Prank List

by Anna Staniszewski

  Whit pushes his damp hair off his forehead. “Sorry. Someone put crap all over my sister’s minivan. It took me forever to help her clean it off.” He shoots a death glare my way and then goes over to a table in the corner to work by himself.

  “Rachel?” Mr. Leroy asks. “Are you all right?”

  I realize I’m squeezing a pear in my hand so hard that I’ve bruised it.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say. “Um, what’s the next step?”

  “Is everything all right with you and that boy?” Mr. Leroy asks in a loud whisper. He winks, like he thinks we’ve had a spat or something. The thought makes my stomach churn.

  “No, it isn’t. He hates me, and I hate him.”

  “Huh,” he says, rubbing the handful of gray hairs on top of his bald head. “Hate is a pretty strong sentiment. If you ask me, it takes too much energy.”

  “Well, if he and his sister were trying to ruin your life, you’d hate him, too.”

  Mr. Leroy gives me a long look. “Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not talking to him.” If I do, I might claw his face off. I turn back to the recipe, trying to make it clear that I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

  When our fruit tarts are done, I have to admit they’re not bad. Even Chef Ryan doesn’t have much to say about them. “Maybe you two should work together more often,” he says before moving on to the next team.

  Whit’s tarts aren’t done by the end of class since he came in so late. Chef Ryan clucks like a chicken and shakes his head. “In this business, if you don’t focus, you don’t succeed,” he says.

  Whit’s jaw tightens so much that I can see it from all the way across the room. “It won’t happen again,” he says.

  “All right,” Chef Ryan says to the whole class, clapping his hands like a soccer coach. “Next week, we choose the three finalists who’ll go on to the Bake-Off.” He shrugs. “Or maybe only two if some of you people don’t step up your game.” I practically feel him shoot a look my way.

  When class is over, I try to rush out of the kitchen, but Mr. Leroy catches my elbow.

  “Talk to him,” he says, motioning to Whit who’s still cleaning up his space. “Trust me.”

  Mr. Leroy looks so frail and hopeful that I can’t say no. What if he has a heart attack because I refuse?

  I sigh. “Fine.”

  When all the other students leave and Chef Ryan is busy washing pans in the back of the room, I go up to Whit and start helping him wipe the counter since I have no idea what else to do.

  “Did you come over to apologize?” he says finally.

  “Apologize?”

  He stops and looks at me. “Yeah. I mean, you and your friend attacked my sister’s vans. One of them had so much stuff caked on the windshield that we couldn’t get it off. We’ll probably have to pay to replace it. Not to mention all the jobs Lillian’s employees were late for today because of what you did.”

  I don’t bother pointing out that that was the whole point. “I didn’t start all of this,” I say. “Your sister’s the one who spread rumors about us that weren’t true and messed up the flyers that I spent hours putting all around town.”

  Whit blinks at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, please. Don’t play all innocent. The whole reason you wanted to hear about my plan to get back at the Ladybugs was so that you could tell Lillian about it.”

  He swallows. “Okay, that’s kind of true, but only because my sister is having such a hard time. I couldn’t let you mess up what she’s been working toward for so long.”

  “What about what my mom and I have been working toward? Do you have any idea how important this business is to us?”

  “Um, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “I think you might have mentioned it, like a million times.”

  My cheeks burn as I remember how much I’ve complained to Whit over the past few weeks. What was I thinking, spilling all that stuff to him? “So why didn’t you tell your sister that I was involved with the van thing?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Because she went to the police. If she knew I was part of it, they would have done something about it.”

  “I felt bad getting you in trouble,” he says, twirling a spoon between his fingers.

  “Why do you care?” I say.

  He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

  I should be relieved that he didn’t report me to the police—and I am—but I don’t understand why he wouldn’t. “Come on,” I push. “Why didn’t you tell your sister?”

  Whit shrugs again, but his face turns serious. “Because even though what you did was beyond stupid,” he says, “I know you did it because you thought you were helping your mom. If I thought wrecking someone else’s stuff might be the only way to help my sister and her family, I’d probably do it, too.” He taps the spoon on the counter. “I guess I was trying to help you.”

  “Help me?” I repeat in disbelief. “You could have helped me by telling me who you were from the beginning, and by not letting me think you were on my side when you’re on theirs, and by telling me the truth about the pranks they’ve been pulling on us. Maybe even warning me!”

  “What pranks? What are you talking about?” He’s yelling so loudly that Chef Ryan turns from washing pans and shoots us a look across the room. “Okay, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “My sister and I heard some rumors about you guys and kind of jumped on them, but that’s it. I swear.”

  “Yeah, right,” I say. “Why should I trust you after everything?”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  We stare at each other with laser-beam hatred.

  “Forget it,” Whit says finally. “I have to go help my sister fix the mess you made.” Then he turns and thunders out of the kitchen.

  I stare after him, still furious. Okay, what I did to his sister’s vans was bad, definitely worse than I’d planned for it to be, and I’m lucky that Whit pitied me enough not to turn me in. But I can’t believe he’d deny everything and keep lying to me! Whit has thought he was better than me—than everyone—since he first walked in here. And the best way to cut him down to size is to win the Bake-Off.

  Chapter 32

  The next day, after I blow a bunch of my meager savings on ingredients at the grocery store, I have Marisol come over to help me train for the Bake-Off. When she shuffles into my kitchen, I can see from the tight look on her face that she’s stressed out. I’m glad to finally have some good news for her.

  “I got a message from Evan earlier,” I tell her. “He said he found some sound equipment we can use for the Bake-Off.”

  “Really?” Marisol squeals. “That’s perfect! Andrew emailed me this morning and said he can DJ.”

  “I didn’t know he’s DJed stuff before.”

  “He hasn’t.” She laughs. “But it’s better than nothing, right?” Her mood suddenly feels a million times lighter. “Now, what do you want me to do?”

  I have her sit at the kitchen table and test my pastry-making skills by choosing random recipes out of a cookbook. We set it up like the Bake-Off so I only have a certain amount of time to get the recipes done. I rush around like a reality-show contestant, desperate to do everything right.

  “Hmmm,” says Marisol, peering into the cookbook as I’m making banana nut bars. “It says you’re supposed to mash the bananas first before you put them into the dry ingredients.”

  I shrug. “I know, but this way works better. Trust me. I’ve done it a bunch of times.”

  Marisol doesn’t look convinced, but she leaves it alone. When the entire kitchen is full of baked goods and Marisol’s approved them all, I ask my mom to taste test everything. She yums her way through one pastry after another, which makes me feel pretty good.

  “I’m sure you’ll win,” Mom says, but
I can tell she’s pretty distracted.

  After Marisol leaves, I force myself to ask Mom what’s wrong, even though I’m afraid I won’t like the answer.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says. “I just…found another job, that’s all.”

  “What? That’s great! You won’t be working at the law office anymore? Does this one pay better? Will people be nicer to you? When do you start?”

  Mom shakes her head. “No, Rachel. I’ll still be at the law office, but I’ll also be waiting tables a few nights a week at Rib-Eye’s.”

  I gawk at her. “What about the cleaning business?”

  “I’ll still be doing that, but things have been so slow lately that waiting tables will help bring in the extra money we need to be okay.”

  I can’t believe it. I thought Mom working two jobs was bad enough, but three?

  “No, you can’t,” I say. “Having your own business was your dream. I’ll do anything to help. Tell me what I can do.”

  “Oh, Rachel.” She pulls me to her in a sideways hug. “You’ve already done more than enough. Just keep working hard like you have been. I don’t want you dealing with any more stress.”

  Of course, that’s crazy. I’m so stressed all the time that I feel like my muscles could snap at any second like a too-tight string.

  “Now,” she says. “Marisol told me you’re going to be in a fashion show? When did that happen?”

  I groan and hide my face. With everything that’s been going on in the past few weeks, at least I haven’t had time to think about the upcoming horrors of the fashion show.

  “My daughter the supermodel,” Mom adds, smiling.

  It’s nice to see her happy, if only for a second. But even if I hopped up and down the runway in a bunny suit, I don’t think anything will really make things okay.

  The only solution is to beat Whit at the Bake-Off and then find some way to drive the Ladybugs out of town for good.

  •••

  That night, for the first time in weeks, I’m desperate to hear my dad’s voice. We used to share everything when he still lived with us, but I guess that was bound to change after he left.

  “Hey, Roo,” he says when he answers the phone. “Long time, no talk. You haven’t been returning my calls.”

  “Sorry. I’ve been pretty busy.” Which is true. But I think part of me has been afraid to talk to him since he announced he might be coming back. What if he suddenly changes his mind and decides to stay in Florida? I have enough disappointment to deal with right now.

  “I had to call your mom the other day to make sure you were all right.”

  “You talked to Mom? Did you tell her about…you know…what you said to me?”

  “About coming back? No, not yet. I’m still figuring things out.”

  “So does that mean it could actually happen?”

  “It might,” he says. “But that will depend on a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t really want to get into all of that right now. But I’ll come to visit soon, no matter what. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, stifling a sigh. How can talking to one of the people I love most in the world be so frustrating sometimes?

  “So I hear you have yourself a boyfriend,” Dad says with a teasing tone to his voice.

  I suck in a breath. “Oh. Um…”

  “Now don’t be mad at your mother for telling me. She was so excited that she couldn’t help herself.”

  I chew on my lip. Dad must have talked to her before Evan and I broke up. I open my mouth to tell him the truth, but I can’t do it. The words are too hard to say. The truth is, I still don’t believe it.

  “Roo? Are you there?”

  I make a noise that kind of sounds like a grunt.

  “Is everything okay? Did you two have a fight?”

  “Yeah,” I managed to choke out. “I mean, no. I mean…”

  I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I thought Evan was the perfect guy for me, but maybe he’s not. Maybe I’m wrong about him. I feel like everything I’ve done the past few weeks has been wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Chapter 33

  The last day of pastry class, I’m jittery from head to toe.

  “You’ll do fine,” Mom says as she drops me off. “I’ll come get you after class and we’ll go out to celebrate.” Since we only have two cleaning jobs today, Mom is going to do them while I’m in class. How depressing to think that only two months ago, our Saturdays and our Thursday nights were packed with clients. And now, thanks to the Ladybugs, we have almost none.

  That reminder is all the fuel I need to march into class, ready to kick Whit’s butt.

  When I get there, Whit is already wearing his apron and stretching his arms and legs like he’s about to run some kind of weird baking race.

  “Where’s your leather jacket?” I can’t help shooting at him.

  His mouth tightens. “I got caramel all over it when I was cleaning my sister’s van,” he says.

  Oh. I don’t know what to say, so I grab my apron and pull it on. I focus on trying to breathe and concentrate.

  “It was my dad’s,” Whit says after a second.

  “What?”

  He comes up beside me and lowers his voice. “The jacket. It was my dad’s. It’s pretty much the only thing I have of his.”

  I open my mouth and close it again. Holy deviled eggs. What am I supposed to say to that? His dad died and left him the jacket, and now because of me, it’s ruined?

  “Rachel!” someone calls across the room. I spot Mr. Leroy waving at me. Still speechless, I practically run away from Whit. Maybe I should have apologized to him about his father’s jacket, but I guess it’s too late now. Besides, I have to concentrate on qualifying for the Bake-Off, not feeling bad about something that I can’t fix.

  In fact, I bet Whit told me about that at this moment to throw me off my game. For all I know, he made up the whole thing about the jacket being his dad’s to mess with me!

  “I didn’t think you’d be competing today,” I say to Mr. Leroy.

  He slowly rolls up his sleeves. “I’m not vying for a spot in the Bake-Off, but I figured I should at least show off what I’ve learned.”

  Beside him, Ms. Gomez is carefully putting her utensils in order like they’re surgical tools. Normally, people are chatting and laughing before class, but today they’re quiet and focused. I guess Chef Ryan’s made everyone feel competitive. Realizing that other people are taking this seriously makes me even more nervous.

  Then Chef Ryan comes in and announces that we’ll start in a minute. I don’t have time to be nervous anymore. It’s time to get to work.

  “To challenge you,” Chef Ryan says, “I’ll be giving you a brand-new recipe and seeing what you do with it. Those of you who advance to the Bake-Off tomorrow will be asked to make one of the pastries we’ve already made during the class.” He grins evilly. “Though, tomorrow, you won’t be given a copy of the instructions. You’ll have to work from memory.”

  I swallow as he grabs a stack of papers and passes them out.

  “And today we’re making molten chocolate cake,” he announces.

  I hear people groan around me. It’s not a tricky recipe, but it’s hard to get the inside of the cake perfectly melty. I can’t help grinning, though, since it’s one of my favorite things to make.

  I quickly glance at the recipe before going to grab everything I’ll need. I could make this without even looking at the instructions at all, but I don’t want to mess it up, especially not when Chef Ryan is watching each of us like a hawk.

  As I get to work, I can hear Mr. Leroy humming at the table next to mine. I think he’s the only person who’s actually enjoying himself. Everyone else looks as stressed out as I feel.

  But the further I get into the recipe, the more relaxed I am. The fam
iliar smells of chocolate and butter calm me down, and after a few minutes, I realize I’m almost having fun.

  When the timer goes off, I’m actually surprised to discover that there are other people around me. For the first time since I started this class, I was able to relax and just enjoy the process. Isn’t that the reason I signed up for this class in the first place?

  Chef Ryan goes down the row army-style again, and this time I’m actually pretty proud of the dessert standing in front of me. As I glance around at the others, I see a few cakes whose centers have already erupted and others that are obviously rock hard. I have to admit that Whit’s looks pretty good, but no better than mine.

  As Chef Ryan gets closer to my dessert, I start to get really nervous. He digs his spoon into the cake and pops a tiny bite into his mouth. The chocolate center oozes out onto the plate just like it’s supposed to. He chews it slowly, like he’s swishing a sip of wine around.

  Finally, he swallows and says, “Good job, Rachel.” Then he moves on to the next person.

  My legs suddenly go watery under me. He liked it. He actually liked it! And he told me I’d done a good job! No criticism. No yelling. Nothing!

  Finally, when he’s made his way all the way down the line, Chef Ryan looks over his notes and then clears his throat. “And the three finalists are…” He glances at his list again. “Adam Whitney, Rachel Lee, and Gordon Leroy.”

  Whit lets out a whoop at the other side of the room, while I grin so wide it feels like my lips might curl backward over my face. Mr. Leroy, meanwhile, wipes tears from his wrinkled eyes. “My wife would be so proud,” he says when he sees me looking at him. Then he turns to Chef Ryan and I know he’s about to tell him that he won’t be competing in the Bake-Off. But before he can get out a word, I jump in front of him.

  “Please, Mr. Leroy,” I say softly, “come to the Bake-Off, okay? You deserve to be there. Your wife wouldn’t want you to be home alone missing her.” I don’t know where these words are coming from. Or maybe I do. After Dad left, I did nothing but mope, wishing he was still around. The only way I got out of that funk was by actually doing something about it.