Toys Come Home by Emily Jenkins Page A

for Penelope.”
    “No. Plastic,” says the Girl.
    “Penny’s a real name, but it’s also cute. And pennies are round,” continues the mom, as if she hasn’t heard.
    “Plastic!” The Girl plants a kiss on the round thing’s fat red surface.
    And the name sticks.
    For the next several days, the Girl spends a lot of time throwing Plastic toward the ceiling and catching her again.
    Blop! Blop!
    Plastic actually seems to like it.
    When she’s not being thrown in the air or rolled across the room, and when the Girl has gone to school and the toys have the house to themselves all morning, Plastic spends her time looking through the books on the shelves. Lumphy or the toy mice get them down for her, and she reads rather quickly, even if she doesn’t understand all the words.
    “What is a croissant?” she asks StingRay one day.
    “A kind of monster.”
    “Oh. Okay. And what is a snickerdoodle?”
    “Another kind of monster.”
    “Okay.” Plastic reads on.
    StingRay and Lumphy are looking out the window at the guy next door raking leaves in his yard.

    “Why is the sky blue?” asks Plastic after a few minutes.
    “Blue is the best color,” says StingRay.
    “Why? Why is it the best color?” Plastic leaves her book and bounces up to rest near her friends on the windowsill.
    “It just always has been.”
    “Why do we call it blue?”
    “Because it sounds like ‘blew,’ as in ‘I blew out the candles.’ ” StingRay rears up to explain better. “And everybody knows that wind is blue. And breath is blue. If you were painting them in a painting, you’d paint them blue.”
    “Or gray,” says Lumphy.
    “If you wanted it to be right, you’d paint them blue,” says StingRay.
    “And why are we here?” says Plastic. “That’s the thing I really need to know.”
    “What do you mean, why are we here?” StingRay asks.
    “Why are we here in the Girl’s room? In this town, on this planet?” explains Plastic.
    StingRay doesn’t know what to say.
    Plastic bounces, expectantly. “I thought you would know.”
    “We. We—” StingRay still can’t reply.
    The toys are waiting for an answer.
    “I’ll tell you later,” says StingRay, finally. “Right now I have some important stuff to do.”
    “Why did you have to ask that, Plastic?” moans Lumphy. “It makes my head hurt thinking about it.”
    “Sorry!” Plastic rolls around him apologetically.
    StingRay’s head hurts, too. But she doesn’t mention it.
    . . . . .
    That night, Lumphy can’t sleep. His eyes feel sore and heavy, but he keeps thinking about the question Plastic asked. Why are we here? In the Girl’s room? In this town? On this planet?
    Lumphy doesn’t know.
    And he can tell that
StingRay
doesn’t know. Which is pretty worrying, because StingRay knows nearly everything.
    Lumphy’s eyes stay open all night.
    The next morning, when the people are away at work and school, Plastic starts asking questions again.
    “What’s a robot?”
    “Something that’s not alive but seems alive,” answers StingRay.
    Plastic thinks this answer over. “Are we robots?” she asks, finally.
    “Certainly not.” StingRay is pretty sure.
    “And how come we’re here, again?” Plastic asks. “I forgot what you said yesterday.”
    “Stop asking that!” Lumphy barks. “Stop asking how come! Stop asking why! You are making my head hurt again.”
    Plastic stops, like she did before. But she asks again the next day. And the next.
    She is really trying not to ask, she honestly is—but she just wants to know. So, so badly. Evening after evening, the question pops out.
    Why are we here?
    Then: night after night, Lumphy cannot sleep.
    Wondering.
    Wondering.
    Why he is here. Why any of them are here.
    Why the mice are here.
    The Girl.
    StingRay, Sheep, Plastic, the rocking horse.
    It is scary that StingRay doesn’t know, and scary that there might not be an answer at all.
    . . . . .
    One Saturday night, StingRay wakes at two a.m. The Girl is