Read Online The Great Circus Train Robbery by Nancy Means Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Means Wright
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blamed. Then what will I do?” He jumped up, the monkey leapt on his shoulder, and he scurried out.
Spence picked up the basket of cars and ran down the steps. Already Hackberry had disappeared into the crowd of performers. “Jeezum,” he whispered when he ran into Zoe outside the big tent. “What did we get ourselves into?”
“A fun day at the circus. That’s what we’re into. So smile, Spence, and face the music. Hear it?” A loudspeaker was blaring a jazzy pop tune. “You never know what’ll happen.”
“That’s just what I’m worried about,” said Spence, feeling glum.
14
A BLACK-TIED STRANGER AND A PANICKED CLOWN
“I can’t zip it all the way, I just can’t!” Zoe said. They were backstage in the big tent; she couldn’t help herself, she was so frustrated. Too many chattering, juggling, twirling performers—she felt like a turtle in a pool of leaping salmon.
“Pull! “Tulip cried.
“It just won’t zip. You’ll have to lose weight.”
“Not today I can’t,” said Tulip, squirming in the tight costume. “I should’ve had it made special, but the wardrobe woman—”
“Is too busy, you said. But my mom sews. If you can get the material, she can make it for you.” Zoe bit her lip. French School would end next week and her mother would turn into a high school teacher—there was never any “down time,” she’d complain.
“Really, hon? Well, ask her. I’ll see she gets paid when the show’s over. But for now, get a safety pin. Do something! That’s why you’re here. And where’s my hoop?”
Zoe didn’t know about hoops. But she had a safety pin. It was holding her shorts together at the top.
“The red hoop!” Tulip cried, “Not the yellow one. It’s not a yellow day for me. It’s a red day.”
Zoe didn’t know a red day from a yellow day, but she removed her safety pin, and now her cotton shorts hung from a single loose button. But even a safety pin couldn’t conceal the clown’s pink bra and then a pale brown strip of skin down to the place where the zipper gripped.
Vermont was such a boringly white state, Zoe thought. One day she might paint her own face a lavender-black. Or lemon yellow or pale red.
“Ouch!” cried Tulip when the pin pricked her skin. But it finally shut. “Who has my red hoop?” she hollered. “A yellow hoop on a red day is bad luck, I told you. Find it, Zoe, quick!”
Out in the arena the music had reached a crescendo. Three females in sparkly pink leotards and bare white legs rushed back through the beaded curtain, their faces flushed and excited. They smelled of sweat and perfume, body paint and hairspray. They were giggling over their mistakes and near-misses.
“Shush!” someone cried and the giggling fell to a whisper.
“Clowns!” a voice hissed, and the clowns surged forward. Zoe spotted the red hoop on the arm of a petite clown in a baggy blue-striped dress, snatched it off her arm and replaced it with the yellow one. “Sorry,” Zoe said.
The petite clown stared back through red-ringed eyes and then hurried on through the jangling bead curtain. Tulip ran out behind her, the red hoop secure over a plump arm. Her pug-dog trotted behind. When the crowd thinned out, Zoe spotted Spence in a corner; he was hooking together a trio of battered-looking rail cars.
“Hackberry’s train,” Spence whispered, pointing at the bead curtain where a stoop-shouldered clown stood looking out with a monkey on his shoulder—it had a scarlet ruff around its scrawny neck. It was eating one of the green apples Zoe had brought Tulip—the clown had insisted on bringing a half dozen with her.
Hackberry looked like he’d been hit by lightning with his down-painted mouth and the gray-black hair shooting up through his hat in raggedy tufts. Spence said, “I got to push him back in if he runs off in the middle of the act.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He gets nervous. He’s scared of the people out
Spence picked up the basket of cars and ran down the steps. Already Hackberry had disappeared into the crowd of performers. “Jeezum,” he whispered when he ran into Zoe outside the big tent. “What did we get ourselves into?”
“A fun day at the circus. That’s what we’re into. So smile, Spence, and face the music. Hear it?” A loudspeaker was blaring a jazzy pop tune. “You never know what’ll happen.”
“That’s just what I’m worried about,” said Spence, feeling glum.
14
A BLACK-TIED STRANGER AND A PANICKED CLOWN
“I can’t zip it all the way, I just can’t!” Zoe said. They were backstage in the big tent; she couldn’t help herself, she was so frustrated. Too many chattering, juggling, twirling performers—she felt like a turtle in a pool of leaping salmon.
“Pull! “Tulip cried.
“It just won’t zip. You’ll have to lose weight.”
“Not today I can’t,” said Tulip, squirming in the tight costume. “I should’ve had it made special, but the wardrobe woman—”
“Is too busy, you said. But my mom sews. If you can get the material, she can make it for you.” Zoe bit her lip. French School would end next week and her mother would turn into a high school teacher—there was never any “down time,” she’d complain.
“Really, hon? Well, ask her. I’ll see she gets paid when the show’s over. But for now, get a safety pin. Do something! That’s why you’re here. And where’s my hoop?”
Zoe didn’t know about hoops. But she had a safety pin. It was holding her shorts together at the top.
“The red hoop!” Tulip cried, “Not the yellow one. It’s not a yellow day for me. It’s a red day.”
Zoe didn’t know a red day from a yellow day, but she removed her safety pin, and now her cotton shorts hung from a single loose button. But even a safety pin couldn’t conceal the clown’s pink bra and then a pale brown strip of skin down to the place where the zipper gripped.
Vermont was such a boringly white state, Zoe thought. One day she might paint her own face a lavender-black. Or lemon yellow or pale red.
“Ouch!” cried Tulip when the pin pricked her skin. But it finally shut. “Who has my red hoop?” she hollered. “A yellow hoop on a red day is bad luck, I told you. Find it, Zoe, quick!”
Out in the arena the music had reached a crescendo. Three females in sparkly pink leotards and bare white legs rushed back through the beaded curtain, their faces flushed and excited. They smelled of sweat and perfume, body paint and hairspray. They were giggling over their mistakes and near-misses.
“Shush!” someone cried and the giggling fell to a whisper.
“Clowns!” a voice hissed, and the clowns surged forward. Zoe spotted the red hoop on the arm of a petite clown in a baggy blue-striped dress, snatched it off her arm and replaced it with the yellow one. “Sorry,” Zoe said.
The petite clown stared back through red-ringed eyes and then hurried on through the jangling bead curtain. Tulip ran out behind her, the red hoop secure over a plump arm. Her pug-dog trotted behind. When the crowd thinned out, Zoe spotted Spence in a corner; he was hooking together a trio of battered-looking rail cars.
“Hackberry’s train,” Spence whispered, pointing at the bead curtain where a stoop-shouldered clown stood looking out with a monkey on his shoulder—it had a scarlet ruff around its scrawny neck. It was eating one of the green apples Zoe had brought Tulip—the clown had insisted on bringing a half dozen with her.
Hackberry looked like he’d been hit by lightning with his down-painted mouth and the gray-black hair shooting up through his hat in raggedy tufts. Spence said, “I got to push him back in if he runs off in the middle of the act.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He gets nervous. He’s scared of the people out
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