Excerpt from Clara Poole and the Long Way Round

For my daughters, who asked for a dream at bedtime and gave me back a bigger one than I could’ve ever imagined. —T. T.

Sometimes in life, forgiving yourself is the hardest part. —Greta Gildersleeve.

CHAPTER ONE

THE ACCIDENT THAT STARTED EVERYTHING

CLARA WATCHED from her plastic lawn chair as the news vans sped below. There were more now—fifteen by her count—jockeying for position among the flashing lights and blaring sirens of an endless string of police cars. She had been in the air for over six hours, long enough for every news outlet within a hundred miles to scramble a team of reporters, locate her, and join the hunt. Finding her hadn’t been difficult. After all, how many twelve-year-old girls were hurtling through the skies of Michigan in a plastic lawn chair tied to hundreds of colorful balloons?

Clara closed her eyes as the wind whipped her face. She felt more herself. At least more than she had in the year since the accident, before she became the girl her father had always wanted her to be—the safe version of Clara Poole.

Still, as freeing as the heights were, she knew it was only a matter of time until she’d have to land. Soon the pinks and purples of the evening sky would be replaced with the black of night. She would reach the coast, and then once over Lake Michigan, things would turn very serious, very quickly.

A symphony of honks blared from the convoy below as another van swerved to the head of the pack. But this vehicle was not a news van. It was a minivan—Clara’s family’s minivan. She knew this not because of its powder-blue exterior or the cargo carrier on top, but from the panic-stricken face of her Grandma Sue screaming through the moonroof. Yet, as much as it pained Clara to cause her grandmother such fright, it was the person driving whose emotional state concerned her the most. For underneath his red baseball cap, Clara knew her father’s face must be an equally vivid shade of anger.

Not that this was new. His face was always like that these days—fed up with and fuming over one of her countless poor choices. Eyes down . . . feet on the ground . . . safety first . . . think before you act. Those had been her life directives since the accident, reminders given freely each day by one Mr. Oliver Poole, risk-averse father extraordinaire. She could only imagine the lecture awaiting her when she finally

touched down. The idea chilled her to the bone. Or was it the temperature dropping?

Clara gave a sheepish wave, hoping it might calm her grandmother, then retreated back in her chair as a pop-pop sounded above, and she dropped altitude. In no time, she’d be on the ground, and no doubt grounded.

Just tell him you didn’t mean it—that it was an accident.

It wasn’t exactly untrue.

Flying over Western Michigan in a homemade balloon had never been Clara’s intention. It wasn’t even her creation— at least not solely hers. The whole thing had begun as a science experiment in Mrs. Chelsea’s sixth-grade classroom, which was to be unveiled at the end-of-the-year fair. After their unit on gravity, the students had decided to investigate how many balloons it would take to send a person airborne. After three days inflating hundreds of balloons and tying them to a white plastic lawn chair, which had been tethered to the ground, the kids took turns testing who could be lifted into the air.

Many of her classmates had been too heavy, but a small group including Clara floated with ease. These lucky students were assigned to sit in the chair in shifts during the fair to demonstrate the experiment.

Clara’s had been the last slot of the day. At two p.m., she

climbed in, buckled the crude safety harness, and let out the rope one crank at a time until she reached a piece of tape labeled stop! 10 feet.

Then, she sat.

Most people, of course, had already seen the experiment and turned their attention to getting in one more bounce in the bounce house or devouring one more funnel cake before the fair’s close. Even Mrs. Chelsea had wandered off to chat with a few other teachers. That was fine with Clara, who frankly preferred being alone. Still, after a while, even she grew bored of the quiet.

Guess I’ll just crank myself back down and be done with it, she thought.

But then a new idea called to her from an old forgotten voice.

Or . . . it said. You could go higher.

And so she did. With each revolution of the crank, she floated up until she was twenty feet off the ground. The wind jerked at the balloons, and still, no one was watching. Clara let out even more rope.

The tether sang, a high-pitched hum, as the wind tugged at the chair. But there was something else tugging, something inside—something that demanded attention.

Clara considered the pin securing the rope to the chair, and before knowing why, pulled it free. The balloons caught the wind, and in an instant, she launched into the sky.

Jump! she thought.

But before she could, the chair was pulled twice as high.

A chorus of bloodcurdling screams cut through the air as Mrs. Chelsea and the other teachers raced across the fairgrounds waving their hands furiously as if doing so might stop Clara from flying away. It did not. A split second later, their panicked faces were gone, the school grounds of Gerald Ford Elementary had disappeared, and Clara was rocketing west.

Thwack! Pop! Poppity-pop! The chair lurched left, jogging Clara back to earth—or rather, back to air. She grasped the white plastic arms, clenching them with even whiter knuckles, and looked up.

Of the hundreds of balloons originally tied to the lawn chair, she couldn’t count how many remained, but she knew there weren’t enough to keep her airborne much longer. These were not the type of balloons meant for long-distance flight—or short distance, for that matter. Clara doubted they’d be strong enough to last a birthday party.

Landing was either good or bad, depending on how she

looked at it. On the one hand, it meant she’d live to see another day, on the other, she’d have to face her father. Accident or not, she was positive her punishment for this escapade would be legendary.

However, that inevitability would have to wait for the more serious matter in front of her. After a day of sailing over farmland and foothills, the vast silver mirror of Lake Michigan emerged, and once she left land behind, there would be nothing but water until she reached Wisconsin— if she even made it that far. Quickly, she decided not to try.

Clara pulled a bobby pin from her hair, then started hauling down balloons string by string. She stabbed at them feverishly, popping one after another, until she started to descend—far too quickly.

Closing her eyes, she braced for impact.

CHAPTER TWO

TOUCH DOWN

CLARA SMASHED INTO THE GROUND and ricocheted back into the air like a human skipping stone. Pieces of lawn chair flew in all directions as she tumbled, the earth biting into her arms and legs, tearing her sweatshirt and jeans. And then suddenly, she hit something with a shuddering thud.

Her eyes watered, stars flickering in her vision, before slowly, a picture formed: black, hairy, and awful-smelling. Clara groaned as she starred into the glazed eyes of an enormous wet-nosed cow.

“Stop breathing on me,” she grumbled.

The animal mooed before lumbering off. Clara sat trying to rub and blink away her blindness. This time, the flashing stars were not all in her head, but coming from a crowd of

police officers and reporters snapping pictures of her among the wreckage.

“Why did you do it?” one blurted.

“Yeah, what gave you the idea? Was it the influence of video games?”

“Were you running away?”

“Do your parents know anything about your flight?”

“What’s your name?”

“My name?” she repeated, shielding her eyes. “My name’s—”

“CLARA ABIGAIL POOLE!”

The horde swiveled their heads as one at the new voice, but Clara knew it instantly.

Slowly, the crowd parted, revealing the flannel-shirted shape of her father. He was not nearly as red-faced as Clara thought he’d be. In fact, he looked tired. She wiped the muck from her cheek and pulled twigs from her hair, trying to resemble anything other than the muddy mess she knew she was.

Her father stopped, looming over her, and spoke two words: “You’re grounded.”

THE DRIVE HOME was long and silent. Clara’s father kept his attention squarely on the road, while Grandma Sue, drained from the day’s excitement, snored in the passenger seat. Clara stared out the back window at nothing in particular, trying to pass the discomfort of each minute by playing a one-person game of License-Plate ABC. She was on her second round at Q when a news report came on the radio:

“That’s right, Kirk. A twelve-year-old girl stole a hotair balloon and took law enforcement on an all-day chase across the—”

Her father switched the station.

“Here’s an unusual story, Joan. A young Michigander built a hot-air balloon and launched herself from her family’s farm. After flying across the state, she splashed down in Lake Michigan, resulting in what is being called a daring Coast Guard rescue. When asked why she did it, she explained it was to encourage other young girls to be passionate about STEM education. After she—”

Clara’s father grumbled and clicked off the radio.

“That’s not true,” she said with a huff. “I wasn’t encouraging anyone to do anything with—”

Her father’s hand went up and the car returned to silence. They turned right at a stone gate with its painted sign

announcing bitter bend farm. As they pulled up to the house, Clara noticed the front door was wide open, no doubt left that way after her father received a call that his daughter was rocketing over Michigan in a lawn chair.

“Oh, we’re home,” said Grandma Sue, chirping up from the front seat. “I don’t know about you, but that was quite enough excitement for one day. I’m just glad you’re safe and sound, dear.”

Clara gave a faint smile as her father cut the ignition, and they sat in silence, watching Grandma Sue make her way from the car down the gravel path to the guest cottage. “That could’ve happened, you know,” he said eventually.

“What could’ve?”

“Those things they said on the radio. You could’ve been blown out over the lake . . . drowned . . . who knows what else.”

“But I wasn’t. I was—”

Her father raised his hand again.

“Dad, seriously, I was—”

“The only thing you were doing was thinking about yourself,” he snapped. “Because you definitely weren’t thinking about your grandmother or me. And you certainly weren’t thinking about—” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“Go ahead,” Clara said, after a moment. “Say it.”

Her father’s eyes stayed shut.

“Go on, say it,” she pressed. “I know it’s how you feel. . . . That I certainly wasn’t thinking about Mom.”

“No, Clara, that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is. You think everything’s my fault. That Mom would still be here if it weren’t for me.”

“No, that’s not—”

Clara kicked the car door open.

“Clara—”

“Yeah, right,” she snapped, and stormed into the house. She didn’t even pause to switch on the light. She marched through the darkened kitchen, stomped each stair, and slammed her bedroom door with such force, the whole house shook.

Or maybe, it was just Clara who did.

CHAPTER THREE

HAROLD HABBERDISH’S VERY BAD DAY

“BUT. . . YOU CAN’T BACK OUT NOW! But . . . it will ruin everything. But . . . we have a contract!”

Those words had come from the mouth of Harold Habberdish less than an hour before. He’d heard himself say them, the drastic pleas, futile appeals, and hopeless supplications, knowing full well they meant only one thing: disaster.

Harold’s day had started well enough. He’d put on his coat, pulled his blue bowler hat down over his gray curls, and stepped out the door of his Paris apartment. Rain spat, but not enough for an umbrella, nor enough to keep Harold, a Brit by birth, from walking the city streets he loved.

Turning into the Tuileries Garden, he proceeded along the manicured pathways in the direction of the Louvre, the former palace of French kings, now a world-renowned

museum. Surrounded by the richness of history, Harold reflected. I’m about to make history, too.

In little more than a week, pilots from around the globe would descend on Paris for the World Organization of Balloon Aeronauts’ one-hundredth air race. And as the newly appointed president of WOOBA (as it was commonly known), Harold had spared no expense in creating what was guaranteed to be the greatest adventure competition ever conceived.

From the colossal stadium, where the opening ceremonies would take place, to the thrilling aerial venues, to the star-studded parties set in the clouds, nothing could hold a candle to what Harold was planning. Surely, his father and former WOOBA president, Harrison Habberdish, would be proud, as would his father’s father, Hugo, WOOBA president before him. Legacy was important to Harold, and as the fifth generation of Habberdishes, from Harold to Harrison, Hugo to Henry, all the way to WOOBA’s founder, Hubert Horatio Habberdish, the thought of continuing such lofty family tradition filled him with pride like . . . well, like a hot-air balloon.

The rain began to fall harder as Harold crossed Rue de Rivoli near the sloping glass of the Louvre’s pyramid. He paused to take in the neatly lettered sign of Sutton & Crumwell, considered to be as fine as the bespoke clothiers

of London’s Savile Row. As Harold crossed the threshold, the smells of mahogany, wool, and leather made him feel like he’d been transported back to his childhood England.A bell chimed in back and, as if on cue, a small man dressed impeccably in gray tweed emerged from behind a green velvet curtain.

“Good day, Mr. Crumwell,” Habberdish said, removing his coat and hat. “Going to be a wet one after all, eh?”

The shrewlike man squinted out the window over halfmoon glasses. “Mmm, yes, Mr. Habberdish, so it would appear. Please, sir, this way.Your suit is ready.”

Harold stepped past the curtain and up onto a dressing platform, his excitement reflected in the surrounding mirrors.

He had commissioned a one-of-a-kind suit made of brilliant royal blue linen and patterned with WOOBA’s insignia, the white dove. “It must be a suit that will stand out above the rest,” he’d proclaimed. He’d even gone so far as to provide a sketch to illustrate precisely how the doves should be sized and positioned on the fabric.

“Your jacket, sir,” said the tailor, helping Harold slip his arms through the sleeves. “The fit should be perfection.”

And it was. In fact, it was the best-fitted piece of clothing Harold had ever worn. The shoulders were precisely cut, the taper at the waist just so, and the drape of the cloth was nothing short of exquisite. Yet, Harold’s attention was

focused not on the fine craftsmanship of the tailoring, but rather the unusual pattern adorning it.

“What is this?” he asked, holding out the sleeve.

“The dove pattern you requested.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crumwell, but I assure you it is not.”

The tailor fiddled with his glasses, raising his chin as he squinted. “Yes, yes . . . this is it—your doves—all up and down, precisely as you wished.”

Harold stared into the mirror. “But they don’t look like doves. They look like . . . like chickens!”

“Sir, this fabric was made using the exact specifications you yourself supplied.”

“What do you mean, my specifications? I most certainly did not order a chicken suit!”

The tailor readjusted his glasses and disappeared behind his curtain once more. When he returned, he held out a piece of paper—Harold’s sketch. On it, perfectly sized and precisely spaced, was a pattern of what Harold now realized looked remarkably like chickens, or at best, chicken-like doves. He conceded that the jacket’s pattern was an exact match. “Surely, though, it can be fixed?”

“I’m afraid, sir, there is nothing to fix. We would need about six weeks to have new fabric made.”

“Six weeks?”

A short while later, a much-deflated Harold Habberdish left Sutton’s, chicken suit in hand, just as the rain began to fall in sheets. By the time he hurled himself through the doors of the Société Credit Bank, a block away, he was soaked to the bone.

As he approached the teller one squishy footstep at a time, the bank’s manager,Victor Arnaut, hurried to greet him.

“Monsieur Habberdish, sir. You have gone swimming in your clothes!”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Arnaut.Yes, I, uh, forgot my umbrella at home.”

“Do you require a towel, monsieur?”

“No, no,” said Habberdish, pulling an envelope from his coat pocket. “But you can deposit this check for me. It’s the big one from our premier sponsor, Groem and Stratmire. Without this check, nothing’s getting off the ground.” Harold chuckled at his own joke, beginning to feel a touch better after the incident at the tailor’s. That was until he noticed the confusion on Victor Arnaut’s face.

“I’m sorry, monsieur, but haven’t you heard?”

“Heard?” Harold’s chest tightened. “Heard what?”

“Groem and Stratmire . . . they filed for bankruptcy this morning. The reports say it was something to do with executives secretly spending millions on big yachts and fancy

houses. I can try to deposit the check for you, monsieur, but I doubt it will clear. They have no money.”

Harold blinked, replaying the words in his mind. Certainly, Arnaut was wrong. But as the senior executive manager of France’s largest bank,Victor Arnaut’s job very much entailed always being right. Then Harold locked eyes on the newscast playing on the lobby’s television. A reporter was speaking in front of a large stone building as people exited carrying boxes and desk lamps. Though the television had been muted, Harold could still read the chyron scrolling across the bottom of the screen: groem & stratmire declares bankruptcy after 100 years of business. closure effective immediately.

Harold floated through the remainder of the day, numb: watching news stories; verifying that his check was, indeed, worthless; trudging back to his office in the pouring rain; taking in the dumbstruck faces of his employees when he announced what had happened. A phone call with the head of Groem & Stratmire confirmed that there would be no sponsorship money. He was indeed sorry, but that if there were still free tickets to the opening ceremony, he’d enjoy bringing his family.

Harold looked forlornly out his window into the courtyard where brazen pigeons crept like spies among café tables, stealing pastries from the plates of unwitting tourists. After

a hundred years, was this really it? No more race? No more balloons? No more WOOBA? How would he be able to tell his family that in his first year as president, he’d botched everything?

After a deep breath, he picked up the phone, steeling himself to call his father, when his assistant, Marie Lemot, stormed through his office doors.

“Turn on the TV!” she ordered.

Harold returned the phone to the cradle. “Ms. Lemot, please, the last thing I want to see is more bad news.”

“But, sir, you don’t understand. It’s not over! I think I’ve figured out a way to save the race!”

Harold stared blankly as his assistant seized the remote from his desk and switched on the television. On the screen, a young girl covered in mud was standing next to a broken lawn chair and what appeared to be bundles of children’s balloons. 12-year-old girl flies homemade balloon across Michigan . . . becomes instant celebrity.

“Ms. Lemot? What is this?”

“Trust me, sir. I’ll explain on the way. I’ll get your coat.”

She marched to the coat stand, pausing to take in the royal-blue lump forming a puddle on the floor below.

“Mr. Habberdish? Are those chickens?”

WHEN AN UNINTENDED FLIGHT OVER Michigan in a lawn chair held aloft by balloons brings her instant celebrity, Clara Poole is invited to be the spokesperson for a roundthe-world hot-air balloon race. But when her father refuses to let her join, she forges his signature in a moment of defiance and runs away to Paris to take her place in the skies. If only she’d read the fine print first.

Mr. Lemoncello meets The Amazing Race in this high-octane, around-the-world adventure.

Partnered with a cranky veteran pilot, Clara faces down ten treacherous stages— capturing flags in the perilous mountains of Nepal; being a guest of honor at a maybewedding in the Sahara; flying through rings of fire in Hong Kong—all while learning the ropes alongside a colorful cast of international competitors.

But there are more dangers than those planned as part of the contest. Someone is trying to sabotage the competition. And surviving this race means Clara must come to terms with the tragedy that sent her fleeing to the skies in the first place, and accepting that forgiving herself isn’t a process she has to undertake alone.

Gorgeous prose and winning characters combine in this quirky, often-hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking, and thoroughly captivating adventure from an incredible new talent.

“Fast-paced debut.” —Publishers Weekly

“I’D GIVE ANYTHING TO FLY.”