Prank List

by Anna Staniszewski

  “Wow! That’s like something you’d see on TV,” Cherie says. “We should do that here! I bet Chef Ryan would love it.”

  I give her a skeptical look.

  Cherie laughs. “Okay, he might not love it. But I think he’d like judging that kind of competition if I organized it. Maybe we could do a bake-off at the end of the class as a way to show off what you guys have learned. What do you think?”

  “Sure,” Whit says with a smug smile that I know means he’s convinced he’s going to win yet again.

  “That sounds great,” I say. Maybe the bake-off will finally give me a chance to prove myself to Chef Ryan. And to put Whit in his place.

  I leave class smiling this time. As I go over to Mom’s minivan, which is waiting for me on the corner, I spot a blur of red and black driving past. My smile fades as a Ladybug Cleaners van goes by, its engine buzzing like a big, ugly insect.

  Chapter 6

  “Okay,” Mom says as we get back into the car after a long afternoon of scrubbing, mopping, and vacuuming. “Since we don’t have Ms. Montelle’s house to do today, we’re finished for the day.”

  “Did she ever call to reschedule?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure she will.”

  I swallow. “I hope so.”

  Mom gives me a sharp look. “Did something happen?”

  “Um…” I don’t want to tell her about the necklace, but I have no choice. When I’m done explaining what happened, I expect Mom to get all anxious about losing business. But weirdly, she just smiles. Mr. Hammond really has been a good influence on her. She’s been so much more laid-back the past few weeks than…well, than I’ve ever seen her.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Rachel. She knows you would never take anything.”

  “But what if she can’t find it? Won’t I be the obvious person to blame since I was the last one to touch it?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll all work itself out.”

  I hope she’s right, but I can’t help stressing about it all the way home. What if Ms. Montelle not only blames me for the missing necklace but tells other people about it? We’ve already started losing cleaning jobs to the Ladybugs. We can’t risk losing any more.

  I’m still turning everything over in my brain after I get home and collapse on my bed. I do a halfhearted search online for the Ladybugs’ cleaning prices, but I don’t find anything useful. Exhausted, I curl up for a nap, but as soon as my head hits the pillow, my cell phone rings. It’s Dad.

  “Hey there, Rachel Roo,” he says. “How’s it hopping?”

  “Fine,” I say, flopping back on my bed. “We just got home from cleaning.”

  “Ah, look at you. A real career woman.”

  “I guess.” I can’t help being a little bitter. I may not be the only girl my age with a job, but most kids I know work for spending money, not for cash to help their moms pay the mortgage. Dad has been paying child support, but based on how worried Mom has been, I can tell it’s not enough. Maybe if Dad was still living with us, things would be different…

  I try to shake the thought out of my head. Dwelling on stuff like that doesn’t do any good.

  “Sooo,” Dad says in a tone that means he’s trying to be casual but that he’s about to tell me something important. “I was thinking of coming up there soon.”

  I sit up on my bed, the tiredness suddenly gone. “You’re coming to visit?” I haven’t seen my dad in months! The thought of hugging him again makes tears prick at my eyes.

  “Well, sort of,” he says slowly. “It might be a visit. Or it might be a longer thing.”

  “Longer? You mean, you’d be staying up here?”

  He lets out a whooshing breath. “Nothing’s decided yet, but to be honest with you, the scuba business hasn’t been going very well. I’d hate to give up on it, but I don’t know if there’s much of a future here.”

  “What about…what about your new girlfriend?”

  “Ellie wants me to do whatever is right for me. She understands.”

  I guess that means Dad’s relationship with her isn’t all that serious. I can’t help feeling relieved. Even if my parents are almost divorced, that doesn’t mean I’m totally okay with the idea of them dating other people, even if those people are as nice as Mr. Hammond.

  “Anyway,” Dad goes on, “I’m still figuring things out. But maybe it’s time for me to come home.”

  “Home? You mean, back to us? Back to…Mom?”

  He sighs. “I shouldn’t have said anything to you until I’d talked to her. I’m not even sure she’d take me back. Don’t tell her about this, okay? Promise?”

  I can’t breathe. After all the time I spent trying to get my parents back together—and failing miserably—now my dad has suddenly changed his mind?

  “I promise,” I whisper. “But, Dad, what if it’s too late?” Mom has finally started getting over the fact that Dad left. If he showed up on our doorstep, would it make her start psychotically labeling and organizing things again? I don’t want to go back to unalphabetizing my bookshelves on a daily basis.

  “It very well might be,” he says, “but maybe it’s worth a try. And once I was back, I’d find a steadier job up there and you two wouldn’t have to work so hard anymore. I mean, the cleaning business was a good temporary solution, but it’s nothing you gals would want to do long term, right?”

  I’m not sure what to say to that. Cleaning toilets isn’t exactly my lifelong ambition, but it hasn’t been so bad. And I know Mom actually loves it. Her boss at the law office is okay, but he doesn’t really respect her. At least with the cleaning business, she doesn’t have to worry about all of that. I think she likes being the one in charge.

  But I don’t have time to explain all that to my dad because he gets a work call on the other line. “Sorry, Roo. I have to go. We’ll talk about this later.”

  After we hang up the phone, my brain is throbbing. I should be happy. This is what I’ve wanted ever since Dad left—for him to miss us and realize that he can’t live without us. But things are different now. If Dad came back, I’m not sure there would even be room for him in our lives.

  Chapter 7

  As I sleepily shovel cereal into my mouth on Monday morning, Mom paces around the house talking to someone on the phone. When she finally comes into the kitchen, her cheeks are bright pink.

  “We just lost a client,” she says, pushing her blond bangs away from her face.

  “Who?” I say through a mouthful of Corn Flakes.

  “Mrs. Vanguard down on Rowland Drive. I tried to convince her to stay with us, but she said she’s found another service, Ladybug Cleaners, that can come in the mornings during the week. I guess they’re new in the area.”

  As I gulp the last bite of cereal, it scratches my throat on the way down. I guess there’s no hiding the Ladybugs from Mom anymore. “So that’s it?” I say, coughing. “She’s firing us?”

  “We didn’t do anything wrong, so I don’t think you can call it firing. We’re just not a good fit. I can’t exactly leave my day job to go clean her house in the mornings, now can I?” Mom sighs again and goes to pour herself some coffee.

  Is it possible that Ms. Montelle told Mrs. Vanguard about the necklace and that’s why she doesn’t want us to clean her house anymore? I’m sure Mom would tell me it’s a coincidence, but what if it’s not?

  “By the way,” Mom calls over her shoulder, “I’ve asked a real-estate agent to come by this Wednesday to take a look at the house and see how much he thinks we could sell it for.”

  “What?” I drop my spoon into my cereal, sending a spray of milk up my nose.

  “Now, don’t panic. This doesn’t mean anything. If all goes well, it won’t come to that. But it’s best to know what our options are, don’t you think?”

  All I can do is stare at her. I’ve lived in this house since I
was three years old. I can’t even imagine another option.

  Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “I know you love this place, Rachel. I do, too. There are so many…” She clears her throat. “There are so many memories here. I promise that I’ll do everything I can to make sure we can stay.”

  I’m dying to tell Mom about my conversation with Dad last night. If she thinks there’s a chance he might come home, will she stop thinking about selling the house?

  But I can’t tell her. Not only did I promise Dad that I wouldn’t, but I have no idea how she might react. For all I know, she’d call Dad and forbid him from setting foot in our house again. The last thing I want to do is make things worse.

  •••

  After Mom drops me off on her way to work the next day, I run up to Marisol’s room, desperate to tell her about my conversation with my dad. Today, because it’s too hot to add on to the mural, her room is covered with scraps of fabric and half-finished dresses.

  Marisol shakes her head when I’m done telling her everything. “And I thought my family had a lot of drama. My brother setting our yard on fire is nothing compared to what you’ve been dealing with.”

  I glance out her bedroom window at the newly scorched grass behind the house. “Yeah, at least you guys put that fire out right away. I feel like all I’ve been doing since my dad left is running around with a fire extinguisher.”

  “I know what will cheer you up!” Marisol declares with a big grin. “Well, at least I’m excited about it.”

  “Did you make a new outfit?”

  “Better!” She stands up in the middle of her room like she has an important announcement. “Remember how you were telling me about the bake-off idea? Well, I was thinking, what if it was a whole big event? So instead of just a baking competition, what if there was music and”—she bounces up and down—“a fashion show!”

  I jump to my feet. “Marisol, that’s perfect! Evan’s talked about wanting to play a live show. Maybe he could even get a band together. And maybe—”

  “You could be one of my models!”

  My excitement turns into complete horror. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’ll get the people from your pastry class to model aprons or something. It’ll be great!”

  “No way. It’s bad enough I’ll have to bake in front of an audience. I’m not going to try to walk in a straight line in front of them. I’ll totally stumble into an oven and bake myself to death by accident.”

  Marisol rolls her eyes. “Fine. Be a poopy head about it.”

  “Did you just call me a poopy head? What are we, five years old?”

  She shrugs. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”

  Just then, her phone beeps. By the smile that lights up her face, I can tell it’s a message from Andrew.

  “How does he like film camp?” I ask.

  “He says they’re keeping him busy, but that he misses me.” Her cheeks flush with obvious happiness as she sends him a message back.

  I can’t help feeling a stab of jealousy. Why can’t the guy I like be clearer about how he feels?

  For some reason, I find myself thinking about Whit and wondering if he’s the kind of guy who would be weird about calling someone his girlfriend.

  Ew! Why am I even thinking about that? Who cares about stuck-up Whit? He’s the last person I would ever want to date.

  I plop down in front of the AC, suspecting that my brain is overheating or something and that’s why I’m having these ridiculous ideas. I need to relax and be patient, like Marisol’s always telling me to be. Evan will have to come around eventually. Right?

  Chapter 8

  After an entire morning of planning the Bake-Off Extravaganza, Marisol and I brave the heat to bike over to Ryan’s Bakery. I’m hoping Cherie will be there since she was so excited about the bake-off idea, but of course Chef Ryan is the one behind the counter instead.

  “I’ll be right with you,” he calls when we go inside. He’s hunched over a three-tiered wedding cake, dotting it with perfect icing flowers. When he’s done, he smiles down at his work in satisfaction and then glances up at us. His smile fades when he sees me. “Oh, Rachel. What can I do for you?”

  I swallow and blink at him a few times until Marisol elbows me in the ribs.

  “Ouch!” Rubbing my side, I step forward and mumble: “Um, your wife seemed excited about doing a bake-off. I don’t know if she told you, but it would be a competition at the end of our class where we’d kind of show off what we learned in front of an audience?” He just stares at me, so I have no idea if he knows what I’m talking about. “Um, well anyway, my friend here had this really good idea to make it into a big event, and, um…” I look to Marisol for help.

  She flashes a confident smile. “You guys are pretty new in town, right? Well, this will be a great way to get publicity for your bakery!” she says. Then she goes on to explain her ideas, highlighting all the business the event will attract. “So what do you think?”

  Chef Ryan wipes his hands on his apron and sighs. “I think it sounds like a lot of work, but Cherie’s convinced the Bake-Off will bring in more business, so I guess it’s happening, no matter what I say. Maybe making it a higher profile event will attract more people.”

  “We’ll help plan it,” Marisol assures him. “It’ll be worth the trouble. I promise.”

  The bell on the door jingles, and we turn to see a pretty young woman with black hair come in. She’s holding a toddler in her arms who’s sucking on a stuffed animal and managing to make seagull-like sounds at the same time. I nearly fall over when I realize the woman is wearing a red apron with black dots on it. Holy twice-baked potatoes. She’s one of the Ladybugs!

  “What can I get you?” Chef Ryan calls to her, waving us aside. Clearly, he’s tired of dealing with us.

  “I wanted to get a cake for my husband’s birthday,” she says, shifting the baby to one hip so she can actually see Chef Ryan.

  I turn to go, but Marisol grabs my arm. Her eyes are bright in an I-have-an-idea way that makes me nervous. She marches over to the woman and says: “Excuse me. You work for that new cleaning service, right?”

  “I do,” the woman says.

  “Great. I was wondering if you could tell me your prices and stuff. My mom’s been looking for a cleaning lady.”

  “Of course. Well, it all depends on the size of your house. If you—” The toddler lets out a deafening shriek, and the woman gives Marisol an apologetic smile. “Here,” she says over her son’s screams, riffling around in her pockets until she finds a business card. “Have your mom give me a call and we can figure out the details.”

  “Thanks!” Marisol calls as I pull her away and out of the bakery. Even when we’re outside, I can still hear the toddler screaming.

  “What was that about?” I say. “I thought you were all about being honest, no matter what. Remember how mad you got at me when I didn’t tell you about spying on Briana because you were convinced that only horrible people lie?”

  Marisol shrugs. “It wasn’t a lie. My mom keeps talking about hiring a cleaning lady, but I don’t think she’ll ever actually do it. She would never let anyone see our house when it’s not spotless.” She looks over the Ladybug business card. “Wow, it says that woman is the owner.”

  “Really?” We glance back through the window as the lady bounces the toddler up and down and chats with Chef Ryan. “Funny, she doesn’t look like she’s made of pure evil.”

  Marisol rolls her eyes. “I guess sometimes it’s hard to tell. Anyway, I’ll try to convince my mom to call her. Maybe we can get some info that way.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Maybe I should be the one to call. I can pretend to be your mom.”

  Marisol’s mouth falls open in surprise. “You hate talking to people you don’t know on the phone. Remember how long it took you to call me when we first became f
riends?”

  “I know, but maybe I can get some more dirt on the Ladybugs this way.”

  Marisol purses her lips. “So you’d lie about being my mom?” I can tell she doesn’t like the idea.

  “I don’t have to say your name or anything. It won’t be a big deal. I promise.”

  Marisol sighs. “Okay, you’re probably right. This could help you get some info.”

  I squeal. “Thank you! You are a genius for thinking to get that woman’s card!”

  “Well,” says Marisol, a grin spreading across her face, “I know just how you can pay me back.”

  A sinking feeling spreads through my stomach. “No, please. I’ll do anything but that.”

  Marisol’s grin widens. “Sorry, Rachel Lee. Looks like this is the start of your modeling career.”

  Chapter 9

  After I get home, I call Evan to tell him about Marisol’s ideas for the Bake-Off.

  “It sounds great,” he says.

  “And here’s the best part. I think you should do the music.”

  Evan goes quiet.

  “Hello?” I say finally. “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. It’s just that I’m not in a band, remember? Not yet, anyway. And I don’t think I’m brave enough to go up on stage by myself.”

  “Well, you have a month to get a band together,” I tell him. “And even if you can’t, think of it this way: if Marisol can force me to get up in front of everyone and model aprons, then you playing by yourself will be nothing.”

  He laughs. “Since when did you get so bossy?”

  “Since you started encouraging me to talk. If you’d let me be my shy, mute self, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

  I can practically hear him grinning over the phone. “Oh well. I guess I deserve what I get then, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I wanted to ask you, what are you doing on Wednesday night? I was thinking we could go get some ice cream or something.”