Prank List (7 page)

When I go over to Marisol's house the next morning, I'm actually looking forward to seeing Angela Bareli sitting on her front porch. Maybe I'll get some hint about whether or not our plan worked.

But, for once, Angela isn't there. The porch swing just sways back and forth like there's a ghost sitting on it. I wonder if that means Angela's off stalking Briana somewhere.

When I knock on Marisol's door, she doesn't greet me with her usual smile. Instead, she's furiously chewing on her lip.

“What's wrong?” I say.

She shakes her head and waves me up to her room. I barely have time to smile at her mom, who's hunched at the dining room table with her laptop, before Marisol grabs my elbow and drags me up the stairs.

“I heard Angela freaking out last night,” Marisol says after she's closed her bedroom door behind us. “She was yelling so loud I could hear it all the way up here.”

“Was it about the T-shirt?”

“I think so,” says Marisol. “She was yelling something about it being her favorite one, and she seemed really mad at her mom.”

Uh-oh. “Do you think she blames her mom for taking her T-shirt and not the Ladybugs?”

“I don't know, but it doesn't look good.”

We sit in silence for a second. Did our plan totally backfire? As far as I can tell, Mrs. Bareli is a pretty nice person. I'd feel awful if she had to deal with even more of Angela's diva-ness because of us.

“I can't believe this,” says Marisol, putting her head in her hands. “Why did I have to take her shirt? Why couldn't I stick to the plan?”

“Because you were trying to help me,” I say softly. “Because you're the best friend in the universe.”

She looks up at me. “I just hope I didn't make things worse.”

“No way,” I say. “Let's wait a few days and see what happens. If Angela still thinks her mom took her shirt, we'll find some way to get her to look under her bed. It'll be fine.”

Marisol nods. It's funny that for once I'm the one comforting her and not the other way around. It makes me wonder if I haven't been that great of a friend recently.

“Want to work on the mural?” I say. “That always makes you feel better.”

She smiles. “Okay, as long as we can go over the Bake-Off stuff again.”

I nod and hand her some chalk so she can do more outlines on the wall. Then I turn on a couple of window fans and start filling in a tiny section of sky with bright blue paint.

“So where are we with the planning?” I ask.

“Everything's all ready to go except for the music, but you said Evan could do that, right?”

“I'll ask him about it this afternoon. We're supposed to go hang up flyers before dinner.”

Marisol grins at me, looking like her regular self again. “You guys are the cutest couple.”

I feel myself blush. “We're still not official, so I don't know if you can call us a couple.”

“Yes, I can. Hanging up flyers is pretty serious business. It's practically a wedding ceremony.”

“If that's true, then you and Andrew are heading toward flyer-hanging at any second. You're perfect for each other.”

Now it's her turn to blush. “I feel like I haven't seen him in forever. I wish the summer would go by faster!”

I can tell she really misses him. Emails and stuff are fine, but it's not the same as actually getting to see your boyfriend all summer.

“He'll be back before you know it,” I say. “When is he getting home?”

“The day before the Bake-Off,” she says. “I guess that's not too far away.” She sighs and steps back to admire her newest sketch, which includes a shop that looks a lot like Ryan's Bakery. “When does Chef Ryan pick the finalists?”

“The last day of class. We'll have a mini Bake-Off that morning, and then three people will go on to the finale the next day.”

“And you'll be one of them, of course,” says Marisol. “Even if Chef Ryan is a weirdo, he can't deny your stuff is awesome.”

“We'll see. I have three weeks to get my technique perfect. But honestly, as long as I beat Whit, that's all I care about.”

“You really hate that guy, huh?”

“He's so full of himself! You should see his leather jacket. He wears it all the time, even when it's a million degrees outside. He totally thinks he's better than everyone else, and he's convinced he's going to win the Bake-Off.”

Marisol smiles. “Maybe we should fix him up with Angela. They sound perfect for each other.”

“Oh my goldfish. I think the universe would implode if those two got together.” I sigh. “I guess he's not that bad, but I definitely don't want him to win.”

“Don't worry. You'll bake his socks off.”

I laugh. “That sounds gross. I'm totally imagining a pie full of dirty socks.”

“Ew!” Marisol sticks her tongue out in disgust. “I don't think you'll win the competition with stinky sock pie!”

We start giggling and joking around as we keep working on the mural, and we don't stop until we hear someone yelling outside. We hurry over to the window to see Angela standing out in the driveway, right in front of a Ladybug van. Next to the van is Lillian, the owner of Ladybug Cleaners.

Marisol and I exchange looks and then quietly turn off the fan and open the window so we can eavesdrop.

“What did you do to my shirt?” Angela is yelling. “It's my favorite one and now it's gone!”

I can't hear what Lillian says back, but she's shaking her head and looking confused. Suddenly, I feel sorry for her, especially when Angela marches up to her and starts yelling about how she's going to get her mom to fire the Ladybugs.

“Angela!” Mrs. Bareli says, coming out of the house. “I'll handle this.” Then she sends Angela inside while she has a quiet conversation with Lillian. Whatever happens, I don't think Mrs. Bareli fires her since they wind up smiling and nodding at each other before Lillian hops back in her van and drives away.

Guilt shoots through me like an electric shock. I feel bad that Lillian got yelled at for something she totally didn't do.

But she deserves it, I remind myself. The Ladybugs have been spreading lies about us for weeks. Because of them, my mom and I are closer to losing our house than ever before. Sinking to the Ladybugs' level might make me feel like dirt, but it's the only way out of this mess.

“Thank you for coming with me,” I say for the tenth time as Evan and I lock up our bikes in the center of town. For some reason, going to hang up flyers on my own feels too scary, though I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. Paper cuts?

“No problem,” he says. Then he grabs the flyers in one hand and gently takes my hand in the other. I almost faint as his fingers interlock with mine.

We go to the library, the town hall, and a bunch of other places, taping and stapling the flyers to every surface we can find. Marisol helped me make up the flyers this morning, and I think they came out pretty cute—even though they have a picture of me holding a mop on them.

When we pop into a few of the stores, including the consignment shop that Marisol loves, Evan is mercifully willing to do the talking. I can just imagine me trying to ask if we can hang up flyers and finding some bizarre way to offend people. Or to promise them freezers for their birthdays.

Finally, the flyers are all gone and I'm feeling better. These will have to get us some new business, right? Marisol and I added a few more ideas to the Prank List today, but I really don't want to use them. The whole Angela T-shirt incident was bad enough.

“Want to go get some lunch?” Evan asks, pointing to a sandwich shop down the street.

My stomach rumbles in response, which makes him laugh.

“Okay, I'll race you!” he says. Then he flashes a devilish grin and takes off.

“Hey!” I yell. “Cheater!”

I glance down at my skirt and my flip-flops, which are meant more for lounging by the pool than running. But I don't want Evan thinking I'm a wimpy girl. So I take a deep breath and break into a sprint.

There's no way I can catch up to Evan, but I'm going to at least put in a good effort. I'm so busy keeping an eye on how far ahead he is that I'm not paying attention to where I'm going.

Suddenly, one of my flip-flops catches on something—a rock?—and I fly forward. I scramble to catch myself before I crash into the sidewalk, but it's no use.

I belly flop onto the ground and lay there for a minute, feeling totally dazed and wondering why the breeze feels so…breezy all of a sudden.

When I finally start to move, my stunned brain vaguely registers that my skirt is all the way up to my waist.

Wait.
What?

“Ahh!” I shriek, snapping out of my daze. Oh holy pickled pineapple. My underwear is on display for everyone in town! I ignore the ache in my arms and scramble to pull my skirt down as Evan comes running toward me.

“Are you okay?” he says, catching his breath.

I nod, still sitting on the ground, my face burning. Did he see my underwear? Did I cover it in time? Wiping out in front of him is bad enough. He does
not
need a peek at my cupcake-print undies.

“You're bleeding,” he says, gently touching my chin.

“I'm okay,” I say, trying to stand up. Evan helps me get to my feet, still looking concerned. My knees are a little skinned, but mostly I'm mortified.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken off like that.”

“Really. It's not a big deal.” As long as you didn't see my underwear, I add silently.

Evan walks me over to a bench and has me sit down for a while to make sure I'm totally okay. It's sweet how worried he is about me, but it also makes me super self-conscious.

“So listen…” he says right as I blurt out, “So how's the band search going?”

“What?” we both say at the same time. Then we laugh in unison.

He motions toward me. “You first.”

“I was just asking how the band search was going,” I say.

Evan stiffens. “Okay, I guess. I talked to some people from my school. We're supposed to meet this weekend to go over a few songs.”

“That's great!” I say. “You guys will rock.”

He shrugs like he's embarrassed. Then his face lights up. “I forgot to tell you. Briana said Angela is really unhappy with Ladybug Cleaners. I'd say that means you'll be getting more business any day now.”

“Oh. Good,” I say meekly, remembering Lillian's stunned face as Angela screamed at her. I hate myself for not telling Evan the whole truth about my Ladybug smear campaign, but admitting what Marisol and I did feels too icky, especially when he's being so sweet. I'll tell him about it later, I decide.

“So, what were you going to say before?” I ask.

He opens his mouth and closes it again. Then he shrugs. “I forgot.”

“Brain fart!” I say, giggling, which makes Evan laugh, too. I get to my feet, careful to keep my skirt firmly in place. “Now, how about that lunch?”

When I get home from Marisol's house the next day, I'm surprised to see my mom sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at a piece of paper.

“I thought you and Mr. Hammond had a dinner date right after work today,” I say.

She doesn't even look up.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

Finally, she glances at me, her brow furrowed. “Why would someone do this?” She holds up the paper, and I realize it's one of the flyers Evan and I put up yesterday. When I get closer, I see why my mom is so upset.

On the picture of me with the mop, someone's drawn devil horns and a mustache. As if that wasn't bad enough, at the bottom of the flyer, underneath “Lee Cleaners,” someone's scrawled “SUX” in thick, angry letters.

I stare and stare at that awful, misspelled word.

“Every flyer I saw today during my lunch break had this on it,” Mom says. “I don't understand why someone would go to all that trouble to play a joke like this.”

I sink down next to her and put my hand on her shoulder, trying to be comforting, but inside I'm shaking with fury. If one flyer was vandalized, that could just be some random kids having fun. But this is bigger. Whoever did this knew it would hurt us.

“And the worst thing is,” Mom says softly, “one of our clients called today and said she's been hearing unflattering things about us, and that she prefers to go with a company that's more established.” She shakes her head. “I don't know what we're doing wrong.”

I can't believe it. The rumors about us are only getting worse!

My anger starts to bubble over, and I jump up and rush to preheat the oven. Baking is the only thing that might make me feel better right now.

I gather ingredients, slamming drawers and cabinets so loudly that my mom gives me a pained look.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“What are you making?” she asks.

“I don't know yet.”

She sighs. “Well, I hope it's something good. I could use a little cheering up.”

As I work on what I realize are going to be lemon squares—Mom's favorite—I keep thinking about someone defacing all of those flyers. It must have been the Ladybugs. Who else would take all that time to mess up each one? They know we're competition and they're lashing out. I guess Whit was right. One jab at the Ladybugs isn't enough to bring them down.

I need to hit them again.

As I shove the lemon squares into the oven, I'm still shaking. But this time it isn't with anger. It's with determination.

Forget small battles. This is all-out war.

When the lemon squares are cooling, Mr. Hammond calls the house looking for Mom, but she asks me to tell him that she's not feeling well and that she'll call him back later. Then she goes off to her room without even trying a lemon square.

I don't have much of an appetite, either. Instead, I go to my room and take out the Prank List, looking for something that I can do tonight. My eyes stop on “post bad online reviews.” That would be pretty easy. And it's nice and public, just like the flyers the Ladybugs destroyed.

It takes me more than an hour to find every listing for Ladybug Cleaners that I can online. Their reviews are all glowing, at least in the areas where they've been cleaning houses for the past five years. There aren't any reviews for our town yet, but that's about to change.

I start making up different fake names and submitting all kinds of bad reviews, from the “they stole my hairbrush” type to the “they purposely threw away my great-aunt's cremated ashes” kind.

I know I should feel bad about what I'm doing, but I don't, not when I hear the low hum of Mom's TV through the bedroom wall and imagine her in bed, curled up in a ball, maybe even crying. I feel like a lioness whose cub has been messed with. Anyone who hurts my family is going to get their head clawed off.

Finally, when I'm done with my smear campaign, I search for reviews of Mom's business out of curiosity. I'm surprised that we actually have one. Someone gave Lee Cleaners an outstanding review and said nothing but nice things about us. I suspect it might have been Ms. Montelle, although I guess she doesn't feel that way about us anymore. Hopefully, all my efforts will give us a chance to change her mind.

•••

The next night, I can barely pay attention when I'm on the phone with Evan. I'm still so riled up about the whole flyer thing.

“Are you okay?” he asks after a couple minutes of me barely grunting answers at him.

“Sorry, I guess I'm distracted.”

“It'll be okay,” he says. “You'll find some other way to get more clients.” It's like he can read my mind without me even having to tell him why I'm so preoccupied. Then again, I guess I'm not all that hard to read.

“Thanks,” I say. “I hope you're right.”

“Hey, I was thinking of having some friends over on Saturday night to watch
Pastry
Wars
. Most of them have never seen it before. Do you want to come? You can finally meet everyone.”

I swallow. The idea of meeting Evan's friends is both exciting and terrifying. What if they hate me?

“It'll be fun and really low-key,” he adds. “I promise.”

I guess I'll have to meet them eventually. Maybe it's best to just get it over with. “Okay. I'll be there.”

“Great. I was thinking of stopping by the bakery and picking up some stuff for the party. Maybe I'll come during your class so I can see you in action.”

“No!” The idea of Evan watching me messing everything up and getting yelled at by Chef Ryan is mortifying.

“Why not?” he says.

I feel silly telling him that I'm embarrassed, so I say the only thing that comes to mind. “There's no point in you buying stuff for the party when I can bake something and bring it over.”

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed. Did he really have his heart set on visiting my pastry class? “Yeah, I guess that's okay. I'll see you on Saturday?”

“I'll be there,” I say. Then before I can say anything else, he hangs up the phone.