The Life and Crimes of Bernetta Wallflower (8 page)

She took the last sip of her soda and set her cup down on her tray. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

Gabe picked up the cup, popped off the lid, and tilted it into his mouth. He crunched on an ice cube and smiled at her. “Let's go see if they changed cashiers at the bookstore yet,” he said. “I have a plan. You're going to love it.”

Once they were back inside the bookstore, Gabe and Bernetta ducked behind the arts and entertainment section. “Good,” Gabe said to Bernetta, “there's a new girl at the register. Now we can turn the gift card into cash.”

“Why does it matter if there's someone new at the register?” Bernetta asked.

“It's just safer,” Gabe replied. “This way no one will recognize us. Or remember the card. Come on, help me look. We have to find someone to let us pay for their books.”

Bernetta and Gabe scanned the aisles together, standing side by side with their noses buried inside a large book on film criticism.

“What about that guy?” Bernetta asked, pointing to a man about her father's age approaching the register. “He looks pretty nice. I bet he'd help us out.”

“Probably,” Gabe said. “But he's only getting one book. And it's a paperback. We should wait for someone with a big stack, so we can make more in one go.”

“Oh. Okay.” Bernetta was still trying to get a grasp of this whole
reading people
thing. There was a lot to keep track of. “What about that lady over there? The one in the blue dress.”

Gabe looked to where Bernetta was tilting her chin. “No way,” he said. “Look what section she's in.”

Bernetta read the sign above the lady's head:
TRUE CRIME
. “So?”

“She could be a cop,” Gabe said. “Or a law student or something. That could get tricky.”

“Oh,” Bernetta said with a gulp.

“I found someone,” he said, and he snapped the book closed. “That girl right over there. She's got a
ton
of books. Come on.”

The girl may have had a ton of books, Bernetta thought as she followed Gabe to the register, but she also didn't look like someone to mess with. She had straight blond hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, and she looked just a few years younger than Elsa. Her black backpack was covered in tiny pins and patches from bands that Bernetta was not nearly cool enough to have heard of.

Gabe tapped the girl on the shoulder just as she was getting in line behind an old man with a cane.

The blond girl turned around. “Yeah?” she said, her eyebrow already raised in annoyance.

“Oh,” Gabe said, and Bernetta could tell that he was a little startled at the girl's response. Bernetta stayed off to the side, a few feet to Gabe's right, to watch and learn.

Gabe cleared his throat. “I was just wondering if I could buy those books for you with this gift card,” he said, holding out the card. “Then you could give me the money you would have spent.”

The blond-haired girl tilted her head and offered Gabe a phony smile, like he was the ugliest boy in school, asking to take her to the winter formal. Bernetta instantly disliked her. “Yeah,” the girl said, her head cocked to the side, “I don't really want to do that. Thanks, though.” And she spun back around, her long blond ponytail swishing in Gabe's face as she turned.

Gabe tapped her on the shoulder. “Are you sure you don't—”

“Yep,” she said without looking in Gabe's direction. “I'm sure.”

Gabe frowned at Bernetta and was making to walk away when Bernetta got a good look at one of the patches on the girl's backpack: Wayland High Junior Varsity Cheerleading.

Bernetta took a deep breath and stepped toward the girl. Then, as Gabe shot her a quizzical glance, she tapped the girl's shoulder.

“What?” the girl demanded before she'd even turned around.

Bernetta didn't back down. “Hi,” she said. “Um, hi, I just . . .” Bernetta had a fraction of a second before she lost the girl for good, she could tell. “I'm trying to go to cheer camp,” she said quickly.

The blond girl turned back to Bernetta, sucking in her cheeks as she studied her up and down. “You cheer?” she asked.

“Um, yeah,” Bernetta said. “Well, I want to anyway. But cheerleading camp starts in two weeks, and my parents can't afford it, so I asked my grandma for money for my birthday, but instead she gave me this card, 'cause she says I should read more.” Bernetta felt like her dad for a moment, dancing nimbly around the stage just before he thrust out his wand for the big reveal. “Anyway, my brother here”—she motioned to Gabe—“was just trying to help me out, but sorry if we bugged you.” And she grabbed Gabe by the elbow and pulled him, stumbling, toward the exit. She had no idea if that was the right thing to do, but Gabe's way hadn't worked either, so she figured, why not?

They were almost out the door when—

“Hey, wait up!” the blond girl called out.

Bernetta and Gabe turned. The girl had her head cocked to the side again, but this time she didn't look quite so intimidating.

“You going into eighth?” she asked Bernetta.

“Yep,” Bernetta lied.

The blond girl finally smiled. “That's when I started too. What school do you go to?”

“Kingsfield Middle.” Another lie. That was Ashley's old school. Mount Olive didn't have cheerleading. Maybe the blond girl wouldn't know that, but Bernetta didn't want to take any chances.

“Kingsfield!” the blond girl shrieked. “Really? That's where I went too. Who'd you have for homeroom last year?”

Shoot.

Bernetta thought fast. “Mrs. Vincent.” That was her homeroom teacher at Mount Olive. “I think she's new. She's kind of strict, but not too bad.”

“Oh.” The blond girl nodded. “I had Mr. Prolanski.” She rolled her eyes, and Bernetta did too.

“Blech,” she said. “My friend Stephanie had him, and she said he was
horrible
.”

“Yeah. He was pretty awful.”

The blond girl's books came to $58.27, but she gave Bernetta an even sixty.

“Good luck at cheer camp!” she called as she headed out of the store.

“Thanks!” Bernetta shouted back.

At her side Gabe was looking at her and nodding, a grin stretched across his face. “Cheer camp, huh?” he said. “Not bad. You're a regular Bonnie Parker.” Bernetta could feel herself blushing. “Yeah.” He nodded again. “Not bad at all.”

T
RANSFORMATION
n
: an illusion in which one object becomes another

In only one day Bernetta and Gabe managed to make a bucketload of money. They'd had one close scrape when a cashier in a department store had tried to call his manager over while Gabe was attempting a shortchange, but Gabe had been pretty convincing when he told the guy he'd just been confused math-wise about the change, and they made it out of the store without arousing further suspicion. Once they'd split the day's take, Bernetta left the mall with $183.71 stowed safely inside her backpack.

Now she sat at the dinner table and took up a forkful of chicken, trying to figure out the best way to answer her family's questions.

“So how was your day?” her mother asked.

Bernetta swallowed. “Good,” she replied. “Really good.”

Her father was busy buttering a roll. “How are the kids?”

Bernetta took another giant bite and got away with a mere nod in response. A part of her wished she could tell her family what she'd
really
been up to. Because she
had
had a good day; that part hadn't been a lie at all. It was amazing the way she'd learned to read people in just a few hours—figure out which cashiers were nice and which ones were surly, just by the way they tapped their fingers on the counter or stuck a pen behind an ear.

But those were obviously skills she was going to have to keep to herself.

“So, Elsa,” their father said, “what time are you leaving for volleyball camp tomorrow?”

“Really early,” she said as she scooped rice onto her fork. “Before dawn, I think.”

Bernetta set her fork down. “Camp starts tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Elsa replied. “It's a really long drive, too. I'll be gone before you get up. And I'm not even close to packed, either.”

“Well, make sure you get enough rest for your drive tomorrow,” their mother said. “Colin, eat your broccoli, please.”

“Beep beep boop beep,” Colin replied.

“What was that?” Bernetta's father asked.

“I'm an alien,” Colin explained. “I can only speak in alienese. I mean, beep beep bang.”

Bernetta wasn't really listening. How could she possibly have forgotten that Elsa's camp started tomorrow? This wasn't fair at all. It was the last summer before Elsa left for college, and she was spending practically all of it at
volleyball camp
. Once Elsa left in the fall, that would be it. Things would be permanently different in the Wallflower family. No Elsa at the dinner table, no big sister to practice new magic tricks on, no one to paint her toenails with when life was particularly upsetting.

Bernetta took a bite of rice, but the grains felt dry on her tongue.

“So, Bernetta,” her mom said, “tell us what kinds of things you do with the kids while the parents are working.”

Bernetta tried to make her bite of rice last as long as possible, but eventually she had to stop chewing. “Oh, you know,” she said, “just regular kid stuff.”

Elsa folded her napkin and set it on the table. “Well, I think I better get packing,” she said, pushing back her chair and taking her plate to the sink. “Netta, if you want, we can paint our toes one last time before I leave.”

Bernetta took up another forkful of broccoli. “Yeah,” she said. “Sure. I'd like that.”

“All right, just knock on my door before you go to sleep.” She rinsed her plate and left the kitchen.

Bernetta was taking a drink of water when Colin lunged at her, his fingers wiggling in her face. “
Eek!
” he cried.

Bernetta swallowed. “What was
that
about, Colander?”

“Aren't you gonna get all scared and scream, Bernie?” he asked. “I'm an alien! I mean, eek ack woo ha-ha.”

Bernetta bit her lip, but she couldn't stop smiling. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah, Coliseum, you're really scary. I mean, bim bam beeple snartz.”

After dinner was over and the dishes were washed and dried, Bernetta went up to Elsa's room to keep her company while she packed. Bernetta sat on the bed with her fingers woven between her toes while Elsa squatted on the floor in front of her duffel bag, folding T-shirts.

“Do you really have to go to camp?” Bernetta asked as Elsa tucked a stack of shirts neatly inside the bag. “I mean, you don't really
need
to, right? You already know how to play volleyball. You're pretty good at it.”

“Not compared to all those college girls. You should have seen them, Netta. I told you about that game Dad and I went to when we were visiting. I'm serious, those girls are on a whole different level. They're practically professionals.”

“Still,” Bernetta said, scratching the underside of her foot, “you don't want to be gone the whole summer. Aren't you going to be bored out of your mind, playing volleyball all day long? And they're going to make you do all those drills, and you
hate
drills.”

Elsa shook her head as she began folding shorts, but she was smiling. “And what would I do here all summer, hmm?”

Bernetta shrugged. “I don't know. Play cards with Colin? He's getting really good at war. Plus, you know”—she hooked her pinkie fingers around her little toes—“you could hang out with me. It's our last summer together before you go to college.”

“That's true,” Elsa said, shoving her neat stack of T-shirts into a corner to make room for the shorts. “But even if I
was
here, I'd hardly get to see you anyway, now that you're babysitting so much.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bernetta said with a sigh.

Elsa leaned back on her heels and looked up. “What was that giant sigh about, Netta?”

Bernetta puffed out her cheeks and tried to put the thoughts swirling around in her brain into words. “It's just—you're
leaving
, right? You'll be in a whole different state next year, and I won't get to talk to you anymore.”

“Netta, what are you talking about? We'll talk all the time. There's this nifty new invention, you know, called the telephone?”

Bernetta rolled her eyes. “But I won't
see
you ever.”

“I'll be home for Thanksgiving.”

“That's practically a million years away!” Bernetta cried. “And what if you make tons of cool new college friends, and get a
boyfriend
, and pierce your nose or something? Then you'll come home and I won't even recognize you.”

Elsa just laughed. “Now you sound like Dad,” she said.

“But aren't you worried?” Bernetta asked. “I mean, you don't even know anyone there and you'll have to live in a dorm room, with strangers. What if you hate your roommate? What if the food is awful, or you get lost somewhere, or—or anything?”

Elsa shook her head as she began to roll up pairs of socks. “I guess I'm just excited, that's all,” she said. “I mean, I've gone to the same school for thirteen years and lived in the same house for eighteen. I guess I'm ready for a change.”

Bernetta frowned.
Mount Olive's not so bad
, she thought.
We're not so bad either
. But she didn't say it.

Elsa stood up and headed over to the dresser. “Let's do our nails. I need a break.”

“Okay,” Bernetta said. She ran a finger over her blue toenail polish, already chipped in two places after only three days. Maybe she was being a tad overdramatic about the whole college thing. It would all work out. Isn't that what their mom always said?

“What color?” Elsa asked her, shifting through the contents of her top drawer.

Bernetta bit her lip and thought about it. “Um, Rustic Red, I think.”

“Knew it!” Elsa cried. She turned around with a smile and stretched out her hand toward Bernetta. She was already clasping a bottle of burgundy-colored polish.

Bernetta frowned. “How'd you know I was going to pick that one?” she asked.

“Because I know you, Netta,” Elsa answered as she produced the nail polish remover and cotton balls. “You always pick the same colors.” She plopped down on the bed. “Rustic Red when you're worried about something, Blueberry Bramble when you're angry, and Tangerine Delicious when you have good news.” She unscrewed the lid of the polish remover. “Same old Netta. Here, give me your foot.”

Bernetta wrinkled her forehead and slowly wrapped her arms around her legs.

“Netta?” Elsa asked. “Is something wrong?”

Same old Netta?
Is that what Elsa thought of her? Elsa could go off to camp and then move to a different state and forget all about everything back at home, and Bernetta was just supposed to stick around and take it? Same old Netta? “Actually,” Bernetta said softly, “I think I'm kind of tired. All that babysitting, you know?”

Elsa frowned. “Oh.” She put the cap back on the bottle. “Okay. If you're sure.”

“Yeah. Anyway, good night, I guess. Have fun at camp.”

They both stood up then and hugged, but it was forced, like they'd never hugged before and didn't know who should lean in which direction and how long they should stay hugging before they broke apart.

As Bernetta headed for the door, Elsa said, “Netta?” Bernetta turned. “You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah,” Bernetta said.

“Well, I'll miss you, you know?”

Bernetta nodded, her chin scrunched up tight. “I'll miss you too,” she said. And she headed off to her room.

Thirty minutes later Bernetta was in her pajamas, bundled under her covers with her old worn copy of
A Wrinkle in Time
resting against her knees. But she wasn't enjoying the story as much as she usually did. It didn't even taste as good.

There was a knock on the door, and her father appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, Bernie,” he said. “Can I come in for a sec? I have a trick I've been wanting to show you.”

She snapped her book shut. “Sure.”

He sat down on the edge of her bed and pulled out a quarter. He held it up with his left hand, then reached across and grabbed it with his right. He closed his right hand into a fist and pointed to it with his left. Then he opened his right hand slowly, one finger at a time.

The quarter had vanished.

Bernetta smiled at him, her anger at Elsa melting away. “Nice.”

“Where do you think the quarter went?” he asked her.

She thought about it. “Still in your left hand?”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Very astute, Bernie. Yep, I never grabbed it. That's the French Drop. It's the oldest trick in the book, practically, but anyone will fall for it if you pull it off correctly. People are practically dying to fall for it, really.”

“Yeah?”

“See, once you bring your right hand over to your left one, your audience is expecting you to transfer that quarter. They've got no reason to think you'd do anything else. That is, unless you give them some reason, like staring at your left hand when they think the coin's moved on to your right. Never look at the wrong hand, Bernie. That'll ruin your trick in a heartbeat.” He handed her the quarter. “You want to try it?”