by Stacey Longo
“Hey, I have shop class with Blossom,” Andy whispered apologetically. “And let me tell you, your sister is pretty damn resourceful. She’s the best student in the class. None of us have mastered the band saw like she has. And whenever there’s a wood chisel missing, Blossom’s usually got it in her bag. Those wood chisels . . . well, the ends have serrated teeth. They could probably do the job in place of regular teeth, and in a nice, neat line, too. Like a saw.”
I gasped. What was he implying?
“I’m not saying anything,” he said, reacting to the look of horror that must have been on my face. “Just make sure your sister’s totally in the clear before you dive into this any further, that’s all.”
The bell rang. My eyes were wet with unshed tears, and when Andy put his arm around me to escort me to my next class, I buried my face in his shoulder. He smelled good, like antibacterial soap and deodorant. It was nice, but what I really wanted at that moment was to find my sister and hug her tight, keeping her safe from the rest of the world.
I was shaking when I went to meet Mickey at lunch. How could I possibly act cool when he might be the Frankenstein Killer? Thankfully, he wasn’t at our usual spot outside. I texted Nanette on my way back in, who told me Mickey wasn’t in homeroom this morning. Excellent. That would give me a little more time to dig up evidence to either clear or convict him, and to work on my acting skills. “How was your weekend?” I practiced in the cafeteria, waiting to get hot lunch. “How was your weekend?” The lunch lady gave me a perfunctory “fine” before dropping a scoop of graying mashed potatoes on my tray. Maybe I should practice my interrogation techniques at home.
Mom picked me up right at 2:30 in front of the school. We’d have just enough time to run to the hospital, visit with Ms. Youngquist for a half hour, and make it back to pick up Blossom. She was working on a project in shop for her history presentation, but Mom didn’t know quite what it was. Mr. Burgess had been in regular contact with Mom since she’d first gotten a little unhinged about Blossom being in shop, and as a result, Mom trusted him completely. “Mr. Burgess assured me he’s supervising the whole thing,” she said as we drove off. “I really like that man, even if he was at Woodstock.”
We stopped at the grocery store so I could buy Ms. Youngquist some flowers. We arrived at the hospital close to 3:30, and had no problem finding her room. “You’d think they’d have better security,” I muttered, but Mom shushed me.
Ms. Youngquist was sitting up in her hospital bed when we found her. She had a book in her lap, what looked to be a collection of old Bloom County cartoons.
“My guilty secret.” She carefully slid a bookmark in the pages before closing the book. “It’s not all dry classics, my dear,” she said. “Sometimes good literature can be found in the most extraordinary places.”
I handed her the flowers and shyly asked if she was okay. She looked thin in her hospital gown, but her tortoiseshell glasses and wild brown curls were still the same, whether she was in front of the classroom or lying in a sanitized white room. She was on an IV, and I noticed her right arm was bandaged from wrist to elbow, but otherwise she looked no worse for the wear.
“How sweet of you to come,” she said, patting my hand. “You really are an exceptional student. If you tell anyone in class I said that, I’ll deny it, of course.”
What I meant to ask was, When are you coming back? But what actually came out was “What happened?”
“Jasmine!” Mom chastised me, but Ms. Youngquist just laughed and waved off her concern.
“Perfectly logical question,” Ms. Youngquist said. “I was sitting on my back porch, admiring the sunset and enjoying a cup of tea. Right when I turned to go inside, there was a man standing there in shadow with a large saw in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. I screamed, and as I did, something jumped out of the bushes. I held my arm up to protect my face, and whatever it was bit my forearm instead. That’s why I’m still in the hospital.” She waved her bandaged arm. “The bite’s infected.”
“We’re so relieved you’re okay.” My mother looked a little queasy.
“How’d you get away?” I asked, fascinated.
“Jasmine! Jesus!” Mom said.
Ms. Youngquist ignored Mom’s protests. “I keep three large geese: Flossie, Bossie, and Moe. They make excellent pets—and wonderful watchdogs. As soon as I screamed, Bossie went right for my first attacker and bit him right in the apple bag, so to speak.”
Mom cleared her throat. What, was she going to chastise my English teacher for her language? I hadn’t been sure what Ms. Youngquist meant, but Mom’s reaction pinpointed it for me: the goose had bitten her attacker’s most sensitive private parts.
Youngquist seemed oblivious to Mom’s awkward throat-clearing. “He was so startled he dropped his saw and started dancing around with a giant, twenty-pound goose clamped onto his crotch. Flossie and Moe went after the other one. All that honking and feathers! They were fabulous,” she added with a chuckle. “Anyway, the first attacker got Bossie off his crotch, grabbed his accomplice, and ran like the dickens. Then I called 9-1-1.” She leaned back. “Where’s my pudding? Only decent thing to eat in this joint is the chocolate pudding.”
Mom had been open-mouthed listening to Ms. Youngquist. We’d gotten used to Blossom rushing the occasional cat or bird, but the idea that Ms. Youngquist had narrowly escaped being autopsied alive seemed to get to my mother. She shook off her alarm and looked around. “I’ll go see if I can find you some pudding,” she said, stepping out into the hallway.
“Ms. Youngquist?” I asked nervously. “You’re sure it was a man? The first attacker, I mean?”
“Don’t know if he was old or young, white, black, or purple, but yes, it was a man. I don’t know about the second one—I suspect it was a zombie.” She laid a hand on my shoulder when she heard me gulp. “It wasn’t your sister, dear, don’t worry about that.”
“How can you be so sure?” My voice shook.
“I remembered my Arthur Conan Doyle. Used my powers of observation. Whatever came out of those bushes was dead, for sure, but it didn’t smell like Blossom. Your sister’s scent is a mixture of musk and dirt and patchouli, like a wet hippie who’s gone a bit too long without a shower,” she said. “This thing smelled like pure death—rot and ruin. Like when a rat gets into the wall and dies. It was awful.” She sighed and adjusted her pillow. “Whatever or whoever it was, it wasn’t Blossom. Don’t worry about that for a minute longer.” She smiled as Mom came back in the room with two unopened pudding cups. “I told your friend Mickey all this, too, when he came by earlier today. Not much for Greek literature, that boy, but he certainly enjoys a good mystery. Full of questions, that one.” She peeled back a foil lid on one of the pudding cups.
I gasped. “Mickey was here?”
“Yes, this morning. If only he’d taken to his Homer like he takes to Hercule Poirot, he would’ve aced my class,” she added with a sigh.
I slipped my hand in my mother’s as we left the hospital. The security here was laughable, and the probable Frankenstein Killer had been able to walk right in and grill the only living witness to make sure she hadn’t seen him. What would’ve happened if she’d recognized him?
I shuddered at the thought.
FOURTEEN
Blossom asked me to help her put together her PowerPoint presentation on George Washington that night. I filled her in on what I’d learned from Youngquist, pointed out that Mickey had been absent from school, and told her he’d visited the hospital.
“Garrah blaaaah?” Blossom asked. You don’t really think it’s Mickey, do you?
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” I said. “It could be him. It could be anyone.”
“Haaableegh guuuh,” Blossom continued. Yeah, but Mickey? Sure, he’s a cutie-pie, but in all fairness, he doesn’t look like he has the upper body strength to attack a grown woman.
I helped Blossom drag and drop pictures of cherry trees and powdered wigs, thinking over
her words. She had a point. Mickey didn’t look like the kind of guy who could threateningly wield a baseball bat, or even a fly swatter, for that matter. It just didn’t seem to fit.
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow at lunch.” I sighed. “But you’re right. The pieces don’t add up.”
Blossom put the finishing touches on her PowerPoint and turned to smile widely at me.
“Gahaarrr blegh baaaagg,” she said. My presentation’s on Wednesday, fifth period, when you’re at lunch. Maybe you and Mickey can skip lunch to come watch me?
“I’ll try,” I said, but I couldn’t promise I’d be inviting Mickey to come along.
The next day, I was as jumpy as a cat on an electric floor. Andy walked me from algebra to ceramics, asking what was wrong.
“I’m just nervous. I have to ask someone I really liked and trusted some hard questions,” I admitted. I didn’t think I could tell him about Mickey without crying. “What’s with you?” I added, looking at his attire. Normally neat Andy was wearing sweatpants today.
“Aw, I fell off my bike yesterday and got road rash on my thigh,” he said. “Regular pants hurt.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He’d been awfully fidgety in class yesterday, which I’d attributed to nervousness at the thought of being caught cheating on our algebra assignment. Maybe his nervousness had been due to something else.
“Are you sure it was that and not a goose to the crotch?” I said with a half-hearted laugh. Andy gave me such a stern, disapproving look it would’ve made the Animal jealous. I flushed with embarrassment. We were certainly not in a stage of our relationship yet where we could openly talk about crotches. What had I been thinking? I wanted to die of mortification.
Mickey was once again absent at lunch. Should I text him? Or ignore the fact that he’d been out of school two days in a row? If it was someone else, someone about whom I didn’t harbor suspicions regarding their serial killer status, what would I do? I’d text them to make sure they’re okay, I admitted.
Missed you in school the past couple of days—where have you been? I started, then decided that it sounded too formal. Where R U? Lunch is boring without U, I typed. Wait. Did that sound like I was coming on to him? I started over. R U still alive? Yes, that was good. Short, to the point, and no hidden motive. I hit send and waited.
On the ride home, Blossom asked if I’d learned anything more about the case. This time, Nanette seemed more open to discussing things, and we brainstormed. I didn’t mention my suspicions about Mickey.
“It could totally be Larson,” Nanette said. “He says his wife was killed by a zombie, but what if she didn’t stay dead? He’d have to feed her. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why he’d go after Youngquist.”
I perked up. “Wait a minute. Youngquist totally humiliated him when he tried to stop me with my forged hall pass,” I remembered. Perhaps total humiliation was a bit extreme, but he’d sure been steamed. “I mean, he was right, the pass was a phony, but Youngquist completely undermined his authority.”
“Yaaaguuuuh?” Blossom asked. Enough to try and kill her?
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But he expects everyone to respect his authority. Does anyone know if he was absent yesterday?”
“No, he was in,” Nanette grumbled. “Gave me a detention for skipping gym class. I even tried to use the old ‘I have cramps’ excuse, but he wasn’t buying it.”
“Was he walking funny?” I asked, thinking about the goose’s death grip on Youngquist’s attacker’s crotch.
“No, he had his usual swagger.”
No indication of injury from the Animal, I thought miserably. But Mickey never texted me back, and he’s been out for two days.
At home, I sat glumly in front of the television while Blossom shambled around the house. Nothing was on. I flipped through reality shows about teen pregnancy, soap operas glorifying gangsters, and stopped on TNT, which was running the edited version of Lean On Me. I remembered what Nanette had said about the Animal having a baseball bat signed by the real-life principal this movie was based on, and sat up. Larson had means, I thought. Not like Mickey.
My cell phone chirped. Speak of the devil. “Mickey?” I answered. “Where have you been?”
“Are you busy?” he asked, speaking in a wheeze that made it sound like he was out of breath. “I mean, can I come pick up you and Blossom?”
“Sure, I guess so,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll explain when I get there,” he said. “I found out something pretty important. You have to see this. I’ll be there in ten.”
I ended the call and looked over at my sister, who was thumping against one wallpapered corner of the kitchen. “Mickey’s coming to pick us up,” I said. “I’ll leave a note for Mom saying we’re at the library or something. And guess what I just remembered?” I smiled. “Larson’s got a special baseball bat signed by that principal in Lean On Me. Know what that sounds like? A murder weapon.”
“Bagaanaaahurr? Haaa realllahh?” Blossom said. A baseball bat? Doesn’t, like, every kid in America own a baseball bat?
“Not a special one, freakazoid.” I put my hands on my hips. “It just sounds right, doesn’t it? Come on: I thought you’d be happy I’m looking at Larson again as the Frankenstein Killer and not your boyfriend.” I stuck out my tongue.
“Gahaaa muhrrgh blaaaaaaa,” she said. I am. But it seems to me that any kid who ever played little league owns a bat.
That triggered a memory. Hadn’t Mickey said he and Andy had played little league together? I was pretty sure he had. So didn’t that essentially mean that Mickey had experience wielding the probable murder weapon?
And we were about to go meet him.
FIFTEEN
Mickey picked us up at the house. I felt a little better that Blossom was with us, since she could, potentially, at least give him a good scare if he decided to murder us. He had dark circles under his eyes, but smiled when I climbed in the backseat and let Blossom slide into the passenger’s side next to him. “I have some news,” he said, gunning the engine before I could finish snapping in my seatbelt. Maybe taking off and lying to Mom about where we were going to be hadn’t been the best idea after all.
“Hold up,” I said, trying to sound like I was in control, not him. “Where’ve you been the past two days?”
“That’s where we’re heading,” he explained. “I’ve been volunteering at Bleak House. I thought if I could learn more about people with special needs, it might . . . well, it might give me an in with Blossom,” he admitted sheepishly. Blossom gurgled, patting his hand.
What was Mickey talking about? What kind of “in”? I watched my sister, who was batting her eyes in Mickey’s general direction. Wait. Was she flirting with him?
“Aaaagghh,” Blossom said timidly. That’s so sweet.
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as I watched the two of them. Here I’d been worried Mickey was interested in me, and how was I going to gently let him down without ruining the friendship, and it had been Blossom he’d liked all this time? My dead, decaying sister? I mean, I knew she kind of liked him, but what the hell?
“Wait a minute, Romeo. Before you declare your intentions with my sister, I have a few questions of my own. Like, why didn’t you tell me you used to work at Orange Julius?”
“At the mall?” Mickey looked confused. “Jeez, Jasmine, I worked there for a total of three hours. It turns out the smoothies are not complimentary for the employees. I drank four in three hours, and Yothers fired me when I puked orange juice and egg white substitute all over his uniform. Why?”
Hmm. His story sounded plausible. But he wasn’t getting off that easily.
“Why were you so hell-bent on my family visiting Mystic Aquarium?” I met his gaze in the rearview mirror, squinting. I hoped I looked intimidating.
“What?”
“You were all eager to tell me about the aquarium when I asked you for ideas for things to do,” I reminded him. “W
hy?”
He slowed as we approached a stop sign, then sped up again. “How long have you lived in Connecticut now? Two, three months? Have you discovered that there’s a ton to do around here? A regular Disney World of the Northeast?” He frowned. “I recommended it because you asked me for ideas and it’s literally the only thing to do in this state.” He rolled his eyes and glanced at Blossom. “Right?”
“Meeeglah,” Blossom said. He has a point.
“Oh, shut up.” I glared at my sister. “Okay, Mr. Smooth Talker, then how about this? Where’s your equipment from when you played little league?” I had him there. If he couldn’t produce a bat that didn’t have hair and brain matter on it, I knew I had my man.
He looked at Blossom, then me, then back at the road as he drove. “Huh?”
“Your little league gear. You know, your glove, your bat . . .” I trailed off.
“I haven’t played baseball since the sixth grade. Jesus, Jasmine, do you think I’m the killer? Is that why you’re asking me these oddball questions?” He pulled into a wide parking lot, with only a few vehicles in it, mostly minivans. He put the car in park and turned to the back seat. His ebony eyes were wide, and I could tell I’d hurt his feelings.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just—listen, do you think you could get out of the car and maybe do a few lunges for us?”
Mickey laughed, then realized I wasn’t smiling. He got out of the car and did a few lunges to each side. Mickey hadn’t been bitten by a goose in the apple bag recently. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m so glad it’s not you.”
And I was.
“Honestly, Jas, I thought we were friends,” he said. “Who got you thinking it might be me, anyway?” He walked over to the other side of the car and opened Blossom’s door for her.
“I don’t know. I guess it was when I found out you’d worked at the mall—I guess it was Andy,” I admitted.