I wait for the explosion that I know is coming, but Marisol only nods, picks up her fork, and starts eating again.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I cry. “This totally goes against all your die-hard rules.”
She sighs. “I know it does, and if I had any better ideas of what to do, then I’d try to talk you out of it. But to be honest, if this will help your family, then I can live with it.”
I stare at her for a second. Then I fling my arms around her. “Thank you,” I whisper. I didn’t realize how much I was afraid of her judging me. I guess it’s time to come totally clean. “Hopefully this is a one-time thing, but just in case, I’ve started a list of other pranks I could pull on the Ladybugs.”
Marisol frowns. “What kind of list?”
Reluctantly, I pull a piece of purple notepaper out of my pocket and hand it over to her. There are only a couple things on it so far:
Number 1: Start rumor about the Ladybugs.
Number 2: Replace their cleaning supplies with paint.
“Okay,” she says. “So how are you going to start a rumor about them? You can’t just say something is off about them again. People won’t buy it.”
She’s right. Who knows if Ms. Montelle even took what I said seriously? “I know. I have to make up something really bad. And—this is going to sound crazy—I was thinking of telling the rumor to Mrs. Bareli.”
Marisol gives me a blank stare. “Angela’s mom?” Then she laughs. “Oh, good thinking. Between her and Angela, it’ll be around town in less than a day. Do you think she’ll believe you?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But what else can I do? I can’t exactly fix it so the Ladybugs are caught doing something wrong.”
Marisol and I look at each other. I can practically hear bells going off in both of our heads.
“Or maybe I can,” I say. “But when? And how?”
“Well,” she says slowly. “I know the Ladybugs clean Angela’s house on Mondays, but as for how…I don’t know.”
We scratch our heads for a few minutes but can’t come up with anything good. Finally, we give up and decide to think more about it tomorrow. It feels weird to have Marisol helping me plot something sleazy. I can tell she hates every minute of it, but I guess that’s how much she cares about helping me.
I only hope this doesn’t turn into another Fake Boyfriend Troy fiasco. I’m still not sure how I convinced Marisol to agree to that one, but I wish I’d listened to her when she tried to warn me that it was a terrible idea.
Chapter 13
When Evan and I go to Moo Pies for ice cream that night, I spot a group of kids from school on the other side of the parking lot. They aren’t looking my way, but I can’t help feeling giddy about the fact that they could glance over at any second and see that I’m here with a cute boy—on a date. All those years of feeling like a total loser almost don’t matter anymore, not when Evan Riley wants to be here with me!
After we order our cups of ice cream (mint chocolate chip for him and Moose Tracks for me), we go sit on a bench. Nearby are a couple of plastic cows that I guess are supposed to make the ice-cream stand look more authentic, even though I know for a fact they don’t make their own ice cream.
As I sit there spooning bites of deliciousness into my mouth, I study Evan’s adorable profile and try not to die from happiness. Everything else in my life might be confusing, but Evan is pretty darn wonderific.
“Have you found anyone to be in a band with you yet?” I finally ask.
“I’ve talked to a few people, but nothing definite.”
“But you’ll be ready in time, right? Because I kind of already told Marisol you’d do it.”
He laughs. “I guess I don’t have a choice, then, do I?” He shovels the last bite of ice cream into his mouth and crumples the paper cup into a ball.
For a second, I’m afraid he might be mad at how pushy I’m being about this whole thing, but he just drops the topic and asks: “So how are things going with the cleaning business?”
“Okay, I guess.” I hesitate, wondering how much to tell him about my gossip-spreading plan. I definitely trust Evan, and I don’t think he’d tell anyone about what I’m going to do, but I don’t want him to think I’m a horrible person. We had enough of that when he caught me snooping around Briana’s room a few weeks ago. Granted, he finally forgave me for that, and I promised that I’d be honest with him from then on. So I guess I have no choice but to tell him the truth like I did with Marisol.
After I explain the situation, he focuses on his spoon for a long minute. “So if this plan of yours works, there’s a good chance you won’t have to move?”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me how disappointed he is in me for planning to lie to people.
Instead, he smiles and says, “If I can do anything to help, let me know.”
“Really?” I’m so relieved that I put my ice cream down, throw my arms around him, and give him a long hug. Then I realize what I’m doing and start to pull away, but Evan holds on to me.
Evan Riley is hugging me. In public. On purpose!
When he finally pulls away, he keeps holding my hand. Holy chopped parsley. Evan Riley is holding my hand!
“So listen,” he says.
But at that moment I spot someone over his shoulder, and my stomach lurches. “Oh no,” I say.
“What’s wrong?”
“You know that guy from my pastry class I was telling you about? He’s here.” I watch as Whit and a little kid who could be his brother get in line to buy their ice cream. I quickly pull Evan away so that Whit won’t spot us.
“Why are we hiding?” says Evan as I drag him behind one of the plastic cows.
“I don’t want him to see us.” It’s hard enough to have a normal conversation with Whit in pastry class. Seeing him out of context will make things ten times more awkward.
“What’s the big deal? He’s not going to start throwing things, is he?”
“Probably not,” I admit. “But…” I realize that Evan wouldn’t understand. He’s never been an outcast. He’s never had to deal with people laughing at him for doing and saying the wrong thing all the time. “I’d just rather not see him,” I say finally.
Evan shrugs, and I can tell he’s trying to be understanding. Maybe I’m overreacting about the whole Whit thing, but before I can apologize, Evan says: “Do you want me to ride back to your house with you?”
“Oh. Sure.” I guess that means our date is over.
•••
When Evan and I get to my house, I slam on the brakes at the sight of my mom standing outside with a balding man who’s holding a clipboard. They’re both staring up at the roof, and I can hear him asking questions about the last time the shingles were replaced.
Oh no. This must be the real-estate agent. I was hoping he’d be gone by the time I got back.
Evan stops his bike next to me. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper, wondering if maybe I can ride off before my mom spots me.
“Rachel!” Mom calls from the driveway. “Come meet Mr. Colby!”
Too late.
I hop off my bike and turn to Evan, not sure what to say. Ever since we left Moo Pies, he’s been weirdly quiet.
“Thanks for the ice cream,” I say. “And for getting me out of the house with all that going on.” I nod over my shoulder to where I can hear Mom rattling off the names of all the different bushes she’s planted in the front yard.
“Anytime,” Evan says, flashing a grin. “Whenever you need a break from evil real-estate people, just say the word.”
My stomach relaxes. Maybe things between us are okay after all. I’m probably stressing over nothing. I glance over to make sure my mom isn’t watching, and then I lean in and give Evan a quick, one-armed hug.
As I walk my bike into the driveway, Mom introduces me to Mr. Colby and lists all the great things he’s been saying about the house. I smile and nod, pretending to listen, but all I can do is replay the feeling of Evan’s arms around me. As we go back inside, with Mr. Colby commenting on how well-maintained our brick walkway is, I don’t think my feet touch the ground even once.
Chapter 14
Marisol and I spend most of the day on Thursday planning for the Bake-Off. For someone who practically prides herself on not having a lot of friends, Marisol was able to get a surprising number of people to sign up. We have volunteers doing sets and lights for the fashion show, and even a few people in charge of hair and makeup.
Marisol has already started sewing adorable aprons for everyone to wear in the show.
“Cherie and I were talking yesterday,” Marisol chatters on, “and she said that if people like the aprons, Chef Ryan might even start selling them in his bakery. Can you believe it?”
“Wow, that’s great!”
“I never thought aprons would be my thing, but fashion is fashion, right? And if even one person besides me wants to wear my designs, I’d say that’s a pretty big win.”
“Are you kidding? Pretty soon, Aprons by Marisol will be a chain of stores all over the world.”
She giggles. “Yup, right next to Rachel’s Pastries.”
“We’ll see about that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “First I have to get through this pastry class.”
“Watch. When you win the Bake-Off, Chef Ryan will see he’s been totally wrong about you.”
“If I win. They won’t even let us prepare for the Bake-Off beforehand.”
“I think that seems fair,” Marisol says with a shrug. “Then everyone starts off the same, you know?”
“But what if they have us make something I’ve never baked before? What if I don’t even make it through the semi-final round on the last day of class? What if—”
“Rachel, relax! You’ll figure it out. You always do, right?”
A couple weeks ago, I would have said yes. Before I started the pastry class, I thought I could handle any baking challenge that came my way. Now I’m not so sure.
“Okay,” Marisol says, holding up a purple apron with a lion face on it. “How about you try modeling this for me?”
“What?” I’ve been hoping Marisol will change her mind about this modeling thing, but so far she’s been pretty determined.
“You better start practicing now so you’ll be ready to strut down that catwalk on the day of the Bake-Off.”
I groan and pull the apron on. It’s not hemmed yet so it goes almost all the way down to the floor. Once I have it tied, I shuffle across Marisol’s room.
“What are you doing, your best caveman impression?” she says.
“I’m walking!”
“I’ve seen you walk. What you were doing was lumbering. Look, try it this way.” She demonstrates a runway walk that would make any supermodel jealous.
I feel ridiculous, but I try to mimic her, reminding myself that Marisol’s stuffed animals won’t judge me if I look like an idiot.
“That’s better,” she says. “At least you look like you’re used to walking on two legs now. We’ll keep practicing.”
I rush to take off the apron in case she means more practicing right now. “So I’ve been thinking about the prank on the Ladybugs,” I say. “My mom was looking at apartment listings yesterday, so I need to do something fast. If the Ladybugs are coming on Monday, then maybe I can sneak into Angela’s house and leave something there to make them look bad. A clump of hair in the sink might do it.”
Marisol thinks this over. “I know for a fact that Angela’s going to be at the beach with Briana all day on Monday because she wouldn’t stop talking about it when I saw her yesterday. But her mom might be home. How would you sneak in?”
“I could say I left something in Angela’s room and go get it.”
Marisol gives me a skeptical look. “She’d never believe that. Her mom knows you guys aren’t friends. If it was me, she might not care.”
My face must light up like a Christmas tree because Marisol all of a sudden starts backpedaling. “I’m not saying that I should be the one to do it,” she says. “I couldn’t lie like that to Mrs. Bareli’s face!”
“You wouldn’t have to lie,” I tell her. “You could go over to Angela’s house tomorrow and accidentally on purpose leave something in her room. Then on Monday, you could go get it.”
She shakes her head. “That’s still sneaky. And besides…I let Angela borrow a sewing kit a few weeks ago, so I wouldn’t have to make anything up.”
“Perfect!” I say, but I can see how much the whole idea pains her. It makes me feel like a jerk for even asking. “Sorry. If you really don’t want to do it, then I won’t make you.”
I must look desperate because Marisol finally throws her hands up and says, “Okay, fine. I told you I’d do whatever it takes to help, so I will. But this is it, okay? If this doesn’t work, I’m out.”
“Thank you,” I say, hoping she knows how much I mean it. The fact that she’s willing to bend her morals of steel to help me is amazing. I don’t mention that I’ve been adding more ideas to the Prank List (put mud in their shoes, post bad reviews online, and so on), mostly because a lot of them are silly, but also because I doubt Marisol wants to hear about them.
I figure the Prank List is like a hand grenade. I hope I never have to use it, but in battle, sometimes you have to do awful things to protect the people you love.
•••
Normally, Mom and I spend Thursday evenings cleaning houses, including Mr. Hammond’s. But this week, Mom announces that we’re changing our schedule.
“We’ll do our Thursday clients on weekends, now that we have more flexibility.” She doesn’t say that the “flexibility” is because we keep losing people every week. “Plus,” she adds, “cleaning Robert’s house seems a little silly now.”
“Why?” I say, grinning. “Because he’s your official new boyfriend?”
Mom blushes and doesn’t say anything. I guess that means the whole thing embarrasses her. But hey, if she can drag me into conversations about my crushes, then I can make her talk about hers.
“You never told me how your special dinner went,” I say.
“It was very nice.” I expect her to go on, but she doesn’t. Before I can press, she says something about having to go organize her receipts and heads off to her bedroom.
Maybe that means the dinner with Mr. Hammond didn’t go as well as he was hoping. Or maybe she feels weird about having a boyfriend when she’s still technically married. If the guy was anyone but Mr. Hammond, I’d feel weird about the idea, too.
A second later, Mom pops her head out of her bedroom and asks, “By the way, have you finished looking through that box of things from the attic?”
I gulp. Since that first night, I’ve been pretending the box doesn’t exist. Like there’s a big square of invisibleness in the corner of my room.
“Um, almost,” I say.
“Try to do it soon,” she says. “I’d really like to get the attic cleared out.”
I promise her that I will, but I don’t think either of us believes me.
Chapter 15
I get to pastry class early on Saturday, ready to show Chef Ryan what I can do. I’m so early that he’s still setting things up, but when I ask if I can help, he waves me away.
I spot Mr. Leroy in the corner, poring over the directions for today’s assignment. He’s bent over the paper, squinting through his bottle-thick glasses and obviously still having trouble reading the list of ingredients.
“Do you need some help with that?” I finally ask. I haven’t had a lot of expe
rience with old people—Dad’s parents live on the West Coast and Mom’s both died before I was born—so anyone with all-gray hair usually scares me, but Mr. Leroy looks pretty desperate. Plus, he’s about half my height, so if he tries to suck the youth out of my bones, I should be able to defend myself.
He straightens up and gives me a denture-ific grin. “That would be lovely,” he says. “I think Ms. Gomez is getting pretty tired of reading things for me.”
I assume Ms. Gomez is the woman with the kindergarten-teacher smile. I can’t imagine her getting tired of helping anyone.
As I go over the ingredients, Mr. Leroy nods his head slowly like he’s trying to memorize them. Then he lets out a dry laugh. “Seventy-six years old and I’m only now learning how to cook. Can you believe it?”
“Better late than never, right?” I say, sounding like my mom.
“My wife was always the cook in the family. I tried to help her, but she didn’t like how I accidentally set things on fire.” He laughs again and pushes up his enormous glasses. Then his smile fades. “Now that she’s passed on, it’s just me.”
I swallow. This is exactly what scares me about old people. Not only do they have a hard time hearing me since I’m quiet and shy, but half their stories end with someone dying. How are you supposed to respond to that?
“I’m sorry,” I manage to choke out, hoping he doesn’t start crying or something. Then I’ll probably start bawling, too.
Luckily, he smiles again and says, “Well, I figure if I’m going to learn, it might as well be now.” He glances over as Chef Ryan stomps out of the room. “I only wish our teacher was a little more patient,” he adds in a whisper.
“No kidding!” I say. “At least he doesn’t hate you. He can’t even stand to look at me.”
Mr. Leroy chuckles. “I don’t think the young man hates you. He’s just a grump, that’s all. Like my old cat, Martha. She gets cranky when things aren’t done her way.”
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