The Smell of Rebellion

Chapter Twelve

A/N: Never thought I'd manage to cough this out. Thank you so, so much for 700+ reads-- I would've never expected it. How many of you guys would be interested in seeing a separate book with short sections with Olivia, Ollie, Lila, and/or Holly's point of view? 

Anyways, I'm not going to keep you all waiting. Here's your long-awaited, quite emotional chapter!

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"Mrs. Phelps! Where's the revenge section?"

Matilda came running down the road to where Mrs. Phelp's library was parked today, which was in a meadow overlooking rolling hills with lush grass and wheat, with a view as far as the eye could see. A lone windmill spun in the wind– one Matilda spotted while she was still about a quarter of a kilometre off.

The tune she was singing earlier died in her throat, but the words still echoed: If I think the ending is fixed already . . . I might as well be saying, I think that it's okay . . . and that's not right.

"Well, we don't have a revenge section," Mrs. Phelps called in reply, setting her books down to look at her. "Is it a bully?" She sounded concerned.

That's not right, she thought, looking at the shelves of books and thinking of endless ways to take revenge against the Trunchbull. Matilda had read enough books where the characters had taken revenge in a rather gorey way– stabbing, poisoning, waging war, etc. She thought that was a little excessive, and it wasn't like she could do that anyways.

"'Cause you know the best way to deal with bullies is to tell someone," Mrs. Phelps was saying. "They thrive on silence."

She looked at the covers of books, her eyes wandering along the spines of them. Crime and Punishment– tempting, but no, she'd read it a hundred times– Fahrenheit 451– dystopian landscapes wasn't what she was looking for– Titus Andronecis– no, Matilda found that too much for her. Matilda stretched, got on her toe-tips, and searched into the shelves, but to her frustration, found nothing.

Her focus was torn when Mrs. Phelps suggested, "Tell a teacher. Or better still, the headmistress."

Matilda blanched at that, and slammed the opening door shut with a little more force than necessary. She scrambled onto a step-stood and clambered out onto the top of the trailer where Mrs. Phelps was, and closed the trapdoor behind her. She focused her attention on her, and said, "I think I've got the next part of the story." She saw Mrs. Phelps flinch, and murmured an apology. Her tone darkened as she pulled herself out of the trap-door opening. "But I shall warn you. It's about to get real."

Her imagination began to whirr softly, gears clicking in her head and the fizzing beginning to overflow. She wanted to drag Mrs. Phelps into this world, where it was all so real to her– where she could see it unfolding like a wonderful drawing around her.

"Slowly, the acrobat tied her shiny white scarf around her husband's wrist. 'For luck, my love,' she said to him, holding his hand. Then, she hugged him with the biggest hug in the world– so hard that he felt that she could hug all the air out of him. And so, they prepared themselves for the most dangerous feat that had ever been performed."

Matilda heard Mrs. Phelps' breath catch, and she could practically feel the tension both here in the real world and in her head.

"The great escapologist had to somehow escape from his padlocks, break free from the cage, and attempt to rescue his wife within twelve seconds, or she would be blown to bits!" Passion sparked her tone and ignited it with a richness to the story she knew just keeping it in wouldn't show.

She took a deep breath. "The moment the fuse was lit, the acrobat swung into the air! One second, two seconds... The crowd held their breath as she swung higher and higher above the sharks and spiky objects! Three seconds, four seconds..."