After their observation and evidence classes, no one felt like eating and most of the kids skipped lunch, which gave them a free hour. Amanda took the opportunity to back up her precious recording, Ivy took Nigel out, Amphora washed her hair, and Simon put his fedora away to keep it safe. Not that there was much chance of someone vomiting on his head, but after the incident during orientation and now this, he was getting a bit paranoid.
Next was disguise class, which was taught on the top floor overlooking the beautiful east side of campus. As the students entered, Amanda gasped. The room was full of colorful costumes, props, and makeup, all shining like a movie premiere. This was going to be great!
The other students were oohing and aaahing as well. There seemed to be something there for everyone: sparkling ball gowns, shining armor, fake mustaches and beards, rubber faces, film-grade knives and pistols, Nehru jackets, basketballs, and more. If you could think of it, it was there, and the kids were drooling, even Ivy, who somehow could sense the objects even though she couldn’t see them.
A striking sixtyish woman with short gray hair and oversized glasses entered the classroom and smiled. She oozed fashion. “Please take your seats,” she said. When the students had found chairs she continued.
“I know this is an exciting class, but you must take it very seriously. Disguises are not all fun and games. It is absolutely critical that you get them right and that they be undetectable, not like in the movies where you can always cover up flaws with lens filters and post-production gimmicks.” Amanda felt herself stiffening. She hoped this teacher wouldn’t be anti-film.
“I am Professor Tumble and I should know. I worked in the film industry for many years.” That Glassina Tumble? The fashion genius who had clothed all the stars from Marilyn Monroe to Scarlett Johansson? Amanda had had no idea she was a detective. Why would she leave the industry to come here? Obviously she wasn’t anti-film. She’d won several Oscars for her work. Why would she say such a thing?
Amphora raised her hand. “Yes?” said Professor Tumble.
“I loved the work you did on ‘Scarves.’”
“I’m sorry, dear. You’ll have to speak up. I’m a little deaf.”
“I say I loved the work you did on ‘Scarves,’” yelled Amphora.
“Thank you, dear. But that life is behind me. Let’s move on.” Amanda was stunned. Why would she leave, and why would she act almost as if her contribution to film didn’t exist?
“Now, you must realize that this class isn’t a party. I am going to work you very hard, and by the time we’re finished you will appreciate how difficult disguise is. I’m warning you now, because a lot of students come here with the idea that this class will be easy. It won’t. It will be the most difficult class you have, and I’ll tell you why. You will have to fool not only the enemy, but also facial and gait recognition software, and those programs are becoming more sophisticated all the time. You have to be smarter than they are, and I’m going to show you how.”
As if, thought Amanda. It couldn’t be harder than the dead bodies class. Or logic. She wasn’t that good with logic, despite her interest in puzzles. She was creative, and creative people worked on the other side of the brain. That was why this class would be easy for her, even if it wasn’t for the others, software notwithstanding. She was absolutely sure she knew all the little nuances of faces, clothes, hair, gestures, the whole character thing. She’d ace it.
“The next thing I want you to understand,” said Professor Tumble, “is that you won’t be the only ones using disguises. The criminals you pursue will employ them as well.”
There it was again. Criminals. Amanda wished everyone would stop talking about them.
“Some of them will be poor at the use of disguises, but others will be so adept that unless you learn to recognize a disguise you won’t be able to tell. This will be a great disadvantage to you in your work, so it’s imperative that you become so familiar with the techniques that you can always tell. Again, this isn’t the theater or the film industry. This is real life.”
She could say what she liked, thought Amanda. She wasn’t going to become a detective. She’d never meet a criminal, and it didn’t matter whether their disguises were good or not. All that mattered was fooling an audience. The class would be helpful to her, though, because she would improve her costuming and makeup skills, and she was excited to be working with a great like Miss Tumble.
She looked around and was surprised to find that everyone was nodding. They were falling for this stuff! Of course they were. They all wanted to be detectives. They were probably looking at this teacher as some sort of detectives’ idol rather than the film genius she was. It was sad. As usual, no one could see the truth but her. Even though she had started to make friends, sort of, she was still alone and always would be.
Well, if that was the case, she was going to make the best of it. She would take this opportunity to work on her film stuff. And so, during the workshop part of the class, she went to the makeup cupboard and selected an array of blue, green, purple, red, yellow, orange, brown, and black grease paint, then sat down at one of the lighted mirrors mounted on a long table at the back of the classroom that had phrases like “What is Morse’s first name?” and “Lovely jubbly” carved into it.
She opened the jar of blue makeup and stuck her fingers into the paste. Ah, nice and gushy, but not too much so. She wouldn’t have expected any less from Glassina Tumble. She rolled the paint around on her fingertips, coating them evenly, then reached up to her face and made a stroke right down the middle. The color was electric—perfect. She dipped again and drew lines on her cheeks, down the outside of the bridge of her nose, under the eyes, and then down in a circular motion until each cheek was covered with swirls. Then she extended the inside of each circle toward her chin and made another round motion, similarly covering the lower part of her face.
She sat back and looked in the mirror. Except for her forehead, which she hadn’t done, she looked like Van Gogh’s painting “Starry Night,” with its swirly dark blue night sky. All she needed was a few dabs of yellow and she’d be almost indistinguishable from the famous work. But imitating Van Gogh was not her intention.
Simon caught sight of her and said, “What are you doing? Disguising yourself as a clown?”
“Hush,” she said. “You’ll see.”
She wiped her hand with a rag, then dipped into the green jar and added highlights to the blue.
“I get it,” he said. “You’re a dinosaur. Cool!” He reached for one of the jars.
“Be quiet,” she said, slapping his hand away. “I don’t want to draw attention to myself.”
“Then why are you doing that? And that hurt,” he said, sucking his fingers where she’d hit him.
“Because I want to. Leave me alone.”
“Not on your life. I want to see how this turns out. How about—”
Amanda glared at him, causing him to draw back, and returned to her palette. She worked quickly now, using the purple to create further accents, then adding touches of brown, and finally, ringing her eyes and mouth with black. She sat back and admired herself. She’d done a very professional job, but of course, she’d practiced a lot. Theatrical makeup was the one thing the stick dogs were really good at.
“Perfecto,” said Simon. “You’re a monster! Wanna do me?”
“Oh, all right. Come here.”
She pulled Simon’s face into the light and started drawing on it with red and orange. He kept trying to look in the mirror, and she kept pulling his face back toward her so she could see what she was doing.
“Hang on. I need some yellow.”
“Ow. You’re pinching my cheeks,” Simon said.
“Tough. This is show biz. Now hold still.”
She painted, poked, and prodded until Simon was quite a ghoul himself. She opened the wig cupboard and chose a frightful black appliance for herself and a red one for Simon. The hair was dry and tangled, as if it hadn’t been washed or combed for week
s. When she put the black one on, a girl who caught a glimpse of her started screaming. And then things really started to happen.
The next thing she knew the whole class was howling, some of the students in mock fear, others in delight. One student after another ran to the makeup cupboard and slathered fright makeup on his or her face, screaming all the while. Soon a piercing ululation was emanating from the room, causing Professor Kindseth, the diminutive, thirtyish forensic photography teacher, to stop and peek in. He looked like he didn’t know whether to admonish the students or join them. After about ten seconds, he lifted the camera he always carried and started snapping away, although whether in fun or as proof of misbehavior, Amanda couldn’t tell.
Following his lead, many of the students took out their phones and started to shoot video as they danced around and pretended to be zombies, monsters, and all manner of creatures. Professor Tumble, being hard of hearing, didn’t notice anything untoward at first. After thirty seconds of chaos, however, she shouted, “Children, quiet down,” but no one paid any attention. Finally she threw up her hands and joined them, slathering her own face with silver and gold and sticking diamond-like shiny things to it. The whole room looked like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video.
Suddenly, Professor Mukherjee, the very same teacher who had reprimanded the mean kids, was there booming, “Silence!” whereupon the room fell quiet at once. Even Professor Tumble, who actually seemed to hear him, stopped singing that song from “Sweeney Todd” she’d begun.
“You, there,” said Professor Mukherjee, addressing Amanda. “Vomit girl. Did you start this? Professor Tumble, are you quite all right?”
Amanda looked like a gazelle who’d just run into a hungry lion. Professor Tumble’s hearing suddenly seemed to have got worse, for she just stood there looking at Professor Mukherjee with a silly smile on her face.
“She didn’t do anything, sir,” said Simon. “It was my fault.” Amanda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Simon Binkle was voluntarily taking the blame. She mentally took back every bad thing she’d thought about the goofy-looking boy.
“Surely not, young man,” said Professor Mukherjee. “This girl is a disease vector. Now look, students. You treat Professor Tumble with respect. I don’t want to hear another sound coming from this room. Work on your disguises quietly and have some dignity. A professional detective works strategically. Never let your emotions get the better of you. Now carry on.”
As she watched the legal issues teacher go, Amanda realized that Professor Kindseth and his camera had disappeared.
Amanda Lester and the Pink Sugar Conspiracy Page 22
