I So Don't Do Makeup

by Barrie Summy

  With short, jerky steps, Lacey paces the length of the kiosk. “It’s not the makeup.” She rubs her forehead. “Well, yes, obviously, it is the makeup.” Now pacing and rubbing her head at the same time, she says, “The only explanation is that someone’s adding bad stuff to the product.” She stops all movement. “But why?”

  “Do you have any enemies?” I ask. “Anyone mad at you?”

  She shakes her head, her blond hair swaying back and forth like a curtain by an open window on a breezy day. “I’ve been racking my brain. No, I can’t think of anyone who’d do this to me.”

  “Besides, I’m the person who sold all the sabotaged makeup.” Amber points to her chest. “Could be someone’s framing me.”

  “Who’ve you annoyed recently?” Junie asks her cousin.

  Amber places a perfect nail on her perfect chin and makes a perfect indentation. “Beth Anderson. I’m dating her boyfriend. Sophia Hernandez. I did date her boyfriend a few times. Jonathan Mann, who I ditched after a few dates. My science teacher might have been insulted by the helpful acne-scar-reducing products I listed at the top of my quiz. Who else?” She stares off into the distance, blinking her heavily shadowed eyes. “My mom, my new stepdad.”

  It takes us less than a minute to come up with about ten people, mostly girls, who are peeved at Amber. But taking the investigation in this direction isn’t clicking for me. Junie’s furrowed brow says she’s not buying Amber as the victim either.

  “Amber, you definitely have more enemies than the rest of us put together,” Junie says.

  Amber stands straighter.

  “But Naked Makeup isn’t the most effective way to, uh, get to you,” I say. “I think the target is Lacey.”

  Lacey sinks onto the barstool by the cash register. “Someone wants me out of business.” Her head droops. “And if this mess keeps up, that’s exactly where I’m gonna be.”

  Amber rubs Lacey’s shoulder.

  “When did you start using this batch of gloss?” Junie asks. “As in, do you expect more returns?”

  Amber yanks open a drawer and checks some papers. “We opened the container three days ago. So, yeah, we could get more returns.”

  Lacey raises her head, grimacing. “And then there are the people who won’t return the product but won’t ever buy Naked Makeup again. Maybe they’ll think they had an allergic reaction or that it’s just lousy quality. All this is bad for business.”

  “Did you check the rest of the lip gloss base?” I ask.

  Lacey kneels down and pulls a cardboard box toward her. From the box, she grabs a tub the size of a two-liter bottle of soda. She lugs it up to the counter.

  I’m looking at the cardboard box. Specifically at the address label. “Do you always have your product sent to Discount Mart?”

  “Yeah. Saves me from going to the post office to pick up packages.” Lacey unscrews the cap and pokes in a Q-tip. “The Discount Mart guys keep it in shipping and receiving for me.”

  I clap my hands in sleuthing excitement. “Maybe it’s someone at Discount Mart.” I so rock at this part of detective work. Where I come up with a million scenarios for what’s possibly going on. “Like someone who works there is sick of babysitting your boxes.”

  Lacey frowns. “They’d just tell me to start shipping them to my apartment.”

  “Or maybe someone there can’t stand you.” I’m on a roll.

  Amber slaps her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? I’m the one with the enemies, Sherry.”

  Not the only one.

  “How about this?” Junie jumps in. “Maybe one of the employees doesn’t believe in makeup, so they want your business to go under.”

  “Like the Janes,” I say. “Do you have them at Discount Mart? This wacko group of girls who won’t wear makeup ’cause they believe it sucks their attention away from their schoolwork and future potential.”

  “I never heard of a group like that at Discount Mart,” Lacey says. “Word would get around pretty quickly, and no one would go on break with them.”

  “Or ask them out,” Amber adds.

  “Maybe Discount Mart is a red herring,” Junie says.

  Amber and Lacey look blank.

  “A false lead,” I explain.

  “Anyway,” Lacey says, “the packages are still taped up when I get them. No one opens them. No one adds anything.”

  “Remember”—I cross my arms—“we’re talking about the shipping department. Those people are expert tapers and sealer-uppers. They can break into your boxes, mess with the contents, then redo the packaging so it looks as good as new.”

  Lacey scrunches up her face in disbelief.

  “Get a new idea, Sherry,” Amber says.

  I don’t care what they say. I’m not discounting Discount Mart’s shipping and receiving department yet.

  “Lacey, try the base.” Amber points to the Q-tip Lacey’s still holding in midair.

  Lacey dots a minuscule amount of the clear gel on her wrist. Within minutes, her eyes are watering and she’s blinking up a storm. “Definitely contaminated.” She squirts water on the affected area with a spritzer bottle.

  Amber pins me with her emerald (thanks to colored contact lenses) eyes. “So, Sherry, what’s in the gloss?”

  Palms up, I say, “Beats me. I have a C in science.”

  “Time for an acid test,” Junie says.

  chapter

  six

  Junie and I hoof it over to my house. According to my brainiac BFF, we need sodium bicarbonate to test for a chemical reaction. Sodium bicarbonate is a fancy-schmancy name for baking soda.

  We could build a small cabin with the number of boxes of baking soda The Ruler keeps in our pantry. Or bake a loaf of bread the size of Arizona. Or place a bowlful of powder in every fridge in the nation.

  Why so much baking soda? Because The Ruler washes all our fresh fruits and vegetables in a water + baking soda mixture. To get rid of pesky leftover pesticides. Which there shouldn’t be any of because she buys organic. There’s no reasoning with her in this area.

  When Junie and I arrive, The Ruler’s in the kitchen, whipping up a couple dozen cranberry–orange juice muffins. They’re überyummy, but deceptively disguised as überyucky with their lumps and sickly color.

  The Ruler is misleading in the same way. At school, with her stiff posture, strict rules and severe tests, you’d never realize that she’s actually Ms. Maternal. At this very moment, wooden spoon in hand and flour in her hair, she’s mixing batter in our kitchen.

  “Junie, your face is looking much better.” The Ruler pours a cup of orange juice into a large ceramic bowl. “And yours is almost completely cleared up, Sherry.”

  “They did our makeup at the kiosk. Plus, they gave us special cream,” Junie says. “And I have a spray too.”

  While The Ruler cracks brown eggs and sifts wheat flour, we fill her in on the makeup scandal.

  “That’s terrible. And it could be very dangerous, depending on the contaminant.” She dumps a cup of cranberries into the bowl and gently folds them into the batter. “You know, the Nut ’n’ Nut carries all-natural makeup.”

  Buy my makeup at the health food store? Who wants to be beige and boring and smell like basil? Not. Me. Not. Ever.

  “Sounds like a safe alternative,” Junie says.

  The Ruler smiles wide.

  This is why parents love Junie; she always says the right thing.

  “Actually, Naked Makeup’ll be super safe again soon. Junie and I are going to figure out who’s behind the sabotage.”

  “Do you really think someone’s purposely tainting the makeup?” The Ruler bends over to pull out the baking pans. “It’s probably full of toxic chemicals. Just because the name ‘Naked Makeup’ sounds natural doesn’t mean it is.”

  “It’s botanical,” I tell her. “And styling.” I grab a couple of glasses and the apple juice from the fridge. “Lacey believes someone’s out to ruin her business.”

  The Ruler plops batter into th
e muffin pan, nodding in that absentminded way adults nod when they don’t buy into what you’re saying. Which is fine. If she actually knew the risks I’ve taken when solving mysteries, she’d triple-lock me in my room.

  I grab a cereal bowl from the cupboard and a box of baking soda from the pantry. “We brought the messed-up lip gloss, and we’re gonna mix it with baking soda.”

  That sets The Ruler and Junie off on a science chat where they’re bonding over pH balance and hydrogen molecules and acids versus bases.

  After a few sentences, I interrupt. “Why exactly are we doing this?”

  Junie’s stirring up a paste of baking soda + water in the bowl. “Trying to figure out if an acid was added to the lip gloss.”

  “But, basically, we’re watching for bubbles?” I wanna keep this simple.

  “Exactly. Lots of bubbles”—Junie pops off the gloss pots’ lids—“means the mystery ingredient is super acidic.”

  The Ruler stops filling the muffin pan.

  The three of us stare into the bowl.

  Junie spoons in some watermelon gloss. Nothing happens.

  Junie spoons in some white chocolate + mint gloss. Still nothing happens.

  “So”—Junie carries the bowl to the sink—“the mysterious ingredient isn’t an acid.”

  “Well, what is it?” I ask.

  “Beats me.” Junie turns on the faucet.

  The Ruler doesn’t say anything, but her toxic-commercial-cosmetics expression speaks volumes. She opens the oven door and slides in the muffin pan, then twists the timer knob.

  “Sherry, when the timer goes off, remember to pull out the muffins.” The Ruler heads to our office to catch up on her grading.

  “Okeydokey artichokie.” Ack. Did I really say that? My dad’s rubbing off on me, in a bad-joke kind of way.

  I text over to the kiosk to let them know what Junie and I discovered. As in, no acid in the lip gloss. Amber and Lacey text back that they checked the rest of the makeup and it was clean. Yay!

  “Well, at least Lacey didn’t have to throw out any more makeup,” I say. “Other than the lip gloss.”

  “Yeah, that saves her some cash,” Junie says.

  I nod and we sink into the couch in the living room.

  “You going to ask your mom to help with the makeup mystery?” Junie asks.

  No one living is supposed to know about the Academy of Spirits, but one day, when I had a big meltdown, I spilled to Junie.

  “I’ll summon her tonight.”

  My pesky, perky eight-year-old brother, Sam, explodes into the room, interrupting our conversation. “Sherry, Dad and I got some sick supplies for my business!”

  “What business?” Junie can afford to be überinterested because she’s an only child and doesn’t have the tiresome task of dealing with a little brother 24-7.

  “Selling organic plants and vegetables from our garden. Including a bunch of cacti. Paula and I grew them.” Sam’s Tigger-bouncing all around the room. “You should see the wagon I just got. And a change box.”

  “What will you do with all the money you make?” Junie asks.

  “I’m not saying.” Sam grins from sticky-out ear to sticky-out ear. My brother and his secrets. He should grow up and join the FBI.

  Sam’s a much happier kid since I managed to wangle five minutes of Real Time for him with our mother. He and Mom spent five minutes at Dairy Queen, face to face, where he could talk to her, see her, touch her. As per Academy rules, he doesn’t remember the experience, but he’s back to being the annoying brother he was before Mom’s death.

  “A timer’s buzzing,” my dad calls from the kitchen.

  Junie and I bomb down the hall. I grab the oven mitts and pull out the muffins.

  Junie sniffs big. “These are the yummiest.”

  “Hi, Junie. Always good to see you.” My dad walks over and tweezers out a muffin with his index finger and thumb. “Ouch.” He drops it on the counter and blows on his fingers. “And, of course, always good to see you, pumpkin.”

  I swear I will never call my child a vegetable name. I will probably stick to gemstones.

  “Sam, come help me unload your stuff from the car!” Dad shouts.

  Watching the two of them walk out to the garage, I can’t help but notice how they’re like mis-sized twins with an identical dorkity-dork bouncing walk.

  Junie checks her phone. “I gotta go home.”

  I slip a couple of muffins in a Ziploc bag for her.

  She gives me a quick hug and whispers in my ear, “Good luck tonight.”

  chapter

  seven

  It’s late and dark and spooky on Saturday night. My flashlight flickers. Probably it needs new batteries. Damp, clammy grass licks the soles of my feet as I creep through the backyard to the ornamental pear tree. My mom planted this tree when I was born, and it’s where I always have the best luck getting her to show up. She’s only flying from across town—the Academy is located in Dairy Queen—but it’s a big challenge with her horrible sense of direction.

  I swing a leg over the lowest limb and drag myself up. I get positioned and comfy … well, as comfy as you can get on a bumpy branch in the middle of the night. My back smushed against the trunk, I wave an open bag of Costa Rican espresso coffee beans and think Mom thoughts. Then I wait.

  Thud! The tree shakes. I dig in my heels to keep my balance.

  “Hi, Sherry.” The branch dips as my mother settles beside me. “Ooof. Rough landing.”

  I inhale. My mother was überaddicted to coffee when alive, and a mild java scent follows her wherever she goes now. Nutzoid and weirdo as it sounds, I can smell ghosts. And their smell is always somehow related to their mortal time.

  Mom quizzes me about school and Sam. She even asks after my fish.

  We chill for a little in silence, that comfortable kind of silence between two people who know each other well. My girlfriends spend time with their moms in the kitchen or the car or while shopping for clothes. For me and my mom, it’s a little—well, a lot—different. But I’m just happy I get to be with her at all.

  “So, Mom, something weird’s happening at the mall.” And I launch into the whole Lacey + Amber + tainted makeup story.

  When I’m done, she says, “I wonder what the abrasive ingredient is. And is it the same for the night cream and the gloss?” I bet she’s twirling her hair around her index finger, mulling it all over. It’s a mother-daughter habit. “You and Junie only tested the gloss for acidity, right?”

  “Yeah, because Lacey already sent the cream to her head office for analysis.” I hug my knees. “But The Ruler—Paula said there was a small amount of papaya acid in it.

  “You sound positive the factory isn’t just sending bad batches.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “You’ve certainly had enough detective experience that you can trust your gut.”

  A bubble of pride zings around inside me. “Thanks.”

  “You want to help this girl out?”

  I think of Lacey grabbing my arm and how desperate she is to save her dream business. “Definitely.” I hook my hair behind my ears. “But it’s more than that, Mom. It’s personal for us. You should see Junie’s face. Brianna and I are mild. It’s not okay to do that to people and get away with it.”

  There’s a wispy light breeze as my mom touches my face. “Your skin’s still dry and red. Why don’t you stop wearing makeup for a while?”

  “What?” I practically roll off the branch at the absurd suggestion. “Go out in public without makeup? Seriously? And have you forgotten I have a boyfriend?”

  My mother sighs. “How’s that going?”

  “Fantabulous. We’re actually going on a movie date tomorrow.”

  “Your father and Paula are okay with it?”

  “Basically.” It’s my turn to sigh. “But I have to come straight home after the movie. And it’s a matinée on a Sunday.”

  “You have to wear makeup on this, uh, date?” Mom stumbles over t
he word “date.”

  I stretch out my legs and cross my arms. “Yes.”

  Silence. Not as comfortable as before.

  “I’m surprised the Phantom Security Squad hasn’t brought up any of the incidents,” Mom says. “It’s not like them to miss offenses committed against humans. I attended the most recent Academy security meeting, and the PSS didn’t mention a cosmetics case.”

  “They’re only human—oops.” Because they aren’t human. Just like my mom, they’re ghosts with a background in law enforcement or detective work.

  “Perhaps the goings-on at Lacey’s kiosk are such small potatoes that the Academy’s not getting involved,” Mom muses.

  The bubble of pride grows into a bubble of excitement. “Well, then this would be a perfect opportunity for us to earn Real Time. We discovered our own mystery. We solve it. We keep loads of humans safe from tainted makeup. The Academy is überproud of us. And, voilà, they award us five minutes of Real Time.” Then the bubble of excitement kicks it into high gear. “Do they ever award more than five minutes of Real Time? Like, how about a day. Think of how great it would be to spend an entire day together! Where I could actually see you.”

  There’s a long pause. Too long.

  “I can’t help with the makeup situation,” Mom says slowly. “And I don’t think you should either.”

  chapter

  eight

  It’s Sunday morning around eleven. Lugging a heavy backpack, I hopped a bus and now I’m standing in front of Dairy Queen. Make that Dairy Queen, aka the Academy of Spirits.

  I so don’t want to go in. But I gotta find out why my mom can’t help me on the cosmetics case. And change that. Sigh. A detective’s got to do what a detective’s got to do.

  I square my shoulders, pull open the heavy glass door and step inside.

  Yikes.

  A million and one rug rats in Little League uniforms are bombing around, screaming and screeching. What are their parents thinking? Play a baseball game and we’ll reward you with humongous amounts of frozen empty calories?

  Yikes. I mentally slap myself upside the head. Why am I going all judgmental about junk food? The Ruler and her food views are rubbing off on me. Ack.