Was he old? Young? I couldn’t tell. “We were actually looking to gather some information on one of your authors.”

“Oh,” he said, somewhat surprised. “I see. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school or something?”

“Er, yes, but … you see …” I stammered. “School project,” I announced suddenly. It seemed to do the trick.

Meanwhile, Hollis was still cowering behind me. The clown seemed to take notice of her and come to some sort of realization. He looked down at his ballooning orange polka dot pants and his ruffled sleeves. “Oh gosh,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse my appearance. It’s Monday, you know.”

I smiled and nodded — the way you do at a toddler who has just said, eep oble boop. Like it’s supposed to make tons of sense. Was I missing something? Was Monday clown day in some bizarre alternate universe?

Sensing my confusion, he began to explain. “Mondays I go to the Hospital for Sick Kids over lunch — to read stories and entertain the children.”

Well. You could have knocked me over with a wet noodle. This staggeringly tall clown was not a menace to society — he was a benefit! Hollis let go of my arms and stepped out from behind me, a look of shock plastered across her face. Personally, I was embarrassed. I felt awful for misjudging him. Misjudging people was becoming a reoccurring theme in my life.

“That’s pretty nice of you,” I said. “I didn’t know you could do that sort of thing.”

“Oh, there are lots of ways to help out in your community — if you really want to,” he said. “Now, tell me, what kind of information were you looking for? Which author?”

Wouldn’t you know it? Right then and there my tongue got all twisted up again and all that came out was, “Witch author.”

He looked confused. “That’s what I’m asking you, which author?”

“Witch author,” I repeated.

“What author?”

“Not what — witch!” I said.

“Who?”

“Witch! Witch!” My communication frustration was clearly mounting.

Hollis rolled her eyes. “The White Witch,” she said calmly, pulling the book out of my pocket and holding it up for him to see.

“Oh,” he said, taking the book and turning it over in his hands before passing it back to me. “That’s one of my favourites.”

“Um, mine, too,” I said, untangling my tongue. It wasn’t a lie. Despite the trouble the book caused me, I still thought it was pretty cool.

“We need to contact the White Witch,” said Hollis. “Can you give us her phone number or something?”

I elbowed Hollis. She’d opened her big mouth and tipped our hand. I had wanted to go about things in an entirely different fashion, way more subtly, but the clown confusion ruined everything.

“No, I can’t do that,” he said, shaking his rainbow-coloured head. “First off, I don’t have the phone number. And even if I did, I couldn’t give it to you.”

“You don’t have your authors’ phone numbers?” said Hollis.

“Not that particular one. Very strange, reclusive author, indeed. Just a post office box number,” he said. “That’s where I send the royalty cheques.” He must have thought we looked hopeful because he quickly added, “But I can’t give you that either. Privacy, you know. Maybe I can answer your questions?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, thinking fast. “We need to interview her personally. So, I think we’d best be going now.”

“But Claire,” said Hollis, at which point I gave her another elbow.

“Gee, that’s too bad. Such a shame. Yes, we’ll be going na, na, na … NOW!” I said, sneezing the last word out as loudly and as violently as I possibly could. “Excuse me — would you happen to have a tissue?” I swiped at my nose for dramatic effect.

“Sure,” he said. For a second I thought he was going to pull out a never-ending string of colourful tissues from his pocket, or something ridiculous like that, but instead, he did exactly what I’d hoped he’d do.

He turned around and headed for a small door at the back of the room. I was sure it was a washroom. As he ducked inside, I made my move. I darted to his desk and grabbed the first item I could find: his coffee cup.

“Have you lost it, Claire?” whispered Hollis. “You’re going to steal his mug?”

“Hush!” I snapped, racing back to my original spot, hiding the mug behind my back. “I’m not stealing it! I’m borrowing it!”

Just then, the clown reappeared with a wad of tissue. I held the mug in my left hand and took the tissue with my right, pretending to wipe my nose and then shove it into my pocket. I shook his hand and thanked him for his time. I frowned at Hollis, scrunching one eye more than the other. I hoped she understood my nonverbal attempt at communicating, “Let’s get outta here!” I backed up slowly, keeping the mug hidden, all the while grinning and nodding at the clown. Once I reached the landing, I darted around the corner and dashed back down the stairs. I could hear Hollis muttering nasty words and questions all the way down and out the door.