I So Don't Do Mysteries (6 page)

All the guests
have left. I'm sitting on the landing at
the top of the stairs, listening to the normal sounds below. Sam's playing Wii Sports, probably
now changed into his fave Diamondback T-shirt. Dad and The Ruler are in the kitchen, their voices so
faint I can't decipher what they're saying.

I'm not feeling so normal inside. I'm feeling queasy, like I rode the
jerky, spinning Scrambler ride one too many times. I just broke a huge Academy rule. And what if Junie
doesn't believe me? Now what's going to happen to me and my mother?

Suddenly I can hear voices. It's Dad and The Ruler, standing at the bottom of
the staircase.

“I'll check on her,” The Ruler says.

No, no, no. Leave me alone, evil straight-spined woman.

“Are you sure, Paula?” my dad asks. “You know how prickly
she can be.”

Moi?
Prickly?

“I'm sure.” The bottom stair creaks. “I want to see how
her rash is doing.”

Yeah, yeah. She wants to laugh at my freakish skin. Unlike my naive dad, I'm
not taken in by her phony-baloney niceness act.

“And I haven't given her the bridesmaid gift yet,” she says.

A gift?
Oooooh.
Things are looking up. I scoot back to my room, hop on the
bed and open my book.

At my door, The Ruler smiles. “It's upside down.”

I scowl and drop the book on the carpet.

She looks around, nodding. It's the first time she's been in here and,
therefore, the first time she's been exposed to its dazzling decor. “Very
innovative.”

I can't help but agree. At Home Depot, I whipped up a special batch of paint
for the walls and created a gorgeous, rich color I call “turquoise + sea green.” Then I
tossed in a few handfuls of glitter. The stunning result is shimmering, sparkling walls. Miracle of all
miracles, I found the perfect bedspread, with waves of blues and greens, onto which I sewed
different-shaped sequins. Next I glued colored glass that looks like gemstones around the door frame
and across the windowsills. It's like living in a pirate's treasure chest.

Sadly, though, I've been unable to locate turquoise + sea-green gravel for my
aquarium. I am hugely into my fish, all named after fairy-tale characters, and always coordinate their
space with mine. We're happiest when our environments match and mesh.

The Ruler sets a wrapped box on the dresser and walks toward me with a tube of
ointment. “Let's take a peek.”

I tip my head back so that she can see my neck where the rash is the worst. Her fingers
feel cool on my hot skin. This is the most relaxed I've felt all day. Weird.

“Good. It's going down.” The Ruler hands me the ointment.
“This is stronger than the one I brought up before. Don't use it on your
face.”

“How will I look tomorrow?”

“Good enough to get on a plane.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“Have you ever had this kind of reaction to stress before?”

“Stress? No, no, no. I'm allergic to the bridesmaid dress.”

“I don't think it was the dress,” she says.

Well, I am überly stressed. What with my mom, the Academy, the wedding. I
mean, who wouldn't be stressed to the max?

The Ruler goes into the bathroom.

Yikes. I hope she doesn't spot my bridesmaid dress in the trash.

She returns with a science Dixie cup and a pink pill. No mention of the dress. She gives
me the cup and pill. “More Benadryl.”

While I'm swallowing the pill, she says, “I think it's time you
started calling me Paula.” With a small grin, she adds, “Of course, you can still refer to
me as The Ruler at school.”

She walks to the dresser for the gift. “Let's trade.”

“You're not getting much of a deal,” I say, crumpling the cup as
I hand it to her.

“Oh, I think I am.”

I sense there's a hidden message in her words but am not getting sucked into an
“I'm looking forward to being your stepmother” conversation. I don't
need a stepmother. I have a mother. A real one. Well, a real, dead one.

I bound out
of bed way early the next morning. Our flight
isn't until two, but I gotta get hold of my mother.

First thing I do is grab my brand-new cell phone off my nightstand. The Ruler, Paula,
definitely knows how to choose a gift. I've wanted a cell forever. And this one is teeny and tiny
and cute and shiny with perfect little buttons and a few video games.

Second thing I do is elbow on the bathroom light. I scream. The Ruler, Paula, whoever,
was so wrong. I don't look cured enough to get on a plane. I look like I need to be abandoned
on a desert island, where I can't freak out small children and pets.

I grab a half-dried-up concealer stick. The whole time I'm coloring my face and
neck, I'm thinking Mom thoughts. Scary Mom thoughts. Like, what's she going to say
when she finds out I broke a major Academy rule by blabbing to Junie? Color. Worry. Color.
Worry.

All of a sudden, a brilliant idea zaps me like static shock. I won't tell Mom that I
told Junie. I'm sure the Academy will never figure it out, because, with all their important
ghostly responsibilities, how much are they gonna stay on top of one lousy ghost, one little mystery
and me?

One final swipe with the stick, and I'm ready to contact my mother. Hopefully
her special snitch gave her beaucoup details, like the suspect's name, photo, address,
driver's license, motive. And how about info like exactly when he plans to carry out his deadly
deed?

In the kitchen, I haul down the can of French roast and the coffeemaker from the
cupboard. I set them side by side on the counter. Now what?

A toilet flushes upstairs. Hurry. Hurry. Think. Think. I peel the lid off the can. Coffee
smell wafts throughout the room, and a lump as big as a Ping-Pong ball jams my throat. I shake my
head. No time for this. I partially fill the carafe with water, then dump in some grounds, which float
around like dead ants in a swimming pool. Gross. Why do people drink this stuff?

“Whatcha doin'?”

I shriek, jump, drop the carafe. In that order. Amazingly, the carafe doesn't
break but spits water + grounds all over the tile. “Look what you did,” I say to Sam.
“Get cleaning.”

“Okay.” Rubbing his eyes, he unrolls some paper towels.

My brother must be sleepwalking; he never follows my orders.

“Fine,” I say. “Give me some too.”

He tears off a bunch of sheets and hands them to me.

I start mopping up puddles.

“It smells like Mom in here.” His voice cracks.

I look over at him, with his sleep-messy eyebrows and drooping SpongeBob pajamas.
“Uh-huh.”

He blinks, and a couple of tears roll down his cheeks. With a sob, he lunges at me and
hangs on, like some kind of four-foot-tall munchkin-parasite.

I rub his back. “Things'll get better.” Especially if I help Mom
so she gets to stay in the Academy. Maybe she'll learn to contact Sam too. Mom can watch his
Little League games. And if she learns to cross thresholds, she can come to our school stuff, like plays
and citizen-of-the-month assemblies. We can hang together, tell her about our day, joke around, talk
about what's bugging us. It could be great.

Sam gives a big, wet, mucusy sniff, then untangles himself. “You wanna drink
coffee to help you remember Mom better?”

“Something like that.”

He pulls a package of filters out of the lazy Susan and pinches one off. Then he
expertly taps the filter gently into place, spoons in some French roast, rinses out the carafe, refills it and
pours the water into the machine. After pushing the On button, he says, “I made enough for me
too. Not to drink. Just to smell.”

Standing next to each other, close but not touching, the two of us silently watch the
coffee drip down. When it's done, I pour two mugs.

“
Scooby Doo
's on.” Sam cradles the mug between his
hands and shuffles like an old man into the living room.

I wait till he's on the couch and zoned out in front of the TV, then shove open
the sliding door. If I don't hurry, I'll find myself trying to explain to Dad and The Ruler
why I'm up a tree with a cup of coffee.

Once outside, I follow my routine from before. Hey, why mess with success? So I get
comfortable on my branch, wave the mug around over my head, then set it above me in a hollow in the
trunk and think about my mom.

Within seconds, there's a humongous thud, probably measurable on the Richter
scale.

“Landing, landing,” my mother says.

Squawk. Squawk. Squawk.

I look up. It's the same beady-eyed wren I've been seeing around our
yard. He's hugging the trunk with his wings.

“I've got to work on that.” Mom says from the branch right
above me. “Looks like my rough landing scared your grandfather.”

“Huh?” It's like my brain suddenly empties of live
thoughts.

“The wren. It's Grandpa Baldwin.” She pauses. “You
hadn't figured it out?”

“No one figures that kind of stuff out.” I shake my head.
“Why's Grandpa a bird?”

“He chose the animal option. Your grandparents, as you know, have always
been bird lovers. Which is why he went with a wren form.”

“Way weird.” My life is veering deeper into insanity country. What
happened to normal stuff like dying and getting buried in the ground? And staying there?

Mom's branch creaks. “Grandpa spends most of his time in
Grandma's backyard. He likes to be near her. Plus, she keeps the bird feeder full.”

I have many memories of Grandpa. He loved to wear hugely nerdy leather shorts and
polka-dot suspenders, then belt out embarrassing German songs into a bratwurst/microphone. He often
had a parrot on his shoulder. And he was always tossing back a handful of sunflower seeds. And never
sharing, I might add. Well, except with my brother, who takes accordion lessons.

“Grandpa has offered to help us in San Diego,” Mom says. “If
he can fly that distance. You know, given his age.”

I groan. I don't need an ancient wren that, in human form, never really liked me
and now specializes in shooting me the evil eye. Besides, we've already got Junie and my
mom's study group.

“He's pretty smart for an old bird, and we need all the help we can
get.”

“Fine. Any new scoop from the snitch? Like the names and addresses of
suspects?”

“Police work isn't usually that straightforward. But he did learn that the
poacher is experienced. And even though the snitch hasn't given us much, we have my study
group. They are truly brilliant.”

Mom clears her throat. I bet she asks about the wedding.

“How did yesterday go?”

I knew it.

“I couldn't find my way here,” she says. “Didn't
they serve coffee?”

“Nope. Lemonade.”

“That must have been tough on Mrs. Lucas. She rivaled me in the number of
cups she drank a day.”

“Yeah.”

My mom sniffs a couple of times. “I bet you and Sam looked
great.”

“Sam looked good. I looked like a dork.”

“Oh, Sherry, I'm sure that's not true.” She sighs.
“I really wanted to see you two dressed up.”

I feel a tickle like a cotton ball or feather brushing my cheek. It's Mom.
She's right by me. I close my eyes and just feel. I concentrate really hard. There's a
sensation of pressure, like she's rubbing my shoulders. Then the light, feathery feeling again,
but this time under my chin.

“Is this a rash?”

“Yeah. From stress, apparently.”

“Makes sense,” she says. “The wedding, the mystery challenge,
probably some school worries in there somewhere. Anything else?” She pauses, and I can
imagine her narrowing her eyes the way she used to when she was thinking hard. “And
you're probably even more interested in boys now.”

Ack. “No, no, no,” I say, “everything's chill. I mean,
other than the stuff you mentioned. Because that stuff is way stressful.” My babbling
won't stop. It's like my mouth is on fast-forward. “Stressful wedding, stressful
mystery challenge, stressful boys. Yuppers. You name it, it's—”

“What's going on, Sherry?”

I am such a lousy liar. “Nothing, nothing, nothing. Everything's chill,
chill, chi—”

“Don't tell me you and Junie had a fight. You two have been friends for
a long time. And I count on Junie to keep you grounded.”

“Oh, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “Junie and me are good.
We're always good.” And in my relief at not having to lie, I say too much. “She
totally gets my anxiety about—” I bite my tongue. Hard.

“Your anxiety about what?”

“Nothing.” I swallow. Hard.

“Your anxiety about what?” Mom asks again, her voice low and
even.

“It's not my fault,” I wail. “You know what I'm
like. It's unfair to dump a mystery on someone who sucks at challenges.”

“What. Does. Junie. Know.”

“Everything. She knows everything.” My chin hits my chest.
“I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.”

Silence. A colossally enormous, scary silence.