Frank Wiener's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

The crowned beast sat down, satisfied. He had thrown his challenge, and the hall waited. Frank Wiener wanted one more dance to prove himself. But when he lifted his arm to wave, he heard a rip. A seam along his side had split. The dancing had done it. His flimsy red costume was tearing at the middle of the mustard stripe. One more routine would burst it open in front of everyone. Frank backed toward the old converted stand. His paws shook. "I can't dance again," he whispered. "The whole thing will fall apart." "Then we sew it," said Greta Wolfsbane. She was already there, the gray old wolf who ran the stand and had helped him build his act. She pulled a needle and thread from the pocket of her flowered dress. Her paws moved fast, but the tear was long. "Hold still. This won't be pretty." "Pretty won't save me," said a new voice. Frank turned. A strange creature stepped out of the crowd's edge. She was part wolf, part sheep, with broccoli sprouting from her head and a hot dog scarf at her throat. Frank had never seen anything like her. She looked at his split seam the way a builder looks at a cracked wall. "You're leaking stuffing," she said. "I'm Dara Tuck. I stitch costumes for the losers back here." She jerked her chin toward the shadowed performers. "Thread won't hold that. You need patches. Overlapping ones. They flex when you move." Greta looked up, needle raised. "And you'd help him? He's your competition." Dara shrugged. "I like a good act more than I like winning." She knelt and pulled strips of cloth from a bundle at her hip. "But you decide fast, hot dog. That beast won't wait." Frank looked at the tear, then at the two of them. Greta's thread would hold for one gentle bow, no more. Dara's patches might let him dance full out. He chose. "Patch it. All the way. I'm doing the whole routine." Dara grinned. She and Greta worked together, one stitching, one layering cloth. Patches went over the split, bright mismatched squares across the mustard stripe. It looked strange. It looked like nothing else in the hall. Frank stepped back into the light. He pressed his chest. The squeaker honked, clear and loud. He stomped. Honk. He spun, and the patches held tight against his body. No rip. The crowd leaned in. Then they saw the wild patchwork and laughed, and the laugh turned to cheering. He danced the full routine, harder than before, and finished on his melting bow. The hall roared. The crowned beast did not smile. Frank had won the round. But as the cheers faded, the beast stood again. "Costumes can be patched," he said. "Talent can't. Tomorrow you perform on my stage. My rules."