Gorilla Tactics

by Sheila Grau

  “She just looks stubborn,” I said. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

  “What can I do?”

  I thought about it. After a minute, I said, “Well, here’s an idea. What if you and Pismo did something at the fashion show to usher in a new era of friendship? Wouldn’t that be amazing? You could show the grown-ups how to set aside their hatred and start fresh.”

  “Runt, you are so ridiculously naive.” She shook her head and stood up to leave. “But you’re right. I would be amazing.”

  After lunch, while the girls were getting ready for the show, I checked in with Darthin in Dr. Frankenhammer’s lab.

  “Any luck making more antidote?” I asked him.

  He nodded at Dr. Frankenhammer, who was hunched over a table filled with bubbling and smoking liquids in glass beakers. “He’s close,” Darthin said. He put a hand on a huge stack of papers. “I’ve collected some information on the Kobold Retraining Center, and statues, and memorial flames,” he said.

  “Just a little information?” Leave it to Darthin to turn a simple request for directions into a six-hundred-page thesis.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll summarize it. We should meet after the fashion show, and plan our—you know.”

  He meant our unauthorized leave. I nodded.

  “Darthin,” I said, “I know you’re busy, but what would you put in a fashion show gift bag?”

  “Isn’t the fashion show starting in a few hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then if I were you, I’d put in my resignation from the junior henchman training program.” He laughed at his joke, and then said, “Just throw in some of Cook’s saltwater taffy and some hair scrunchies.”

  “Misssss Merrybench’ssss perfume,” Dr. Frankenhammer piped in. “She ordered it in bulk and kept it in her quarters. She doesn’t need it anymore, obviously, and I would appreciate its removal. The smell of it fillsss the hallways upstairs.”

  I remembered that perfume. Just thinking about the smell made me feel like someone was angry with me. Ah, memories.

  Soon it was time for the fashion show to start. I stood backstage looking at the huge crowd filing in. My stomach was twitchy with nerves, and I wasn’t even in the show. Seating was arranged to face the runway, with the VIPs in the front row. These included the siren mothers and the wives and daughters of evil overlords. Behind them sat their bodyguards, as well as teachers and students and less important visitors.

  I held one of my gift bags. I was going to get a third strike, for sure. Saltwater taffy, a vial of Miss Merrybench’s perfume, and some thick rubber bands I was hoping to pass off as hair scrunchies. On a whim I snuck in the photophore gloves, because why not? What else could the sirens do to us?

  Since my job was done, I stayed backstage to help as needed. It turned out that the needed part came up sooner than I’d expected.

  Elise came out of the dressing room behind the set. “Where’s Rufus? I was told he’s the backstage manager, and I can’t find my purse. It’s my most important accessory.”

  The stage was crowded with people getting ready for the show. Rufus sat on a crate, trying to figure out how to work the headset that we’d been using in rehearsal. He hadn’t gone to any of the rehearsals.

  “How am I supposed to know where your purse is?” he said.

  “Because it’s your job,” I said.

  A surprised hush smothered the room. I didn’t know who was more shocked that I’d criticized Rufus, him or me. Probably me. Darn that Pismo—he had me doing so many confrontation exercises in my head that one just slipped out before I could stop it.

  Rufus stood up and got in my face. “Oh really? And maybe I could be doing my job if I wasn’t so worried about Janet—thanks to you.”

  You know what? I was tired of taking his abuse. I wasn’t going to stand there like an idiot and say nothing.

  “Rufus, we’re all worried about Janet. We still do our job. That’s what we’re trained to do.”

  “Right,” he said. “Because we’re getting such valuable training here, putting on a fashion show. At this ridiculous school that’s run by a lunatic.”

  “If this school folds, it’ll be because of kids like you. Kids who think they’re too cool to try.” I held out my hand. “Give me the headset.”

  “What?” Rufus looked around. People were watching.

  “Give me the headset!” I said, louder. I wanted everyone to watch. He couldn’t hurt me with other people watching, could he? “You don’t know what you’re doing, Rufus. I do. I’ve been at every rehearsal. Give it to me, or this show is going to be a disaster and everyone will know it’s because of you. I’m saving your butt, you ungrateful jerk.”

  He growled at me, eyes flaring with anger. He threw the headset at my feet. “Have fun, loser.”

  “You’re welcome!” I shouted at his back.

  After that, I felt so full of energy and confidence I could’ve lit up a city. I’d just called Rufus a jerk, and I wasn’t a shredded pile of human skin. This was amazing. I was ready to take charge of this little show, whether there were evil overlords watching or not.

  I knew what to do. I gave Frankie the other headset, and we each took a side of the stage. We’d make sure the girls were ready to go from the eaves. I had ten girls on my side, and Frankie had nine on his. Syke still hadn’t shown up.

  I looked at Mistress Moira, who was wearing a very pretty white dress that seemed to float around her. It looked so brilliant next to her dark brown skin. She was calm, but she kept stealing glances at Bianca, standing at the end of my line.

  Bianca really stood out. The rest of the girls wore Mistress Moira dresses, and even though they were different, there was something the same about them. They were different colors and lengths; some had capes, some didn’t. I don’t know what it was that brought them all together, but something did—a flamboyant subtlety, maybe, or an elegant casualness. Yikes. I could see why I hadn’t been asked to write the descriptions for the program.

  Bianca’s dress was striking, but it was so different. Like seeing a fish monster frolicking with a pack of werewolves. She looked confident, though. Really confident. Smug.

  “Bianca, you didn’t come to the dress rehearsal,” Verduccia said.

  “Mother said I didn’t need to. She thought it would be better to have my hair and makeup done by her people. It’s just walking down the runway.”

  “What about the rehearsed stuff?” Verduccia said. “The dances—”

  “I’m not doing those,” she said. “Mother told me they’re goofy and will make me look common. I’m just going last, so everyone will see how much better I am.

  “I am so winning this thing,” she continued. “As soon as Janet withdrew, I knew I’d win. It’s not even this dress, although look at it. It’s like I’m wearing gold and everyone else is in mud. It’s ridiculous how good I’m going to be. Mother keeps saying that.”

  Verduccia rolled her eyes, but not so that Bianca could see.

  Bianca was so much nicer when her mother wasn’t around.

  A tuxedo-wearing Dr. Critchlore walked out to the middle of the stage holding a microphone, and the crowd hushed.

  “Welcome to the Inaugural Critchlore Fashion Show,” he said. Listless applause greeted this announcement. It was the sort of applause that wasn’t really interested in anything yet. “This is an entirely student-run event, except for the dresses, of course. I always strive to let the students practice the skills they’ve learned here in a completely new situation. Skills like logistics, timing, organization, and leadership.”

  He was covering himself should anything go wrong, I knew—everyone knew.

  “I’m very proud of all the hard work these talented girls have put into this show,” he went on. “And now I will share some words from Mistress Moira.”

  He cleared his throat and read from a card: “Every girl has that little something that makes her special and interesting. Perhaps it’s a joyfulness that’s a pleasur
e to be around, or an intellectual curiosity that makes us think, or maybe it’s an infectious laugh that brightens our day. It can be any of a million things. We aim to find that little spark of character and kindle it, so that it glows for everyone to see. This is beauty. Not a physical beauty that lies as flat as a picture, but a personality that gives us something we want to return to. Let’s ignite the inner confidence of these girls by celebrating the young ladies they are becoming.”

  The applause was even more tepid now.

  “And to this I add: All our girls are beautiful!” Dr. Critchlore went on. “But don’t take my word for it. Why don’t I show you? Let’s begin!”

  I took a deep breath. I knew that the sirens were set on destroying my school once the show was over, but a part of me was hoping that they’d see their daughters onstage and change their mind.

  On the other hand, I’ve been told many times that I’m too optimistic for my own good.

  Be evil.

  —CORPORATE MOTTO OF THE SIREN SYNDICATE

  Dr. Critchlore returned to the eaves, microphone in hand. First up was Verduccia, and I nodded at her to take her position center stage.

  “Frankie, make sure Trinka’s ready to go as soon as Verduccia hits her last pose,” I said in my headset.

  “Got it,” Frankie replied.

  The lights went out and the auditorium was plunged into darkness. The music started, a thumping, dancey beat. The spotlights flashed onto the runway and Verduccia, who stood in the center of the stage wearing an emerald-green dress with long sleeves that reached her knuckles. A gold chain circled her waist and dangled down one side. Her auburn hair was styled into long curls.

  “Verduccia!” The music faded in volume as Dr. Critchlore read from his note card. “Verduccia is a spirited and independent girl, calm under pressure when others are quick to panic. We are drawn to Verduccia’s fearlessness and take-charge attitude.”

  The music rose again, and she began her walk. Cameras flashed from the audience. From my vantage point in the eaves, I could see the imps stationed at the aisles in the audience, dressed as miniature ninjas. This was the part I was nervous about. I’d seen the imps in rehearsal, and they didn’t always get it right. I held my breath as I watched them sneak down the aisles. They crouched near the runway, watching Verduccia.

  Verduccia walked with her head high, a slight smile on her lips. When she reached the halfway point on the runway, a large net dropped from the ceiling and covered her. She screamed. The imps jumped onto the stage to hold it down, smiling wickedly. Verduccia struggled, but the net held her in place.

  Shocked audience members turned to one another, wondering what was going on. Some of the bodyguards rose to their feet, but Verduccia held up her hands to stop them.

  She balled her hands into tight fists, and when she did, the sleeves of her dress erupted with short blades. With two swishes of her arms, she tore the net to shreds and stepped free.

  Verduccia walked to the end of the runway, clapped her hands together, and the knives reset into the sleeves. She swirled back to the stage, smiling as the applause grew more enthusiastic.

  Next up was Trinka, an imp. Dr. Critchlore read, “Whether on the playing field or in class, one thing shines through about Trinka—her ability to get out of tough situations. She’s clever and crafty, thinking up solutions that others miss.”

  Trinka wore a pale purple dress with large green polka dots, each one the size of a saucer. She also wore a beret in matching purple.

  “Frankie,” I said into my headset. “The wall!”

  Frankie nodded and pushed a ten-foot-tall wall prop out from his side to the middle of the stage.

  Most people had to watch Trinka on the giant screens flanking the stage, because she was so little. The ninja imps were gathered at the end of the runway and, right after Trinka hit her pose, they popped up threateningly.

  Trinka threw down her beret, and it exploded with a bang and a puff of smoke that made the imps jump back. She turned and race-walked back toward the stage. As she moved, she ran a hand down her dress, lifting off five polka dots in one pass. She threw them like Frisbees toward the wall, where they embedded into it, each one slightly higher than the last, like steps. When Trinka reached the stage, she climbed the steps to the top of the wall. She swung herself up, turned, and sat on the top. With a press on her sleeve, the steps disintegrated, so her pursuers couldn’t follow. She waved at the cheering crowd as Frankie pushed the wall back to the eaves.

  “Joelle,” Dr. Critchlore said, “at first glance, seems like a shy and quiet girl. But still waters run deep, and everyone should get to know her quiet humor and intelligence. We are all just waiting for Joelle to soar.”

  Frankie and I had given nicknames to the dresses: The Slip-n-Slide, the Porcupine, the Magic Book, and the Side-Puncher, to name a few. We called Joelle’s dress the Jetpack, and it was awesome.

  “I would wear that dress,” Frankie said in his headset as Joelle returned from her flight around the ballroom. “I love the Jetpack.”

  “Maybe Mistress Moira will make a boy version,” I said.

  The crowd was excited now. The cheers erupting from the audience made Joelle blush.

  “I didn’t know their dresses did stuff,” Bianca said behind me. She chewed on a fingernail. “Do they all do something special?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Weren’t you watching the dress rehearsal?”

  She shook her head. “My dress doesn’t do anything. What if everyone is expecting something, and my dress just hangs there? I’ll be a huge disappointment.” She started crying, which smudged her makeup. “I’m not doing it,” she cried.

  “You have to,” I said. If she didn’t compete, she wouldn’t win. Her mother would be even more furious, and Dr. Critchlore would never be able to get back in her good graces. It would be a disaster.

  I wanted to comfort Bianca, but I also really wanted to see Meika’s dress, “the Flash Cape.”

  “Meika,” Dr. Critchlore said, “has a bright smile for everyone, and her laughter brightens our day. She’s the first to cheer up a friend who is down. You’ll never hear Meika complain about anything.”

  I saw women in the audience, siren mothers and evil overlord wives, frantically scribbling in their programs. They pointed and nodded and laughed. They looked so happy. Everyone except Bianca’s mother, who sat fuming. She stood up and walked toward the stage.

  Bianca sobbed as Dr. Critchlore announced the next model. “We notice Elise’s kind nature every day, whether she’s helping classmates with their homework, or picking up that stray candy wrapper . . .”

  “Frankie,” I said. “Take over for me for a sec.”

  Someone had to do something about this impending disaster.

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, depending on whether you were an evil overlord or one of his subjects.

  —FIRST LINE OF A TALE OF TWO REALMS

  Mistress Moira watched from the eaves. I told her what was happening with Bianca. “It serves her right, and her mother,” she said. “They were completely rude to me. She called me the help. Me! I was a goddess back in the day!”

  “It’s not Bianca’s fault that her mother is conceited. Yes, she’s been obnoxious, but I think she’s learned her lesson. Isn’t there something you can do?”

  “Tell her to meet me in the dressing room backstage. And hurry. Maybe we can work something out during the first dance number.”

  I turned back to Bianca just as her mother reached her.

  “Where is the seamstress woman?” the Grand Sirenness asked, looking livid.

  “Follow me,” I said, and I led them backstage. Mistress Moira sat at a makeup table, waiting.

  “You there, seamstress,” Marissa said, snapping her fingers as if she were calling a puppy. “Where is the dress that you made for Bianca?”

  “It’s unfinished,” Mistress Moira said. “When you told me you didn’t want my ‘common’ dress, I stopped working on i
t.”

  “This is a disaster,” Marissa said, pacing now. “You should have told me what these dresses do!”

  “I believe your exact words were, ‘I do not talk to the help.’ ”

  “Bianca cannot go out like this. Everyone will expect her dress to do something, and it won’t. Hers is completely different.”

  “Yes. I believe I said that,” Mistress Moira replied.

  Marissa stopped pacing and stood in front of Mistress Moira, squinting down at her. “Throwing my words back at me—do you think you’ve won your little battle here? Do you think you have bested the great Grand Sirenness Marissa? I can destroy this school.”

  Oh no. Confrontation. I hated confrontation, but I couldn’t look away.

  “Do you really think so?” Mistress Moira stood up. “Perhaps before the show you could have. But now? Now there is a ballroom full of evil overlords’ wives who want these dresses for their daughters. Haven’t you been watching them? If you cut off Dr. Critchlore’s supply routes, I won’t be able to make any dresses, and those wives and daughters will be very disappointed. Because of you.”

  The Grand Sirenness’s face started twitching, she was so angry.

  “Your position is an elected one, is it not?” Mistress Moira went on. “And right now you have the backing of those EOs. That will change if you so much as delay one shipment to this school.”

  The Grand Sirenness’s twitching hardened into an expression that looked dangerous. Mistress Moira was right. The Grand Sirenness had lost, and she wasn’t used to losing.

  The muffled bass from the show thumped in time with my heartbeat as I stood watching the women stare at each other. It was tense. It made me nervous. Sometimes when I’m nervous, thoughts jump to my tongue and escape my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Bianca could wear the mermaid dress,” I blurted out.

  I looked from one woman to the other, waiting for a reaction.

  The Grand Sirenness threw a water bottle at me.

  “Runt, please,” Mistress Moira said.