had a round face and straight blond hair.
Behind him, I saw a girl with curly red hair.
“Hey! You in there!” I shouted. “What are you doing in there?”
They both stared straight ahead. Their eyes were glassy. They stood perfectly still. Like zombies.
My heart started to pound. This whole little town was so completely weird. Why did Mr. Pinker build it? Who were these strange kids in that dollhouse?
“Oh, noooo.” I uttered a long moan as I stepped closer.
“I’m losing it,” I muttered. “Totally losing it.”
My mind was so crazed. I was
seeing
things.
I could see clearly now. They weren’t kids.
They were dolls.
Pinker had dolls in the houses. Boys and girls.
But they were so lifelike. So real.
I stepped up to another house. The roof loomed over my head. I had to go on tiptoe to see inside the open window.
Two dolls—a boy and a girl both in jeans and checkered shirts—were leaning against the back wall. A table held a little tea set.
I stared at the dolls, and a thought flashed into my mind:
Maybe I should trade clothes with that boy doll.
No. No time, I decided.
I had to find Mr. Pinker.
I couldn’t worry about my clothes. Or what this town of dollhouses was doing here.
I was six inches tall. I needed help right away.
I squeezed out of the room, back into the hall. Then I ran to the kitchen.
“Mr. Pinker? Mr. Pinker?”
I found him in the kitchen. He stood over a white counter making balls out of dough and putting them on a big metal baking tray.
The kitchen was hot from the oven. The sweet smell of chocolate filled my nose.
Mr. Pinker had his head bent, concentrating on the cookies. The bright ceiling light made hiseyeglasses glow. He wore the gray suit and red necktie he always wore. He didn’t even take off his suit jacket to bake cookies!
Classical music poured from a speaker under a cabinet. Mr. Pinker hummed along with the music.
I spotted a blue step stool on the other side of the kitchen cabinet. It had two steps. I pulled myself up onto the first step.
“Mr. Pinker!” I shouted. “It’s me — Steven!”
He hummed along to the music as he dropped dough balls onto the cookie tray.
“Mr. Pinker! Mr. Pinker!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. I waved my arms wildly above my head. I jumped up and down on the step stool. “Mr. Pinker! I need help. Can you hear me? Mr. Pinker?”
No. No way. He couldn’t hear me over the music and his loud humming.
I pulled myself onto the top step. I waved and jumped and shouted.
I heard a phone ring.
Pinker wiped his hands on a dish towel. The towel looked as big as a bed sheet to me!
He picked up a phone from the counter and began to talk into it. He wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder. And he continued to drop cookie dough onto the tray.
“Mr. Pinker!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and screamed his name.
I reached up on tiptoe and grabbed the countertop. Using all my strength, I pulled myself up. And scrambled onto the counter.
He had his back turned to me.
I had to get his attention. But how?
I took a deep breath and started to shout again. “Mr. Pinker! Hey, Mr. Pinker!” I jumped up and down and waved my arms frantically above my head.
“Mr. Pinker! Please — Mr. Pinker!”
No. He couldn’t hear me over the music from the kitchen speaker. He had the telephone clenched tightly between his shoulder and chin. And he was arguing with someone on the other end.
How could I make him see me? I had an idea.
I jumped onto the cookie tray.
I squeezed carefully through the rows of raw cookies.
“Mr. Pinker! See me now? Mr. Pinker?”
I tripped over a cookie and went facedown on the tray. Two or three globs of cookie dough broke my fall.
I climbed up. I had chocolate and dough stains down the front of my jumpsuit. I rubbed a smear of chocolate off my forehead.
“Mr. Pinker? Mr. Pinker?”
Moving carefully, I made my way to the front of the metal cookie tray.
Pinker had his back turned. He
Behind him, I saw a girl with curly red hair.
“Hey! You in there!” I shouted. “What are you doing in there?”
They both stared straight ahead. Their eyes were glassy. They stood perfectly still. Like zombies.
My heart started to pound. This whole little town was so completely weird. Why did Mr. Pinker build it? Who were these strange kids in that dollhouse?
“Oh, noooo.” I uttered a long moan as I stepped closer.
“I’m losing it,” I muttered. “Totally losing it.”
My mind was so crazed. I was
seeing
things.
I could see clearly now. They weren’t kids.
They were dolls.
Pinker had dolls in the houses. Boys and girls.
But they were so lifelike. So real.
I stepped up to another house. The roof loomed over my head. I had to go on tiptoe to see inside the open window.
Two dolls—a boy and a girl both in jeans and checkered shirts—were leaning against the back wall. A table held a little tea set.
I stared at the dolls, and a thought flashed into my mind:
Maybe I should trade clothes with that boy doll.
No. No time, I decided.
I had to find Mr. Pinker.
I couldn’t worry about my clothes. Or what this town of dollhouses was doing here.
I was six inches tall. I needed help right away.
I squeezed out of the room, back into the hall. Then I ran to the kitchen.
“Mr. Pinker? Mr. Pinker?”
I found him in the kitchen. He stood over a white counter making balls out of dough and putting them on a big metal baking tray.
The kitchen was hot from the oven. The sweet smell of chocolate filled my nose.
Mr. Pinker had his head bent, concentrating on the cookies. The bright ceiling light made hiseyeglasses glow. He wore the gray suit and red necktie he always wore. He didn’t even take off his suit jacket to bake cookies!
Classical music poured from a speaker under a cabinet. Mr. Pinker hummed along with the music.
I spotted a blue step stool on the other side of the kitchen cabinet. It had two steps. I pulled myself up onto the first step.
“Mr. Pinker!” I shouted. “It’s me — Steven!”
He hummed along to the music as he dropped dough balls onto the cookie tray.
“Mr. Pinker! Mr. Pinker!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. I waved my arms wildly above my head. I jumped up and down on the step stool. “Mr. Pinker! I need help. Can you hear me? Mr. Pinker?”
No. No way. He couldn’t hear me over the music and his loud humming.
I pulled myself onto the top step. I waved and jumped and shouted.
I heard a phone ring.
Pinker wiped his hands on a dish towel. The towel looked as big as a bed sheet to me!
He picked up a phone from the counter and began to talk into it. He wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder. And he continued to drop cookie dough onto the tray.
“Mr. Pinker!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and screamed his name.
I reached up on tiptoe and grabbed the countertop. Using all my strength, I pulled myself up. And scrambled onto the counter.
He had his back turned to me.
I had to get his attention. But how?
I took a deep breath and started to shout again. “Mr. Pinker! Hey, Mr. Pinker!” I jumped up and down and waved my arms frantically above my head.
“Mr. Pinker! Please — Mr. Pinker!”
No. He couldn’t hear me over the music from the kitchen speaker. He had the telephone clenched tightly between his shoulder and chin. And he was arguing with someone on the other end.
How could I make him see me? I had an idea.
I jumped onto the cookie tray.
I squeezed carefully through the rows of raw cookies.
“Mr. Pinker! See me now? Mr. Pinker?”
I tripped over a cookie and went facedown on the tray. Two or three globs of cookie dough broke my fall.
I climbed up. I had chocolate and dough stains down the front of my jumpsuit. I rubbed a smear of chocolate off my forehead.
“Mr. Pinker? Mr. Pinker?”
Moving carefully, I made my way to the front of the metal cookie tray.
Pinker had his back turned. He
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