I So Don't Do Makeup (6 page)

“So, Mom, something weird's happening at the mall.” And I launch into the whole Lacey + Amber + tainted makeup story.

When I'm done, she says, “I wonder what the abrasive ingredient is. And is it the same for the night cream and the gloss?” I bet she's twirling her hair around her index finger, mulling it all over. It's a mother-daughter habit. “You and Junie only tested the gloss for acidity, right?”

“Yeah, because Lacey already sent the cream to her head office for analysis.” I hug my knees. “But The Ruler—Paula said there was a small amount of papaya acid in it.

“You sound positive the factory isn't just sending bad batches.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“You've certainly had enough detective experience that you can trust your gut.”

A bubble of pride zings around inside me. “Thanks.”

“You want to help this girl out?”

I think of Lacey grabbing my arm and how desperate she is to save her dream business. “Definitely.” I hook my hair behind my ears. “But it's more than that, Mom. It's personal for us. You should see Junie's face. Brianna and I are mild. It's not okay to do that to people and get away with it.”

There's a wispy light breeze as my mom touches my face. “Your skin's still dry and red. Why don't you stop wearing makeup for a while?”

“What?” I practically roll off the branch at the absurd suggestion. “Go out in public without makeup? Seriously? And have you forgotten I have a boyfriend?”

My mother sighs. “How's that going?”

“Fantabulous. We're actually going on a movie date tomorrow.”

“Your father and Paula are okay with it?”

“Basically.” It's my turn to sigh. “But I have to come straight home after the movie. And it's a
matinée
on a
Sunday.”

“You have to wear makeup on this, uh, date?” Mom stumbles over the word “date.”

I stretch out my legs and cross my arms. “Yes.”

Silence. Not as comfortable as before.

“I'm surprised the Phantom Security Squad hasn't brought up any of the incidents,” Mom says. “It's not like them to miss offenses committed against humans. I attended the most recent Academy security meeting, and the PSS didn't mention a cosmetics case.”

“They're only human—oops.” Because they aren't human. Just like my mom, they're ghosts with a background in law enforcement or detective work.

“Perhaps the goings-on at Lacey's kiosk are such small potatoes that the Academy's not getting involved,” Mom muses.

The bubble of pride grows into a bubble of excitement. “Well, then this would be a perfect opportunity for us to earn Real Time. We discovered our own mystery. We solve it. We keep loads of humans safe from tainted makeup. The Academy is überproud of us. And, voilà, they award us five minutes of Real Time.” Then the bubble of excitement kicks it into high gear. “Do they ever award more than five minutes of Real Time? Like, how about a day. Think
of how great it would be to spend an entire day together! Where I could actually see you.”

There's a long pause. Too long.

“I can't help with the makeup situation,” Mom says slowly. “And I don't think you should either.”

I
t's Sunday morning around eleven. Lugging a heavy backpack, I hopped a bus and now I'm standing in front of Dairy Queen. Make that Dairy Queen, aka the Academy of Spirits.

I so don't want to go in. But I gotta find out why my mom can't help me on the cosmetics case. And change that. Sigh. A detective's got to do what a detective's got to do.

I square my shoulders, pull open the heavy glass door and step inside.

Yikes.

A million and one rug rats in Little League uniforms are bombing around, screaming and screeching. What are their parents thinking? Play a baseball
game and we'll reward you with humongous amounts of frozen empty calories?

Yikes. I mentally slap myself upside the head. Why am I going all judgmental about junk food? The Ruler and her food views are rubbing off on me. Ack.

“Excuse me, excuse me.” I fight my way to the back of the store and the secret entrance to the Academy. Oh great, six more kids, even louder than the ones I squeezed by, are sitting, jumping, hopping at the back table with their coach.

I've never tried to pass through the secret door with witnesses. It's probably not allowed. It's probably more painful than usual. It's probably impossible.

I hang a left into the restroom. I unzip my backpack and tip it over. Out spills my bike helmet, my large owlish sunglasses and a roll of heavy-duty aluminum foil. Crossing the threshold to the Academy is no mean feat. If not done properly, it hurts. As in a trillion electric shocks snapping and zapping at me. My hair'll stand on end. I'll see stars. My legs'll go numb.

I dress for the mission.

Bike helmet on: Check.

Large, owlish sunglasses on: Check.

Tinfoil wrapped around arms and legs: Check.

I push open the door.

Six bratty kids eating sundaes the size of their heads point at me.

“Coach! Coach! Who's that?”

“Coach! Coach! Is that a homeless person?”

“Coach! Coach! Should we call the cops?”

“Hi, kids!” I say, all fake cheerful and party-voiced. “Howdy, Coach!” I raise an arm in a crinkly wave. “I'm the new mascot for Dairy Queen. Captain Silverpants.”

“I gotta pee,” says the smallest team member.

The coach grabs his hand and bounds into the restroom.

Which leaves me with ten staring eyeballs. Unfriendly eyeballs. And one of them's bloodshot with pinkeye.

“You're a Dairy Queen mascot?” A short, squat boy squints at me. “How come I've never seen you in a TV commercial?”

“Uh, Captain Silverpants is a brand-new mascot.” I paste on a sugary smile.

“Why're you wearing a bike helmet instead of an ice cream cone?” says a tall, runny-nosed boy. “And your costume is cheap. Like you made it in your kitchen. Without adult supervision.”

“Maybe we're inventing a new ice cream treat?” I say. When did this generation get so jaded?

“Aren't you Sam's sister?”

Captain Silverpants is striking out. I'll never get past these hoodlums and into the Academy.

“You're a fake!” says the boy with pinkeye. He winds up his leg and kicks me in the right shin!

“Ow!” I can't believe it. These are the worst-behaved, meanest kids on the planet. And they're guarding the secret door to the Academy. I bend over to rub my poor aching leg, and discover his nasty pointy cleats ripped small jagged holes in the aluminum foil!

“Fake! Fake! Fake!” yells Pinkeye, who proceeds to plant his cleats in my left shin.

“Ow!” I'm hopping up and down, dodging metal-cleated kicks from Pinkeye, when a couple of the other monsters start pulling at my aluminum foil. “Get away from me, you brats!”

The short, squat boy leaps at me from a bench seat. He knocks my helmet crooked.

Then,
flash!
A brilliant home run of an idea slams into my mascotish mind. “Look! Free double-chocolate-dipped cones at the cash register!”

The gang beelines to the front of the store.

I shove open the Employees Only door and slide across the threshold. Thousands of electric arrows zap and ping, ping and zap. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”

My bike helmet askew, I fall to the floor moaning. Electric shocks pierced the torn aluminum foil. My legs tremble. My head aches. My eyelids droop. I mumble in pain.

Yes, I made it to the Academy. But I'm half dead.

I
lie curled up on the linoleum floor of the Academy. There's got to be an easier way.

The smell of Cinnabon breezes past me. My mother's guidance counselor, the powerful and moody Mrs. Howard, is arriving.

“Howdy, Miss Sherry.” A blurry snowballish shape hovers above the only table in the room.

I can see a fuzzy Mrs. Howard when she allows it.

An arm extends from the shape and points to a small Oreo Cookies Blizzard. The Blizzard slides obediently to the end of the table nearest me.

I lurch to the table and collapse on the bench. Grasping the cup, I sip and sip and sip. Finally, I gasp, “Tough entrance.”

“Sure enough, you are a survivor, Miss Sherry. We've witnessed this several times,” Mrs. Howard drawls. She's a Southern ghost with an accent that can lull you to sleep. She can also morph from a welcoming Cinnabon smell to a burnt-sugar odor faster than a bobcat can climb a tree.

“I might need another Blizzard,” I pant. “I usually order a medium.”

“To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?” Mrs. Howard floats above me.

I tell her about the tainted makeup and finish with, “I really need my mom on the case with me.”

“Have y'all discussed this?”

Slurping, I nod.

“And what exactly did your mama say?”

“She didn't think she could help, but she wouldn't tell me why. So, I climbed on a bus, faced injury and humiliation from a horde of Little Leaguers, and traveled through the Portal of Pain into the Academy just to talk to you.” I clasp my hands together and beg. “Could you please assign my mother to the case?” Even though Real Time hovers at the edge of my mind, I do not even dare mention it. One favor is already pushing the limit with this bossy, controlling ghost counselor.

A rectangular plasma screen appears in the upper corner of the room. “Honey, go on and watch this.”

I crane my already cricked-out neck.

Shimmering and glowing, the screen fills with headlines.

A black arrow cursor blinks its way across the screen and double-clicks on
MOTHER-DAUGHTER DUO PULLS IT OFF
.

The scrolling speeds up, so I can only catch a word here and there: “successful,” “courageous,” “quick-thinking.”

“What
is
this?” I ask.

“The WWWD,” Mrs. Howard says. “The World Wide Web for the Dead.”

My jaw drops. I am speechless.

“And, as you can plainly see, you're plastered all over it. There's even a YouTube video of you investigating the rhino enclosure at the Wild Animal Park in San Diego.”

My jaw is still gaping. I am still speechless.

“You and your mother are receiving a bushel-load of attention. ‘Hits' I believe it's called.” Mrs. Howard balloons herself up big and bloated. “Which can be good.” A burnt-sugar smell seeps into the room. “And which can be bad.”

Placing the back of my hand under my jaw, I manually close my mouth.

“Academies all over the world have their specter eyes upon y'all. Our allies are rooting for us and applauding our creativity in putting you and your mother together to crack cases. Our enemies, however, are waiting in the wings for you to fall flat on y'all's faces, bringing shame and ridicule upon our entire organization.”

“I've always wanted to be famous,” I blurt out.

“Now listen carefully, missy, 'cause this is fixin' to
get real complicated. There is a foreign Academy we've been attempting to form an alliance with for years. Each time we approach them, they turn us down. Suddenly, they're interested. Why? Because they want to hire your mama. She's our in: They hire her, we hire one of their agents.”

I slide my sunglasses down my nose and gaze over them Hollywood-style. I would so rock at famous.

“But the deal isn't sealed. Not even close.”

I plop my helmet on the table, then twist my hair into an updo. Fame will never go to my head. No, no, I will remain my normal friendly self, except with a boa and air-kissing. I'll chat and chatter with my fans, signing autographs with a fat, glittery pen.

“Our potential alliance must remain secret.”

Leaning back, I cross one leg over the other and, toes pointed down, swing the top leg à la movie star. I. Am. Famous.

“Sherry, have you listened to a word? Do you know what in the Sam Hill I've been talking about?” Mrs. Howard's right in my face, so close I could put my hand right through her. If I so desired. Which I do not.

I swivel my head, posing and smiling for an imaginary camera. I parrot back, “The Academy is überanxious to hook up with a powerful foreign Academy. The foreign Academy wants my mother. We want an agent from them. It's all confidential.” The last word
barely escapes my lips when my brain overrides my fame fantasies and kicks into high gear. I jump up. My sunglasses clatter to the floor. “Who's the foreign Academy? What's Mom's talent? How long would they keep her?”

Mrs. Howard shakes her oversized doughy head. “There's too much at stake.”

“I can keep a secret.”

Silence. An embarrassing silence. While we both think of how I spilled my guts about the Academy and my mother to Junie. And how maybe keeping secrets isn't my thing.

Mrs. Howard breaks the silence. “If the PSS has not brought this makeup mys-ter-y”—she pronounces “mystery” slowly, not treating it seriously—“to our attention, it's not worthy of our talents.”