The Mystery of the Graffiti Ghoul

by Marty Chan

  As we walked away, One-Eyed Pete came down the stairs. He yawned, looking like he’d just crawled out of bed. He scratched the underside of his barbwire-tattooed arm and yelled, “Mom, we’re out of potato chips.”

  “Are your legs broken?” Mrs. Gervais yelled. “Pick some up from the store.”

  “You do it,” he ordered.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you do it.”

  Mrs. Gervais grabbed her son in a headlock and smacked a bongo beat on his scalp with her palm.

  “Ow. Mom. Stop. That hurts.”

  “What do you say?” Mrs. Gervais grunted, her hand poised for another smack.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry what?” Mrs. Gervais barked.

  “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

  “That’s better. And clean up that oil spill under your bike. And Pete, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t use my tools when you’re working on the bike. You’re a big boy now; you can use your own wrenches.”

  I thought only my mom embarrassed me in public. Maybe it was every mom’s job to humiliate her son. I shuddered at the thought of what my mom would do to me when I reached One-Eyed Pete’s age.

  “Do you think Graffiti Ghoul stole the paint?” Remi asked as we walked away from the storefront.

  I nodded. “This is turning out to be a real crime spree.”

  “Where do you think he’ll hit next?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  As we neared the town library, I noticed the bush beside the building: it was shaking.

  “I think he’ll do the school next,” Remi guessed. “With all the paint he has, I bet he’s going to write a long message this time.”

  There was no wind. How could the bush move like that?

  “Marty, did you hear me?”

  The bush shook again; it looked like something, or someone, was behind it.

  “Are you listening?”

  I elbowed Remi in the ribs and whispered, “Someone’s watching us.”

  FIVE

  Remi squinted at the bush beside the library, stretching on his tip-toes to see behind it. I cuffed the back of his head.

  “Ow. What did you do that for?”

  Slowly and loudly, like I was talking to my hard-of-hearing grandmother, I said, “Remi, the sign says Bouvier Public Library.”

  “Why are you talking like that? Are we playing robots again?”

  Out the side of my mouth I whispered, “Don’t let them know we see them. Act natural.”

  Remi smacked the back of my head.

  “Ow. What was that for?”

  “That’s what I’d normally do. Newton’s Law,” he said.

  Remi based his code of justice on a science book I once showed him. A scientist named Isaac Newton came up with a law: for every action there had to be an equal and opposite reaction. If you kicked a ball, it would roll away from you with as much force as you kicked it with. A light tap didn’t send the ball very far, while a hard kick would knock it across the soccer field. Remi thought Newton was talking about justice and dishing out punishment, because he had specifically used the word “law.” If someone hit him, Remi reasoned, he’d have to punch back with just as much force.

  “I told you before, it’s not that kind of law,” I said.

  “Then why did he call it a law?”

  “Never mind. Just keep walking.”

  Remi followed as I walked past the library.

  “Who do you think is spying on us?” he whispered.

  “I think Graffiti Ghoul knows we’re on to him.”

  Remi glanced back at the bush. “Let’s tackle him.”

  I spoke loudly and slowly so that our bush spy could hear. “No Remi. We have to go over our super secret plan in lots of detail.”

  “What plan?”

  “The super secret plan.” I cracked my neck to the left and then the right and yawned, covering my mouth with both hands. I hoped he’d pick up the signal.

  Remi copied my ultra-slow way of talking: “Oh yeah. The super secret Ghoul plan.”

  I nodded toward the passageway between the library and the DVD rental shop next door.

  “Let’s go to my place and go over the plan,” I shouted.

  “That is a good idea,” he yelled back. “Let’s go now.”

  The bushes rustled. Our spy had taken the bait.

  I yelled, “Now!”

  I sprinted between the buildings. Remi ran right beside me, but the alley was only wide enough for one person. We became wedged against each other and the stucco walls.

  “Move,” I yelled.

  “I’m stuck. You move.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Turn to the side, Marty. Go thin.”

  I flattened my face against the library wall, squeezing myself thin so Remi could squirm forward until he popped free. He sprinted down the alley. I followed, brushing the stucco off my jacket as I ran. By the time I reached the back of the library, Remi had rounded the other corner and skidded to a stop. He waved me back.

  “The spy’s gone,” Remi said. “I think he’s run down the street. Cut him off.”

  I sprinted through the alley and zipped back to the front of the library. On my side of the street an old farmer climbed out of his pick-up truck, straightened his John Deere hat and walked into the hardware store. Across the street a mother pushed a baby stroller. Neither of them looked like the graffiti type, and there was no one else around. Our spy had vanished.

  Remi joined me. “Did you see him?”

  “No. He disappeared,” I said.

  “He must be really fast.”

  “Or he went inside.” I nodded toward the library.

  “You could be right, Marty.”

  “Let’s get him,” I said. We were close to catching the criminal — I was sure of it.

  Remi bolted up the cement steps and opened the glass door for me. I sprinted into the library, but our town librarian, Mrs. Gibson, stopped me with a raised talon-like finger to her beak. On a stool behind a counter she perched like a vulture waiting to swoop on noisy prey. Remi rammed into my back.

  “Get in there,” Remi urged. “What’s the holdup?”

  Mrs. Gibson squawked, “Shhh.”

  Remi looked down at his feet, quiet as a mouse. We crept past the counter under Mrs. Gibson’s beady-eyed gaze. At a table, three young girls huddled around a picture book with a unicorn on the cover. They didn’t look like they could be spies. Brats, yes; spies, no.

  “We should split up in case Graffiti Ghoul tries to get away,” I whispered.

  “Good idea,” Remi replied. “What’s the signal for when we find him?”

  “Two whistles, five barks, and a — ”

  “Ahem.” Mrs. Gibson shook her head, her brown hair standing up like ruffled feathers.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Gibson,” I whispered, then glanced at Remi and flapped my arms, miming a chicken.

  He nodded and tiptoed toward the magazine area at the back of the library, while I stepped between two nearby bookcases. We weren’t leaving until we caught our spy. I peeked through the shelves. In the next aisle, someone crouched at the far end of the bookshelf. Were they looking for books on the lower shelves, or were they hiding? Did they have a dust allergy and had to breathe hard, or were they panting from running? This could be our spy, I thought as I snuck forward. I got ready to tackle the spy, but the faint scent of strawberry bubble gum stopped me. I peeked around the corner and saw a girl with a blonde ponytail. This was no spy; this was Trina Brewster.

  I had to get away before she saw me. Backing up, I bumped my elbow into the bookshelf. “Ow.”

  Trina swivelled around, holding a book in her lap. Her brow furrowed when she saw me.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

  “Uh . . . I’m looking for a book,” I stammered. I fumbled for a book on the shelf beside me, grabbed one and showed it to Trina.

  She read the title, “The Horsewoman’
s Passion. What’s it about?”

  “Well, it’s about a horse . . . woman. And her passion.”

  “Which is?”

  “Horses?” I said.

  “Are you following me?” Trina’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Wait till everyone at school hears about this.”

  She stood up, arming herself with a pointy insult, but Remi unknowingly stepped in front of her jab.

  “Marty, I didn’t find anyone,” Remi said.

  I said nothing, nodding my head toward Trina until Remi turned around and saw her.

  “Are you guys here together?” Trina asked.

  “No,” Remi and I blurted.

  Mrs. Gibson’s hiss cut us off. We froze, expecting the librarian to swoop down and carry us off in her talons.

  I lowered my voice. “Remi and I happened to be in the library at the same time.”

  Trina squinted at Remi. “Do you read?”

  “Uh huh,” he grunted.

  “He had trouble looking for a book, so I told him I’d help,” I explained.

  Trina asked, “Remi, were you looking for the book that Marty has?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Remi said. “Thanks, Marty.”

  “So you read romance novels?” Trina asked.

  “Romance what?” Remi said.

  “Romance novels,” I whispered.

  Trina had fresh arrows for her gossip quiver. “So you’re a lover, not a fighter.”

  I stumbled for an explanation. “He was getting it for his sister.”

  “Yeah. It’s not for me,” Remi said.

  If Trina’s smile grew any wider, it’d fly off her face. “Let me get this straight. You pick up mushy gooey romance novels for your sister?”

  I tried to change the subject. “What book do you have?” I hoped Trina had something just as embarrassing.

  She held up a book about Isaac Newton. “I’m doing a research project.”

  Remi whispered, “Hey, that’s the same book Marty took out last month. You two like the same books.”

  “No we don’t!” I protested.

  “Figures you had this book. I thought I saw boogers on the Table of Contents page,” Trina said.

  Mrs. Gibson swooped down on the three of us. “How hard is it to keep quiet?”

  “Sorry,” we all said, but our apologies didn’t quiet the ruffled librarian.

  “This is a place where people come to read, not to socialize,” Mrs. Gibson squawked. “You can chit-chat outside, but when you are in my library, you sit and you read and you zip your lips. You don’t shout. You don’t talk. You don’t even whisper unless it’s absolutely — ”

  “Shhhh,” the three unicorn girls hissed from their reading table. “We’re trying to read.”

  Mrs. Gibson shut her beak. She pointed at Remi and me, then motioned to the door.

  “Why are you kicking us out?” Remi asked. “She was talking too.”

  Mrs. Gibson shushed him and pointed again. I nudged Remi out of the library.

  Outside, Remi yelled, “You couldn’t find a better book?!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Now everyone’s going to think I’m a sissy.”

  “Not after we catch Graffiti Ghoul,” I promised.

  “Well, he wasn’t in there. I searched the library while you were having fun with Trina.”

  “It wasn’t fun.”

  “Oh come on. You were acting like a monkey butt in love,” he said.

  The image of kissing Trina popped into my head. “Gross,” I told Remi.

  “You like Trina,” Remi said.

  “I do not!”

  “You two can go read about Newton’s laws together under that apple tree of his.”

  “I don’t like her,” I said.

  “Relax. I’m just teasing,” my friend said, chuckling.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I don’t think Graffiti Ghoul went into the library,” I said.

  Remi nodded. “We’ll have to catch him in the act.”

  “He’ll probably be painting at night, when no one’s watching,” I said.

  “How are we going to catch him then?” Remi asked.

  “We have to go on a stakeout. Well, more like a wander out.”

  “My parents won’t let me out at night,” Remi grumbled.

  “They will,” I said, “on Halloween night.”

  SIX

  Because Graffiti Ghoul was on to us, Remi and I needed to go undercover to catch the criminal, and that meant finding great Halloween costumes like the Spider-Man outfit that sat unsold on a dusty shelf in my parents’ store. I wouldn’t have a problem convincing my mom to let me wear it since she constantly used the things that didn’t sell, from darning my socks with unsold needles to making sandwiches with stale bread.

  In the kitchen, the smell of her cooking punched up my nose like dirty gym socks. Mom used alien ingredients she’d bought from a Chinese grocery store in Edmonton. A white turnip patty sizzled in a sesame-oiled wok. Brown soup with little red beans and pigeon meat stewed on the stove’s back burner. On the kitchen counter, crimped eyelash bits of beef tripe waited to be added to the pot.

  “Mom, can I wear the Spider-Man costume for Halloween?” I asked. “I don’t think anyone’s going to buy it.”

  She shook her head. “We can sell it next year if no one buys it.”

  “But I have to wear something for trick-or-treating.”

  Mom scooped up the tripe. “You not have to worry. I make you something to wear.”

  “Mom, that’s too much work for you. I’ll just borrow the Spider-Man costume. I want to look cool.”

  “Trust me. I picked your pants, didn’t I?” She waved the tripe like a witch about to brew an evil potion. She tossed it into the hot soup. The tiny eyelashes shrivelled like my hope of wearing a decent disguise.

  On Halloween night, Mom cackled when she showed me the costume. Before I could get away, she wrapped me mummy-like in the horrifying outfit. Then she pinned me down in a chair and poked my face with tiny crayons. I tried to see what Mom was doing to me, but she blocked the mirror while she tinkered with my face like a mad scientist. When she stepped back, and I saw myself in the glass, I wished I had never looked. I bolted out of Mom’s “laboratory” and hid in the stockroom.

  As I cowered in my hideous Halloween costume, I heard voices from the front of the store. My dad was talking to Remi.

  “Marty! Your friends are waiting for you!” Dad’s voice boomed.

  Friends? I sneaked out of the storeroom and stole a peek. My detective partner had come with his big sister, Monique. Remi wore a long black trench coat and a pair of sunglasses. His brown hair was slicked back and he looked just like Neo from The Matrix. Not only did he have a good disguise, but he also looked really cool. Monique, on the other hand, wore the same denim jacket and pair of jeans that she wore whenever I saw her. She had the same “life sucks” eye-rolling expression as the dog-collared stock boy from Mrs. Gervais’ hardware store. What happened on the way to high school that made teenagers permanently cranky?

  “He’s probably in the back,” Dad told Remi. “Why don’t you get him?”

  “Hurry up,” Monique said. “I don’t have all night to babysit you two.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Chan,” Remi said as he walked toward me.

  I scrambled back into the stockroom and hid behind a tower of boxes. Why did I let Mom make my costume? Why didn’t I tell her to put a sheet over my head and let me go as a ghost? I’d even go out in my fuzz-ugly corduroy pants.

  “Marty?” Remi called out. “Are you ready for the wander out?”

  Behind the boxes, I yelled, “Go without me. I’m not feeling so good.”

  He walked into the stockroom. “Marty, this might be our only chance to catch Graffiti Ghoul.”

  “I don’t care what he does. I’m staying home. I look stupid.”

  “How bad can it be?” he asked. “Come out. I promise I won’t make fun of y
ou.”

  “Do you swear?”

  “On my Wayne Gretzky hockey card.”

  “Okay,” I stepped into the open. “What do you think?”

  Remi lifted his sunglasses. His eyes popped wide open. A chuckle slipped past his lips. He tried to push it back in, but once the chuckle dribbled out, a stream of giggles followed. He clutched his belly and howled, unable to hold back the flood of laughter.

  “You look like your mom,” he said, gasping.

  “You owe me your Wayne Gretzky card.”

  “Totally worth it,” he wheezed. “What is that thing you’re wearing?”

  “It’s called a Cheong Sam.”

  “It looks like one of your mom’s dresses.”

  “It is.”

  Remi laughed even harder.

  “Forget it. I’m not going,” I said. The silky dress hung loosely on me like the wrinkly skin on a pug’s face. The wig slipped over my eyes. As I pushed it back up I thought that Mom must have secretly wanted a daughter.

  “This is the worst costume in the world,” I sulked.

  “Don’t cry,” Remi said, still laughing. “Your makeup will run.”

  “How’d you like to look like your mom?”

  “No way!” Remi finally stopped laughing. “Hey, the good news is that no one’s going to recognize you. It’s a great disguise.”

  Monique called from the front of the store. “Are you guys coming?”

  Remi yelled, “On our way!” He turned to me. “Think of this as going deep undercover.”

  “You sure no one will recognize me?”

  “I’ll bet your disguise will fool Monique,” Remi said.

  “She didn’t know anyone named Ghoul, did she?”

  “Nope. But she never tells me anything. Maybe she’d talk if you asked her. Let’s go.”

  “Don’t walk so fast,” I said, stumbling after him in my mom’s shoes. By the time I reached Monique, my feet were cramped and sore. How could Mom wear these cruel pink shoes? My toes barely fit into the pointy ends.

  As soon as they spotted me, Monique and my dad burst out laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. The wig slipped over my eyes again. I fumbled with the fake hair, but the wig became tangled with my glasses and I couldn’t take it off. Could this night get any worse?

  FLASH! Mom had a camera.