Gosh, I miss you guys! Life has shanghai'd me--new school, new responsibilities, lots of changes--and I am struggling to find time to write. (Yes, it' awful--I feel like I'm imprisoned in the mundane world!) I love the little notes that you send me here (and other ways) but I hate to drop in after being gone so long just to leave a note and no story. Today I get to do both!
Things are heating up--and hearts and careers are on the line! Piggy finds herself in danger, and not just from you-know-who. Who can Piggy trust? And who can Piggy trust with her heart?
Chapter 163: Old Friends and Old Wounds
“So how’s loverboy holding up?” Kristen asked. She had heard Piggy on the phone earlier, before the others had arrived, but there was enough briskness in her voice to cut the sympathy, and Piggy was grateful to be able to answer matter-of-factly.
“Mon frog is doing well. He is going to a charity event today for children.”
“Awww,” said Darcy. “That’s so sweet and brave of him, especially since he’s such a social pariah right now!”
Kristen gritted her teeth. “Darcy! Could you just…I don’t know, think before opening your mouth?”
Darcy looked injured. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Sorry, Piggy—I didn’t…I just meant it was nice of him.”
But Piggy felt much more comfortable dispensing sympathy than receiving it right now, and she patted Darcy’s arm gently. “It’s okay—Moi knew what you meant. And I think Kermie is very brave to go and do something wonderful when everyone has been so mean to him.”
“That is really good of him,” Stacey said earnestly. “He sounds like a swell guy.”
“He can hold his own, can’t he, Piggy?” Trudy teased. “After all, he keeps up with you!”
Piggy beamed. “You have no idea,” she said archly, and then they all giggled. Blushing, actually enjoying being the center of attention, Piggy went to the rack where their costumes hung and took down her Pinks jacket. She hadn’t been able to find her favorite lipstick this morning and she thought she might have absent-mindedly slipped it into her pocket, but when she put her hand into the jacket she pulled out a folded piece of paper instead. She opened it, wondering what she might have stuck in there without—
She dropped the little scrap of paper, then dived down and snatched it back up, looking wildly around.
“What’s up, Sweetie?” asked Stacey. “You look a little—“
“Has anybody been in the dressing room?” Piggy demanded urgently.
They looked at her, confused.
“I got here about the same time you did,” Kristen said, breathing a silent “thank you” to Rory for the head’s up. “Why?”
“Judith comes in and checks the costumes sometimes,” said Trudy. “What’s up? Is something missing?”
Piggy shook her head, blond curls bobbing, her cheeks flushed very pink.
“Whatsamatter?” Kristen teased in her best New Jersey accent, but Piggy didn’t smile. Wordlessly, Piggy held out her gloved hand and opened it to reveal the now-crumpled note. Darcy, closer than the others, plucked it up and looked at it.
“Jinkies,” she said. “Who wrote this?”
Piggy shook her head, feeling shaky. “Moi has no idea.”
The other girls crowded around Darcy and looked at the note, then at Piggy, in horror. The note said, “See you soon.”
“A fan…?” Darcy began, but stopped. If it was a fan, it was a little icky.
Piggy shook her head. “Moi—that is, I don’t think so.”
“Someone should tell Bobo.”
“Someone should tell Mr. Lowry.”
“No, no,” Piggy began, but was over-ruled and instantly sorry she had mentioned it.
If she had worried it would cause an “incident”, her fears were quickly subsumed. It whipped past “incident” and was well into “event” status in short order, and Piggy found herself once more the focus of unwanted attention. A crowd had gathered, everyone from the lighting crew to the actors, all wondering what to make about yet another supreme fuss backstage. One thing you could say for sure was that things had been a lot more interesting here at the theater since Miss Piggy had joined the cast. Over her protests, they had informed the powers that be, but by then Piggy was downplaying the whole thing.
Lowry was not, and he was right up in Bobo’s face about it.
“No one—and I mean no one—gets in here unless their name is on the list! Do I make myself clear? Anyone back here not on the list goes. No exceptions! Got it?!”
Bobo took the tongue-lashing like a bear, but he turned reproachful eyes on Miss Piggy.
“Yes sir. Got it, sir. But—“
“I don’t want any excuses, buster—“
“Bobo.”
“I don’t care if you’re John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt! Just do your job!”
“Um, yes sir, Mr. Lowry, sir, only—“
“What? What?! Don’t tell me you’re going to give me excuses!” Lowry was shouting at the big bear but, though Bobo could probably have knocked him across the stage with one leisurely cuff, the unhappy ursine was meek.
Again, Bobo looked at Piggy, but merely turned back to Mr. Lowry and said, “It would help me do my job if we had a little more cooperation from…some people.” Piggy blushed, miserable, remembering the debacle of last night and how Bobo had tried to keep Moishe out of the theater. Oh! She would have to get her cabbie on the list post haste! Piggy suddenly thought of the young men who had come backstage to see her. Could one of them…no. They had not made it past the doorway until Bobo and Harry had arrived, and there had been no one…well, obviously, there had been someone, but
who and when remained mysteries.
“Like who?” Lowry demanded crossly. “Who is keeping you from doing your job?”
Bobo hesitated, casting Piggy a quick look. She gave him a beseeching glance then stared at her gloved fingers and worried BK around and around.
“Well, spill it,” Lowry barked. “Look, I took you on because Marty advised it, but—“
“Um, yes sir, Mr. Lowry, sir,” Bobo said, respectful but not quite groveling. “Only—“
Piggy held her breath, turning tragic blue eyes on the bear once more. He looked at her for a moment, then back to Lowry.
“The workmen, sir. The guys working on the stage.”
Piggy’s mouth fell open. Luckily, for the first time in a long time, no one seemed to be looking at her. She clamped her jaw shut with an effort.
“What?” Lowry looked genuinely confused.
“The guys building that nifty staircase,” Bobo said. “I know all of ‘em aren’t our guys, but I think some of them are leaving the door open when they go out to smoke.”
Lowry looked surprised, the anger leaching out of his face. “They…what?” He followed the line of Bobo’s pointing furry paw.
“I…didn’t know,” the director muttered, stunned.
“I don’t think it’s intentional, sir,” Bobo said. “But last night….”
Piggy cringed, waiting for him to out her about the impromptu quartet of admirers, but he did not.
“…last night, Mr. Finkel came in through the back door. You know him—Miss Piggy’s chauffeur? He said the door was open. Oh—we need to get him on the list, sir.”
“Um, yes. I…we ought to—Harry! Put Finkel on the list.”
“And Sparky, right? His backup?” Harry asked. He looked like an enormous grade-school student, pen poised above his pad as though expecting the next spelling word.
“Yes, please,” said Piggy. They all turned to look at her and she smiled at them, her “making nice” smile, and put her hand on Mr. Lowry’s arm. “I’m sure Bobo was not at fault,” she said earnestly. “He has been very protective since he came.”
“Then why—“
“Oh, Lawrence, vous are really worrying over something so little and insignificant. Moi is fine.” There was a little bit of an edge to her voice now, and a cute little pucker between her eyes. “Moi is perfectly okay.”
“But—“ Lowry began, but hesitated. He didn’t want to be on Marty’s bad side, but being on Miss Piggy’s bad side was worse—at least, it was worse at close range.
“And Moi feels so safe with Bobo and Harry backstage. I am sure you are taking very good care of Moi!”
Bobo’s eyebrows went up over his little black eyes and he almost smiled. Waddya know? She had stood up for him.
If Bobo was surprised, Lowry was bedazzled. She was smiling at him, her voice firm and her blue eyes direct.
Lowry thought what a lot of men had thought over the years: Those might be the bluest blue eyes he had ever seen.
“Well….”
“And we do not want anyone to think there is any sort of…security problem here at the theater,” she said, still smiling sweetly. Lowry shifted uncomfortably. The press would make hay over that, for sure, and then he’d look like a drip who couldn’t take care of his own people….
“If…if you say so, Miss Piggy,” Lowry said meekly. Later he would wonder what on earth had happened to him, wonder when he had lost control of his theater, but that was later and this was now and Piggy’s big blue eyes carried the moment. “I’ll…I’ll speak to the foreman and make sure they’re closing the door.”
“Vous are so smart,” Piggy said, but dismissively. She was already moving away.
Piggy kept her expression mild, her demeanor light, but inside she was worried. Someone had been in the girls' dressing room. Someone had gone through—perhaps touched her things—and they had no idea who. The only way they’d know who it was was if someone had been…watching. Piggy stopped walking. She stopped so suddenly that her high heels squeaked on the floor and she stood and thought and thought and thought. Maybe there was a way….
She pulled out her phone, then stopped, shook her head—and pulled out her other phone. She didn’t trust herself to call—she was too wound up and she might blurt out something she would regret, but she could send a text. She thought for a moment, sifting through the possibilities, then her satin-gloved fingers flew over the phone keys. There. That ought to do it, Piggy thought, and it made her feel slightly better. Better or not, she felt disgruntled and irritable and guilty.
And—darn and phooey and darn—she had forgotten to tell everyone—well, anyone—about the boys backstage. Marty didn’t know, and of course she hadn’t told Kermit, but even Rory didn’t know what had happened because the only two people who knew were Moishe and Bobo, and Bobo—bless him—had protected her. Or had he?
The problem with getting your way most of the time was that—without checks and balances—it was sometimes hard to know what was best. Suddenly, a vision of Kermit swam up before her eyes, and she caught her breath, remembering how hard he had fought (and fought her!) to do what was best for her. It made her feel warm and cherished and loved and furious because the upshot was that she was here and he was
not. Stupid frog! Stupid stalker! Stupid Broadway!
Moments ago she had been mildly alarmed and annoyed. Now she was full-out mad! She stalked to her dressing room—again—and put on her stupid wig, cramming it on her head and beginning to tuck her hair up underneath. No doubt about it, this was going to be a day to remember!
This wasn’t really his thing, Kermit thought, but it could have been. It could have been because it was a Hollywood thing, a celebrity thing. It could have been because it was a thing for kids, and Kermit had a very big soft spot for kids. Money raised today would help not only the kids who suffered from AIDS—most of them had been born with it—but help the foundation that helped them. Money seemed tighter and tighter these days and charities often suffered the most in lean times. Despite feeling uncomfortable and a little exposed, Kermit was glad to help out.
It was a sort of meet and greet event with monied patrons gladly paying the $5000 entry fee for the chance to wear their $12,000 own and $6,000 Jimmy Cho’s and hognob with well-known entertainers from all across the board. Celebrities were expected to make themselves friendly and available while snarfing canapés and drinking champagne, and Kermit thought if he had survived the previous night’s social disasters (the one at the party and the one when he woke up this morning), that this would be a piece of cake.
So far, it hadn’t been too bad. It was mostly celebrities and sports stars hognobbing around and eyeing each other’s dress-up duds. After some thought and a phone consultation with Thoreau, Kermit had opted for the same tux he’d worn to the Academy Awards, right down to the amethyst dragonfly cufflinks. If people were suspicious about what had happened, a gander at his twinkling wrists might quell their skepticism. If not, well, they’d certainly be conversation starters.
Many of the patrons were apparently planning on arriving fashionably late—the better to show off their gowns and tuxes and shoes, and then things would liven up. So far, it had been comparatively sedate, which suited Kermit just fine.
Though he was somewhat unworldly, he suffered no delusions about what most of the patrons would choose to ask him about. At least, he thought grimly, he could tell his side of things. The other celebrities had been mostly kind, making the sort of banal shop-talk common when entertainers got together, but he’d caught a couple of scornful looks and more than a few overtly sympathetic ones. Actresses talked to him in that subdued way that people use in hospital rooms and at funerals, their expertly made-up faces carefully composed, but the set of their lips and the cant of their eyes told him that he was as much an object of pity as interest, with a fair sprinkling of disdain. He would have preferred to deal with one or the other (or neither), but if wishes were horses…well, he’d be in New York, wouldn’t he?
“Caviar?” asked a white-jacketed waiter.
“Oh, um, thank you,” Kermit said. He almost turned to Piggy, wanting to see the look of delight on her face—Piggy loved caviar—but caught himself just in time. Piggy wasn’t here. Piggy was in New York, and she couldn’t help him navigate these shark-infested social high seas from there. Kermit felt a wave of disappointment wash over him, but in its wake, he found his indignation rising. True, Piggy was not here, but he was not helpless. He’d had a career before Piggy, and—by golly—he’d have one…whoa. Whoa…where had that come from? Kermit felt like someone had poked him in the chest, had tugged the rug under his feet, not dislodging him, exactly, but knocking him seriously off-center. He fought a rising sense of panic and managed to put his champagne down before he dropped it. What was…was he reverting to his bachelor mindset, the one that (erroneously) thought that he didn’t need Piggy as much as people seemed to think? Was his misery making him so defensive that he was blaming Piggy—
“Kermit? Kermit the Frog?”
Kermit startled and turned around, looking up at a pair of sympathetic brown eyes, but they were friendly brown eyes as well, and he managed a smile in return.
“Oh, hi, Anne,” Kermit said glumly. “How are you, um, enjoying the party?”
“Better than you, I suspect,” she said, and smiled warmly.
“Does it show?” Kermit asked, dismayed.
“Oh, um, no,” she said quickly. “You seem, um…good.”
“I can see that your Academy Award and your Bafta were completely justified,” Kermit murmured dryly, then they both laughed and she leaned in and pressed her cheek to his.
“Sorry your sweetie isn’t here,” she murmured. “I know you miss her.”
Kermit smiled up at her. “Yeah. Sucks to be me.”
But at this, she protested. “It does not,” she said indignantly. “You have a blockbuster movie everyone is chomping at the bit to see!”
“Well, I—“
“You just closed an amazing live show in Vegas!”
“Well, we did have a good—“
“And while the rest of the world may think you’re an eligible bachelor, I know better. I know that Miss Piggy hasn’t thought of one single thing that wasn’t short, green and handsome since you made her go to New York.” She smiled at him, triumphant.
Kermit blanched. “Made her? I didn’t—“
“I had lunch with Marty a couple of weeks ago,” Anne said, giving him a no-nonsense frown that was very appealing.
“Okay, you got me on that one,” Kermit muttered, then smiled. “I had to,” he began, but she was already nodding.
“Of course you did,” she agreed. “It’s because you’re a good hubby.”
Kermit smiled, his soul salved by her generous interpretation of his role. “Speaking of—where’s Adam?”
“Weaseled out of this, the stinker.”
“Not his cup of tea?”
“Sometimes it is, but today he sent me out to face the wolves alone.”
“Stand behind me,” Kermit muttered. “I’m pretty sure they’ve already got my scent.”
Anne laughed and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her short do was growing out, but it didn’t look awkward—it looked graceful and sophisticated and oh-so-fashionable. Her dress was simplicity itself, but then anything she wore looked wonderful and chic and effortless and the camera always seemed to love her. It was easy to see why she and Piggy had instantly hit it off.
“Well, you look stunning,” Kermit said genuinely.
“Thank you,” said Anne, stroking the coral-colored silk confection she wore. “It’s not Thoreau, but it’s not bad.”
“I’m wearing Thoreau,” Kermit said, looking down. He at least had the satisfaction of knowing he was impeccably attired.
“I can tell—ooh! Are those the, um, alleged cufflinks?”
Kermit made a frowny face but her smile took the sting out of her words. He held his wrists out for her to admire.
“They are very lovely. Very dangerous, but very lovely,” she said soberly, but her eyes were merry.
Kermit laughed in spite of himself. “If I had known then what I know now….”
A shadow loomed over them and Kermit looked up, feeling his shoulders grow rigid even while he kept a polite smile pasted on his face.
“So—playing the field while wifey is away!” smirked a young actor that Kermit had liked better before he turned fourteen. Now he was not only all grown up, but all grown obnoxious. “Smooth move, Kermerino. Can’t be too careful when the ball-and-chain is in town, but when she’s not…woo boy, the trouble there is for a fella to get into!”
Anne gritted her teeth, and Kermit continued to smile, but something bright green and dangerous shimmered in his bulbous eyes.
“I’ve never thought of Piggy as a ball-and-chain,” he said stiffly.
“And why should you?” the young man crowed. “She’s certainly not staying home, so she’s not got any chains on you, does she now?” He gestured expansively and champagne sloshed out of his glass. Anne side-stepped neatly, an expression of distaste on her face, and pulled Kermit back by his shoulder. To an observer, it looked like she was simply removing him from the danger of having $800-a-bottle bubbly splashed on his tux, but in truth she was removing him from the danger of launching himself at the unpleasant young man in front of him. She felt him gathering himself under her hand, but she reached out, tucked her arm firmly through Kermit’s wiry one and hauled him unwillingly after her.
“Please excuse us,” she said witheringly, and dragged her amphibian friend to safety.
“Thanks,” Kermit muttered a few moments later when the red haze had faded from his eyes. “I—I thought I was gonna, um,….”
“Yeah,” said Anne. “I kind of got that.” She gave him a frank look. “You’re going to have to toughen up or you’re not going to be in the tabloids—you’re going to be in jail. I agree—“ She began, and held up a hand to forestall the protest that was forming on Kermit’s froggy lips. “I agree somebody ought to hand him his head, but it cannot be you. You need to be sweet and polite and charming and unflappable so everyone will see how you really are.”
Kermit let out a huge sigh. “I don’t feel very sweet or polite or charming,” he muttered, but Anne just laughed.
“Well—then it’s a good thing you can act,” she said.
For someone who didn’t live by technology and technology alone, for the past several minutes Piggy had been checking her phone as though it contained the oxygen necessary for breathing. She couldn’t know how her text had stunned the recipient, and that the lapse of time (short though it truly was) was due to consternation and not because it had not been received.
Scribbler gaped at the phone and tried to think what to type back.
He stared a long time, then typed, “Yes.”
Of course he could come. Of course he would come. She needed him. What more was there to say?
She had asked and he had answered—problem solved.
But Fleet was not quite as delusional as it seemed. Problem solved—for her. For him, he rightly suspected, the problem was probably just starting.
“So those little beauties are the cause of all the buzz,” drawled an auburn-tressed patron in a throaty voice. She smiled at Kermit over the rim of her highball and leaned forward to examine the intricate jeweled insect on Kermit’s left wrist.
“Yep,” said Kermit. “Much ado about…very little, I’m afraid.”
“Lovely little things,” said the woman. “Custom-made, you say?”
“Yes. Piggy had them made for me—well, actually, it all started with her Christmas gift.” He told about the pin and earrings he had had made for Piggy’s Christmas present, omitting some parts about that day their dalliance beside a swimming hole had made Kermit more determined than ever to make her his very own. “We had…one day when we were dating, when we snuck away during filming for a picnic beside this little pond. Piggy liked the dragonflies because she said they looked like they were covered in jewels.”
The woman smiled, charmed. “I supposed Miss Piggy would enjoy almost anything covered in jewels,” she murmured.
“Yes ma’am,” said Kermit, unknowingly endearing himself with his impeccable manners. “That she does. I’ve…well, I’ll admit to feeding that addiction whenever I can.”
The woman laughed out loud and threw out a hand toward her husband, who was talking stock futures with a huge football player. “Darling,” she cried. “Come over here and meet Kermit the Frog. I’d like you to hear what he has to say about jewelry….”
He came, bringing the enormous athlete in his wake. The big man waved shyly at Kermit and Kermit smiled back. This was going better than expected.
You would have thought it would be impossible—after what had just happened—for Piggy to slip away from her cast mates and slip out the back door. It probably had not occurred to anyone that she would want to slip out, or try to—at least not while the show was going—but whatever the reason, Piggy had found a moment to be out back alone with Fleet.
Help had come—as it had so often lately—from an unexpected quarter, and Piggy’s hated wig had given her the chance to go muttering down the hall in high dudgeon. Remembering all the fuss earlier, no one had crossed her as she stomped down the backstage hallway, and then it had been a short step to slip out onto the back stoop. It was cold outside, and Piggy’s costume did little to protect her. Steam vapor swirled around her, making her appear almost ethereal. Fleet clenched his jaw to keep it from falling open.
They eyed each other warily, treading gingerly on this newly-formed foundation, but while Fleet had the advantage of a waiting game, Piggy did not. She needed to get this said, get this done and be back inside before anyone even noticed she was not where she ought to be. The thought of where she ought to be made her think of Kermit, and she gritted her teeth irritably.
“Someone is still following me,” Piggy blurted without preamble. “He’s been here.” The words were hard to get past her lips, but the shocked expression on Fleet’s face was more than worth it.
“Are you—did he—?”
“Moi is fine,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest both because she was irritated and because she was cold. “Someone was in my dressing room.”
Fleet flinched, then a hot blush crept up his face even in the chill air. He had been in her dressing room, had inhaled the scent of her perfume, marveled at the frippery and finery splayed all over the table. He had touched nothing, however, so he didn’t know how she—
“I was just—“
“There was a note in my Pinks jacket,” she said, and Scribbler swallowed whatever he’d been about to say—swallowed it and choked on it. He sputtered for air, disguising it as a coughing spasm, then stared at her, eyes popping.
“Someone left a note,” he said, incredulous, “in your jacket?”
Piggy nodded.
“What—what did it say?” He scrambled for words. “Did it—did he sign it?”
“Of course he didn’t sign it!” Piggy snapped. Fleet flinched, flushing at his foolishness, then rallied.
“What…what did it say? Did he threaten you?”
Piggy shrugged. “It said, ‘See you soon.’ That was all.”
Scribbler shook his head, reeling. He had thought himself so clever for slipping into her dressing room, had been so grateful for the chance to be in her world, in her space…. It had never occurred to him that if he could get in….
Even in the midst of his current angst, Scribbler’s mouth twisted into a grimace. Same ol’ story all over again, he thought sourly. Played for a fool. A willing fool, to be sure, but a fool nonetheless.
“Could it have been left earlier?” Fleet said, grasping at straws, but Piggy shook her head, then shivered violently.
“Moi wears that jacket in every show. I always push my hands into the pocket in the first scene, so it wasn’t there when—“
“Okay,” said Fleet. “Okay. I got it.” His mouth worked. “It wasn’t in your jacket last night when you did the show, but it was today when you came back for the matinee.” Not for nothing was he an ace reporter, and he had unspooled the timeline neatly. “Anything else disturbed? Anything missing?”
It was Piggy’s turn to look surprised. “Moi doesn’t…I don’t think so,” she said uncertainly.
“Make sure,” Fleet said. “Check your stuff—check all your stuff.” All signs of his former meekness had fallen away, and he gave her instructions like he had done it all his life. “Try to find out if he took anything.”
“But all I have is clothes and lingerie—oh!” Piggy’s peaches-and-cream complexion flamed with color. Though his own face felt hot, Fleet pretended not to notice. He kept his eyes carefully averted until Piggy regained her composure.
“And, um, you need to be sure he didn’t leave anything behind,” he said stiffly.
“Like what?” Piggy looked at him, confused, and he sighed and looked away again.
“Like…recording devices.”
“Oh.” Piggy felt slow and hopelessly naïve. “Like a bug or something.”
Fleet fixed her with a stare, unmindful for once of those startling blue eyes. “I was thinking more like a…a camera.”
Piggy flinched, and it was all Fleet could do to not reach for her. He had charged to the rescue in the face of imminent danger, but he did not know quite what to do with his hands now.
“Does Lowry know?” he asked gently.
“Does…of course he does,” said Piggy.
“Good. Then tell him you want the room checked.”
“Moi…I will,” Piggy said. Later, Fleet would remember how she acquiesced to him, how she looked at him—almost like she trusted him.
“Good.” Scribbler looked at her, marveling at his own composure in the face of her nearness. It was almost like old times, when he was just a guy looking for a story, and she was just a gal trying to make it in the Bigtime…. Those had been the days, the best days of his whole life, until—
He didn’t realize he was speaking until he heard his own voice, gruffer than it had been moments before. “Does Marty know?”
Piggy’s eyes dropped suddenly, and she said nothing.
This time, his voice was even rougher. “What about the…Kermit? Did you call him?”
Piggy reacted as though slapped, stepping away from him. “Moi does not see how—”
“Spare me the theatrics,” he ground out. “Did you tell the frog or not? Or is he too busy to care what happens to you?”
Piggy had shown herself proof against the barbs and jabs of most of the fourth estate, but this, coming from someone who knew her and so close to her own fears, pierced her to the quick. If Scribbler had had any sense of self-preservation where Missy was concerned, it would have surged to the surface now, but apparently that part of Fleet had been irreparably broken. He stood his ground without flinching as she advanced on him.
“Don’t you dare!” Piggy cried. She lunged for him, but he kept his distance neatly. “Don’t you—don’t you--!” She was practically incoherent with rage, her blue eyes flashing with venom.
“Don’t I what?” Fleet thundered. “Don’t I what, Missy?”
“You—!”
“Go ahead--tell me! Tell me what the ground rules are! Name it—that’s right, just name it, and I’ll fall in line like I always have!”
Surprise stopped Piggy in her tracks, and she stared at him. He was yelling at her. Fleet was
yelling at her. He had never—no, never—yelled at her before, not even when…. Piggy stopped and swallowed, looking at him uncertainly. His tone became desperate, although the fury was still there. “You snapped your fingers—I came running, didn’t I? You want me—I’m here. I’m doing my best to color inside the lines!”
Piggy did not know how to counter this sort of acquiescence. She stopped advancing, still furious but uncertain of her target. “You—you printed that horrible picture!” she accused. “You—you promised.”
“You asked me not to lie. I didn’t.”
“Moi asked you not to hurt him,” she shot back, but defensively.
Fleet held his hands up. “Hey—don’t blame everything on me. I’m not the one who told him to put his arm around—”
“Fleet!” She had backed off wanting to tear him limb from limb, but she hadn’t abandoned the idea completely. His face was flushed, his hair disheveled (even for him), and his eyes were narrowed with something that might be anger but looked more like pain. If not for the pain in those eyes, this Fleet would have been a stranger to her. Ten seconds ago, she had been ready to murder him, but her anger was deserting her at the sight of those eyes. “He’s…Kermit’s working,” Piggy said haltingly.
Fleet threw his hands up in the air. “He’s always working!” the unhappy reporter cried. “You’ve always been second-place to him, and it’s not right!”
Insecurity surged like poison in her veins. Angry tears sprang into her eyes and she glared at him. “You--you don’t know anything!”
“I know plenty,” he shot back. The words were spilling out of him now and he couldn’t seem to stop them. “I know he ought to be here! I know he ought to treat you like you were the most wonderful, most precious thing in the entire universe, but—”
“He does! He—it’s not his fault he’s not here!” Piggy felt unsteady and exposed. Could it…was it true? Had she been replaced in Kermit’s heart with…work? Jimmy had said that work was the only thing that made Kermit forget about her—had he forgotten that he loved her? Had he forgotten how much she needed him?
She was white-faced with shock and fury, and she looked a little dazed. He had known she would be mad, had maybe even meant to make her mad, but beneath the anger he could see her dismay at the thought that, somehow, he had betrayed her.
“It’s never his fault,” Scribbler muttered, but the anger was leaching out of him. He had hurt her, and it made him feel like a heel.
“Go away,” Piggy ground out, her eyes like lightning bolts. Tears were splashing down her face, angry tears, and she wiped them away savagely. “Go away and do not ever—“
“With some lunatic stalking you? Not a chance!” he retorted. If she thought he would leave now—
“Moi does not need you!” she practically shouted, her arm drawn back—
Fleet reached out and grabbed her hand, covered it with his own and held on even when she tried to wrench it free. It brought them very close together, and Scribbler gave himself up, gave over any claims he had to autonomy or
safety or anything that was not what was best for her.
“You do need me,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle. “And you’ve got me. You’ve always had me, Missy, and I’m not going anywhere while you’re in danger.”
“You’re despicable!” she panted, trying to pull away, but as usual he moved
with her and not against her, maintaining his hold.
“I’m dependable,” he countered. She stopped trying to pull away.
“You’re horrible,” Piggy muttered, tears thick in her voice and in her eyes, but Scribbler squeezed her hand until she looked at him. Her lashes were wet with tears, her blue eyes baleful, but—miraculously—she had not killed him. Yet.
“I am,” Fleet said flatly. “I am a horrible, awful person.” He thought about his boss, about his job, and did not need to reach to believe it.
Piggy’s stunned expression said she had not expected this. She shook her head, protesting, but uncertainly.
“But I know what I ought to do,” he continued, “and I know where I ought to be.”
Piggy started to say something, worried that his next words would point out the difference between his attitude and Kermit’s, but he grinned suddenly—the rakish, in-your-face grin that she remembered so well.
“Doesn’t mean I always do it…,” he said. “I guess I’m just addicted to…trouble.”
Piggy’s mouth twitched in spite of her efforts to stop it. She felt the relief flood through him and he sighed and shook his head.
“One thing’s for sure—life’s never boring around you, Missy.”
There was a loud noise from the hallway and Piggy flinched. Fleet released her, but gently, and his voice was tender. “Get back inside before you freeze to death,” he said. “Or that big bear comes looking for you.”
Piggy sniffed, trying to hide the fact that his words had knocked her off-kilter, had left her reeling from old wounds. “Bobo is not my keeper,” she said primly, but blushed when Scribbler laughed out loud.
“I’ve never seen a keeper that could keep you,” he said. “Still, don’t give the bear a heart attack.”
Piggy stood at the stage door, her hand on the handle, her back stiff. Something about the brave set of her shoulders moved him, and his next words escaped before he could stop them.
“Missy…hey. Don’t…I didn’t mean what I said about…about the frog.”
“Yes you did,” Piggy said. Was her voice muffled because her back was to him, or was she crying? He wished he knew.
“Yeah,” Scribbler said with a grimace. “I—you’re right. It’s just….” He trailed off helplessly, not knowing what to say, or how not to say it.
His silence pulled her around where his words had not. She looked at him, wounded and defiant.
“You don’t understand,” Piggy said suddenly. “Nobody ever understands.” Her voice was weary, but resigned.
“You’re right,” Fleet said. “I don’t. I don’t understand, but…but that’s—it doesn’t matter right now. It’s not the point. I…I’m here, and I’ll keep my eyes open. And…I’m sorry, alright?”
She nodded once—a quick bob of the glossy curls, but Scribbler did not catch another glimpse of her face. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she said, and left him standing in the cold.
Welcome to the Muppet Central Forum!
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
reprimands Rhonda about calling 
anything other than by proper name thinking she'll hear it regardless of being on different coasts of the country. Yes, and if Rhonda had gone on, I imagine the next scene would be the popular meme of Piggy seen in New York sneezing right on cue.
