by Marty Chan
“How do I know you won’t break your word?”
Her red-stained mouth dropped open, offended. “An oath is the most important of all promises. I’d never break it. Ever.”
“Unless you’re lying to me now.”
“Do you remember the spelling bee last year?”
How could I forget? Our grade three teacher, Ms. Connor, ran the competition in her classroom, and sent bad spellers back to their desks one after the other until only Trina and I were standing at the head of the class. We spelled thirty-five words correctly in a row, going back and forth; neither of us missed a single word. Trina acted like the words she had to spell were too easy and the words I had to spell were no-brainers, but she lost when she spelled “alienate” with two “L”s, and I spelled the word correctly. That victory put me on top of the world for a whole week.
“Sort of,” I said.
“When you beat me, I swore I’d make your life miserable.”
I thought she picked on me because I looked different. Maybe if I lost the next spelling bee to Trina, she’d stop.
“Do you promise to stop the gossip about Remi?” I asked.
She nodded. “As soon as I get even.”
“What do you mean get even? He didn’t do anything to you,” I said.
“Hel-lo. He started that rumour about me having a stupid crush on you.”
The image of Trina kissing me leapt into my mind again. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about it?
“Everyone believes I’m a freak-a-zoid because they think I’m after you,” she said, “and it’s all Remi’s fault. I have to get even.”
In some ways, Remi and Trina were exactly alike. They had the same Newtonian sense of justice and identical stubborn streaks.
“When will you be even?” I asked.
“When he apologises.”
The chances of Trina getting an apology were as good as my chances of becoming popular. I still had to do something to save Remi, but I had nothing to offer . . . except the key to solving the mystery.
“What if I brought you the spray paint instead?” I suggested. “We were planning to dust it for fingerprints in the science lab after school. If you have the can, you can find out who painted the graffiti and you’d become the hero . . . ”
“Heroine,” she corrected.
I nodded. “Everyone will know that you cracked the case. They’ll think the reason why you follow people is because you’re like a Hardy Boy.”
“Nancy Drew,” she corrected. “She’s a better detective.”
Bad idea to argue. Instead, I agreed with Trina and used her own words to win her over. I had used this tactic with grown-ups a lot; for some reason, people liked to agree with me when I repeated their words.
“Trina, you’ll be the heroine of the school. Just like.. no, better than Nancy Drew. No one’ll ever remember you had a crush on me.”
“I never had a crush on you,” Trina said. “They were horrible lies.”
“Right. They’ll just remember that the head of the Litter Patrol did a great job.”
She smiled.
“And then you can tell people that you were wrong about Remi.”
“Fine, fine,” she said. “Now raise your right hand. I’m going to swear you into the Litter Patrol.”
She raised her right hand and motioned me to put up mine. She was taking her Litter Patrol duties way too seriously, but that didn’t mean I had to.
“Repeat after me,” she said. “I, state your name, do solemnly swear.”
“I, state your name, do solemnly swear,” I repeated after Trina.
“No. Say your name.”
“No. Say your name,” I repeated.
“Your name.”
“Your name.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Stop repeating — ”
She clamped her hand over my mouth. “Let’s start over. Repeat after me starting now. I, Marty Chan, do solemnly swear.”
She uncovered my mouth.
“I, Marty Chan, do solemnly swear,” I said.
She continued, “To uphold the laws of the Litter Patrol.”
“To uphold the laws of the Litter Patrol.”
“To listen to Trina Brewster and do everything she tells me to do.”
“Everything?” I asked.
“To listen to Trina Brewster and do everything she tells me to do without question.”
I repeated, “To listen to Trina Brewster and do everything she tells me to do without question.”
She lowered her hand, but I kept mine up.
“We’re not done swearing yet,” I said. “You have to swear to your part of the deal.”
Trina fumed for a second, then raised her hand. “Okay. I swear I’ll stop the rumours about Remi . . . after I have the can of spray paint.”
“Now we have a deal,” I said.
“I want the can by the end of the day or the deal’s off.”
“You’ll have it.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. The spray paint was locked up safe and sound in Remi’s locker. I’d have to come up with a pretty good excuse to take it without making him think I didn’t trust him any more. I decided to tell him that, with the other kids watching for chances to razz him, the can might be safer with me.
As I walked past Remi, I pretended my shoelace had come undone. I kneeled and took my time “tying” my shoe.
“Smelly bum,” I whispered, our code phrase for meeting in the boys’ bathroom.
Before he could move, I spotted Jean and Jacques Boissonault walking toward us. The brothers nudged each other and snickered. I knew that cruel laugh; it was the chuckle right before a bully said something nasty to me. I straightened up and waited.
“Hey, Jean. Do you like trash?”
Jacques said, “I hate trash.”
They looked at Remi, who glared back, but said nothing.
Jean Boissonault added, “Especially trailer trash.”
The brothers laughed and walked away, completely ignoring me. The teasing would only get worse for Remi.
“Smelly bum,” I repeated.
“Keep away,” he whispered. “Or they’ll think I Crossed The Line too.” He scooted away like I had cooties.
I caught up. “Smelly bum,” I said.
Denise overhead me. “Yeah, Remi does have a smelly bum.”
“I wasn’t saying that he stunk,” I tried to explain.
Too late. Denise shuffled down the hall, warning people to steer clear of Remi’s smelly bum. He glared at me, then walked away. I should have told Denise to stop being cruel, but I didn’t; I knew I’d create more trouble if I said anything, just as Colette did when she tried to stand up for me. Instead I skulked off to class.
At lunch hour the kids hounded Remi. He headed outside with a wild pack of Tease Terriers nipping at his heels. I’d never be able to get near him, and I really needed to get the can of spray paint. Desperate times called for desperate action. If I couldn’t get my friend to open his locker, I’d have to do it myself.
In television shows I’d seen people pick locks by listening for clicks. I pressed my ear close to his combination lock as I turned the dial. Only the sound of my guilty heartbeats filled my ears; I hated what I was doing, but there was no other way. Tick. Was that the first number? The dial read 34. The back of Remi’s hockey jersey was 34. Was this a coincidence? No. This had to be the first number.
I spun the dial in the opposite direction. Any minute someone could come around the corner and catch me in the act, but I had to move slowly or else I’d miss hearing the tick. Footsteps echoed down the hall. No time to waste; I had to move faster. My sweaty hand slipped on the combination dial, and the lock banged against the metal door. I looked around, half expecting The Rake to barrel down the hallway and send me to his office. I stepped away from the locker and leaned against the wall, forcing my shaking leg to stand still. I waited for what seemed like forever, until I was sure no one was coming.
> Back to the lock. I slowly turned the dial, straining to hear the tumbler. Sweat streamed down my forehead. I wiped it away on the back of my sleeve as I listened for the . . . tick. The dial stopped on the number 10. What did ten mean to Remi? He was ten years old. He had ten fingers. He had ten toes. He sometimes counted to ten when he was mad. Ten had to be the second number. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and spun the dial in the opposite direction, my confidence growing. I put my ear to the lock, waiting for the final tick that would spring the lock open.
Ker-plang! Remi smacked his hand on the metal locker door. I jumped back, my ears ringing from the loud bang. I had concentrated so hard on listening to the lock that I didn’t hear my friend sneak up on me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“You want the can for yourself,” he accused. “You don’t want to catch Graffiti Ghoul with the T.P. punk.”
“You’ve got it wrong.”
“Then why are you trying to break into my locker?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said. He’d never understand the deal I made with Trina.
“Get out,” he said, pushing me away from his locker. “One . . . two . . . three . . . ”
“Please, Remi.”
“Now.” He pushed me again.
I stumbled backward, right into The Rake.
“What’s the fuss about, gentlemen?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Remi muttered.
To a grown-up, the word “nothing” was like a potato chip. No adult could stop with one. Now that he had a taste of it, Mr. Henday craved the entire bag. He crossed his arms and placed his finger in tapping position. “Do you two want a strike?”
Remi couldn’t afford another strike on his record, and I was the one who was in the wrong.
“It’s my fault,” I said. “I thought this was my locker.”
“And where’s your locker, Mr. Chan?”
I pointed down the hall to the English side of the school.
“That’s a pretty big mistake to make, don’t you think?”
My titanic excuse had just hit The Rake’s iceberg, and it was sinking fast. I wished I had a life preserver to keep my lie afloat, but I went under, saying nothing.
“Mr. Boudreau, why were you pushing Mr. Chan?”
Remi shrugged.
“You boys do know that fighting counts as a strike.”
“I’m the one who started it,” I said. “You shouldn’t give him the strike. I’m the one who deserves it.”
“This is a new one. Someone wants to get a strike. There must be something very important in that locker,” Mr. Henday said.
“No,” I lied.
“What’s in the locker?”
“Nothing,” I blurted.
I had fed our principal another potato chip.
“Mr. Boudreau, open the locker. Now.”
Remi glared at me. Behind him, Trina led a group of kids through the hall. They all sipped slushies.
“Move along, people,” Principal Henday ordered. “Nothing to see here.”
He had just whetted their appetites with his own “nothing” potato chip. The kids walked in slow motion, almost like zombies. Trina sucked on her slushie straw and stared at the locker while Remi dialed his combination. KA-CHUNK. He unhooked the lock and stepped back. Mr. Henday opened the locker, reached in and pulled out a can of spray paint. The kids buzzed around us like flies over a garbage can full of pork fat.
“It’s not mine,” Remi said.
“Mr. Boudreau, don’t make it any worse by lying.”
“I found it,” he said. “I was going to turn it in.”
I backed up my friend. “Mr. Henday, I can tell you the whole story — ”
Trina coughed and gave me a ‘shut up’ look.
“I want to hear the story from Mr. Boudreau.”
Remi looked down and said nothing. Mr. Henday shook his head. “Let’s go to my office and discuss this.”
He put his hand on Remi’s shoulder and turned him toward the office.
“Mr. Henday,” I started.
Trina coughed another warning, but I ignored her. I had to help my friend.
“The spray paint isn’t his. Trina knows the truth.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. “Tell him about the clues you found.”
She squirmed out of my grasp and stepped away, glaring, but she shrivelled under The Rake’s curious gaze.
“Ms. Brewster, do you know anything about this?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” she said, staring straight ahead.
Mr. Henday folded his arms and tapped his elbow. “Really?”
Tap. Tap. Tap. Trina shifted from one foot to the other, trying not to look at The Rake’s finger of interrogation. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Principal Henday poured on the pressure. Tap-tap-tappity-tap-tap. Trina looked down at her pink sneakers. Why wasn’t she taking credit? Maybe she needed some prompting.
“Trina found the paint,” I lied. “Remi was just holding the can for her.”
“I never saw that can in my life,” she said, passing on her big chance to be the heroine.
“She told me she wanted to turn it in to you,” I said.
“My friends and I were buying slushies at the gas station. How could I tell you to do anything?” She shrugged and held out her hands, playing dumb.
Principal Henday closed the locker. “Enough games, Mr. Chan. All of you get to class before I issue strikes.”
The kids scattered like a bunch of bats.
“No running!” The Rake roared.
The kids slowed down. My enemy race-walked to class while my best friend shambled to the principal’s office. It should have been the other way around. As I watched The Rake lead Remi away, a horrible thought dawned on me. Maybe Trina had never wanted credit for finding the can of spray paint. Maybe she wanted to pin the graffiti crime on someone, and I had just helped her frame my best friend. The only reason why she’d want to do that was clear: Trina Brewster was Graffiti Ghoul.
FIFTEEN
All the clues added up. The other day, when I’d called Shane “Ghoul,” Trina had looked up. At first I thought my whispering was annoying her, but now I knew the truth. She had followed Remi and me to the hardware store and the graveyard; only a criminal worried about being caught would follow the detectives. Of course she’d want the can of spray paint, because she wanted to destroy the evidence. And if she couldn’t destroy it, then she’d find a fall guy, which explained why she lied to The Rake about never seeing the can before.
But if Trina was the graffiti artist, why did she rip off the “s” from the original message? Was she a living member of the Gangstas? Did she know Dylan Green, the name on the tombstone surrounded by the beer bottles? Most important of all, what did “Ghouls Rule” mean to her?
I needed to learn more about ghouls, and not Monique’s scary version. I needed real answers. That meant a visit to the school library. Between the stacks of non-fiction books and the four Internet stations, I was sure I’d find Trina’s connection to “Ghouls Rule.”
The school librarian, Ms. Tyler, waved as I entered. Unlike the town librarian, Ms. Tyler liked noise. She talked to everyone, recommending books to read, offering help with computers and telling people facts about everything in the world, from why a dog wags its tail to how fish breathe. She talked so much that students had to shush her. Ms. Tyler reminded me of a Labrador puppy: small, black-haired, full of energy, always happy to see people and constantly yipping.
“Marty, you’re just in time,” she called. “The books I ordered came in. You can be the first to pick. I have one that you’ll love. It’s a mystery.”
No time for mystery stories; I was in the middle of a real-life whodunit. “Maybe later, Ms. Tyler. I have to do some work on the computer,” I said.
“Do you need help?” she asked, rolling up the sleeves of her black sweater. “I’ve found a new search engine that I want to test o
ut.”
“Thanks, but I can do it myself.”
“What are you looking up?” Ms. Tyler hopped around the library counter; if she had a tail, it’d be wagging.
“I’m looking up monsters,” I said.
“Halloween’s over.”
“I know, but I wanted to learn more about some of the monsters I saw running around on Halloween night.”
She rushed over. “I have a few books that might help. Tell me what kind of monsters.”
I whispered, “The dead kind.”
“Vampires? Ghosts? Frankenstein’s monster? I have books on all of those.” She couldn’t wait to fetch them for me.
“Sure,” I said, tossing her a bone. “All of them.”
“I won’t be long.” She scampered to the stacks of books at the other end of the library.
I slid quickly in front of an Internet station. The screensaver was a fake aquarium with exotic fish. One swoosh of the mouse and the fish tank disappeared. I double-clicked on the Internet icon, called up a search engine, typed in “ghoul,” and waited.
At one of the library windows, Colette, the French girl with the pigtails, looked out into the schoolyard. I remembered how the other French girls treated her when they thought she lived in Forest Heights Estates, and I wondered if their accusations were even true. That was the problem with gossip. It didn’t have to be true; it just had to be said aloud.
Beep. The search engine had found my answers: 440,000 matches for “ghoul.” The first page alone had four Web sites for an old movie about ghouls, three sites for video games, and two sites about a band named “The Glockenspiel Ghouls.” I clicked on a link for a site that didn’t have anything to do with movies, games or music. The screen went blank for a second, then a cartoon zombie in a tuxedo shambled to the middle of the screen, put on a top hat and tap danced while cheesy organ music played Happy Birthday. At the song’s end, the zombie reached behind his back, pulled out a brightly-wrapped gift box and moaned “Happy Fiftieth Birthday.” It was a site for people to send creepy greeting cards.
I clicked out of the screen and scanned the next listings. They offered the same kinds of sites as the first screen, some even with the same Web addresses. How was I ever going to find the truth?
