by Jan Blazanin
Mom stops in mid-scrub. “It certainly is not! As soon as you finish eating, you will march right out there and take care of your car. And before you drive anywhere, your father is going to double-check that it’s in proper working order.”
When Mom goes back to scouring, Manny breaks into a grin. He treats that old black car of his better than he treats Cynthia, his girlfriend. I’m positive no lights were flashing when he gave Laurel and me a ride home from school Thursday. But if I mention it, that’s my last ride of the summer. Mom and Dad are stingy with their car keys, and I can’t afford my own car, so I have to stay on what passes for Manny’s good side.
“What about you, Aspen?” Mom throws over her shoulder. “Any reason you can’t pull weeds and trim the bushes?”
Before answering, I take a moment to show Manny the new pink polish on my right middle finger. “None that I can think of.”
“Good. Then hurry up and eat so you can get started.”
Except for food and water breaks—and monitored trips to the bathroom—Mom has Dad and me laboring like indentured servants all day Saturday and Sunday. Late Saturday afternoon it occurs to me that I might get out of Sunday’s chores by reminding Mom I have three finals next week. My excuse almost works until she checks the Cottonwood Creek High Web site and discovers my first final isn’t until Wednesday. I should have known showing her how to access the site would come back to haunt me.
My back throbs from pulling weeds in the flowerbeds and spreading at least fifty bags of mulch. My neck and shoulders ache from steadying the electric hedge trimmers. My shins are bruised from leaning against the ladder when I washed the upstairs windows. And those jobs pale in comparison to scrubbing the grout between the tiles in the guest bathroom. I hope I got all the cleanser rinsed out of the toothbrush I used, or Manny’s going to be really pissed.
The worst part of putting in all this work for Manny’s graduation party is that he’ll be away at college next year when mine rolls around. So guess who gets to do all the manual labor again?
Mom doesn’t unshackle me until almost dark on Sunday. By then I barely have the strength to shower, change into my sleep tee, and crawl into bed. Carmine, who’s exhausted from being under my feet every second for the past two days, is snoring on the rug. It’s a good thing I have Laurel’s number on speed dial because my fingers are too sore to push more than one button.
Laurel answers on the first ring. “It’s about time you called! I’ve left you, like, a hundred messages. I thought you were coming over this afternoon.” Her guilt-inducing moan works great on her dad, but it’s wasted on me.
Laurel’s parents divorced when she was nine. They had joint custody, but she mostly lived with her mother until her mom married a widowed guy with twin eleven-year-old boys. After a few months of coping with her prepubescent stepbrothers, Laurel was losing it. So when her dad moved here to be branch manager of the First Bank of Iowa, Laurel held her nose and jumped in. Cottonwood Creek lacks the excitement of Chicago, but her dad is way more easygoing than my parents. And he hires people to clean and mow the lawn. Compared to me, she has it easy.
I slide an extra pillow under my head. “Sorry. Mom had Dad and me working our butts off all weekend getting ready for Manny’s graduation party. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you.”
“Your parents are really into the whole child labor thing. Did you at least earn enough to buy a new outfit?”
“Almost.” Laurel gets $50 a week from her dad for simply existing. I’m too embarrassed to admit that Mom and Dad don’t believe in paying for chores. “But I’ll make more when I work at the Sub Stop this summer.”
“Maybe I’ll get a summer job, too. If I don’t, I’ll drop dead of boredom.”
“I’m just glad you’re not spending the summer with your mom in Chicago.” My spirits perk up. At least I won’t have to endure another deadly boring Cottonwood Creek summer by myself.
“Ten weeks with the twin terrors? God, no!” There’s a pause so long I wonder if Laurel has fainted from horror. “Sorry, I had to plug my iPod into the charger,” she says. “This is my first summer in Cottonwood Creek and our last summer in high school. We’re going to soar from the depths of anonymity to the peak of notoriety. By September, Aspen Parks and Laurel Piedmont will own this town.”
I’m too tired to think of soaring anywhere. “But stashing pigs in the school building is out, right? Because aside from the complications I mentioned, that stunt would put us on the fast track to expulsion.”
“Definitely out. Not classy enough for us.”
Laurel actually took my advice!
“We need something with more flash,” she continues, “like painting our names across the water tower in the school colors. You can be navy and I’ll be gold. See, I was thinking—”
“Good-bye, Laurel. See you at school tomorrow.”
I snap my phone shut and lie back on my pillows. Where does Laurel get her ideas?
three
THE BABY DRAGON I FOUND ON THE PATH IS CUPPED IN MY palm. Her blue-green scales feel cool and moist, but flames shoot from her ruby eyes. Her heart vibrates with terror, and nothing I say calms her. Faster and faster her heart quivers until I fear it’s going to fly from her chest. “Shush,” I whisper. “It’s okay. Sh—”
Two strong arms hold me down and a long, wet tongue slides into my open mouth. My assailant’s breath smells of rotted meat; his jaw is rough with stubble. Choking and sputtering, I push him away. But there’s no escape. He pins me down and slurps my neck.
“Carmine! What the—!” I roll onto my side and shield my face with my arms. Undaunted, Carmine sticks his nose into my ear and squirts it full of dog snot.
“Stop it!” I vault out of bed, rubbing my slimy ear. My alarm clock shows 12:17. “It’s the middle of the freaking night!”
But Carmine has moved on to other interests. Now he’s nosing something beside my pillow. So help me, if he dragged another mangled chipmunk through the dog door …
I edge away from the bed in case I need to run for it. The whatever-it-is gleams with reflected moonlight, which is a good sign. Dead animals are rarely reflective.
The object vibrates, and Carmine whines. I snatch it up and check the caller ID. My heart is still racing from being jolted from sleep by French kisses laced with dog food. “It’s after midnight! Is everything okay?”
“If you want to be expelled from school, everything’s fabulous.” Laurel’s voice is muffled, as if she’s cupping her hand around the phone. “Otherwise, we’re in deep trouble.”
Laurel’s hysterics are legendary. Unless weekend toilet scrubbing has become a reason for expulsion, I’ve got nothing to worry about. I stifle a yawn and climb back into bed. “Why are you whispering?”
“Because I don’t want the neighbors to hear me,” she hisses.
“What are you doing, camping out in your backyard?”
“No. I’m standing in your front yard. Now get your butt down here or our lives will be completely ruined.”
She hangs up.
Something tells me that the chances of having my life ruined are a lot smaller if I stay in bed. But Laurel will just keep calling—or throwing rocks at my window—until I go downstairs and hear her out. I put on a pair of shorts and my flip-flops. Then I change my mind and decide to carry the shoes until I get outside.
I point my index finger at Carmine’s nose and use my sternest voice. “Stay, Carmine.” Which is just as effective as telling pigeons not to poop on statues. He races past me and is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. By blocking him with my foot, I manage to trap him inside the house as I edge out the door.
Laurel is pacing back and forth on our front walk. As soon as she sees me, she rushes over and clamps onto my arms. “They’re going to do it! I saw them! And we’ll get blamed for the whole mess.”
Her eyes are spinning like whirligigs. “Okay, Laurel, you need to slow down,” I say in a soothing voice. “Take three deep breath
s and tell me what happened, from the beginning.”
She drops my arms. “Why are you talking like that? You sound like a zombie on downers.”
So much for my career in psychology. “Forget it. Just tell me what’s so urgent.” It’s damp and chilly, and hungry mosquitoes are circling.
“That’s what I was trying to do before you went all undead on me,” Laurel says in a huff. “See, I was taking the trash can out to the curb about ten minutes ago. I was supposed to do it after lunch, but I forgot until I was almost asleep. So I thought I’d sneak out and take care of it because I won’t have time in the morning. And Dad’s been hinting that he’s going to buy me a car, so I didn’t want to get on his bad side, you know. That’s when I saw them! Right away I heard the squealing, and I knew they were going to do it.”
I feel like I’m riding upside down on a roller coaster.
“Them who? What squealing? Going to do what?”
“Put the pigs in Principal Hammond’s office, of course!” Laurel stamps her foot in exasperation. “Buttferk—you know, Buster, Ferret, and Kong—drove by in Buster’s dumpy white pickup truck. I couldn’t actually see the pigs because I guess they’re too short. But I heard that loud squealing, and I know they’re going to do it and we’ll be blamed!”
That’s it? “Relax, Laurel. So Ferret overheard us talking about a prank involving pigs. It’s not our fault if he decides to act on it. Besides, he’s the only person who knows what we said, so it’s his word against ours. And nobody’s going to …”
Laurel’s looking everywhere but at me, and her face has gone whiter than the moon.
A grapefruit-size lump drops into my stomach. “Ferret is the only person who knows, isn’t he?”
She runs her sweatshirt zipper up and down. “Sure.
Except for maybe a few people who might have read my post in their news feed.”
My eyes jump out of their sockets. “You posted your pig idea on Facebook?”
“Kind of. But I didn’t get that many comments from the kids around here.” Still not looking at me, she yanks the cords in her hood back and forth.
“You posted it once?” She nods. “And that’s the only place, right?” The lump in my stomach is doing jumping jacks. “Right, Laurel?”
“It was such a good idea, you know, that I wanted everyone to know I thought of it. That was, like, before you pointed out all the things that could go wrong….”
“Let me guess—you sent a fan request to all four hundred ninety-three of your friends.” This is what happens when I spend my time studying and doing chores instead of keeping track of my news feed.
“Facebook calls it a ‘Like’ instead of a fan request now, remember?” She swallows. “And I might have Tweeted about it two or three times—”
I clap my hand over Laurel’s mouth to keep from strangling her. “Stop! I don’t want to hear any more.”
Laurel pries my fingers off her face. “You might as well know the rest. About half an hour ago I got a Facebook message from Ferret from his phone. See, he has to go through Facebook because my phone number is private. And you say I can’t keep a secret,” she adds with a smug little grin.
I cross my arms and give her the death stare.
Her smile falters. “Anyway, he said Buster liked my idea so much that Buttferk is going to do it. You know, put pigs in Principal Hammond’s office. So I messaged back that they needed to drop the idea because I’d tell everyone they did it instead of us.”
“And?”
“Ferret said it would be too bad if somebody broke into our garage and slashed my dad’s tires.” Laurel’s eyes shine with tears. “He said if somebody got pissed enough, they might not stop with the tires.”
My mouth goes dry. “Why didn’t you tell me that five minutes ago?”
“I thought if I kind of led up to it, you wouldn’t be as mad,” she says between sniffs.
I don’t have time to argue with Laurel’s twisted logic. “And you’re sure it was Buster’s truck?”
“Positive. It had that big circle of rust on the driver’s side door.” Laurel wipes her eyes on her sweatshirt sleeve.
Adrenaline sends me into overdrive. “Is your bike here?” She points to where it’s parked in our driveway. “I’ll get mine out of the garage.”
She runs to keep up as I hurry to the garage and roll my bike out the side door. “What are we going to do?”
“I have no idea.” As I swing my leg over my bike, a breeze reminds me that I’m wearing nothing except my thin sleep tee and gym shorts. “Hold on. I’m not wearing a bra.”
Laurel stares pointedly at my pointless chest.
“Yeah, you’re right. Nothing to worry about here.”
four
EVEN THOUGH GOING BRALESS MIGHT NOT BE AN ISSUE, a jacket would have been a good idea. The cool wind billows under my tee, peppering my chest and stomach with goose bumps. Pretty soon my teeth are chattering, but that could be caused by blind fear instead of cold.
The town seems deserted except for a yellow cat that crouches on the curb and watches as we ride past. Cottonwood Creek isn’t what you’d call bustling, but it’s eerie not to see any traffic at all. Laurel and I race in and out of the shadows of maple, oak, and cottonwood trees twice as high as the streetlights. We pass my favorite house—a massive two-story that was the mayor’s mansion a hundred years ago. When I was a kid it reminded me of a dollhouse with its fancy shutters and steep red roof. It’s set back from the street on a long, winding driveway, and I can barely make it out in the dark.
The streets around the town square are paved with red brick from the Turner Brick and Tile Factory west of town. Cottonwood Creek’s historic brick streets are one of its few claims to fame. They’re cool to look at, but riding a bike on them is murder. Besides causing butt bruises, some of the cracks are wide enough to trap a bike tire and flip you over. That happened to me when I was eleven, and I have a scar on my left knee to prove it.
My butt isn’t my only unhappy body part. My thighs are burning, and my shoulder muscles are sending out angry messages. I pull in a deep breath and catch the sickly sweet odor of a catalpa tree. The pavement is white with fallen blossoms that squash and stick to my tires. As we pass under it, Laurel tilts back her head and sniffles. It’s so late all the birds are asleep except for a mourning dove, wondering who is idiotic enough to be up and out at this time of night. I wish I didn’t know the answer.
We’re two blocks from the high school when an eerie, rolling howl soars over the treetops. Laurel gasps. “What’s that awful sound?”
“That awful sound is Carmine tracking us. I forgot to block the dog door.” So much for the element of surprise.
“What happened to the fence around your backyard?”
“That’s just for show. If Carmine wants out, he goes over the top.”
“Well, at least we have him for protection if something goes wrong.” Which is optimistic even for Laurel.
If killer chipmunks ambush us, we’re safe as can be. Anything bigger, and we’re on our own.
An engine guns nearby, and I hear a squeal that has nothing to do with pigs. “Laurel, somebody’s coming. Get off the street!”
I make a sharp turn into the nearest yard and smash through a thin spot in the hedge. Dozens of sharp little twigs rake my skin and snag my clothes. A few feet away, Laurel crashes into a thicker section of the hedge and bounces through a shower of leaves and spiderwebs. We hit the ground commando-style as a rusty white pickup screeches into sight. Laurel pokes her head up for a better view while I peer through the hedge.
As the pickup passes under the streetlight, the driver spits a stream of tobacco juice, leaving a slimy brown trail down his door. I recognize the flabby face as belonging to Buster Reese, who, in addition to his charming personality, has the distinction of being Cottonwood Creek’s oldest senior. Rumor is that he flunked all his classes again this semester, but teachers threatened to strike if they has to deal with him another year
. So Principal Hammond has to let him graduate.
Laurel makes a retching sound. “Could he be any more disgusting?”
“Not without cloning himself,” I say, brushing twigs from my sleep tee and shorts. “Did you see if anyone else was with him?”
Laurel pulls a handful of leaves from her hair. “I caught a flash of Ferret’s pointy face in the back of the truck just before a giant arm jerked him down. I’m going to take a wild guess the arm belonged to Kong.”
“If Ferret and Kong are in the truck bed, then the pigs …”
As I reach down to pick up my bike, Carmine bounds through the hedge, plants his front paws on my shoulders, and covers my face and neck with rank-smelling slobber. “Stop it, Carmine! Get down!” I whisper-shout while trying to push him off. It takes a few minutes to get him calm enough to let me climb on my bike.
Cottonwood Creek High is centered on a spacious, tree-filled lot near the west end of town. Unfortunately, decades of trampling feet have decimated all but the hardiest weeds on what was once probably a beautiful lawn. As Laurel and I ride up the sidewalk to the two-story brick building, all is quiet. But a pile of goo on the sidewalk outside the custodians’ office leads me to fear that pigs have traveled where no pigs have gone before.
“Watch out,” I warn Laurel as she stops her bike, her foot landing about a centimeter to the left of the pile.
“Crap!” She does a little two-step to avoid it.
“That would be my guess. Let’s prop our bikes in that cubbyhole.”
Now that we’re here, I have no idea what to do. Skirting the pile of goo—and keeping an eye out for others—I try the custodians’ door. The knob turns, which is surprising since I expected Ferret and his crew to lock up behind themselves.
As I pull the door open, I tell Laurel, “Make sure Carmine doesn’t get in behind us.” Before I finish my sentence, he shoves past my leg into the building. After a sprawling takeoff on the slippery tile floor, he skids down the hall and out of sight.
“No, Carmine!” I call. “Come here, Carmine!”