The Mystery of the Graffiti Ghoul

by Marty Chan

  “I’m getting sick of slushies anyway,” Trina said.

  She gave in almost too easily. I didn’t buy her story. One time my mom begged Dad to stop drinking, and he promised he’d give it up. Instead, he hid his booze from Mom. I suspected Trina would go underground with her slushies, slipping the icy drinks into juice boxes and handing them out at recess to unsuspecting victims.

  “That’s not good enough,” I said. “You have to tell Principal Henday the truth. That you’re Graffiti Ghoul.”

  “Excu-u-s-e me?” she said. “What makes you think I’m responsible for the graffiti?”

  “You lied to Principal Henday yesterday,” I said. “You wanted Remi to take the blame for the graffiti, because then you could get away with your crime. Admit it, Trina Brewster. You lied.”

  I puffed my tape recording belly toward her to capture the confession.

  “Alright, I admit it,” Trina said. “The Rake looked mad, and I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  “Gotcha!” I lifted my dad’s sweater and flashed her.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Is that a tape recorder?”

  “Yup. And I have your confession on tape, Trina Brewster,” I spoke toward the tape recorder’s built-in microphone, “or should I call you the leader of the Graffiti Ghouls?”

  “I’m the Litter Patrol leader, for Pete’s sake. I’m trying to catch the Ghouls, not lead them. I’m the one who found the ‘s’ by the shed.”

  “Pretending to be a detective is a great cover for a criminal. No one would ever suspect you,” I said. “But now I have your confession on tape.”

  “I might have lied to The Rake, but that doesn’t mean I painted the graffiti.”

  “I have more proof,” I said, jamming my hand into my pocket. “Does this look familiar?” I produced the earring I’d found at the store and shoved it toward her face.

  Trina squinted. “What is it?”

  “Your earring. It fell off when you were drawing the graffiti at my parents’ store.”

  She pulled her blonde hair back, revealing both her ears. “Hel-lo, my ears aren’t pierced.”

  She leaned forward. Her earlobes had no holes.

  “But if this isn’t your earring, then that means you didn’t paint the . . . ” The words died in my throat.

  Because I found the earring by the second graffitied message, I assumed it belonged to the vandal. Because Trina encouraged kids to buy slushies, I assumed she was making zombies. Because Trina lied to Principal Henday, I assumed she had to be Graffiti Ghoul. But Trina didn’t have pierced ears. She might have been pushing slushies on everyone, but the kids didn’t act like zombies. Even though she lied to The Rake, it didn’t mean she was guilty of the graffiti crime. Just as everyone had assumed that Remi drew the graffiti because he lived in a trailer park, I had assumed the wrong thing about Trina. Was she telling the truth now?

  She snatched the earring out of my hand. “Besides, even if my mom did let me wear earrings, I’d never pick something this ugly. Only a freak-a-zoid would be into snake earrings.”

  I took back the earring. It wasn’t in the shape of an “s”. It was in the shape of a snake. Snakes. Who was into — ? The truth curled around my chest and squeezed until I blurted, “I know who the Graffiti Ghouls are!”

  SEVENTEEN

  “Who?” Trina asked. “Who painted the graffiti?”

  “I have to go.” I started to walk away, but she grabbed my arm.

  “You’re not going to give the tape to Principal Henday, are you?”

  “Maybe,” I said, still mad at what she did to Remi.

  Before I could take another step, Trina tackled me. “Give me the tape.”

  “Let go,” I screamed, clutching the tape recorder against my body.

  She clawed at the duct tape, grasped a loose end and pulled. Pain raked across my skin. I ran away, but Trina had a good grip of the tape, and every time I moved, the duct tape peeled off like a caked-on Band-Aid. I couldn’t go far without causing myself more pain, but I couldn’t let Trina get the machine. The only way to take off a Band-Aid was to rip it off in one swift move, so maybe the only way to get out of my duct tape dilemma was to get it over with in one shot. Holding my breath, I started to run and spin at the same time. A human top, I unravelled myself. It felt like strips of my skin were flying off like potato peelings, but I held on to the tape recorder and continued to spin. Trina reeled in the duct tape like she was in a tug-of-war.

  As the last strip of sticky tape ripped off my raw skin, I screamed, “O-o-o-o-o-o-o-w-w-w-w-w-e-e-e-e-e!”

  I staggered back, dizzy and out of control. The ground rolled back and forth like the deck of a ship on a choppy ocean. I crashed into someone and the tape recorder flew out of my hands. I tried to catch it, but I missed and landed flat on my face.

  “You having fun?” a familiar voice asked.

  I looked up and saw my friend holding the tape recorder. The world stopped spinning.

  “Remi,” I said. “I know who painted the graffiti.

  It’s—

  He cut me off. “So you didn’t want to be caught hanging out with the trailer trash. I guess you found someone else to hang out with,” he accused.

  “I was trying to clear your name.”

  “Duh! Do you think I’m stupid? You tried to break into my locker.”

  “She made me do it,” I said, pointing at Trina.

  He said in a snarky voice, “I thought you were better than the other monkey butts, but I guess I was wrong.”

  “Let me explain,” I pleaded.

  “Leave me alone.” Remi shoved the tape recorder back at me and walked away.

  I’d hurt my friend, my only friend, by siding with the enemy, and as much as I wanted to say it was for the right reasons, I knew that I had done the wrong thing. I never should have promised Trina the can of spray paint. I never should have tried to break into Remi’s locker. I never should have betrayed my best friend.

  Soft hands grabbed the tape recorder. Trina had skulked up behind me and was now trying to tear the machine away from me.

  “Back off,” I said, regaining my hold on the tape recorder.

  “You can’t turn it in. My mom will kill me.”

  “You should have thought of that before you lied to Principal Henday.”

  “I’ll do anything for the tape,” she pleaded.

  “I don’t need anything from you.”

  “Even Nancy Drew needed someone. You can be my Ned Nickerson.”

  “Who?”

  “Nancy’s boyfriend.”

  The image of Trina’s puckering lips flashed before me again. “No way!”

  “He also helps her solve mysteries. You can’t solve the case by yourself. You need my help to clear your friend’s name.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. Without Remi, I’d never be able to catch the real Graffiti Ghouls. He was my partner. He was the brawn to my brains. He was the guy who stood up for me. He was my only friend. But, like a Band-Aid, our friendship had been ripped off in one swift move, except the pain didn’t go away. It got worse.

  “Go away,” I said.

  “We need each other,” she said.

  If Trina hadn’t found us at the cemetery, if she hadn’t sworn me in as her deputy, if she hadn’t been such a snot gobbler, I’d still have my friend. I wouldn’t be alone again. It was all her fault. Still, she was the only person who could help me. The graffiti message on my parents’ store was a warning that the real Graffiti Ghouls were on to me. I needed a decoy to expose them. Trina could be this decoy, but how could I trust her?

  “If we’re going to work together, we have to shake on it,” I said. I spit into my hand and offered it to her.

  She stepped back, sticking her hands under her armpits. “Ew, I’m not touching your hand.”

  “A spit-handshake means you’re absolutely serious about being my partner. It means you’d rather break your hand than break our deal. If you want to help, t
his is the only way.”

  She eyed the tape player, and reluctantly spit into her own hand. We shook, sealing our pact.

  “Ew,” she squealed. “It’s so gross. I can feel our spit mixing.”

  Her hand was soft. I felt weird about holding it, about her standing so close to me, about the tingling that spread up my arm toward my fast-beating heart. I almost forgot the reasons why I hated her. I took a long time before I finally let go of her hand.

  “Done. You’re going to help me get the Graffiti Ghouls to confess.”

  Trina wiped her hand on her sweat pants. “Where are they?”

  “The high school,” I answered.

  At the end of the day, Trina and I headed to Vanier School. We waited until the kids cleared out of the schoolyard so no one would see us together. To be safe I walked five steps ahead of her, so if anyone saw us I could tell them she was following me. The Vanier parking lot had no cars, but I was sure the criminals would turn up here sooner or later. Beside me, Trina barely breathed as she stared through the fence’s diamond pattern.

  “Here’s the plan,” I said. “The Graffiti Ghouls don’t know you, so they might slip up and brag about what they did. When they do, you’ll have their confession on tape.”

  “How am I going to get them to talk?”

  “Say you want to join them.”

  She gulped and looked at the empty parking lot. Forbidden territory. Then she looked back at me, chewing her lower lip, wanting to say something. She didn’t.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked.

  “Totally.” Her answer surprised me. Remi never admitted he was scared, not even when I was sure he was petrified. And I knew better than to tell him when I was scared because as soon as I did, he made fun of me. I always thought that admitting you were scared was something you were never supposed to do, but when Trina told me she was nervous, I didn’t feel so bad. Maybe it was okay to admit how I really felt.

  “I’m scared too,” I said.

  “That’s good to know.” Trina smiled at me. I smiled back, relieved.

  “The Graffiti Ghouls are going to show up here sooner or later,” I said. “Keep a lookout for their car.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s blue.”

  “Two doors? Rust on the hood? Broken headlight? Four teenagers inside?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because they’re coming this way.” Trina pointed down the street. “I think they’re following us.”

  Patrick’s car drove toward us. I slipped the tape recorder behind my back just as the car stopped beside us. Dough Boy leaned out the passenger window and patted the top of the car. Warren sat in the back seat beside Beth. Her black hair covered her ears, so I couldn’t see if her earring was missing. Was she Graffiti Ghoul, or was this going to be another dead end? Only one way to find out.

  I walked closer to the car. Patrick climbed out of the driver’s seat and folded his arms on top of the car. He wasn’t wearing his tongue stud today. Maybe he was tired of people not understanding him.

  “Dough Boy,” he said. “That the punk we caught the other day?”

  “Can’t be. We warned Chinatown to stay away. He wouldn’t come back.”

  “I think Chinatown needs another warning,” Patrick said.

  I tried to get a closer look at Beth’s ears. “I’m not on the school grounds.”

  “You were thinking about it,” Dough Boy accused, blocking my view of the back seat.

  “I wasn’t,” I said.

  “Then what’re you doing here?” Patrick demanded.

  Trina came to the rescue. “He’s walking me home.”

  The two boys chuckled.

  “This your girlfriend, Chinatown?” Dough Boy teased.

  My face turned beet red. “No.”

  “Kissy, kissy,” Warren taunted from inside the car.

  “He’s a player,” Dough Boy said.

  Beth leaned out the window. “Hey, I heard what happened at your old man’s store.”

  “Yeah, Chinatown. Terrible thing. Did your old man call the police?” Dough Boy asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “They have any leads?” Beth asked.

  “I’m not allowed to say.” I lied, noticing Beth’s snake bracelet. I needed to look at her ears. “There’s a bug by your face.”

  She swatted at the air.

  “By your ear,” Trina said, picking up on my plan.

  Beth fluffed her hair back, revealing her ears. A snake earring was attached to one earlobe. The other ear had nothing.

  “What do you know about the investigation?” Beth asked.

  “The police are close to finding out who did it,” I said.

  Trina nodded. “So the criminals had better be careful.”

  “What do you know, kid?” Dough Boy asked.

  “I know that the police found some important evidence at the crime scene.”

  Beth and Warren straightened up in the back seat and leaned forward, staring at Trina like the Big Bad Wolf about to pounce on Little Red Riding Hood. Patrick and Dough Boy glanced at each other, nervous.

  “It’s police business,” Trina said. “We can’t tell anyone.”

  Beth said, “We promise we won’t say anything.”

  “I can’t talk,” I said.

  Dough Boy opened the car door — was he going to get out? Patrick started to walk around the front of the car.

  “Marty’s supposed to meet the police after he drops me off,” Trina said. “They’re expecting him pretty soon.”

  “I can give you a lift,” Patrick said. “Then we can chat.”

  I shook my head. “Trina’s mom is going to drive me.”

  “She’s expecting us right now,” Trina added.

  Patrick climbed behind the steering wheel while Dough Boy grunted and slammed his door shut.

  Beth glared at me from the back seat. “Be careful what you say, Chinatown. You might get on the bad side of the wrong people.”

  Patrick drove away slowly while everyone else in the car watched us.

  Once they were gone, I turned to Trina. “Did you see the earring? There was only one.”

  “She’s the culprit, alright.”

  “They’re all in on it,” I said.

  “They were pretty nosy about the police investigation, weren’t they? That’s a sign that they’re guilty.”

  “Why did you lie? The police didn’t find any evidence.”

  “Hel-lo, they found the graffiti.”

  “But you made them think the cops found something more.”

  “Did I?” She batted her eyes.

  “I guess you didn’t say anything specific.”

  “It’s not my fault if they jumped to conclusions.”

  I never knew exactly how Trina started gossip. I’d only heard the rumours after they’d been passed around and exaggerated by other kids. Now I understood her trick. She planted a seed of information and let it grow in other people’s imaginations. The less she said, the bigger the rumour became. The hint that the police had serious evidence had probably grown to the size of the moon in Beth’s mind.

  “Right now they’re probably freaking out over what the police might have,” Trina said.

  “They’ll think the cops have the earring.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re pretty smart for a girl,” I said.

  “Hel-lo, I’m pretty smart, period.”

  “Let’s follow them,” I said.

  “They’re in a car.”

  I pointed through the fence at Patrick’s car, which had just pulled into a space in the school parking lot.

  “Oh,” Trina said. “Never mind.”

  “After you.”

  Trina scaled the fence fast. I’d never seen anyone move that quickly. I was impressed. We snuck through the high school grounds and crept alongside the building. Ahead of us, the gang hustled across the track field.

  “They’re going to the ce
metery,” I said. “Hurry up.”

  “They’ll see us. It’s wide open ground.”

  “Stick with me.”

  I backtracked and sprinted around the other side of the school. When I reached the fence that ran beside the highway, I ran along it. Trina followed me. When we reached the corner of the graveyard, we hopped over the fence and waded through the bushes. No sign of the gang. Staying low, we moved from tombstone to tombstone, jumping over the small markers and hiding behind the tall ones. We moved deeper into the cemetery, and hopefully closer to the Graffiti Ghouls.

  As we neared an open grave, we heard voices and stopped. Trina joined me as I sat down with my back against a large tombstone. Around it were a few beer bottles. It was the tombstone Remi and I had found earlier. Trying to make as little noise as possible, I gently pressed the “Record” button on my tape recorder, but the cassette tape barely spun. The batteries were weak. I turned off the tape recorder.

  “What do we do now?” I whispered. “The batteries are almost dead. I might record five seconds, but that’s not enough.”

  Trina shushed me. “Listen.”

  I pushed the tape recorder to one side.

  “I’m telling you Patrick, I didn’t drop anything,” Beth protested.

  Dough Boy said, “It was probably one of your dog leashes.”

  “Maybe it was one of your chocolate bar wrappers,” Beth shot back.

  “Hey, a chocolate bar wrapper isn’t evidence. It’s garbage.”

  Warren’s whiny voice interrupted, “Unless they check the DNA.”

  “Or they could just follow the stench to Dough Boy,” Beth said.

  “Stick it, Beth.”

  “Bite me, Dough Boy.”

  “Ghouls! Chill.” Patrick ordered.

  Dough Boy complained, “Do you have to call us Ghouls? Who came up with the lame gang name anyway?”

  Beth piped up, “I like being the Ghouls.”

  Warren said, “Actually, it sounds kinda dumb.”

  “It was the name of Dylan’s gang,” Beth said. “If it was good enough for my brother, it’s good enough for me.”

  Dylan. Dylan Green. The name on the tombstone we were leaning against. I re-read the inscription: “Dylan Green. Loving son and brother. Survived by parents Hank and Anne and sister Elizabeth.” Beth. These Ghouls weren’t the undead; they were copycats.