I So Don't Do Spooky (15 page)

Now Junie's eyes are the size of extra-large pizzas. Which calls attention to her eyeliner. That she's wearing for the first time ever in her life.

I'll get Josh to find out how Eric feels about Junie.

“What does your dad think?” Junie asks.

“He probably doesn't like it. Although the flowers aren't really personal. The hippie gives them to all sorts of people in his life. It's his way of spreading love and peace in the world.” I make a peace sign with my fingers. “The Ruler was planning to tell him to stop. But he said today that he's moving to a commune in Northern California with his girlfriend”—I nibble—“and won't be able to keep up with the flower thing when he's out of state 'cause it'd be too expensive.”

Junie reaches for the bag of Gummis.

“Why didn't The Ruler tell you the anniversary flowers were really for her?” Junie says.

“She was embarrassed because I didn't even know she had an ex.” The bus arrives and we climb on. “And then it got all messed up because I thought they were from Josh. Plus I'd taken the card.”

“You get involved with the weirdest things, Sherry.” Junie shakes her head.

“No kidding.” I choose a yellow worm.

“Your mom really thinks an amethyst will protect us?” Junie says. “Because this guy sounds like a jerk.”

“Tell me about it.” I point to the scratches on my legs from the tumbleweed. “I'm just hoping I don't scar.”

“The amethyst?” Junie prompts.

“Yeah, yeah, she thinks it'll work.” I wave a Gummi. “Those necklaces you saw at Brittani's Baubles were on sale, right?” It's not easy being a detective on a mini allowance.

Junie nods. “I hope they still have some.” She pulls out a blue and green worm, her fave.

When we're in our seats, I say, “By the way, what's the deal with not getting back to me last night?”

Junie's face closes up like a sea anemone. “Nothing.”

“Excuse me? I send you a text saying the stalker is a ghost, and you don't even respond till this morning? Not even a text back accusing me of being nutzoid?”

“Fine.” Junie hmpfs. “My parents took my phone away for the evening.”

Well, just toss me out the bus window and run me over. I cannot even remember the last time Junie got in trouble.

“I went over my text limit,” she says.

“With who? Your cell plan has more texts than mine.”

Junie does this cartoony shifty-eyed look.

It's like sometimes when you're watching a suspense
movie and, all of a sudden, it's clear as a cloudless Arizona sky just who the bad guy is. Well, I suddenly know who Junie's texting. “Nerdy Nick? There's that much robotics junk to text about?”

“You think everyone with Bs, As and a haircut is nerdy.” Junie's eyes flash with anger.

I have no answer to that because, well, that is pretty much the universally accepted definition of “nerd.” At Saguaro Middle School, anyway. But because I so don't like my best friend to be mad at me, I say, “You obviously know him better than I do. From robotics and all. If you tell me he's not a nerd, I believe it.”

“Really, Sherry?” Junie's eyes flash again, but with excitement this time. “He's actually a nice guy. Knowledgeable, helpful, smart.”

And there you have it: he
is
nerdy. “Don't forget mean. He makes mega mean comments to me.”

Junie crosses her arms. “I'd say the mean comments are mutual.”

I twirl a few strands of hair around my index finger, mulling this over. “You might be right.”

Junie smiles. “Try being nicer to him. You'll see how he grows on you.”

Like fungus. I bite my tongue before the words escape. “Have you thought about pursuing Eric?”

“Uh, no, he's still not my type.”

“But, Junie, we'd have so much fun double-dating.”

“Not. My. Type.”

Fine. I can take a hint.

The bus rumbles to a stop, and we hop down and head across the mall parking lot. At the entrance, I yank on the chrome door handle. Then, arm in arm, Junie and I traipse down the hall, past our usual stops, like Video World and Corndogs R Us and Sequins.

We march into Brittani's Baubles. Two teens with a mission. A mission to stay safe from an evil ghost. Fashionably.

Brittani's is all narrow aisles and stuff dangling off hooks every which way. As in not the roomiest, most organized accessory store you'll ever shop in. But it does have good prices. Junie and I beeline to the sale wall and start pawing through the necklaces.

“I found one!” Junie holds up a dainty silver chain with a purple stone the size of a walnut. Frowning, she bounces the necklace in her palm. “It's tackier than I remembered.”

“Tacky?” Junie does not know her gemstones. I twirl the chain in the air, letting the amethyst spin. “See how it sparkles and shines? That's the sign of classy costume jewelry.”

“Do you really think The Ruler will wear it?” Junie doesn't sound convinced.

“If I gave The Ruler a stone from the school parking lot taped to a piece of string, she'd wear it,” I say.
“So something this cute? Of course she'll wear it. Every day of the week.”

We poke through the bazillion necklaces hanging from the bazillion hooks. And manage to scrounge up two more. One for Junie, one for The Ruler, one for me.

At the cash register, I hand the girl my money and make sure she stamps my Brittani's Baubles frequent shopper card. Only one more purchase to go till I get a free bracelet. It pays to shop cheap.

We slip on our necklaces and march back to the bus stop. On to our second field trip. The dangerous one.

B
uren Middle School. Where The Ruler used to teach. Where she had problems. Where a principal died.

After about a fifteen-minute ride, Junie and I exit the bus and gaze around, getting our bearings. First time either one of us has been to Buren. They don't have a robotics team. Or a pool.

“Should we start at the skateboard park?” Junie points across the street.

I nod. Because skateboard parks are always a hotbed of gossip. Seriously. If you're, like, in France or somewhere foreign and you need the scoop on a middle grader, go immediately to the nearest skate park.

We walk over and peer through the chain-link fence.
Two guys are in there, totally decked out in padding and helmets. One has a white helmet with black skulls and crimson eyes. Very fake-o tough. The other guy's helmet is solid blue. Very Wal-Mart.

They're really into their boards, flipping and turning and riding the rail. Impressive moves.

These are fanatical skateboarders who probably have lousy grades and a reputation for ditching class a bunch and only wearing name-brand skate clothes. We have them at my school too. I've heard they don't make reliable boyfriends.

Probably seconds before major dehydration sets in, they break for water.

“Junie, this is our chance.” We race around to the gate. Once inside, I call out, “Hi, guys. That's some seriously cool skating you've got going.”

“Yeah, duuude,” Skull Helmet says.

“Yeah, duuude,” Blue Helmet echoes.

If that's the extent of their chattiness, getting info from them is going to be like finding happy students at school during standardized testing week.

“We're doing an article on middle-school principals,” Junie says.

“And their skateboarding students.” I ad-lib that in at the last minute.

“Past and present principals,” Junie adds.

“Are ya gonna take pictures of us in our skate gear?” Skull Helmet asks.

Blue Helmet adjusts his knee and elbow pads.

“Natch.” I pull out my cell phone.

They both smile like baboons.

“Awesome.” I snap a photo. “Who was the last principal at your school?”

“Mr. Haggarty, dude,” Skull Helmet says. “He died around the same time my big brother graduated. So, like, a couple of years ago.”

Chu-chu-ching! Pay dirt! Someone with a connection to the story.

“Does the name ‘Ms. Paulson' ring a bell with you?” Junie asks.

“Skinny math teacher with posture? Crazy wanted to start a robotics club here?” Skull Helmet says. “Yeah, her name rings a bell. She was my brother's teacher. My mom loved her. Even had her over to the house for dinner a few times.”

Chu-chu-ching! More pay dirt! “But wait, you don't have a robotics club,” I say.

“Jerky Mr. Haggarty wouldn't go for it,” Skull Helmet says.

Blue Helmet's bobbing his head, his mouth slightly open. I wonder if maybe he only recently started wearing a helmet. Like after severely knocking his noggin on a skate ramp.

“Was there animosity between Ms. Paulson and the principal?” Junie asks, pulling out a notebook and fake-reportering it.

“Ani-what?” Skull Helmet twirls the wheels on his board. “Like Japanese cartoons?”

Blue Helmet stops bobbing his head. “Ms. Paulson and Mr. Haggarty were, like, total friction.”

He speaks. I witnessed a miracle at the park.

“Yeah, dude, that's so true,” Skull Helmet says. “But the parents loved Ms. Paulson. They were, like, majorly bummed when she left. The PTA got a gazillion signatures on a petition to get her back and get rid of him.”

“No way,” I say. This could seriously annoy a principal.

“Yes, way,” Skull Helmet says. “My mom still says Ms. Paulson was the only middle-school teacher who could actually teach math. And how that idiot Mr. Haggarty chased her off.”

“How'd he die?” Junie asks.

“Was Ms. Paulson involved?” I ask.

Skull Helmet looks at me like I just said something totally off the wall. Along the lines of, do you eat five servings of fruits and veggies every day? “Heart attack. In his office after school.”

“Ya wanna hear about the principal we have now?” Skull Helmet asks.

“Maybe some other time,” I say.

I barely get the sentence out, before both guys throw down their boards and take a running jump at them.

The gate creaks open behind us. “Hi, Junie. Hi, Sherry.”

I spin around.

Nerdy Nick!

He strides toward us, hands in his pants pockets. “How's the article for the school paper going?”

Only one other person in the whole entire world knew of my brilliant plan to pose as school reporters doing a story on Buren. And that one person is blushing the deepest, darkest red any middle schooler has ever blushed.

But what is Nerdy Nick doing here? Why would he take time from his busy study schedule for a fake-o interview at Buren?

And then I know. And then I'm annoyed. At Junie. And at myself.

Have I been living under a rock?

W
ith bent elbows and tight fists, I'm speedwalking outta that skate park. I'd run, but my feet haven't totally healed from my trek across the desert.

Junie's scrambling behind me. “Sherry”—she huffs like a breaking-down DustBuster—“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

“Yeah, well, there are secrets you don't keep from your best friend!” I yell over my shoulder because she's so far behind. “Even if she should figure them out herself because she's a detective. You should be up-front and tell her. Sharing about boyfriends is an important part of teen friendship.” I get to the bus stop way before her and stand there, arms crossed, fuming.

Eventually, Junie arrives, all splotchy-faced.

I turn my back. “Where is Nick, anyway?”

“His mom's picking him up.” She sucks in a few noisy breaths. “Look, Sherry—”

“Why didn't you just tell me about you two?” I face Junie.

“I wasn't sure how to tell you”—she pushes hair off her sweaty forehead—“without it ending up in a big, messy scene like this.”

I cross my arms tighter.

“You're going to get over this, Sherry,” Junie says, “so we can double-date.”

Zing
.

She got me on my weak spot. Because I've been dying to double-date for years and years. Ever since I played Barbies.

“And it's not like he's in on the mystery or anything. He thinks we went to Buren so you could learn more about The Ruler now that she's in your family.” Junie holds up her fingers in the sign of a promise. “I'll never ever tell him about your mom and the Academy.”

I uncross my arms.

“And I'm not a romance expert like you. I'll need lots of advice,” Junie continues.

When she puts it that way, I can see how it's pretty much my duty as a BFF to accept Nick as Junie's squeeze. “Fine, fine. Let's hit Drinks & Stuff, split a
strawberry smoothie and get down to the nitty-gritty about guys.”

We hug, then clamber on yet another bus. While it's chugging along, we figure out the next step in identifying the stalker. A step that involves Amber.

Back at the mall, we're off to the makeup section at the department store. Amber's working the first counter. Standing next to a woman with blue hair, she's mixing a couple of colors of eye shadow together. She's your basic beauty genius.

“Amber,” Junie says. “Can I order you something from Drinks and Stuff?”

Amber looks up. “The usual. My break's in ten minutes.”

Drinks & Stuff is in the food court and sells, well, drinks and snacky and sandwichy stuff. Junie and I order, then plunk down on swivel chairs.

“So, Junie.” I lean over the table and slurp some of our smoothie. “Let's talk boyfriend business.”

She sticks her straw in our cup. “Give me the scoop on kissing.”

“Whoa there, missy. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” How can someone who does quadratic equations in her sleep not know about breaking things down into little steps? Because there is an order to romance. I start prying. “Have you guys held hands?”