Prank List (10 page)

The next day, when I tell Marisol what happened between Evan and me, she coos at all the right places and is furious on my behalf.

But when I tell her the part about him accusing me of liking Whit, she goes weirdly quiet and starts twisting one of her rings around her finger.

“What?” I say. “
You
don't think I like Whit, do you? That's crazy!”

“I know,” she says, “but you have been talking about him a lot. I can see how Evan would get the wrong idea.”

Great. So I totally deserve Evan being mad at me. “Okay, but why would he pull out of the Bake-Off? Does he hate me so much that he doesn't even want to be around me anymore?”

Marisol's face goes pale. “Wait. He dropped out of the Bake-Off? Just him or the whole band?”

“I…I don't know.”

“Because if we have no band, there won't be any music! I don't think I can find someone else in a week, and I don't even have any sound equipment for us to play music on. Evan was going to bring amps and stuff. The flyers all say ‘live music' on them! What are we going to do?”

I hadn't even thought about how this might mess things up for the Bake-Off. “I'll talk to him,” I assure her, even though it's the last thing I want to do. I can't leave Marisol high and dry like that. “Maybe I can convince him to do it.”

“Thank you,” she says. “And once he and his band are done playing, then we can smack him for being such an idiot.”

I smile weakly. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” she says, clapping her hands. “Enough moping around. We need a revenge plan!”

At first I think she means revenge on Evan, and I start imagining all sorts of movie-style ways to make him regret ever letting me go—most of them involving glam makeovers—but then she grabs the list of possible Ladybug pranks.

“So we need to do something to the Ladybug vans,” she says, “but all we have written down so far is ‘Put ladybugs in vans.' I don't think we can go to the insect store and buy some.”

“All right.” I take a deep breath. “What else could we do?”

We start listing other possibilities: Laying out nails to puncture their tires. Toilet-papering the vans. Putting gunk on their windows.

At the last one, a lightbulb flickers on in my brain. “Gunk,” I repeat.

“Gunk?” says Marisol.

I smile my best villain smile. “I think we might have to make those Ladybugs an extra special batch of caramel.”

•••

When Mom gets home from work that night, she looks even more miserable than she has the past few days.

“Did we lose another client?” I ask, trying not to count how many (or few) that leaves us.

She shakes her head. “Robert and I had a bit of a disagreement.”

“About what?” I can't imagine Mr. Hammond fighting with anyone. He's like the jolliest person ever. He probably tutored Santa.

“Nothing, really. He was hoping we'd go out tonight, but I was too tired.”

“Isn't that the third time in a row that you've canceled on him?” I ask.

Mom purses her lips. “You sound like him. But it's not some conspiracy. I have a lot going on.”

I don't point out that Mom's also been avoiding his calls the past week. “Shouldn't hanging out with your boyfriend make you feel better?”

Mom just shakes her head and doesn't answer. I guess that means she doesn't want to talk about it. “How are you doing?” she asks me. “Are you hanging in there?”

I know she's asking about Evan, but I don't want to talk about that, either. I guess Mom and I are both in serious funks.

“I'm fine,” I say.

She can clearly tell that I'm lying, but she doesn't pry. Instead, she says, “I think I need to go lie down for a while. Would you mind making dinner?”

I almost laugh at her question since I always volunteer to make dinner. Then again, I have to admit I haven't been enjoying cooking and baking nearly as much since I started taking the pastry class. Pretty ironic, huh?

“I'll wake you up when it's ready,” I say.

Mom gives me a quick peck on the forehead. “Thank you, Rachel. I don't know what I'd do without you.” Then she goes to her room and closes the door.

Her words keep throbbing in my head as I start making dinner. What would she do without me? Well, for one, no one would be accusing her cleaning employees of stealing things. And she wouldn't be in the middle of an online review war. I wish I could at least tell her what's going on, but I can't, not when it would break her heart.

When I show up at Evan's door after dinner, I'm expecting him to slam it in my face. It's been two days since our fight and my emotions are still sparking like live wires. I can only assume he's feeling the same way. But the Bake-Off is in a few days, and I promised Marisol that I'd help her if I could.

“Rachel,” he says when he opens the door. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I stand there staring at him, wishing suddenly that I'd baked something so at least I'd know what to do with my hands. Except who knows what kind of poison I would have accidentally put in this time? “Um, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.”

I expect him to let me in, but instead he comes out of the house, shuts the door, and sits on the front steps. After a second, I sit next to him, careful not to get too close, which means I'm practically sitting in a prickly bush. Evan's trademark peppermint smell wafts toward me, and for once it makes me feel sick. How did things go totally wrong between us?

“How are you?” he asks stiffly, like we're strangers.

“Fine. I'm fine. Fine.” Wow, if there was ever a way to show him how
not
fine I am, I definitely just did it. “Um, Marisol sent me over. Because of the Bake-Off. She really needs your band to play.”

“Oh.” He scratches his head, not looking at me. “I don't think I can do that.”

“But you already have a group together! You guys are all ready to go. Can't you put the stuff between us aside for one day and help Marisol and Chef Ryan and everyone else out?”

“It's not because of you. It's…” He leans down and fiddles with one of his shoelaces. “I can't sing in front of people, okay? I can't do it.”

“What? Why?”

“Call it stage fright or whatever, but I've always been terrified of performing. I agreed to do the show because I didn't want to let you down, but I can't do it. It's just not possible.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Finally, he looks me in the eye. “I tried, but it was never the right time or you weren't really…”

He doesn't need to finish. I think of the way I totally messed up him asking me to be his girlfriend. Am I that bad at listening to people?

“Anyway, I'm sorry,” he says. “I can't do it. To be honest, I never got a band together. I tried jamming with a couple of friends, but I couldn't even play in front of them. That's how bad it is.”

“But the flyers all say there's going to be live music.”

“Tell Marisol I'm sorry,” he says again, getting to his feet.

“Wait!” I cry, jumping up to face him. “Isn't there anyone else who might be able to do it? Please, Evan. She doesn't even have sound equipment.”

He thinks for a minute and then nods. “I'll see what I can do.” Then he goes back into the house, leaving me alone on the steps.

As I'm about to drag myself home, the door opens and Briana storms out.

“Oh,” she says, practically knocking into me. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just leaving.”

I start to head down the walkway when Briana pipes up behind me. “It sucks when you get dumped, doesn't it?”

I turn around, expecting a cruel look on her face that says how much she's enjoying the fact that her brother finally realized I'm a loser. But her expression isn't snide or mocking. It's actually something like sympathetic.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It's the worst.”

Briana reaches up to run her fingers over the BFF necklace around her neck, and I realize she's not talking about getting dumped by Steve Mueller. After all, they only dated for a couple months. She's talking about Caitlin, her best friend for most of her life. Caitlin who now wants nothing to do with her.

I open my mouth to say something comforting or reassuring, something I never thought I'd do around Briana. But just then footsteps come up behind me.

“What are you doing here?” a voice says in a tone that I think Briana invented. Sure enough, Angela Bareli is standing on the walkway behind me, glaring at me like a dog that's afraid of someone taking away its food.

“Nothing,” I say. Then I rush away from that house as fast as I can, leaving Briana with her new, horrible BFF. I never thought it was possible for me to feel bad for Briana. And I don't, not exactly. But the truth is, I used to envy her. I used to think her life was perfect. Now I wouldn't trade places with her for anything.

After my mom drops me off at Marisol's on Friday morning, we get right to work. Luckily, her mom is out meeting with a client, so we have the house to ourselves. Otherwise, it might be tricky to explain why we're making entire vats of caramel.

Finally, when we're done, we ooze the caramel into Tupperware containers and carefully stack the containers in our backpacks. Then we lug the bags over to our bikes. Pedaling into town is way harder with pounds of goo strapped to my back, but it'll all be worth it when we put those Ladybugs in their place.

We lock up our bikes behind Ryan's Bakery and then heave the caramel down the street. Hopefully, we don't look too suspicious.

Finally, we get to the parking lot where we saw the Ladybug vans the other day. There are nine parked here right now. Score.

“Ready?” I ask, suddenly nervous. Even if we probably won't get arrested for what we're about to do, we'll still get in huge trouble if anyone finds out.

“Let's do this,” says Marisol, sounding not much braver than I feel. I squeeze her elbow, beyond grateful that she's here with me, especially since I know she'd rather be doing anything other than this sneaky stuff.

We glance around one more time to make sure no one is coming, and then we rush into the parking lot and pull out the first two containers of caramel. Luckily, the caramel hasn't had a lot of time to cool so it's still pretty gloppy. I pop the top off mine and stand over the windshield of a nearby Ladybug van. Then I start to pour.

The caramel ooooooozes out so slowly that I'm about to have a heart attack.

“This is taking too long!” I hiss to Marisol who's at the next van over, doing the same thing. She's grabbed one of the wooden spoons that we threw in our backpacks and is spreading the caramel around with it.

“Just get a little on there and smear it around,” she says.

I nod and dig the other wooden spoon out of my bag. Finally, I manage to coat the windshield with a thin layer that will take some serious scrubbing to clean off.

When the first windshield is done, I hurry to the next one. Marisol is already ahead of me. Maybe she has a future as a goo artist.

After my third van, a car suddenly swings around the corner. I just have time to duck behind one of the vans as Marisol dives behind a nearby truck. Luckily, the car doesn't slow down. When it's gone, I let my breath out in a long whoosh and rush over to one of the last vans.

“Almost done,” I mutter as I uncap the final Tupperware container. The caramel is in mid-ooze when another car swings around the corner. And starts to slow down.

As I scramble to duck behind one of the vans again, I accidentally step in some caramel drippings. My shoe sticks to the ground, and I'm suddenly standing there half barefoot. I scramble to pick up my flip-flop as the car pulls into the parking lot.

Oh holy banana nut bread. It's one of the Ladybug vans.

I abandon my shoe and crouch down behind a nearby van, shoving the wooden spoon and Tupperware back into my bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marisol huddled behind the next one over. We exchange panicked looks as the newly arrived van pulls into a parking spot and the door slides open.

I'm shaking all the way down to my toes, especially the bare toes that don't have a sole under them. What if the driver of the van sees my flip-flop?

“What on earth—?” I hear a woman say. Then she lets out a bunch of swears that are a far cry from my dad's fake ones. Clearly, she's seen the caramel. “Who would do this?”

“I don't know,” a guy's voice answers. For some reason, the voice sounds familiar. Come to think of it, so does the woman's.

“I can't believe this,” she says. “It'll take hours to clean all of these. We might have to cancel some of our clients tomorrow!”

“It's okay,” the guy says. “I'll help.”

She lets out a long, pained sigh. “Why does this keep getting harder? I thought expanding into neighboring towns would mean more money for us. Now it's nothing but trouble and time away from my boys.”

My stomach dips as I recognize the voice. It's Lillian, the Ladybug owner with the toddler I'd seen in Ryan's Bakery. When I was coming up with my plan, I hadn't thought what it would be like for the person who discovered the caramel. All I cared about was revenge.

“Maybe we should call the police,” the guy says.

Marisol and I exchange looks of horror. We have to get out of here
now
.

“I'll go over to the police station,” Lillian says. “It's just down the street, and I'm sure they'll want me to fill out a report.”

“I'll stay here,” the guy says. “In case anyone comes back.”

Great. There goes our chance to make a run for it. But we have to. We can't just stay here until the police come.

Marisol must be thinking the same thing because once the woman's footsteps fade, she waves for me to come over to where she is. I take a deep breath and then, as quietly as I can, I army crawl toward her.

“How do we get out of here?” she whispers when I'm huddled beside her.

I grab one of the empty caramel containers. “I'll throw this to distract him and then we run, okay?”

She nods and takes a shaky breath.

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer to every higher power I can think of. Then, on the count of three, I chuck the container as far away from the car as I can. “Go!” I say. And we run.

It's almost impossible to sprint in only one flip-flop, so I kick it aside and take off barefoot. Suddenly, I have déjà vu to when I was chasing after Evan and totally wiped out and flashed him my underwear. I'd do anything to go back to that moment over this one. I'll take mortification over imprisonment any day.

It's only when we're almost out of the parking lot that I glance over my shoulder.

And freeze in place.

Standing on the other side of the parking lot, holding one of my flip-flops in his hand like some confused Prince Charming, is Whit.

At that moment, he turns and looks right at me. And the surprise on his face turns to understanding as he peers down at the shoe in his hand and then at the caramel on the car windows.

“Rachel, come on!” Marisol says, running back toward me. Then she grabs my arm and pulls me down the street, away from Whit who's still standing there, staring back at me like a statue.