by Jen Malone
Of course Anna Marie is up there. Where else would she be? But letting Mrs. Guerrero know we’re awake might make her want to come downstairs to help us pack up or something. That could not, repeat not, happen. “She has a point,” I say.
“Veronica, I have to give you credit. You’re totally right,” Paige adds.
Veronica blushes and sticks out her chest a little. “I completed the Junior Hardy Boys Detective Certification Course.”
Um, oooooookayyyyyyy.
“Well, since I don’t know how to respond to that, I’m just going to move on,” Paige says, gripping the banister. “Okay, so let’s be superquiet, girls. Stick together and do not make a noise.”
“I also take ninja lessons,” Veronica whispers when we reach the top stair.
Paige goes first, easing the basement door open and motioning with hand signals for me to follow. Then she waves on Veronica, and soon all three of us are pressed against the hallway wall, ears straining hard for any noises that will clue us in to everyone’s whereabouts. In the kitchen a television is reporting on an Upstate New York teen who forgot his keys and got stuck in his chimney while attempting to get into his house. There’s the sound of silverware clanging against a plate.
I stare hard at the yellow-and-white flowered wallpaper in the hallway until all the petals blur, and I try to quiet my heartbeat. Paige swings her head in the opposite direction from the kitchen and slides along the wall toward the stairs to the upper level. She gestures for us to follow. Tiptoeing, we take the carpeted stairs one at a time, pausing every so often to listen for approaching footsteps. I barely breathe until we’ve squeezed through the door into Anna Marie’s room.
Even before I spy the perfectly made canopy bed with its white eyelet comforter and the giant purple-and-green peace sign pillow that Anna Marie and I sewed from felt last Christmas vacation, I can tell the room is empty. It just feels empty. Paige, Veronica, and I exchange quick looks but barely have time to process anything before we hear someone climbing the stairs.
“Hide!” I whisper-yell. I dive onto the ground, rolling under Anna Marie’s bed, and brush the pleated bed skirt aside to peek out from underneath. Paige slides smoothly into the closet, and I watch her nudge aside a jumble of clothes and shoes before noiselessly closing the door. Veronica spins in a circle a few times before plopping heavily into the corner of the bedroom where a bunch of stuffed animals are perfectly arranged. It’s a good thing Anna Marie isn’t here because she might just kill Veronica for that. I feel relatively safe under Anna Marie’s bed as I watch Veronica try to blend in among a zoo’s worth of creatures, propping the stuffed giraffe on her arm and a parrot that was a souvenir from a trip to Key West on her shoulder. She finishes by dropping a floppy dog (who I happen to know is named Newbury and who is Anna Marie’s favorite) on her head. Veronica might as well be wearing a flashing look-at-me sign, but she sits 200 percent as still as the animals, in her one-piece footed pajamas, seemingly convinced she is completely camouflaged.
I’m seriously in awe of how long the girl can go without blinking. It’s, like, superhuman. I get so absorbed in trying to match her (not possible—the more I think about not blinking, the more I positively have to blink), I barely register that the sound of whatever tune Mrs. Guerrero had been humming as she’d climbed the steps is fading.
I let out my breath in a whoosh (and also blink a whole bunch).
But after a few more seconds the humming grows louder again and stops right outside Anna Marie’s door. My heart pounds in my ears. Why did we hide in the first place? Mrs. Guerrero knows we’re in the house. Why didn’t we just let ourselves get discovered in Anna Marie’s room and then make up some excuse about finding something Anna Marie wanted us to bring downstairs? If Mrs. Guerrero comes in and spots Veronica pretending to be a stuffed panda and then I roll out from under the bed and Paige pops out of the closet, what are we even supposed to say? Operation Wake Up Anna Marie is the worst-planned, worst-executed operation in the history of forever.
But as I lie here, desperately trying to come up with any excuse that doesn’t sound totally lame, the footsteps move down the hall, and there’s a light rapping on a door. Not Anna Marie’s door, thank the gods.
Mrs. Guerrero’s voice is muffled, but I can just make out some of the words. “Outside . . . weed garden . . . rain later. Leave the . . . alone. I suspect they were up late and . . . sleep in. Okay?”
Max must answer something because the footsteps turn and head back down the stairs.
The coast is clear.
Phew!
Paige slips out of the closet and does nothing more than shake her head at Veronica as Anna Marie’s future stepsister untangles herself from the slew of stuffed animals. Once I’m on my feet, the three of us creak open the door and peer into the hallway. All quiet.
Max’s door is closed, and there’s muffled talking inside. I creep over and press my ear against it, listening hard. Boys, I mouth. Definitely not Anna Marie’s slightly pip-squeaky voice talking to her baby brother. More likely whatever friend Max had over last night is still here. Or back. It doesn’t matter, really. All that matters is, it isn’t my best friend in there. My shoulders droop.
We work our way along the hall, taking inchy-squinchy steps and peeking into the rooms. An empty bathroom, an empty guest room, and Mrs. Guerrero’s empty bedroom. No Anna Marie.
I follow Paige slowly down the stairs, hugging the wall with my back like a real spy as we pass through the dining room and then the living room, which is totally neat and clean for the company they’re having later, but it’s completely empty.
The TV is still on in the kitchen, and the announcer’s voice from the worst car dealership ad ever (that also happens to come on during every other commercial break) covers the sound of Paige creeping up to the doorway. Veronica hums right along with the “From sedans to Winnebagos to SUVs, we’ve got the wheels to make you groovy” jingle. Paige slaps a hand over Veronica’s mouth.
“Shhhhhh!” Paige hisses.
Veronica shrugs. She may be kind of weird, but I gotta sympathize with her. Even if the jingle is totally awful and doesn’t even really rhyme, it is hard not to sing along.
Paige steps into the doorway, slowly drops her hand, and squints as she listens. When the TV quiets for a second between a commercial and the start of the news (one big hint it’s not Anna Marie in there), I can hear the clink-clink of a spoon stirring against a mug. Hint number two: Anna Marie does not drink coffee. Paige holds up her hand to signal absolute quiet, but after a few more seconds she shakes her head once. Not a surprise. I already know Anna Marie isn’t in there with her mom. If she were, they’d be talking to each other. Anna Marie can barely stop chattering long enough to brush her teeth.
Just to make absolute sure, we wait another long minute, during which Paige and I try desperately to block out the sight of Veronica practicing her ninja moves in the empty living room. The seconds tick on as Mrs. Guerrero rinses a dish, turns on the dishwasher, and then opens the refrigerator and closes it again. No way would Anna Marie keep silent this long.
She isn’t in the kitchen.
She isn’t in her bedroom.
She isn’t in the house at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Terms of a Pucker-Up
We can breathe regularly once we’re back in the basement and plopped on the giant sectional. I pull my legs up to my chest and look helplessly at Paige and Veronica, hoping they’ll have some kind of a plan. Too bad they have the same expression I do.
“Let’s call her phone,” Paige suggests, rummaging through her bag. “Where’s my phone?”
We help her look and unearth it a moment later in the bottom of the popcorn bowl. She frowns, brushes salt from the glittery silver case, and presses the button to call Anna Marie. “It’s ringing!” she says after a second.
At the exact same time, something buzzes near Anna Marie’s sleeping bag. We look at each other, and then I crawl over and push a
side Anna Marie’s pillow. Sure enough, one cell phone, in silent mode, vibrates in my hand. Paige pushes end on the call.
“Now what?” I moan. I’m not trying to be the voice of doom and gloom, but this is so far from the “epic” I had in mind, it isn’t even funny. The sinking feeling in my stomach is just about the worst thing ever. Worse than the time I left Hippy in a restaurant booth when we stopped for lunch on a road trip to Indiana, and I had to endure this whole entire lecture from my dad about “acting responsible” when I made him turn around after we’d been back on the highway for an hour. Worse than the time Anna Marie and I fought over whether she should have sent me letters from camp more than twice all summer, given that she knew I wasn’t allowed to go to overnight camp (er, given my sleepover mishaps) and could only experience it through Anna Marie’s descriptions.
Wow do I really, really, really wish Anna Marie were just off at camp right now, instead of . . . wherever she might be. A lump forms in my throat as I picture all the horrible scenarios my mom feels the need to warn me about every time I leave the house on my own. What if something really bad happened to Anna Marie? What if she’s hurt somewhere? Or worse?
No. I can’t let my brain go there. I turn to Paige. “How are we supposed to tell Mrs. Guerrero we’ve lost her only daughter? On her birthday, no less! My mother is going to send me to boarding school. Or something more horrible. She’ll probably shave my other eyebrow and send me to our school. Or, what if the FBI comes to ask us questions about Anna Marie since we were the last ones to see her, and that guy from the missing persons show sets up cameras on our lawns and . . . Do you think they’ll put Anna Marie’s face on a billboard? She hated her school picture this year! She’d die if it were blown up and mounted above the highway.”
Okay, so my brain went there.
Paige takes a deep breath. “It’s not gonna come to that. Logically speaking, Anna Marie is probably totally fine. We just have to find her before it’s time for our parents to pick us up. Your mom’s coming at noon, right?”
I nod, miserable right down to the tips of my unpainted toenails. We never did get around to mani-pedis last night. At least I don’t think we did. It would be nice if I could remember. I reach down to pull my sock off so I can check for sure. Nope. No pedicure.
Veronica says, “My mom can’t pick me up because my brother has his American Coasters Enthusiasts meeting, and they’re electing a treasurer today. I’m catching a ride home with Kevin.”
“Who’s Kevin? Is that your other brother?”
“No, silly. That’s Anna Marie’s dad. Duh.” Veronica rolls her eyes as if we should go around learning and remembering the first names of our friends’ parents.
“My mom’s coming at noon too,” Paige says, ignoring Veronica’s eye roll, which surprises me. “Okay, so it’s only”—Paige hangs off the sofa and tugs her bag closer to her, grabbing her phone again and swiping it on—“geez. It’s not even seven thirty. On a weekend! What are we doing awake?”
Paige is acting like nothing is wrong with our morning besides the early hour, but I really can’t be optimistic right now. She always assumes everything will work out perfectly fine, mostly because it always does for her. But I don’t want to just “think good thoughts” and wait for it to be all sunshine and lollipops. I want my friend in front of me, safe and sound, and I can’t imagine relaxing until that happens. Also? I want to know everything that happened last night and I want to know why I don’t know that already.
“Guys?” I ask. “What do you remember from our sleepover? Because the last thing I remember is the hypnotist telling me to relax and think of my happy place, and I am far, far, far from my happy place right now!”
Paige picks at a loose string on the yoga pants she wore to bed. “I don’t remember anything either,” she admits.
Veronica’s eyes get wide. “Me either. Do you think Madame Mesmer put a spell on us?”
Paige snorts. “No, Veronica. I do not think the hypnotist put a spell on us. She’s a party performer, not a witch!”
Veronica shrugs as if Paige’s sarcasm doesn’t bother her one tiny bit and continues picking M&M’s off the carpet in a pattern of green, red, brown, green, red, brown, and popping them into her mouth. I scrunch up my nose. I’m hungry too (starved, actually), but . . . ewww. No, thanks.
“I habf an idrea,” Veronica says, her mouth full. When this statement is met with blank stares from us, she finishes chewing and tries again. “An idea. I have one. It’s Mystery 101, really. We need to start by examining the clues.”
“Oh, sorry, right. I forgot you were Harriet the Spy,” Paige says, accompanied by an eye roll of her own this time.
“Junior Hardy Boys.” Veronica corrects her matter-of-factly, and Paige snorts. I feel bad that Paige isn’t at least trying to be nicer to Veronica, but I have to admit, the girl is kind of oblivious to sarcasm. But still. No reason to be rude. I resolve to try even harder because I’m mostly sure Anna Marie would want me to be nice to her future stepsister. What if it were my best friend’s dying wish? Wait. No. I have to stop thinking like this. We’re going to find her in plenty of time, and all will be well. It has to be. I live in the suburbs. Horrible things don’t happen in the suburbs.
“Veronica’s got a point, though,” I say, once again forcing my mind to stop wandering to the dark side. “We do need to come up with some sort of plan.”
Veronica stands. “Well, for starters, I gotta change out of my gran’s diaper.”
I know I made a vow mere minutes ago to be kinder toward Veronica, but really? There is a mathematical probability of zero that I can stop my nose from wrinkling at that. Veronica grabs her backpack and turns toward the bathroom.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. The bathroom! How could I have possibly forgotten?
“Wait!” I call.
Veronica freezes and, next to me on the couch, Paige does the same. I give them both a guilty look. “Okay, you guys are going to think I’m seriously crazy for not mentioning this before now, and I won’t blame you,” I say, sitting up on my heels. “It’s just that, I saw Jake’s sweatshirt and I kind of spaced and then we were creeping around upstairs and I—Um, okay, so the thing is . . . there may or may not be sixteen baby chicks in the bathtub.”
Paige gapes at me. “Say what now?”
Veronica squeals. “Baby chicks?” She scrambles over the top of the sofa, falls onto the floor, stands and brushes herself off, and then speed walks to the bathroom.
Paige untangles her legs and rises gracefully as ever, following behind. I bring up the rear. All three of us peer into the bathtub at the fuzzy balls of yellow. “Ohhh,” whispers Veronica. “They’re sooooo cute!”
“They’re so cute, but what are they doing here?” Paige asks, leaning closer.
And then something else comes back to me.
“Wait, I just remembered. Max! Max was in here this morning when I tried to get in to see my eyebrow. I bet Max knows what they’re doing here and where Anna Marie is! God, I’m such an idiot for not thinking of that when we were upstairs earlier. I swear, something is happening to my brain today.”
“Max,” Paige growls. We crash into each other trying to get out of the bathroom at the same time, then half tiptoe, half march across the floor, dodging chips and candy in our effort to get to Anna Marie’s bratty brother as fast as we possibly can.
Turns out, we don’t have far to go.
The second we reach the stairs, we come face-to-face with Max’s video camera.
“Gir-rrrrrls,” he says in this singsongy voice. “Say something to my fans on YouTube.”
“I’m gonna squash you, you brat,” Paige says at the same time as I ask, “How long have you been taping us?”
“Long enough,” Max answers with a giggle, handing his camera to his little friend. “Lock this in the treasure chest in my room and wait for me,” he orders. The friend scrambles up the stairs, and Max turns back to us with his annoying I may be the devil, and
there’s nothing you can do about it grin.
“I’m not kidding, Max. I’m gonna make your life miserable, and not even your sister will be able to protect you. If she’d even want to, which I doubt. Where is she?” Paige asks.
Max’s smug smile falls off his face, and his forehead crinkles in confusion. “Where’s who?” he asks.
“Your sister, you stink breath. And believe me, I’m calling you a million worse names in my head right now.”
“What do you mean, where’s my sister? She’s down here with you. Why wouldn’t she be?”
I clasp my fingers around Paige’s arm and squeeze. “Is he telling the truth right now?”
Paige squints into Max’s face. He blinks, the picture of perfect innocence, and even though I know how fast he can summon that expression whenever Mrs. Guerrero is about to bust him for something, I have to admit it’s convincing. Paige speaks very softly and gently. “Are you saying you don’t know where your sister is?”
“Are you saying you don’t know where my sister is?” Max counters.
Veronica pipes up from behind me. “Not a clue. Well, that’s not true. We do have clues. There are the chicks in the bathtub, for starters, and the—”
“The chicks!” What is wrong with me that I forgot about them AGAIN? “Max, you were in the bathroom this morning when I tried to get in. What were you doing down here? Where did those chicks come from?”
Max continues to look confused. “How should I know where they came from? I was just using the bathroom,” he says. “Figured I’d stink up yours instead of mine.”
“Gross.” Seriously. So gross.
“Come to think of it, I did think they were a little weird.” Max shrugs and lifts his eyes to examine the ceiling.
Paige studies him carefully. “Are you telling me you . . . did your business . . . in front of sixteen baby chicks, and you only thought it was a little weird?”
