Mr. Sparling chuckles. “Very good, Ms. Perez. And what does his punishment symbolize?”
“Vain labor. No matter how hard Sisyphus works, the rock just rolls back down the hill, and she—I mean he—has to start all over. It’s a thankless job.” Just like being a columnist appears to be.
Rachel and Izzy giggle beside me as Mr. Sparling nods. “Correct, Ms. Perez. Because it’s never wise to try to outsmart the gods, is it?”
Mr. Sparling catches up to me after class. “A word, Ms. Perez?”
I have more important things to do, like make myself beautiful for my skateboarding lesson, but I follow him to his office, applying lip gloss as I go.
“It’s an informal meeting,” he says, settling into the chair behind his desk. “No need to spruce up.”
I drop the gloss back into my bag and decide to beat him to the punch. I only have nine minutes to get to Russ’s locker, and there’s someone only too willing to stand in for me if I’m late. “I’m sorry about my last column, Mr. Sparling. There wasn’t much to report about the bracelet campaign, so I sort of filled the void with advice to the guys. But I think it’s starting to have an impact.”
“I think so too,” he says. “There will be mayhem in the halls, and not just Dunfield’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean ‘The Word’ is going into syndication.”
He waits for a reaction, but I’m not sure what syndication means. “Is that good?”
“Good? It’s great. Thanks to the cross-pollination you describe in your column, five other schools have asked to run it in their papers, including The Turnbull Tattler. All told, there’s a potential readership of nine thousand.”
“Wow, that is great,” I say. “And scary.”
“As long as you cover the Literacy Challenge, just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s what grabbed everyone’s attention.”
“No one knows it’s me anyway,” I say, more to myself than him.
“They will,” he says. “Principal Alvarez asked the mayor to let you and Scoop host the final gala.”
I’m not so big on that idea. It’s one thing to write these columns and another to stand up and take the heat for them. Besides, I’d have to be polite to Scoop.
“You’ve got almost two months to gear up for it,” Mr. Sparling says, as I get up to leave. “Well done, Luisa. I’m proud of you.”
I barely have time to dump my books in my own locker before jogging over to Senior’s Hall. My brain is spinning from all that’s happened today. It’s hard to believe that just a year ago I found school unbearably dull.
There’s no sign of Russ, so I start checking numbers. A familiar dark-haired guy is opening his locker, and I study his profile in disbelief.
Joey Carella looks up and gives me a casual nod, as if bumping into each other at Dunfield happened all the time.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Collecting my things. If that’s all right with you.”
“Now? How long ago did you drop out?”
“I didn’t drop out,” he says, stuffing books into his backpack. “You just assumed I did because you think all factory workers are stupid.”
“That’s not true. You implied you dropped out.” I scramble to recall his words on the bus last week. “You said it was hard to be motivated.”
“It is hard. But I’m still here.”
“Then why haven’t I seen you before?”
“Because the school’s the size of a small town?”
That’s certainly true. I rarely bump into Rachel or Izzy unless it’s at one of our designated meeting zones, and I’d never seen Russ before the race, either.
Joey isn’t meeting my eyes, so I do the right thing. “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“It’s okay,” he says, smiling. “I’ll still tip you.”
For the first time I notice how white his teeth are, especially against his olive skin. “Then I’ll make sure you get extra fries.”
He waits a couple of beats before saying, “Look, I’m sorry about what I said the other day about your family. You were right, it was none of my business.”
“I overreacted,” I say. “And you were right. I asked my mom, and she said she is saving to send me to college. Apparently, I was the last to know.”
He closes his locker door. “You coming?”
“I’ve got to hang around a while.”
“Why?” he asks. “I make a point of not spending one second longer in these halls than I have to. Ask Buzzkill.”
Russ is coming down the hall toward us, so I say, “I’m meeting a friend.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Russ says, squeezing my arm. “Hey, Carella. Skipped chem again, eh?”
Joey shrugs. “I was busy.”
“You ditched robotics too,” Russ continues, obviously unimpressed. “Cranston’s on your case.”
Seeing Joey’s expression darken, I tug on Russ’s sleeve. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to meet Betty Boop.”
Life at Dunfield may be more interesting this year, but that’s partly because I’ve become aware of the land mines buried in its halls.
* * *
“Slow down!” Russ shouts, running after me down the sidewalk.
“I can’t!” I scream, careening toward the intersection. It seemed so far off when we started, but a couple of really good kicks and a slight incline have brought me closer very quickly.
“Drag your foot!” Russ yells.
“I can’t!” I scream again. I’m barely balanced now. My knees are locked into the bent position Russ showed me when I boarded this rocket. If I move one iota, I’ll either veer into traffic or a brick wall. I’d rather take my chances on hitting a green light at the intersection.
A cluster of schoolboys stops at the corner to watch. One reaches out to stop me and misses by a fraction of an inch.
Ahead of us a lady pulls her toddler out of my path. “Sorry,” I call.
“Look out!” Russ’s voice is fainter now.
As if I can’t see the intersection looming thirty—twenty-five—twenty feet before me. “Stay green, stay green, stay green,” I chant at the light. Otherwise I’ll run full tilt into that city bus as it pulls out.
“Drag your foot!” Russ yells again.
The light turns yellow, and terror brings the feeling back to my legs. I propel myself off the board and continue to run for a few yards. At the crosswalk I grab a pole to slow down and tumble off the curb and into the gutter. Three lanes of traffic are revving for takeoff.
“Oh my God. Oh my God!” Russ is shrieking hysterically.
A taxi swerves to avoid me, and I clamber back onto the sidewalk on my hands and knees.
“Oh my God!” Russ screams one more time as he arrives at my side.
“It’s okay,” I say, reaching out to pat his pant leg. I’m touched at how concerned he is, considering we’ve only known each other a couple of weeks. I’m glad I gave him another chance. “Russ, I’m fine.”
He’s looking not at me but out into the intersection. “Betty!” he wails, as the bus moves past its splintered remains.
I drop my head onto the sidewalk. “I’m sorry.”
“I told you to slow down,” he says, jerking his pant cuff out of my hand.
“You sent me down a hill. I didn’t know what I was doing.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “She was a limited edition Stacy Peralta board. Signed by Stacy himself.”
He darts into traffic and grabs a wheel, stroking it with one finger and muttering, “She’s irreplaceable.”
Something tells me the same cannot be said of me.
My mother looks down at my dirty, torn jeans and asks, “What happened?”
“I tripped off a curb,” I say. “You know what a klutz I am.” No need to go into details. The woman has enough stress in her life. “What smells so good?”
“Homemade lasagna,” Mom says, handing me a stack of plates.
“W
hat’s the occasion?”
“That I get to have dinner with both my daughters for the first time in weeks,” she says. “Grace is putting Keira down, so tell me about your day.”
“It was pretty good.” And it was, aside from a brush with death and the loss of Extreme BF. “My column is being syndicated to five other schools.”
Mom stops shredding lettuce to hug me. “That’s fantastic, honey, although I can’t say I’m surprised. Each one is better than the last.”
“So you have read them.”
“Of course I’ve read them,” she says. “Haven’t I—Well, never mind. Let’s celebrate.” She reaches for a bottle of wine and pours about an inch into two glasses before filling the third. Mom is laid back about a lot of things, but not underage drinking. She hands me a glass and raises her own. “A toast to my very clever daughter.”
I clink glasses with her before sitting down. “Mom? What’s wrong with guys?”
She laughs and goes back to making the salad. “If I knew that, would I be single?”
“Why are you single? You could be dating. Lots of guys have liked you. Mr. Kendricks at the deli, for example.”
She takes another sip of wine and considers her answer. “I haven’t really had time to worry about that, Lu. Dating is risky when you have two kids.”
“But we’re grown up now. At least I am. You could do the online thing.” Knowing she’ll protest her cyber ignorance, I add, “I could help.”
Fishing celery out of the fridge drawer, she changes the subject. “So how does this syndication work?”
“What syndication?” Grace asks, coming into the kitchen.
“Your sister’s column is going to be published in other schools’ papers.”
“The Turnbull Tattler?” Grace says, snickering. “That’s the big time, all right.”
“Grace,” my mother says. “Hold the tongue or forfeit the wine.”
Grace examines the glass. “I can barely see the wine. Someone forgot to finish pouring.”
“Someone forgot to quit while she was ahead,” Mom says, reaching for Grace’s glass.
That brings Grace around pretty fast. She seizes her glass and sits down opposite me. I tell them about the gala and Mrs. Alvarez’s challenge to bring in some high-profile people.
“What about Solana G.?” Grace says. “She could be a celebrity guest. Paz and I saw her perform at Logan Square last year, and she was amazing.”
“I was thinking more like a columnist from the Chicago Tribune.”
“Boring. Who would you rather watch at a gala—a writer or an R&B singer?”
“I doubt Solana would do it,” I say. “She’s getting really popular. Why would she bother with this sort of event?”
“Because she went to Dunfield?” Grace says.
“Really? When did she graduate?”
“I didn’t say she graduated,” Grace replies. “She dropped out the year I started.”
I don’t want to dismiss Grace’s idea outright since she’s being helpful for a change, but I seriously doubt Solana G. would support Dunfield for anything.
“She does charity events all the time,” Grace says.
“For literacy?”
Grace crosses her arms and glares at me. “You don’t want her because she didn’t graduate.”
“That’s not what Lu means,” my mother intervenes.
I used to think Grace was just touchy, but with others echoing her view that I’m a snob, I’m starting to wonder if she might be right.
“Actually, I think Solana would be the perfect sponsor,” I say. “She’s done really well in spite of dropping out, so coming back now to support literacy is practically a stay-in-school message. Mrs. Alvarez will eat it up.”
Grace mulls this over for hidden insults and decides to give me a pass. “Let’s go look her up online.”
By the time Mom has cleared the table and put out dessert, Grace and I have tracked down Solana’s agent. With Grace leaning over my shoulder, I type an e-mail about the Literacy Challenge and the upcoming gala. I also tell her about “The Word” and promise to send samples of the column.
“Maybe you should hold off on the samples,” Grace says, after I’ve hit SEND. “She might be put off that you’re a man hater.”
“So you do read my column!”
“How can I avoid it? There are copies in every room.”
“Luisa isn’t a man hater,” my mother says, summoning us back to the table. “That’s just her voice for the column. Right, Lu?”
“I don’t hate them all,” I agree. “Just the ones I know.”
Grace rolls her eyes at my mother. “See what I mean?”
“Well, come on, do you see any good role models around here? Deadbeat father. Unreliable brother-in-law.”
“Paz has been a lot better lately,” Grace says, digging into her chocolate cake. “Maybe he’ll turn into a role model yet.”
I let this go because it’s the first time in a long time that we’ve spent an evening together without a fight.
My mother raises her glass and says, “If you’re really that negative about men, Luisa, I may have to look into cyber romance after all. Someone has to prove to you that there are good ones out there.”
Grace gapes at her.
“Mom wants us to help her meet men online,” I explain, grinning.
I pick up my glass, this one filled with milk, and clink it against my mother’s, who in turn clinks hers against Grace’s.
“Here’s to finding the good guys,” Mom says.
Chapter 12
Rachel is waiting for me outside the old mansion.
“Hey, Rach,” I call. “Happy Halloween.”
“Lu?” she asks. “You’ve metamorphosed.”
“Arachnids don’t metamorphose,” I say, flapping eight “legs” at her. “But stick around and I might molt for you.”
I study Rachel’s costume, but I don’t know what to make of the tiny cereal boxes dangling from her jacket. Each has been pierced by a sharp object and daubed with fake blood.
Before I can guess, a familiar hatchback pulls up to the curb, and Princess Leia, in a white robe and coiled hair, climbs out. Izzy waves a light saber at her father as he drives off. “You guys look great. Rachel, you’re a cereal killer, right? And Lu… a black widow?”
“Tarantula,” I say. “Can’t you see I’m fuzzy?”
“Well, I make a point of not getting close enough to spiders to know their distinguishing features,” she says. “But it’s a cute costume.”
It is, thanks to my mother’s talent with a sewing machine. I came home with an eight-eyed mask and a couple of black fleece blankets from the dollar store yesterday, and Mom spent half the night stitching two distinct body parts. She even attached three legs to each of my arms with fishing line so that I can move them all.
Jason arrives with a theatrical swish of his magician’s cape, and we line up to buy tickets for the haunted house—the Dunfield men’s latest fund-raiser. Since Carson is already inside manning the guillotine, I’ll soon be the only one without a guy, as usual. For a change, however, I am not unhappy about that. On the contrary, I’m relieved; my recent near misses have chased me back to the sidelines. This Luisa Perez is taking a seat in the stands to watch others get trampled in the arena of love.
Not that there will be much of a show today. Because I have to work at the diner tonight, Rachel and Izzy agreed to visit the haunted house with me at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. It’s hardly worth suiting up for, especially since I have no faith that the guys’ team has enough imagination to make it truly scary. Inside there’s probably a chorus line of scantily dressed fairies kicking up their heels for leering goblins.
Jason gallantly precedes us into the darkened house, where we are greeted with recorded screams and echoing, evil laughter. A coffin propped against the wall creaks open just enough to allow a hand to dart out and grab Jason. He screams like a girl and jerks away, causing the rest of u
s to giggle. So far, so cheesy.
Before I can say as much to the girls, however, unseen hands grab me from behind and push me into a chair. I hold tight to the arms while it spins, determined not to scream. After a few moments my captor disgorges me into something like a sandbox. A red light starts to strobe, and I see that I’m in a mock open grave, and a half-decayed corpse is groping its way toward me.
Scrambling to my feet, I climb out of the grave and stumble forward as the room goes dark again. I feel my way to a doorway and step through it. The strobe flashes again, lighting a long corridor. Ahead, someone in a light-colored costume is disappearing through a doorway. Hoping that it’s Izzy’s white robe, I scurry after her.
By the time I reach the doorway, my heart is pounding so hard I can’t breathe. This is ridiculous. I am in a house in downtown Chicago at four in the afternoon. Ten feet away I can see the faint outline of light leaking around a window frame. Still, at any moment, a Dunfield creep could jump out and maul me in the name of Halloween.
Someone taps on my shoulder and I let out another scream. I start to move forward but the grim reaper has appeared in front of me with his raised sickle. I’ll take my chances with whatever is behind me. Leaping back, I flail against something soft. There’s a grunt, as if I’ve winded someone, followed by a thud.
The next flash of the strobe reveals not a terrifying zombie but Mr. Potato Head clambering to his feet. He’s wearing a stuffed, beige pillowcase around his torso for the “potato” and a black hat over his entire head. Mr. Potato Head’s features are pinned to the front of the pillow case.
“Great costume,” I say.
“Thanks, don’t wreck it,” Mr. Potato Head replies, his voice muffled by the hat.
“Sorry,” I say. “Spider reflexes.”
“Tarantula?” he asks.
I’m pleased that he could ID my species even in fractured light. “That’s right.”
“They’re carnivorous, right?”
“Totally veggie-free. You’re perfectly safe.”
“Not safe enough,” he says. “I’ve been attacked by a vampire, an ax-wielding psycho, and a couple of generic ghouls.”
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