Prank List

by Anna Staniszewski

  Chapter 28

  When I show up at Evan’s door after dinner, I’m expecting him to slam it in my face. It’s been two days since our fight and my emotions are still sparking like live wires. I can only assume he’s feeling the same way. But the Bake-Off is in a few days, and I promised Marisol that I’d help her if I could.

  “Rachel,” he says when he opens the door. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” I stand there staring at him, wishing suddenly that I’d baked something so at least I’d know what to do with my hands. Except who knows what kind of poison I would have accidentally put in this time? “Um, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Sure.”

  I expect him to let me in, but instead he comes out of the house, shuts the door, and sits on the front steps. After a second, I sit next to him, careful not to get too close, which means I’m practically sitting in a prickly bush. Evan’s trademark peppermint smell wafts toward me, and for once it makes me feel sick. How did things go totally wrong between us?

  “How are you?” he asks stiffly, like we’re strangers.

  “Fine. I’m fine. Fine.” Wow, if there was ever a way to show him how not fine I am, I definitely just did it. “Um, Marisol sent me over. Because of the Bake-Off. She really needs your band to play.”

  “Oh.” He scratches his head, not looking at me. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “But you already have a group together! You guys are all ready to go. Can’t you put the stuff between us aside for one day and help Marisol and Chef Ryan and everyone else out?”

  “It’s not because of you. It’s…” He leans down and fiddles with one of his shoelaces. “I can’t sing in front of people, okay? I can’t do it.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Call it stage fright or whatever, but I’ve always been terrified of performing. I agreed to do the show because I didn’t want to let you down, but I can’t do it. It’s just not possible.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Finally, he looks me in the eye. “I tried, but it was never the right time or you weren’t really…”

  He doesn’t need to finish. I think of the way I totally messed up him asking me to be his girlfriend. Am I that bad at listening to people?

  “Anyway, I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t do it. To be honest, I never got a band together. I tried jamming with a couple of friends, but I couldn’t even play in front of them. That’s how bad it is.”

  “But the flyers all say there’s going to be live music.”

  “Tell Marisol I’m sorry,” he says again, getting to his feet.

  “Wait!” I cry, jumping up to face him. “Isn’t there anyone else who might be able to do it? Please, Evan. She doesn’t even have sound equipment.”

  He thinks for a minute and then nods. “I’ll see what I can do.” Then he goes back into the house, leaving me alone on the steps.

  As I’m about to drag myself home, the door opens and Briana storms out.

  “Oh,” she says, practically knocking into me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  I start to head down the walkway when Briana pipes up behind me. “It sucks when you get dumped, doesn’t it?”

  I turn around, expecting a cruel look on her face that says how much she’s enjoying the fact that her brother finally realized I’m a loser. But her expression isn’t snide or mocking. It’s actually something like sympathetic.

  “Yeah,” I answer. “It’s the worst.”

  Briana reaches up to run her fingers over the BFF necklace around her neck, and I realize she’s not talking about getting dumped by Steve Mueller. After all, they only dated for a couple months. She’s talking about Caitlin, her best friend for most of her life. Caitlin who now wants nothing to do with her.

  I open my mouth to say something comforting or reassuring, something I never thought I’d do around Briana. But just then footsteps come up behind me.

  “What are you doing here?” a voice says in a tone that I think Briana invented. Sure enough, Angela Bareli is standing on the walkway behind me, glaring at me like a dog that’s afraid of someone taking away its food.

  “Nothing,” I say. Then I rush away from that house as fast as I can, leaving Briana with her new, horrible BFF. I never thought it was possible for me to feel bad for Briana. And I don’t, not exactly. But the truth is, I used to envy her. I used to think her life was perfect. Now I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything.

  Chapter 29

  After my mom drops me off at Marisol’s on Friday morning, we get right to work. Luckily, her mom is out meeting with a client, so we have the house to ourselves. Otherwise, it might be tricky to explain why we’re making entire vats of caramel.

  Finally, when we’re done, we ooze the caramel into Tupperware containers and carefully stack the containers in our backpacks. Then we lug the bags over to our bikes. Pedaling into town is way harder with pounds of goo strapped to my back, but it’ll all be worth it when we put those Ladybugs in their place.

  We lock up our bikes behind Ryan’s Bakery and then heave the caramel down the street. Hopefully, we don’t look too suspicious.

  Finally, we get to the parking lot where we saw the Ladybug vans the other day. There are nine parked here right now. Score.

  “Ready?” I ask, suddenly nervous. Even if we probably won’t get arrested for what we’re about to do, we’ll still get in huge trouble if anyone finds out.

  “Let’s do this,” says Marisol, sounding not much braver than I feel. I squeeze her elbow, beyond grateful that she’s here with me, especially since I know she’d rather be doing anything other than this sneaky stuff.

  We glance around one more time to make sure no one is coming, and then we rush into the parking lot and pull out the first two containers of caramel. Luckily, the caramel hasn’t had a lot of time to cool so it’s still pretty gloppy. I pop the top off mine and stand over the windshield of a nearby Ladybug van. Then I start to pour.

  The caramel ooooooozes out so slowly that I’m about to have a heart attack.

  “This is taking too long!” I hiss to Marisol who’s at the next van over, doing the same thing. She’s grabbed one of the wooden spoons that we threw in our backpacks and is spreading the caramel around with it.

  “Just get a little on there and smear it around,” she says.

  I nod and dig the other wooden spoon out of my bag. Finally, I manage to coat the windshield with a thin layer that will take some serious scrubbing to clean off.

  When the first windshield is done, I hurry to the next one. Marisol is already ahead of me. Maybe she has a future as a goo artist.

  After my third van, a car suddenly swings around the corner. I just have time to duck behind one of the vans as Marisol dives behind a nearby truck. Luckily, the car doesn’t slow down. When it’s gone, I let my breath out in a long whoosh and rush over to one of the last vans.

  “Almost done,” I mutter as I uncap the final Tupperware container. The caramel is in mid-ooze when another car swings around the corner. And starts to slow down.

  As I scramble to duck behind one of the vans again, I accidentally step in some caramel drippings. My shoe sticks to the ground, and I’m suddenly standing there half barefoot. I scramble to pick up my flip-flop as the car pulls into the parking lot.

  Oh holy banana nut bread. It’s one of the Ladybug vans.

  I abandon my shoe and crouch down behind a nearby van, shoving the wooden spoon and Tupperware back into my bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marisol huddled behind the next one over. We exchange panicked looks as the newly arrived van pulls into a parking spot and the door slides open.

  I’m shaking all the way down to my toes, especially the bare toes that don’t have a sole under them. What if the driver of the van sees my flip-flop?

  “What on earth—?”
I hear a woman say. Then she lets out a bunch of swears that are a far cry from my dad’s fake ones. Clearly, she’s seen the caramel. “Who would do this?”

  “I don’t know,” a guy’s voice answers. For some reason, the voice sounds familiar. Come to think of it, so does the woman’s.

  “I can’t believe this,” she says. “It’ll take hours to clean all of these. We might have to cancel some of our clients tomorrow!”

  “It’s okay,” the guy says. “I’ll help.”

  She lets out a long, pained sigh. “Why does this keep getting harder? I thought expanding into neighboring towns would mean more money for us. Now it’s nothing but trouble and time away from my boys.”

  My stomach dips as I recognize the voice. It’s Lillian, the Ladybug owner with the toddler I’d seen in Ryan’s Bakery. When I was coming up with my plan, I hadn’t thought what it would be like for the person who discovered the caramel. All I cared about was revenge.

  “Maybe we should call the police,” the guy says.

  Marisol and I exchange looks of horror. We have to get out of here now.

  “I’ll go over to the police station,” Lillian says. “It’s just down the street, and I’m sure they’ll want me to fill out a report.”

  “I’ll stay here,” the guy says. “In case anyone comes back.”

  Great. There goes our chance to make a run for it. But we have to. We can’t just stay here until the police come.

  Marisol must be thinking the same thing because once the woman’s footsteps fade, she waves for me to come over to where she is. I take a deep breath and then, as quietly as I can, I army crawl toward her.

  “How do we get out of here?” she whispers when I’m huddled beside her.

  I grab one of the empty caramel containers. “I’ll throw this to distract him and then we run, okay?”

  She nods and takes a shaky breath.

  I close my eyes and say a silent prayer to every higher power I can think of. Then, on the count of three, I chuck the container as far away from the car as I can. “Go!” I say. And we run.

  It’s almost impossible to sprint in only one flip-flop, so I kick it aside and take off barefoot. Suddenly, I have déjà vu to when I was chasing after Evan and totally wiped out and flashed him my underwear. I’d do anything to go back to that moment over this one. I’ll take mortification over imprisonment any day.

  It’s only when we’re almost out of the parking lot that I glance over my shoulder.

  And freeze in place.

  Standing on the other side of the parking lot, holding one of my flip-flops in his hand like some confused Prince Charming, is Whit.

  At that moment, he turns and looks right at me. And the surprise on his face turns to understanding as he peers down at the shoe in his hand and then at the caramel on the car windows.

  “Rachel, come on!” Marisol says, running back toward me. Then she grabs my arm and pulls me down the street, away from Whit who’s still standing there, staring back at me like a statue.

  Chapter 30

  I’m practically hyperventilating by the time we get back to Ryan’s Bakery.

  “I don’t think anyone followed us,” says Marisol, jumping on her bike.

  I don’t move. I can’t believe Whit was the one back there. Whit talking to Lillian, as if they were friends. And then I remember what Whit said about living with his sister and about her dropping him off at pastry class on her way to work.

  Holy spiced pumpkin. Whit is Lillian’s brother. How did I not see it before? They even look alike!

  “Rachel, are you crazy?” Marisol cries. “Come on! We have to get out of here.”

  As if on autopilot, I jump on my bike and start pedaling after her. But my mind is still whirling.

  I think of how I told Whit about our plans to prank the Ladybugs, about how I wanted to get revenge for what they’d done to us. And all that time, he knew who the Ladybugs were. He was related to one of them, and he didn’t say a word. He even offered to help me get back at them! Probably so that he’d know the plan before it happened and could warn his sister.

  No wonder the Ladybugs knew who to strike back at with those online reviews. Whit must have told Lillian everything.

  What a mooseheaded jerk.

  I can’t believe that Evan would think I could like someone like that. I’ve never hated a person more in my life!

  When we get to Marisol’s house, I practically collapse on her lawn.

  “Well, that was close,” she says, panting. “Somehow you lost your shoes, but we got away with it!”

  All I can do is stare at my dirty feet. After a second, Marisol notices I’m not saying anything.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “We didn’t get away with it. He saw me. He’s probably told the police everything by now.”

  Marisol’s face goes gray. “Who saw us? What are you talking about?”

  I tell her about Whit seeing me and how he’s bound to tell his sister everything.

  Marisol looks toward her house in horror, as if her mom is in there already talking to the police. “Do you think he’d really report us?” she says.

  “Yes! Lillian is his sister. Of course he’d take her side!” I put my head in my hands. My mom is going to explode when she hears about this. And if Marisol gets in trouble because she was trying to help me, I’ll feel even worse.

  “So what do we do?” she says. “Maybe you can talk to Whit and explain things to him. Maybe he hasn’t turned us in yet.”

  “It’s too late. Lillian was already at the police station, remember?”

  She sighs. “I guess you’re right. Well, it doesn’t matter what the police do since our parents are going to murder us when they find out. I bet my mom’s sharpening her knives right now.”

  I know she’s trying to lighten things up, but it’s not helping. Forget the caramel mess we made. The one we’ve gotten ourselves into is a hundred times stickier.

  •••

  When I finally slink home, I expect to find Mom sitting in the kitchen waiting for me, ready to shoot fireballs out of her eyes. But instead, she’s kneeling on the living room floor, going through a box of old movies that she must have brought down from the attic.

  “Oh good, you’re home,” she says. “What happened to your shoes?” Before I can answer, she shakes her head. “Never mind. Just have a seat for a second.”

  This is it. Maybe she’s only pretending not to be mad, but now she’s going to unleash a cruel and unusual punishment on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if it involved cow manure. Weirdly, though, she doesn’t look angry. Maybe the police haven’t called her after all.

  I hesitantly perch on the couch. “What’s up?”

  “I just got off the phone with the real-estate agent, and he kept stressing that it’s a seller’s market right now.” She sighs, like she’s been doing nonstop for weeks. “I know you want to stay in this house, Rachel, and I do too, but what he was saying makes a lot of sense.” She shakes her head and picks at the carpet.

  Wow. I guess she really doesn’t know about the goo incident.

  “Mom,” I say, when it doesn’t look like she can go on. “I’m sorry. I know I should be doing more to help you save the business and everything.” I thought that the stupid pranks would fix everything. Instead, they’ve made everything worse. If word gets out about what I did, who’ll want to hire us? No one.

  “Oh, honey,” she says, putting her hand on my knee. “It’s not your responsibility. It’s mine. We did the best we could, and we’ll keep fighting. But it might be time we faced reality and admitted to ourselves that—”

  “No!” I cry, jumping to my feet. I can’t stand to listen to this right now. “We’ll figure it out. We will!” Then, before I break down and admit everything to her, I turn and rush to my room.

  My room tha
t might not be my room for much longer.

  Chapter 31

  I lurk outside of Ryan’s Bakery on Saturday morning feeling totally delirious. I barely slept all night, waiting for the police to call my mom and tell them what happened. But the phone never rang, so either Whit didn’t tell his sister the truth or…I don’t know what. Why wouldn’t he tell on me? Was he eaten by giant pigeons? One sniff of that caramel, and they went crazy and pecked him to death? Great, now Whit’s death by pigeon will be my fault, too.

  Relax, I can practically hear Marisol saying. But I can’t.

  I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of seeing Whit, so I wait until the last possible second to go inside the bakery. But when I get into the kitchen, Whit isn’t there.

  “Rachel!” Mr. Leroy says, waving me over. “I was afraid I wouldn’t have a partner today. Ms. Gomez is away visiting her daughter.”

  I smile weakly, watching the door, waiting for Whit to come in at any second. At least I won’t have to be partners with him today.

  Mr. Leroy tells me that he’s been practicing a lot, and when I stand back and let him take the lead on the mini fruit tart recipe, I realize he really is doing better. Which is a good thing because I’m so distracted that I can barely pay attention long enough to sift flour. I keep expecting Chef Ryan to yell at me, but he’s decided to pick on a couple of college girls on the other side of the room who committed the cardinal sin of using a measuring cup instead of a scale.

  “How will you know you have the precise amount of flour if you’re not using the proper tools?” he demands.

  The girls look ready to cry. I should feel bad for them, but I’m just relieved that they’re the ones getting Chef Ryan’s wrath for once.

  Finally, after what feels like hours, the kitchen door swings open and Whit comes in. For once he isn’t wearing his leather jacket, and he looks flustered and sweaty. No sign of giant pigeon beak marks, though.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Chef Ryan says.