The Hat Parade Disaster

Sunshine jiggled right along with the jellybean-paved streets as Millie and Pip joined the swirling parade crowd outside. All around the town square, neighbors bustled—adjusting fruity feathers, fluffing leafy brims, and grinning with the wobbly glee that only a jellybean morning could bring.

Excitement zipped through the air like seltzer bubbles. Bunting zigzagged above the streets, streaming between the lemon-shaped lampposts. The marching band (all six members, each with a carrot-light baton) tooted out a bouncy tune as townsfolk gathered for the parade’s wild and wacky ribbon-cutting spectacle.

“Attention, fruit-fantastic friends!” Mayor Plum called, standing tall on the main stage in a hat made from an actual plum. Or, at least, it was mostly plum—the top looked a bit…chewed.

He beamed, but the effect was odd, as juice dribbled down his forehead. “Welcome to the annual—er—Hat Parade! Please join me in the Hat Wave!”

A cheer zigzagged through the crowd. Everyone lifted their hats to wiggle and wave. And that was when the trouble truly began.

Mrs. Raspberry gave her raspberry beret a regal tip—and two raspberries plopped off, bonking her in the nose.

Mr. Mango’s hat gave a suspicious squelch as he tried to raise it. The fruit skin peeled back like a banana being unzipped.

Kids in cherry tiaras let out yelps as their hats dropped split cherries into their eyes. Granny Smith’s apple crown was now only a lopsided apple core, perched on her silvery bun. She cackled, which made the seeds tumble out and roll into Parade Marshal Petunia’s shoes.

Then, with a grand flourish, Mayor Plum lifted his plum hat high. The crowd gasped—a big, perfect mouthful was missing, leaving the hat drooping like a sleepy flower. Plum juice dripped onto his nose.

“By the pickles and pears,” he cried, “who has been munching on our magnificent millinery?”

The parade erupted into pandemonium. Hats slipped sideways, bonnets split in two. Someone’s grape fascinator exploded in a popcorn sound—POP!—showery purple seeds raining down. As the band tried desperately to keep tooting in tune, Millie ducked, barely missing a falling orange fedora that splatted on the ground like a jelly pancake.

All over town square, people swapped shocked looks. Some burst into giggles, others tried hastily patching their hats with napkins, glue, or bandages. Pip, ever clever, pulled a sardine (in case of parade emergencies) from behind his back and offered it to Miss Lemon. She sniffed it and shook her head, wrinkling her nose with a giggle.

“Well, this is certainly the silliest parade I’ve ever seen!” she squeaked.

Millie and Pip spun in a wobbly circle, eyes wide, surveying the chaos. Tiny fruit flies zipped gleefully through the air, slurping up the sweet mess. There were fruity footprints and sticky splats everywhere. The hats were not just nibbled—they’d been feasted upon. By whom?

Just then, Bingo the Monkey—new to town and bouncing with more curiosity than the rest of the parade put together—appeared near the bandstand, his cheeks bulging and his cap slightly askew. He waved at Millie and Pip, showing a wide, innocent grin, and then…hiccuped

BING!

—a perfect grape popped out and bounced down the steps.

Suspicious, perhaps? But Millie only narrowed her eyes and scribbled a note. Mystery suspects: everyone (and maybe monkeys most of all?).

A chorus of laughter and silly shouts rang out: “Who’s the fruit fiend?” “My berries are bare!” “I’ve lost my lemon curd!”

The parade, it appeared, had turned into a fruity fiasco—and yet, nobody seemed angry for more than a tickle. It was hard to be cross when surrounded by such wobbly-wonderful neighbors and splats of fruit juice.

Mayor Plum wobbled to the front. “My fellow fruity folk,” he declared, dabbing his sticky brow, “fear not! We shall not let a little fruity foofaraw ruin our tradition. Let’s cheer our chewed hats with an extra parade lap! And, perhaps, a new rule: no eating your neighbor’s hat!”

The crowd giggled, forming a slightly-less-well-hatted conga line and wobbling around the square. Pip joined in, swinging his sardine hat proudly; no bites there (yet).

But Millie lagged behind, her banana hat a little droopier with every step. She fiddled with the brim, thoughtful.

Pip tugged her sleeve. “Got a clue yet, Detective?”

Millie shook her head, then straightened her shoulders. “If we don’t find the culprit soon, next year’s parade will be all about squashed fruit and sticky shoes. We’re not just hat lovers, Pip—we’re problem solvers!”

She scribbled in her notebook once more:

Mission: Find the fruit-nibbler before the juiciest hats in town are only compost!

The Hat Parade swerved on, giggly and sticky. Millie’s heart squeezed between worry and fun. The case had only just begun, and somewhere—among the banana trails and wiggly tails—the answer was waiting to be found.