by Barrie Summy
“Tomorrow. Tuesday. Three p.m. sharp. On the Bay restaurant. Chef L’Oeuf will unlock the doors. You. Undercover. Enter the restaurant with the other workers.”
“What?” She’s lost it. My mother has totally lost it. “Hello.” I wave my hand to break her insane military trance. “Ya don’t think someone’ll notice I don’t actually work there? That I’m only thirteen?”
“Chef L’Oeuf trains a few students each spring,” she replies. “Use ‘career unit at school’ to explain your presence.”
“Got any ideas on how I should fake the cooking part?” I say with sarcasm. “I mean, Chef L’Oeuf might ask me to do something trickier than nuke a Hot Pocket, Mom.”
She sighs. “Sherry, I doubt he’ll assign you anything complicated. The dinner is planned for Friday. Tomorrow is a practice run for sauces, salad dressings and desserts.” Then, because I’m not the only sarcastic one in the family, she adds, “Surely you can handle stirring with a wooden spoon.”
I roll my eyes.
She sighs again. “You’re all we’ve got. I can’t cross the threshold to the restaurant. We can’t send your grandfather in. Will we wait outside the restaurant, be available for backup or ideas if you need us? Absolutely.”
“Fine.” I huff. “What am I looking for? Exactly?”
“Exactly? I don’t know. Chat with the workers. Keep your ears open. Look around. Are there any papers, recipe books? See if you can find out if he plans to serve rhino meat.”
Sounds like mission impossible.
“And talk to him in French,” Mom adds. “Apparently, it fatigues him to speak English and he’s always looking for a little French conversation.”
“Excusez-moi,” I screech. “I don’t speak French.”
“It’s one of your classes.”
“I have a C minus in French. Translation: I. Don’t. Speak. French.”
Mom tsks. “Sherry, you always underestimate yourself.”
I hate it when she makes statements like that. Especially when she might be right. “That’s so not true,” I yell at the air above the dresser. “I just happen to be realistic about my limits. Not like some people I know. Some people think they can handle anything. Some people go to drug busts when they’re sick. And end up getting killed.” The more I say, the more I can’t stop myself. All this anger that I didn’t even realize I had is rushing out of my mouth like water over the Hoover Dam. “You never really knew me. Not really. You knew your partner a gazillion times better than me. You knew Nero Whatever-His-Last-Name, your dog partner, a gazillion times better than me. And now? Now you don’t know me at all. Not at all.” For emphasis, I hold up my thumb and index finger squeezed together. “So don’t tell me I’m underestimating myself. I don’t speak French. End of story.” I pound the wall next to me.
Silence. Punctuated by gulps. Gulps on both our parts.
I’m not sure about my mother, but I feel sick. With the back of my hand, I wipe tears off my cheeks.
Mom sniffs. “Sherry—”
Knock, knock.
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“What’s going on in there? This area isn’t open to the public.” The door swings open.
It’s the docent. “You’re not allowed in here.” He peers at me over his fake-o glasses. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He claps. “You have. You have seen a ghost. Was it Yankee Jim Robinson or Mr. Whaley?”
“Neither.” And, staring at the dresser, I say, “It was an extremely mean and bossy ghost. With dumb ideas.”
I flounce down the stairs and out into the sunlight. I’m fuming at my mom. And fuming at myself too. I wanted to make up with her. But, oh no, now it’s worse than ever. I have a huge, hollow, not-getting-along-with-mom feeling in the pit of my stomach. Again. At some point, we’ll have to have a big, fatty, emotional talk. Arghhh.
And just when I’m wallowing in the major drama of it all, I spot something that is guaranteed to improve my spirits. The Old Town Ice Cream Shoppe. A double scoop won’t fix my problems, but it won’t hurt them either. And I could certainly use a treat.
Minutes later, I’m blister-hobbling down the avenue with a double scoop, bubble-gum and cheesecake, in a sugar cone. A few licks, and I’m entering a less-stressed space. A few more licks, and I’m ready to call Josh.
I plop down on a bench at the side of the road. See, I know my limits. There’s no way I can walk, eat, balance my phone and talk to Josh Morton all at the same time. So under the shade of a tall palm, I fish my cell from my mini-backpack. And prepare for a chat with the boy.
He picks up in the middle of the first ring and sounds so happy to hear my voice, I practically melt. A puddle of me + bubble-gum ice cream + cheesecake ice cream, right there on a Southern California sidewalk.
Josh: You free tomorrow around noon?
Me: Definitely.
Josh: Wanna meet at Belmont Park? It’s this little amusement park in Mission Bay, right by the ocean.
Me: Definitely.
I disconnect and lean back on the bench, sticking my legs straight out and crossing them at the ankles. The sun’s starting to set, and a salty ocean breeze caresses my face as I pop the last of the cone in my mouth.
Tomorrow is Tuesday. Tuesday. As in Twosday. Josh and Sherry. Sherry and Josh. Tuesday. Twosday. The most romantic day of the week.
My heart beating loudly with love, I pick myself up off the bench and head for the condo.
I push open the front door to the sounds of the TV. Walking down the pink hall, I identify the show. The evening news. Must be Junie watching it.
“Hi, Junie,” I say.
From the pink couch, she jumps up, all startled. Junie doesn’t just watch the news; she zones out on the news.
I ask, “Where’s Amber?”
She sits back down, glues her eyes to the screen and doesn’t answer till the anchorpeople break for commercials.
“She met a guy. She’s on a date.”
“What happened to Rob?”
“His boss sent him out of town to cover a car show.”
“A car show?”
“Yeah. He’ll be gone for a week. Turns out we were on to something when we couldn’t find his byline. He’s a pretty junior reporter.” Junie glances at the TV. Another commercial. “So Amber’s lukewarm on him now.”
A week? That doesn’t sound like it’d fit into the agenda of a rhino killer. I guess that just makes Rob a rude reporter with a large forehead and too much hair gel. Now we’re down to Damon and Chef L’Oeuf for suspects.
“Amber’s going back to the set tomorrow around noon,” Junie says, an eye still on the TV screen. “You wanna do something together?”
“Sorry. I’m hooking up with Josh.”
Click. The TV screen goes black. Junie squeals. “Cough up the details, girlfriend!”
I am a really excellent sleeper. I can crash anywhere. I can doze way late into the afternoon. I can usually sleep through high levels of noise.
So I’m totally shocked on Tuesday to find myself leaping out of bed at the crack of dawn. I glance at the digital alarm clock and shake my head. Nine thirty-two a.m. What is going on?
And that’s when I hear it. Loud, obnoxious squawking from Grandpa at my bedroom window and loud, obnoxious squawking from Amber at my bedroom door. It’s like I’m in a pet store. Where the animals are revolting.
“Shut that bird up!” Amber yells. “Shut it up!”
Squawk. Squawk. Squawk.
“Shut up!”
Of the two, Amber wins the Shriek Award.
Sighing heavily, I open the door.
All puffy-eyed, she elbows past me. “I’m gonna kill that freakin’ bird. I gotta have my sleep. I’m gonna kill that bird.”
Behind her, Junie stumbles into the room, hiking up her Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms.
We owl-blink at each other and yawn.
Amber beelines to the window and tugs it open.
Grandpa screeches loud and hig
h. He flies at the screen, then lifts up backward, kicking his scrawny little feet at Amber. He’s, like, totally teasing her.
With a push, she flips the screen out, shoving it down to the ground. Then she leans way out through the open space, both arms outstretched, trying to grab Grandpa. “Come here, you maniac bird. You wanna piece of me? Come and get it.” All mafia-like, she’s waving him in, her nail jewels glinting in the early-morning sun. “You wanna piece of me?”
Grandpa coasts in close, hovers above her just out of reach, then drops a big, fat, juicy one. Right on the top of her head.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Amber’s scream rattles the ceiling fan. Then she’s outta the bedroom and into the shower before the ringing in my ears has stopped.
“Sherry?” Junie says, a puzzled look on her face. “Is that the same bird from the Wild Animal Park?”
“Yeah.” Crossing my arms, I stick my head out the window. “Grandpa, that wasn’t very mature.”
He flaps over to a nearby bush and cackles.
A sudden breeze whips up, carrying on it the smell of coffee. The grass flattens as my mother skids in.
The corner of the screen pops into the air. “Can you help me with this?” Mom asks, all nice, obviously wanting to get along.
“Sure.” I can be nice too.
Junie’s as white as a ghost. Her freckles are so standing out, it looks like I could pluck them off her skin.
“My mom wants us to put the screen back in.”
Like she’s in a trance, Junie moves to the window.
The screen floats toward us. I grasp the sides, and Junie slots the bottom into the metal track. From the outside, Mom jiggles the top till it slides into place, and Grandpa head-nudges the screen sideways till it’s gliding nice and smooth.
We’re quite the little team. Although one of us looks like her 4.0 mind is being blown wide open.
“Thank you, Sherry,” my mom says. “Tell Junie thank you for me.”
“My mom says thanks,” I say to Junie, my eyes on her every reaction. “I’m passing along the message ’cause no one can hear her but me.”
Her tongue tip is poking out between her teeth, a signal that Junie is hard-core processing.
Mom says, “Grandpa wants to meet on the patio.”
“Sure thing, Mom. Just let me throw on some clothes.” I open my suitcase. “Junie, wanna join Grandpa, Mom and me on the patio?”
No answer.
The bedroom door creaks.
I turn around just in time to catch sight of Junie’s Mickey Mouse butt leaving the room.
I get dressed, then head down the hall to the kitchen and grab a Mountain Dew Code Red from the fridge. My stomach’s nervous-jumpy. I really thought I didn’t care if Junie believed me or not. I mean, I’m in it for my mom. But now that there’s a little sliver of a chance that Junie might join me, truly join me, in this strange adventure, I want it so bad. It’s like when you get the flu and your whole body aches. I ache all over with how bad I want my best friend and me to be on the same wavelength.
I step out onto the patio.
No Junie.
“Over here, Sherry.” Mom’s voice comes from one of the flowered garden chairs.
Plunking my soda down on the table, I sink into the chair across from her. I pop the tab and slurp.
No Junie.
Grandpa croaks, “Get talking, girls.” Or else it was, “Pet-walking squirrels.” Or maybe, “Bet on mock turtles.”
No Junie.
Mom clears her throat. “You know, Sherry, I probably didn’t always make the best choices in life. Certainly there were times when I picked work over home. And if I could redo that last shift . . .” She draws in a ragged breath. “I would.” More throat clearing. “You and your brother are the best things that ever happened to me. And this time that I’m getting with you now is really precious.”
I’m all teary-eyed.
And then I feel pressure on my shoulders. A hugging kind of pressure. My mom’s hugging me. And I’m feeling it.
I whisper, “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, Sherry.”
Grandpa hiccups. His eyes glisten.
“We love you too, Grandpa,” I choke out.
The cushion on the chair smushes as my mother sits back down. “Have you heard from your dad? How’s Sam doing?” Her voice catches on my brother’s name.
“I guess Sam’s driving Grandma crazy. She signed him up for some lame math camp.”
“Sam and his math,” Mom says, all proud.
I roll my eyes. I am not up for hearing about the extraordinary braininess of my little brother. So I launch into how we should investigate Damon when we’re finished at the restaurant.
Grandpa says something long and mumbo-jumbo-ish. I don’t catch a single word of it.
“I agree,” Mom says.
“What?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“The timing is too tight for us all to stay together. And I, um, still need your grandfather to play navigator,” Mom says. “We think you should investigate at the restaurant while we check out Damon.”
No, no, no. I want a teamwork day. “You said before you’d come with me,” I moan.
“It’s just not working out, pumpkin,” Mom says. “You can definitely handle the restaurant. The main thing is to lay low while you’re there.”
“I don’t want to lay low all by myself.”
“Chef L’Oeuf doesn’t have a police record. He has absolutely no history of violence. He’s got a high turnover of staff, so he’s used to seeing new faces,” she says. “The whole restaurant situation is completely safe.”
“Even if it’s completely safe, I don’t want to go by myself.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Do some snooping when the coast is clear. Is there anything indicating the type of evening planned? Like decorations? Are there any recipes for wild game? Any suspicious receipts?
“Whatever you do,” Mom continues, “don’t draw attention to yourself. Let’s keep him in the dark about his potential-suspect status. We want the element of surprise on our side.”
“I’m not sure if I’m coming through loud and clear.” I turn up the whine. “I’m not going to the restaurant by myself.”
“Be there at three o’clock,” Mom says.
“I really, really, really don’t want—”
“I’ll go with you, Sherry.” Junie’s leaning against the patio door.
When the meeting’s over, Junie and I raid my aunt’s freezer. Over waffles and a boatload of syrup, I pretty much bring her up to speed on the mystery.
“Sherry”—she pauses—“I’m sorry about the way I’ve been.” Her face goes splotchy. “Paranormal elements really aren’t my thing, you know.” Her face goes splotchier. “But I should’ve trusted you, and I didn’t.”
I stand there biting my bottom lip, twirling my hair around my finger. Like a court-jester Halloween costume, I’m two different things all at the same time. I’m relieved and resentful.
I’m relieved because Junie’s my best friend, and now we can be a unit again, and she can help me solve the mystery. I’m resentful because she’s been so mean.
I bite my lip some more and twirl my hair into a knot.
She lunges at me, enveloping me in a big hug.
I’m all stiff, like wood. I want to scream “I told you so!” Instead, I relax and hug her back.
“I will never, ever let you down again.” Junie pinky-promises me. “Give me an assignment, something to investigate. I’ll prove it to you.”
“Well, my next problem is how I’m going to get to all the different places this afternoon,” I say.
“Piece of cake.” Junie counts off on her fingers. “Amber can drop you off at the amusement park, then go to her movie shoot, then pick you up and bring you back here in time for you to give me the scoop on Josh, and then she can drive us both to the restaurant.”
Junie has seriously lost her mind if she believes Amber’s gonna go fo
r this plan. This thought must show on my face.
“Sherry, trust me. It’ll work.” She calls out, “Amber!”
Amber waltzes into the kitchen. She’s wearing her new halter dress. “Is my breakfast ready yet, Junie?”
“Not exactly,” Junie says. “Remember the time you spent the night at my house? Technically, you were grounded, but you snuck out the window at midnight to hang with Sean Franklin’s older brother. The brother with the motorcycle.”
Amber crosses her arms. “Kind of.”
Junie reels off the driving itinerary.
Amber doesn’t say a word. She stomps to the cupboard, clatters a cereal bowl onto the counter and dumps in Froot Loops and milk. Her jaw jumps up and down with each savage chew.
Amber barely slows down to drop me off at Belmont Park. For a girl who’s überly into boys, she’s not very helpful when it comes to the rest of us.
I wait a few footsteps inside the entrance gate, soaking up the atmosphere, getting my bearings. I’m taking a couple of minutes to get into the cool-date-with-cute-guy groove. Trying to ignore the basketball-sized nervousness in my stomach.
I’m very adorably dressed in my good-luck capri jeans with a wide belt, my good-luck plum-colored baby-doll top and my good-luck plum-colored flip-flops.
The perfect number of people are milling around. Enough to make it fun but not so many that there’ll be long lines for the rides. Under chattering voices and screams from the roller coaster, there’s a hum of nonstop carney patter. “Step right up, folks. Try your luck at Water Gun Fun, where everyone’s a winner.” And I’m totally loving the fried, sugary funnel-cake smell.
I catch sight of Josh by the ticket booth. He pulls a hand out of his shorts pocket to adjust his sunglasses, then sits on a low wall, legs stretched out. Maybe he’s getting in the date groove too?
He glances around, sees me and waves me over.
There’s a butterfly convention in my stomach.
“Hi, Sherry!” His smile’s a little shaky. “It’s kinda weird seeing you here.”
He’s right; it is kinda weird meeting up away from good old Saguaro Middle School. I nod, unsure of whether my voice’ll come out as a squeak or not. Like the basketball’s trying to bounce up into my throat.
