Hello, Invisible Friends.

Are you excited it’s almost Easter?

We are.

We’ve been painting eggs, dying eggs, hiding eggs, eating eggs, making egg pies…

I guess you could call us a bunch of egg heads.

Ok, that was bad.  But I’m a bunny, not a comedian.  An Easter bunny, in fact.  All I know is egg and bunny jokes.

In fact, I love Easter so much that tomorrow, there’s an ode dedicated to it.

But that’s tommorow.

Today, we have Miss Pickles.  And you should read it.

For previous editions, go here.

To read the first book in the series, go here.

And for some egg-cellent fun, come back tomorrow.

I’ll stop making Easter puns.  I promise.

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Mason took a deep breath.  “What if I…”

“Yes?” the wailing creature cried.  “Yes?  What?”

“What if I…”

“NO!!” Miss Pickles burst into the cave, her voice growing louder as it echoed around the stone walls.  “Mason, don’t say a word!”

“But Miss Pickles, I can get the Tears of Sorrow for us and stop the Giggler,” Mason informed her.  “I can cure us.  All I have to do is…”  Miss Pickles clamped a hand over his mouth.  Mason stared up at her, his eyes wide in shock.

“Yes?” the voice shouted, a bit too eagerly.

“Wiliford, come out here right now!” Miss Pickles shouted.

A grand sob shook the walls.  “NO!  NOT YOU!”

“Wiliford!” Miss Pickles bellowed.  She glared into the darkness.  “Don’t make me count until three…”

“You’re not my mother!” The petulant cry sounded more like a sulky child than a forlorn creature.

“One…” Miss Pickles started threateningly.  “Two…”

“All I do is cry all day!” the voice whined.  “I’m so lonley.  It’s all your and the Seabreeze’s fault.  I was telling the child, all I have is my tears.  I have no dignity, no joy, no life.  And you would rip that away from me, you vile, wretched woman…”  A rain of weeping followed this last statement.  Miss Pickles waited a moment.

“Are you done?” she called coldly.  “I’m growing tired of your performance.”

Mason yanked out of her grip.  “Miss Pickles!” he hissed.  “How can you be so cruel?  I’ve never seen you be mean to anyone before.  Not even Beatrice!”

Miss Pickles’ eyes widened.  “Beatrice is still with the sugar sharks…” she muttered.  “I’d forgotten.  We must hurry and get her.”

Behind them, Ralph and Don stumbled in.  “Sorry we’re late.”  Don glared at Ralph.  “Somebody was doodling around.”

“There are the most beautiful fish in the pond,” Ralph explained dreamily.  “They looked like bright candies swimming about…Absolutely gorgeous creatures.  I’d love to have an aquarium of them.  I wonder if my mother would let me.”

“No body cares about me!” the creature howled.  “I am unappreciated and unloved!”

Ralph edged closer to Don.  “What is that?”

“I don’t know, but Miss Pickles is being ridiculously cruel to it,” Mason growled, crossing his arms and glaring at his teacher.  She stared down at the boys, her lips twitching.

“I’ll show you what it is.  Then you’ll understand.”  Whirling around, she cried.  “Three!  Ready or not Williford, I’m coming!”

“You wouldn’t!” the voice yowled.

“I am!”  Miss Pickles was already gone, racing towards the voice.  Alone in the dark cave, the boys listened as yowls and wails and screeches echoed through the cave. Ralph’s lower lip trembled, his eyes shiny like tiny bright marbles.

“I’ve never seen Miss Pickles act like this,” he whispered, ringing his pudgy hands.

“It’s the stress of the adventure,” Don replied, crossing his arms and glaring into the darkness.  “They’ve done studies on it at Harvard.  People act weird in times of duress.  Remember Lord of the Flies?”

“We don’t read that until high school,” Mason reminded him.

“I read it,” Don pointed out.

“Your sister is in high school and your parents make you read everything she reads,” Mason countered.

Don scowled.  “My point it, it’ll be every man for himself.  Trust no one.  Look out for number one.  Beware all power hungry leaders.  In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if Miss Pickles had an ulterior motive.  Why else would a substitute drag us here?”

“For an adventure, of course,” Miss Pickles voice chirped behind them.  “Duckies, I’d like you to meet Wilfred.”

Turning slowly with his hand extended, Mason yelped and hopped back.  Wilfred was an enourmous purple walrus with a wobbly lower lip and layers of thick yellow snot coursing down his thick brown mustache.  The walrus’ eyes filled with tears.  Shaking his head, he sobbed.

“I told you they wouldn’t like me!”

“They’re just surprised by you,” Miss Pickles said gently.  “You didn’t tell them you were a walrus.”

Wilfred huffed into his mucus-encrusted mustache.  “What else would I be?”

“You could have been lots of things,” Ralph piped up.  “A bird, an giraffee, a person, an alligator…”

“An alligator?” Don repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Haven’t you ever heard of crocodile tears?”  Ralph looked confused as Mason and Don groaned, shaking their heads.  “What?  What’d I say?”

“Wilfred is a warbling walrus,” Miss Pickles interrupted before Don could speak.

“What does that mean?” Mason asked.

“I warble and wail, weep and wallow,” Wilfred blubbered.  “I whine and wuffle, sigh and cry, howl and yowl, sob and suffer, whimper and dither, moan and mourn, bawl and bemoan…”

“Wilfred is never happy, no matter what the occasion,” Miss Pickles explained.  “If you gave him a million dollars and a cheesecake, he still wouldn’t be happy.”

“I love cheesecake,” Ralph mummured.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Wilfred whined.  “And a million dollars wouldn’t go very far these days.”

“Are you serious?”  Don stared at him.

“See?” Miss Pickles pointed out.  “No matter what you say or do, nothing is ever enough for a wailing walrus.  That’s why I stopped you from saying anything, duckie,” she said, turning to Mason.  “The other thing about wailing walruses is that no matter how much you try to help them, they just drag you down.  He would have taken whatever you promised and held it against you for the next hundred years, even if you delivered on it beautifully.”

“You never delivered anything!” the wailing walrus sobbed.  “You promised me a swimming pool with a jacuzzi!”

“And what do you call that?” Miss Pickles pointed to a darkened corner of the cave.

Peering closer, Mason said, “A swimming pool and a jacuzzi.”

“But it’s not heated,” the wailing walrus sulked.  “And it’s not Olympic size.”

Don narrowed his eyes.  “You’re not a very positive fellow, are you?”

“Why would I be?” wailed the walrus.  “No body loves me.  No body appreciates my blubber….”

“How about some tears of sorrow?” Miss Pickles interrupted, knowing this could go on forever.

“Fine.”  Heaving a sigh, the walrus pulled out a small glass tube from one of his tusks.  “Here.  Take it.”

“You just have tears sitting around in glass tubes?” Mason asked, surprised.

“Doesn’t everyone?”  The walrus tried to look surprised, but looked forlorn instead.  “Tell Seabreeze she owes me a dinner.  Fried shrimp.  She promised.”

“This almost seems too easy…” Mason said uncertainly as Miss Pickles held the tears up to the dim light of the cave, inspecting the tube.

“Yeah,” Don replied, biting his lip.  “Too easy.”

Ralph gulped, turning pale.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tomorrow we have a lovely ode to Easter and Wednesday, a new pet shop story!  Thursday we have a delicious dessert and Friday, more fun with Dallas Jean!  Stay tuned!

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