The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries)

by Christy Barritt

  I had to admit that made sense.

  “Maybe there were two people back there, Hannah and someone else. After all, I heard someone laugh. But if so, why did Hannah disappear like that?”

  “I dunno,” Becca said. “You’re sure Ms. Shernick said she had been to judicial court and not a tennis court? Or a basketball court?”

  “Positive. Who gets extra time to make up an assignment if they skip school to see a tennis match?” I knew there had to be some connection. I took a huge bite of my PB&C (the C being crackers because we were out of bread).

  “Maybe she was paying court to someone. You know, like they said in Romeo and Juliet—pay court to somebody?”

  “Vats ve dummest ving,” I began with my dry cracker mouth when it hit me like a flash. “I’ve got it! Hannah has been planted here by some underground homeschooling organization that’s plotting to do away with public schools!”

  Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth I realized how stupid they sounded.

  “Been reading conspiracy theories lately?” Becca laughed and I did too.

  It was good to break the tension. Good to laugh with a friend, my BFF. I thought for a brief moment about coming clean about having a crush on Brandon. I should have done it. It would have been the right thing to do. But I hesitated a fraction of a second too long and Becca was talking about—who else?—Bran the Man.

  As I half listened, I added three new entries to my dictionary:

  Back drop

  1. (n) a large piece of canvas hung from a pipe and painted to create scenic element. Also called a drop

  2. (v) to fall on your butt in front of half the school when spotlight drops or after a mouse creeps you out

  Flat

  1. (n) vertical wall of scenery created on canvas stretched and nailed to four by twelves

  2. (adj) how you feel after high schoolers diss you

  Distressed

  1. (v) the process of aging new props/costumes/sets to make them look old and worn

  2. (adj) how you feel when everyone blames you and it’s not your fault

  ***

  Becca and I must have talked for hours because I heard my mom come in from her evening shift. I heard her drop her car keys in the bowl by the front door and start up the stairs toward my room.

  “Catch ya tomorrow,” I told Becca. “Later, gator.”

  “As you wish, jellyfish.”

  I hung up as mom softly knocked on my half opened door. “I’m up. Come in.”

  My mom slipped inside my room and sat on my bed. She looked tired. People always said we looked alike. We had the same red hair and thin build. I’d seen pictures of my mom when she was younger and she’d been turn-your-head pretty. Now she wore dumpy, secondhand clothes, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and had dark circles smudged under her tired eyes.

  “Hey!” she said warmly. “Good thing this isn’t a school night.”

  “Yeah.” I meant it. I couldn’t have faced anybody at school the next day. I only hoped the weekend would generate lots of other, juicier gossip so my alleged crimes weren’t the hot topic Monday morning.

  “Did you see the skirt?” I had left the pink skirt in plain view.

  “I did. I borrowed a sewing machine and brought home some super-duper stain remover. I also took on a one time deep clean for tomorrow. If we do it together, I’ll be able to rest before my shift at the store.”

  I was confused. Was she saying she needed my help so she’d have time to clean and sew? I wanted to weasel out of cleaning a stranger’s house by carefully crafting an excuse so it sounded like I really would, except for homework or something noble like saving lost dogs.

  What teenage girl wants to spend Saturday afternoon scrubbing some rich person’s toilet?

  For once, I didn’t blurt out the first lame thing that came to mind. Was I ever glad I didn’t.

  “I know how much this play means to you, and I know you need $80 for a costume if we can’t fix the ink stain. That’s why I agreed to do this one. It’s a $200 gig and your cut would be half.”

  My mouth dropped open, and I hugged my mom tight.

  “Gabby, this job won’t seem like work with you along.” She squeezed me back and released me.

  One hundred smackaroos!

  I’d have money left over. Then I remembered the excuses I’d planned and felt about two feet tall.

  “I’d be glad to help.” My voice sounded squeaky in my own ears, and I realized I was on the verge of tears.

  Spontaneously, I wrapped my mom in another big hug. My mom was always sacrificing herself for dad and me. Even if the job wasn’t for me and to replace the costume, I should have just agreed because it was the right thing, the caring thing, the loving thing to do.

  I squeezed her a tiny bit harder and pulled back. “What time?”

  “Eight.”

  “Eight o’clock it is. Where?”

  “It’s a house in the Bay Island subdivision. Dr. Bullock’s house. I think you go to school with his daughter.”

  I groaned inwardly.

  I was going to be cleaning the Diva’s house tomorrow.

  Was being a part of the play really worth that humiliation?

  CHAPTER 18

  The Bay Island subdivision was located on a two mile long island inhabited by snooty people. The houses alone probably cost something close to the Gross National Product of Uruguay, and their garages were bigger than our duplex. Most of the residents had their own private boat access to the Chesapeake Bay and the Diva’s mansion was no exception.

  Because the houses were so ginormous, I wondered how we were going to manage to deep clean such a monstrosity in four hours. Deep cleaning meant the normal stuff plus washing walls, windows, ovens, and all that extra stuff you only did once a year during spring cleaning or when people moved into or out of an apartment.

  My mom must think we’re superheroes or something because there is no way we’ll be done in time for her to get to work by two, much less have time to rest beforehand.

  “We are only doing the garage, honey,” my mom reassured me.

  “Who deep cleans a garage? Do they have money to burn or something?”

  “Gabby St. Claire,” began my mother sternly. “Do not cop an attitude. We are here to serve these people and do the best possible job we can. Leave that attitude in the car, young lady.”

  I stifled my retort and slumped deeper into the cracked vinyl upholstery of our ten-year-old, silver Toyota van, tricked out with straps on top to hold surfboards. Not that dad ever went to the beach, much less surfed anymore.

  “If we work quickly, we’ll stay warmer.” Mom’s tone had softened. “I was thinking, maybe this summer, you could help me with some of the cleaning. I’d pay you, of course. Wouldn’t it be nice to earn some money you could spend however you liked?”

  I mulled the possibility over in my mind. Money would be nice, but playing slave to rich people made me want to hurl. I glanced at mom. She was looking at me, her expression hopeful. I stuffed down my reservations and gave her a non-committal answer.

  “Let me think about it. See how today goes.”

  She nodded and navigated the broad streets bordering immaculate lawns with a smile on her face.

  In my neighborhood, everyone parked their cars in the street. Some of the vehicles didn’t even run. But not here. A couple homes had a vehicle in the driveway but with two and three car garages, I guessed there was no need to use the streets as a parking lot.

  Who needs more than three cars?

  We pulled up in front of a two-story mansion with a bay window as big as a storefront. Massive pine trees towered alongside the stately manor and a redwood porch curled from the front to around the side opposite the attached three-car garage.

  They were apparently ready for our arrival because the garage doors were up and no cars in sight. I hoped that meant we could bypass going to the front door.

  Maybe the Diva will never know I’m here. We’ll steal in and ou
t like thieves.

  Oops. That was probably a bad choice of words. After the mess at rehearsal, the last thing I could afford—the last thing my family could afford—was to be accused of theft. I made a quick note to self to be less clumsy than usual, although I doubted there were many fragile things I could break in a garage.

  “Gabby, grab the cleaning supplies, would you, while I let them know we are here.”

  I nodded, relieved I’d be spared meeting anyone. If my luck held, the Diva would sleep in until noon and we’d be long gone.

  ***

  I stood on a stepladder, dusting off the ceiling fans and shook my head in disbelief. Ceiling fans in a garage! Did the cars complain during the hot Virginia summers? I giggled to myself wondering how a conversation might go between their silver Mercedes and the beige Volvo.

  Dahling, this heat is insufferable.

  I do hope the master takes me for a spin in the cool ocean breeze.

  The Volvo, of course, would have a Swedish accent while the Mercedes sounded German.

  My mom hummed cheerfully along to the radio she’d brought. I didn’t know how she did it. How she kept an upbeat attitude with working, with dad, with me.

  Maybe I should help her clean this summer. Not even take any money, just do it because I love her.

  I climbed down from the ladder and started on the windows, the ammonia from the cleaner stinging my eyes and nose. We were nearly done and no one, thankfully, had come out to talk to us or observe us. Dr. Bullock had used part of the garage as some sort of laboratory, but based on the thick layers of dust that had transferred from the glassware and medical instruments to my clothes and face, I deduced it hadn’t been used in years. We’d packed everything in boxes with Styrofoam peanuts and ferried the storage containers to the attic above the garage to make room for a third car.

  Probably for Donabell’s older brother, Stephan.

  I knew she had a brother, but that was about all I knew about him since he was three years older and the Diva never talked about anyone except herself. Always the spotlight for the Diva, always the center of everyone’s orbit. If she said one more word about the agent coming to see her in Oklahoma, I’d barf. Even the Gorilla had told her to give it a rest.

  As I skirted around the Volvo, I couldn’t help but wish my parents could afford a newer car. The van always needed something fixed or replaced. I’d probably be riding a hand-me-down Huffy until I was 24 and out of college. If I could afford college. I’d need scholarships, loans, or maybe a million dollars left to me in Bill Gates’ will.

  “Gabby, toss the trash please while I sweep.”

  I grabbed two of the black, plastic behemoths we’d stuffed full of old papers and junk. As I headed around to the garbage cans, I heard people stirring inside the house. I pondered our ETD— estimated time of departure in police jargon—trying to figure out if I’d manage to avoid being seen by anyone and the Diva in particular.

  I flipped up the lid on the blue recycle bin. Normally, I didn’t examine other people’s trash. That would be too gross and weird. But I was trying to figure out if I could stuff both bags in.

  That’s when something caught my eye. It was an essay written by the Diva with scribbles on it, in a handwriting I recognized because I had seen it many times. It belonged to my former peer editing partner, Mitch D’cava.

  Curiosity got the better of me. I lifted it out. The two “lovebirds” had been having a paper quarrel. As much as I’d like to read it word for word now, I’d have to wait. I stuffed the essay into my jacket and looked again.

  More correspondence. I looked around. The coast was clear so I scooped up everything that looked interesting, shoving it into my jacket. My jacket was becoming my partner in crime.

  “What are you doing?”

  I froze.

  It was Georgia, one of the Diva’s Devotees. I had been caught!

  “Cleaning.” Donabell stepped into view, as did a whole herd of Devotees. She crossed her arms, a smug smile on her face as she continued. “She’s cleaning out our garage. Finally, she knows her place on the social and economic ladder.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “Everyone at the sleepover saw me, looked down their noses at me.” I recounted the entire humiliating affair to Becca as we chatted on the phone.

  “Hey, it could have been worse. They could have caught you stealing their trash.”

  “True.” I agreed. “Can you get arrested for taking something somebody has thrown out?”

  “I dunno. Probably, if it’s still on their property,” Becca said. “Do you want me to ask my dad?”

  “No!” I said a little too quickly. Her dad was not just former military police, he was about to become a policeman. Knowing how strict he was, he’d probably feel it was his civic duty to arrest me immediately.

  “Fine. Fine. Now, come on, read the notes. Inquiring minds want to know.”

  Her enthusiasm for my clandestine activity was contagious and for the next hour and a half we sorted, read, reread and theorized about the Brandon, Mitch, and Donabell triangle.

  We both groaned in unison over the Diva’s fantasy that a Hollywood agent would whisk her off to California.

  “The ego!” Becca laughed.

  “The self-delusion!” I crowed.

  “The gullible parents.”

  We both giggled.

  When I reached the part about Brandon, Becca stopped laughing. Donabell—in a note with Amy—had basically admitted that she was flirting with Brandon just to make Mitch jealous. She’d manipulated Brandon.

  “That’s how she weaseled him over to her table. Promising that the agent would check him, out as well,” Becca concluded.

  I could hear the relief in her voice. Brandon wasn’t totally shallow. He wasn’t even necessarily crushing on someone like Donabell.

  “I think we can safely conclude that the Diva was just flirting with Brandon to keep Mitch from reneging on helping backstage,” I said. “But don’t you think this whole thing is kind of odd?”

  “I think Donabell is odd. I don’t care what everyone else at the school thinks. She’s self-centered and manipulates people.”

  “Could she be manipulating the play? What if she’s behind all the incidents that are happening?” I wasn’t sure how much merit my theory had, but I threw it out there anyway.

  “I don’t know if she’d go that far. Plus, it sounds like she really wants to be ‘discovered.’ If she ruined the play before the first performance, she might also be ruining her chances of ‘making it big.’”

  My friend had a point. Despite that, something about Donabell kept nagging me. I hoped it would hit me, but I needed more time.

  “What about Hannah? She appears to be hanging around practice for absolutely no reason.”

  “You really want to figure this out, don’t you?” Becca asked.

  “I do.”

  “Why are you so intent on finding the answers?”

  I shrugged, even though Becca couldn’t see me. “I’m not sure. I guess this is my chance to do a good job with something. To be a success. And I don’t want to blow it, nor do I want someone else to blow it for me. I’ve been daydreaming about being in a musical ever since your family took me to my first show. I want to feel like I’m a part of a story that gets wrapped up in the end, that has a happy ending, despite all of the bad stuff that happens between the beginning and the ending.”

  “That makes sense to me, friend. Consider me your sidekick.”

  I perked. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. So, let’s hammer this out a moment. We’ve talked about Donabell. I’m marking her off of my list. Hannah is a possibility. Her disappearing just when you got busted has to be more than coincidence.”

  “Agreed. She’s staying on the list.”

  “Plus, remember my mom said Madame Cherise was complaining because Mrs. Baker changed which musical they were doing after she agreed to help. She seems really hung up on it. My mom has mentioned her rant to my
dad a couple of times. I wasn’t supposed to be listening at least one of those times, but if they talk while I’m doing my homework in the next room, how can I help it?”

  “Totally legit point.”

  “My mom apparently told Madame C it had been a good idea to switch to Oklahoma since South Pacific has those two little kids,” Becca continued. “Who wants to work with little kids?”

  “I agree. No little kids. Especially if we do Annie. Without them, my red hair makes me a shoo in for the starring role.” “It’s a Hard Knock Life” and “The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow” tied for the theme song of my life.

  “Gabby, you’re like way too old for that part.”

  “Maybe. But we digress. We should keep the Gorilla, Donabell, Hannah, and Madame C on the suspect list, just in case,” I suggested.

  ***

  When we hung up, I debated where to hide the notes and whether I should keep them at all. They gave me a sense of power, like I had some ammunition against my evil archenemy, although I had no idea how they might come in handy later on.

  My English teacher in sixth grade, Mrs. Munn, once made us respond to the prompt “Knowledge is Power.” I thought it was stupid and said so in my response. I was beginning to understand how I got a C-. Knowledge might be power after all. But knowledge you stole from someone’s trash might be powerful enough to earn you an ankle bracelet like Raff’s.

  Keep it or not?

  I wavered back and forth, first considering burning the evidence so I couldn’t be caught with it, next deciding to hide the notes in my room. But if I did, where? It wasn’t like anyone snooped around my tiny eight by eight domain. I was expected to keep it clean and both parents knocked before coming in. On the other hand, if the police showed up, they’d search every inch. I didn’t want to get caught if it was illegal. I might end up in court like Hannah.

  Why did that keep bugging me? It was like a piece of a puzzle that you kept picking up but it wouldn’t fit anywhere.