I So Don't Do Mysteries (16 page)

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.

“Ya wanna get wristbands?” Josh points to the sign.

I glance at the price. Good thing my dad gave me spending money.
“Sure.”

“We gotta ride the Giant Dipper. The roller coaster,” he says.
“It's famous from being in radio contests. Like, whoever stayed on longest won a car
or a load of money.”

After buying wristbands, we head straight to the roller coaster. Next thing I know,
we're in a teal-colored car, clackety-clacking along faded wooden tracks. Suddenly, we shoot
into darkness. With a jolt, we're wrenched back into blinding sunlight, climbing up, up, up. We
teeter at the top. We plunge. I scream. Bashed around the car, my bones rattle. I grit my teeth. My head
slams against the headrest. I scream again. Bruises are popping up all over my body.

We lurch to a stop. I carefully clamber out, straightening my spine, massaging my
hip.

By far, that's the jerkiest, roughest, most painful roller coaster I've ever
ridden. I literally hurt everywhere. To the point I need Extra Strength Tylenol.

I was thrown against Josh Morton thirteen times.

“Let's go again,” I say.

After, like, three rides on the Giant Dipper, which translates into thirty-nine collisions
with Josh, he says, rubbing his elbow, “Wanna try our luck at the midway games?”

“Yeah.” One more ride on that roller coaster, and I'll probably
have a concussion. And you know what? Chilling with Josh in San Diego isn't feeling weird
anymore. It's feeling fun.

Josh's eyes light up in front of Down the Clown. Holding out some money, he
says, “I'll take a bucket of balls.”

The carney plunks the bucket on the counter. “Good luck.”

Josh grabs a ball, squeezes it, rolls it around in the palm of his hand. He raises an arm,
squints—and
wham!

One clown head is down for the count.

Wham! Wham! Wham!

Three more clown heads bite the dust.

“Wow,” I say. “You're awesome.”

“Thanks.” Josh lowers his arm. His blue eyes sparkle at me.
“Water polo.”

He raises his arm again.

More whams. More flattened clown heads. A crowd gathers behind us. “That
guy hasn't missed yet.” “He's incredible.” “What an
arm.”

I turn and smile at Josh's admirers. “He plays water polo.”

You know you've found an awesome guy when you're walking around
Belmont Park clutching five stuffed Shamus. Other girls eye me with envy.

We pass a game called Coconut Climb. I tug on Josh's arm. “That
looks interesting.”

He says, “Go for it.”

And I do. The carney straps me into a harness. I kick off my sandals, wipe my hands
on my capris, and get a foothold at the bottom of the plastic palm-tree trunk. I scramble to the top like
a mountain goat, smack the red button, then rappel down.

“Cool.” Josh's eyes are all wide and impressed.

I scale the fake tree a bunch more times and win five inflatable monkeys for Josh.
Climbing the pear tree in my backyard has turned me into a Coconut Climb champion.

We're such big winners, I'm surprised the park doesn't ask us
to leave. In order to give other people a chance.

Somehow, amid all the Shamus and monkeys, Josh grabs my hand and pulls me over to
the churro cart. We're laughing and juggling prizes and sharing a giant churro and a jumbo
frozen lemonade. My hand is tingling from where it made contact with his hand.

Josh sips from the straw, then hands me the cup.

As the freezing-cold slush slides down my throat, a thought slides into my brain.
Belmont Park is an important and life-altering experience. Because now I have a first-date connection
with Josh Morton. And he has one with me.

I'm slurping on the lemonade, feeling it all icy on my tongue, sharing
Josh's straw, thinking how it's the best, most perfect first date.

And then an unpleasant thing happens. And that unpleasant thing is named Amber.

It's around three
o'clock, and Junie and I
are at the restaurant, chilling on the sidewalk, toe-poking the rubbery tar between two squares. Behind
us is an unlit On the Bay sign with wavy blue letters. We're feeling pretty confident because
there's two of us.

We continue dissecting my date with Josh.

“I still can't believe Amber picked you up a whole hour early,”
Junie says.

“I was so bummed,” I say. “I just know Josh was planning to
hold my hand again.” I explain in Junie terms. “Mathematically speaking, we'd
been there for two hours and he held my hand once. If we'd stayed another two hours,
he'd definitely have held my hand at least one more time.”

“Makes sense,” she says. “So, when are you getting together
again?”

“He's gonna call me Thursday. Tomorrow he's gotta do family
stuff with his aunt and cousins.”

A guy and a girl, both tall and skinny, with long, stringy dirty-blond hair and matching
Santana High School T-shirts, show up. Can you say twins? Anyway, he plunks down onto the curb,
legs sticking out into the street and head bobbing to his iPod. She paces, pressing buttons on her iPod,
adjusting her earbuds, checking her watch.

“
Allons-y! Allons-y!
Hurry! Hurry!” A short, paunchy man with
a majorly receding hairline scuttles toward us, the tails of his white chef's coat billowing out
behind him. He unlocks and whips open the front door, then waves us over with a stubby arm.

The mysterious Chef L'Oeuf has arrived.

The girl pockets her iPod and scurries to the door, while the guy folds in his legs, rubs
a knee, then slowly lifts himself to a stand.

Junie and I fall into line behind him, acting all nonchalant, like one of the gang, like
it's just another day at the office. Meanwhile, my stomach is tied up and scared.

As they file past the chef, he says, “
Bonjour
, Lindsey. Lindsey, get zee
net for your hairs.
Bonjour
, Luke.”

He stops-signs me with his hand. “I am Chef L'Oeuf. Who are
yooou?” His accent's all Inspector Clouseau from
The Pink Panther
.

“Oh.” And before the thought that I shouldn't give my real name
is even fully formed, I pop out with, “Céline Dion.”

“Céline Dion?” His eyebrows shoot up with surprise.
“Like zee singer?”

“Uh, yeah. Kinda. But we're not related.” I grab Junie's
hand. “We're here to get credit for a career project at school. Our teacher probably
called you. The Ruler? I mean, Miss Paulson? I mean, Mrs. Baldwin?” I am so thinking on my
feet.

“No, no one of zeez names called me,” he says. “But yooou are
interested in zee food industry, Céline?”

“Sure.” In the sense that I've eaten in lots of restaurants.

Grinning at me like I'm his new pet poodle, the chef pats my head and backs up
so that I can squeeze past his belly. “Ah,
ma petite
Céline Dion.”

Okay. I'm in.

“And yooou are who?” Chef L'Oeuf says to Junie.

She's not as quick-thinking as me. “Junie Carter. I'm doing the
same career project as, uh, Céline.”

We follow Luke and Lindsey across the foyer, through the dining area, to a swinging
door. The whole way I can hear the chef's shoes clicking behind me, like he's some
sort of cooking general.

I push through the door. We're in a long, narrow kitchen with a sharp, clean
antiseptic smell. On one wall, copper-bottomed pots and utensils hang above the stoves. The opposite
wall is a huge fridge with shiny stainless-steel doors. On either side of the fridge, there's a tile
counter with loads of drawers under it and loads of cupboards above it.

Lindsey marches over to a drawer and yanks out a hairnet. Holding the elastic tight at
her forehead, she stretches the net over the rest of her head. Then she starts poking in every single stray
hair strand. This girl means serious business.

When she's satisfied with the hairnet, she zooms to another drawer and hauls
out a bunch of ceramic bowls. The whole time, she's zinging little sideways glances at the chef
to check if he's watching her.

Chef L'Oeuf says, “Where are zee others?”

Luke thumbs down his iPod's volume. “Surf's up,
dude.” He shakes his head. “Bummer for me. With a broke board.”

Frowning, the chef lets loose a torrent of French vowels and consonants. I pick out
“California” and “imbeciles.” I'm pretty sure it's the
whole work-ethic lecture. My dad can blast off a killer one in English.

Lindsey unhooks a skillet the size of the Grand Canyon and clatters it onto a stove
top.

“
Avec l'amour,
Lindsey.” Chef L'Oeuf tsks.
“Wiz love. Zees is why you are not yet successful wiz your special dish. You must create wiz
love.”

She stiffens.

He turns to me and purses his lips, pushing them in and out like they're doing
exercises. Then he hums some Céline Dion. Finally, he snaps his fingers.
“Meringue.”

Meringue? What's he talking about? My chest is tight like a Lycra T-shirt.

Eyes still on me, Chef L'Oeuf says, “Lindsey, get Céline started.
I have zee good feeling about her as zee meringue sous-chef. Zee very good feeling.
Oui.
Oui
.”

Yikes. One look at Lindsey, and I can see she definitely doesn't have
“zee good feeling” about me. And excuse my culinary ignorance, but isn't
meringue a dance with a lot of hip action?

The chef considers Junie. “Zee silverware. You can polish.”

Junie's face falls.

When she passes me, I whisper in her ear, “Remember, this isn't a real
job. We're here to investigate.” As the meringue sous-chef, I can afford to be
generous.

“Luke.” The chef head-gestures to the back door. “Let us carry
in the
mesab
s.”

They leave.

“What are
mesab
s?” I ask.

Lindsey looks up from where she's hunched over a deep drawer, hugging a
huge glass bowl to her chest. “Wicker tables.” Her legs all bowed with the effort, she
staggers over to me and deposits the bowl on the counter. “There's stools to go with
them too. Covered with monkey fur.”

“Yuck.”

“Yuck?” Lindsey makes a face at me like I've sprouted an extra
head. “You're like my brother. You just don't get Chef
L'Oeuf.” Now she's slapping down measuring cups and a grinder next to the
bowl. “Chef L'Oeuf is a brilliant artist. He's creating the most perfect African
evening ever.”

My heart thumps wildly like a bunch of bongo drums. I gulp. “And, uh,
what's the main meat dish?”

Junie stops polishing mid spoon.

“Céline.” Lindsey hmpfs. “Only Chef L'Oeuf has
the big picture. I just need to get my part under control.”

“Which is what?” Besides being nutcase extraordinaire.

“
Injera.
It's an edible tablecloth made of a sourdough pancake
bread. You tear a piece off and wrap your food in it. Like mini burritos.”

“Sounds . . . interesting.”

“Yeah, if I could just nail it.” Lindsey's eyes well up.
“It's really, really tricky. Especially because we don't have the right kind of
flour in America.” She blinks back tears.

That's a lot of emotion for an edible tablecloth.

“I don't want to let Chef L'Oeuf down.” She sniffs.
“I have to wow him so he'll sign me up as one of his specials. You know, the
sous-chefs he flies in the night before.”

The sous-chefs he flies in the night before? Does this secret club include rhino
cooks?

“What's the deal with the meringue?” I ask. “As in, what
is the stuff?”

“It's for lemon-meringue pie. The chef
must
serve it.
It's in every restaurant in South Africa.”

Ahhh. I get it. Meringue is that fluffy whitish-beigish junk on the top of lemon-meringue
pies.

“The big problem is getting it to peak,” Lindsey says.

Are we talking mountain climbing or baking?

“No one's been able to get it to stiffen properly. Chef L'Oeuf
thinks we might be too close to the ocean.” Lindsey crosses her arms. “But he
obviously thinks you're the special meringue girl.” Her eyes flash jealousy at me.

I nod big, pretending like it's majorly exciting. I'm so not the meringue
girl. I'm a Fearless Rhino Warrior, here to determine if Chef L'Oeuf plans to serve
rhino meat. And then my mom, my grandpa, Junie and me will shut him down.

Junie drops a handful of forks.

“Careful. You need to polish with love,” Lindsey says.

I catch Junie's eye and wink. She winks back. I'm so digging team
sleuthing with her.

Lindsey jets from drawer to drawer and cupboard to cupboard, gathering items for my
station. Cream of tartar. Sugar. Eggs.

“I better get to know my way around the kitchen,” I say. “You
don't need to keep getting my stuff out. Not with the
injera
-tablecloth thing to deal
with.”

Her jaw drops in surprise. She's so used to being a peon. “Works for
me.” She moves back to her own station and plunges her arms into a bowl of flour.

“Lindsey?” I give her a thumb's-up. “Your
tablecloth'll be a hit.”

With a hint of a smile on her face, she drips water into her mixture.

“Hey, Junie.” With my hand, I mime talking.

She gives me the thumb's-up, grabs a bunch of silverware and her polishing rag
and goes over to Lindsey. “How'd you get into cooking? Was it through your high
school?”

So, where to start snooping? I walk to one end of the kitchen and start pulling out
drawers. Nothing but kitchen junk. In fact, looking around, I can see there's a lot of kitchen
junk in this kitchen.

I'm on my hands and knees, holding my breath against a moldy, mildewy smell,
peering under the sink, when I find it. An old, battered leather briefcase with a dog-eared tag around the
handle:
ANDRÉ L'OEUF
.

I poke my head out for a peek at Lindsey. She's kneading away, pounding the
life out of a hunk of dough. In between whacks, she chats with Junie. No Chef L'Oeuf or Luke
either. They're still playing moving men.

The coast is clear.

Back under the sink, I squeeze the ancient, tarnished clasp, and the briefcase
accordion-opens. I start leafing through the loose papers. In the first section, there's a bunch
of newspaper articles with Chef L'Oeuf's name in the headlines, and another
chef's name too, Chef Poulet. Unfortunately, the articles are in French. At least, I think
it's French. There's a bunch of accent marks.

I hit pay dirt with the last article which is, yay, in civilized English. I scan it.

Basically, Chef Poulet, from some place called Brussels, wants to topple Chef
L'Oeuf from king of the culinary heap. Chef Poulet comes from a way-rich family and has
oodles of money and says he can create theme evenings even more extravagant and exotic than Chef
L'Oeuf's. And Chef Poulet is opening his own exclusive restaurant in Paris. Chef
L'Oeuf says he's opening his own Parisian restaurant too. Some people in the
restaurant world question where he's scoring the money. Then Chef L'Oeuf brags
about how incredible this year's theme dinner will be.

By the end of the article, I'm feeling proud and sick at the same time.
I'm proud because I discovered important stuff. Motive stuff. An African theme evening with
rhino meat would so work for Chef L'Oeuf, who needs bags of money. I feel sick at the
thought of people eating rhino meat.

I stuff the article in the briefcase and put everything back the way I found it. In the nick
of time.

Charging through the swinging door, Chef L'Oeuf yells, “You are
imbecile. You are surfing idiot.”

Luke slouches through the door.

No
mesabs
in sight.

“Grab many of zee dish towels!” the chef shouts. “You will
protect zee table corners wiz zeez.”

I back out fast from under the sink, bumping my head on a pipe.
“Ouch!”

The chef barks at me, “What are yooou doing?”