I So Don't Do Mysteries (3 page)

“Only you.”

I punch the air.

“Sherry, I saw that.”

“Oops.” But I can't wipe the grin off my face.

“Sherry. Sherry.” She sounds panicky. “I'm
fading.”

“Don't leave me.” My insides squeeze tight at hearing my
always-in-charge, always-decisive mom half-hysterical. And when will she be back?

The truck flies onto the lawn. “I'm slipping. I can't hang
on.”

I look around wildly. Where is she now? A coffee-scented breeze wafts by my ear.

Her voice is little more than a whisper. “Don't tell anyone about
me.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” My pulse races.

“This is important. It's an Academy rule.”

“I get it, Mom.”

And she's gone. I can tell somehow. The air is thinner or something, which I
know sounds totally bogus. Plus, the smell of coffee has disappeared. And nothing is moving in the
sandbox.

The wren squawks and flaps off, the spots on his wings glowing in the dusk. Finally.
He was seriously scaring me.

I shudder like a twanged rubber band. Why me? Why is my life so complicated? All I
want is Josh Morton. And maybe a raise in my allowance. And I wouldn't spit at a D-free
report card.

I have to help her. I can't let my mother go to a horrible flunked-out ghost
world. A horrible flunked-out ghost world where we won't get to see each other.

Whack
. A stick hits the top of my head. “Sam!” I scream. So
much for privacy in the pear tree.

My brother, his hair stick-uppier than usual, squints at me from under the tree. He raises
his skinny little arm to launch another stick. “Dinner!”

“Throw that, and you'll live to regret it.”

He waves a handful of twig ammo.

“Do your friends know you wet the bed last week?”

He lowers his arm.

I really should go easy on the shrimpy jerk. After all, now I have proof positive that
I'm Mom's favorite. Plus, poor Sam is stuck in Phoenix for spring break with
Grandma Baldwin, who farts and snores through the evening television lineup.

While I get to go to San Diego.

And save Mom's afterlife.

Fifteen minutes later
I'm sitting at the kitchen table
with a plate of rubbery whole-wheat spaghetti and ground turkey covered in runny fat-free tomato
sauce. The Ruler's cooking dinner for us. Again. She's a health-food nut who seriously
overseasons. I swear I'm losing precious brain cells from the herbal fumes in the room.

A sideways glance at my dad's still-full plate indicates he's as into this
meal as I am.

Of the three of us, Sam manages to slurp down the most pasta, by muttering over and
over, “I'm an alien from Planet Worm.”

Sadly, this is normal behavior for him. He doesn't
seem
weirded out
about the wedding. Then again, my brother's hard to read.

If The Ruler's aware her meal is less than popular, she isn't showing it.
Instead she smiles and chats and butterfly-flutters around the kitchen, refilling our water glasses and
offering us brick-heavy bread and unsalted butter. Blech. Hard to believe this cheerful, friendly woman
is Ms. El Stricto at school.

So I push spaghetti around my plate, biding my time and waiting for the Hawaii/San
Diego discussion to begin. I'm so ready for it. I know what I want, and I know how to get
it.

A mug of steaming chamomile in her hand, The Ruler pulls out a chair next to Dad and
sits down, her back straight like, well, a ruler. Does she never slouch?

Dad leans toward me, elbows on the table.

Here it comes. The hairs on my arms stand. My head fills with the music they play on
TV at the opening of the Olympics. Let the games begin.

“Sherry.” Dad makes eye contact. “I need to book your ticket to
San Diego. The Internet special runs out tonight.”

Part A of San Diego scheme: Loudly reject adult's suggestion.

“San Diego?” I screech. “What about hanging out with my
friends during spring break?”

“We've been over this.” Dad runs his hand through
already-tousled hair.

The Ruler bites boring beige lipstick off her lips.

Part B: Suggest totally unacceptable solution.

“If I have to go somewhere, I'd rather go to Hawaii with you
two.” I grimace inside.

The Ruler sits up straighter. If that's possible.

“Sherry, you're old enough to know about honeymoons.”
Beads of sweat dot Dad's forehead.

Sam pipes up. “What do you mean?”

Dad says, “Go play video games.”

“Can I play LA Mugger?” Sam asks.

“Sure, sure.” Dad waves him toward the living room.

Part C: Act helpful.

“LA Mugger is rated T for ‘teen,' ” I mention, always
the concerned, vigilant older sister. “Full of violence.”

“It's okay this one time,” Dad says through gritted teeth. After
Sam is safely out of the kitchen, he looks at me, unblinking. “You're not coming to
Hawaii. Don't even start.”

Part D: Mimic hurt feelings.

I stick out my lower lip.

“Would it help,” The Ruler asks, “if I checked with my sister in
Scottsdale to see if Sherry could stay with her?”

Part E: Reject all solutions offered by adults.

“Stay with a total stranger?”

“Well”—the Ruler sips from her mug—“she does
have a daughter about your age.”

“Still a stranger,” I say.

Part F: Act like you just dreamed up a new solution, then state real
objective.

I snap my fingers. “I have an idea.”

Relief washes over Dad's face. “What, pumpkin?”

“Why doesn't Junie come to Great-aunt Margaret's with me?
My spring break wouldn't be totally destroyed, 'cause I'd still have a friend to
hang with.” Junie is my superbrainy, can-definitely-solve-a-mystery best friend.

“Take a friend?” Dad frowns.

“She'd have more fun in San Diego with a friend,” The Ruler
says. “And Junie Carter's very levelheaded.”

I've known Junie for ages, ever since my first time in beginner swimming, when
she passed and I didn't. We are hugely different and make great best friends because of it. I
help her with social and fashion stuff. I've even offered to give her love advice, but she
doesn't want it, says she doesn't have time for crushing on guys right now.

Personally, I don't understand how she turns it off. I mean, whether I want him
to or not, Josh Morton barges into my brain. Anywhere. Anytime. I can be in the middle of a
pre-algebra test or reading the current boring book for English or loading the dishwasher, when
suddenly he'll appear and take over my entire mind. And if I happen to see him at school, well,
just forget about me being able to concentrate on anything else for the next few periods.

Junie is überfocused on academics. She's all about Principal's
Honor Roll and factoring and science experiments. I've never stumped her with a homework
question. She's way, way smart. And it's going to take way-way smarts to save my
mother. That's why Junie positively must come to San Diego with me. I know it'll be
tricky getting her to solve the mystery without telling her about my mom. But I can do it.

Dad calls Junie's mom and explains the situation.

There's silence on his end, which means she must be yakking away.

“Southwest Airlines,” he says. “I haven't actually
booked her ticket yet.”

More silence. Except for the sound of Dad cracking his knuckles.

“I'll have to check with Margaret,” he says, “but I
don't see why three girls would be a problem.”

Three? Three? My stomach drops. What three? What's going on?

“The Hawaiian Sands.” He sounds puzzled.

Finally, he hangs up. “It's a go,” he says, his voice all
monotone.

I visualize Elmer's glue on the soles of my tennies so that I won't leap
up with excitement.

Staring at me, Dad continues. “Turns out Junie's parents want to take a
trip with Junie's aunt and uncle.”

Oh no. I see where this is heading. The third person. Junie's cousin, Awful
Amber.

“They want to send Amber to San Diego as well,” he says. “She
can keep an eye on you two. Plus, she has her driver's license, so you'll be less work
for Margaret.”

Yuck. This is horrible, dreadful, terrible. Junie won't be happy either. Awful
Amber is seventeen years old, which means she's had a few extra boob-growing years. And
she has definitely taken advantage of the time. And she's got fantastic emerald eyes, a creamy,
zit-free complexion and straight, blond, behaves-itself hair. With all this going for her, you'd
think she'd be nice. Not even close. She's mean and stupid. With Amber on the beach,
Junie and I might as well be stinky seaweed. And a stupid, mean, beautiful third person will only
complicate my mystery solving.

I sigh.

Dad sighs.

The Ruler's glowing like a bride-to-be. “What's the matter with
you two? Junie's going with you, Sherry. And having her driving cousin along will give you
more freedom.” Then she shifts her gaze to Dad. “And you're getting what you
want. At least, I hope you are.” She lifts her narrow shoulders in confusion. “I
don't see the problem.”

“Oh, you will,” Dad answers.

The next afternoon
I'm leaning against the front of
the giant stone saguaro cactus in the school courtyard. Like a lizard, I'm grooving on the bright
sun and warm granite and the sweet smell of flowers blooming. Minding my own business. Mulling
over life. I can't help but grin at last night's events. Junie's parents and her aunt
and uncle got the
same
Internet special, with the
same
flight and
same
hotel, as
my dad and The Ruler. Dad and The Ruler were not impressed.

Then I'm thinking about Josh Morton and hoping we meet up out here. Most
students cross through the courtyard between classes. Next my thoughts drift to
The Ear, the Eye
and the Arm,
which I never finished reading for English. Then I'm back to Josh and
majorly daydreaming about him. He's walking in front of me with yellow DC shoes and
low-riding Dickies jeans. Wow, but he looks gorgy great. I cannot get enough of his chlorine-bleached
hair. He turns, opens his amazing mouth and says—

“Sherry!”

I blink in surprise.

“Sherry!” Brianna yells as she runs toward me.

End of
fantástico
daydream. Enter my friend Brianna, cute-ish, dumbish,
boy crazy.

Junie trails behind Brianna, her backpack swinging over her shoulder, her face
shiny.

Brianna tucks an auburn-streaked strand of hair behind her ear. “Big, big news.
Just let Junie catch up, and we'll fill you in.”

Junie arrives, panting.

That girl has got to get some serious exercise. Me too. Especially before I parade
around on a beach dressed only in a skimpy bikini, with Amber as competition.
“What's up?”

“You tell her, Brianna. You were there.” Junie wipes sweat off her
forehead.

“It happened like this.” Brianna juts out a hip and grasps it.
“Margo told Sara who told me that during third period Josh Morton asked Kristen if you liked
video games.”

My insides turn to mush. Josh Morton's asking questions about me. Even after
the door fiasco. Yowser.

“Sherry.” Junie shakes my shoulder. “Earth to
Sherry.”

I feel a goofy grin stretching across my face. “I'm here.” My
voice sounds dreamy. “So? What did Kristen say?”

“ ‘I don't know,' ” Brianna answers.

“What? You didn't find out?”

“Kristen said, ‘I don't know.' ” Junie pushes
her glasses up her nose.

“Oh.” I twirl my hair. “Well, send it through the grapevine that I
totally kill at video games.”

“I already did. But the big question is . . .” Brianna pauses for dramatic
effect. “Will you let him win?”

I consider the idea for about half a sec, then shake my head. “No.”

“I knew it,” Junie says.

Suddenly Brianna punches my upper arm. “Josh is coming this
way.”

“Say what?” I clench my teeth.

Brianna eyebrow-telegraphs
Behind you and to the left.
“It's
Josh.”

I finger-comb my hair. To no avail, I'm sure. Help.

“Twenty feet.” Brianna flaps her hands all hyper, like we're
having the most exciting conversation the cactus statue has ever heard.

My heart's trying to jump out of my chest.

“Ten feet.” Brianna laughs inanely.

This girl better never consider acting; she'd starve. I feel a twitch over my right
eye.

“Five feet.” Brianna's voice drops to a whisper.

I'm going to explode with anticipation. Acting cool is out of reach.

“Four, three, two, one. We have contact.” Brianna's jaw hangs
open. “Contact missed.” Her head swivels. “Negative one, negative two,
negative three—”

“Stop,” I say, flushing the color of Junie's face after PE class.
Josh Morton totally blew me off. In front of everyone. I'm such a loser.

I blink back tears as he saunters over to a group of eighth graders. A girl with
glittered-out hair sashays to him and drapes an arm around his waist.

“Maybe you better let him win at video games,” Brianna says.
“I'm outta here. Social studies.”

My shoulders slump until I'm curved like a comma. “Get me to
English,” I choke out to Junie. Good thing it's the last class of the day and we sit next
to each other.

Junie takes my hand. We begin what feels like a ten-mile trek to English.

My feet drag, heavy like The Ruler's homemade bread. And it suddenly occurs
to me that I can't do this. How am I supposed to pull off an animated debate about a book I
never finished while my spirits are lower than the grade on my last essay? I explain my position to
Junie.

She stops, tilts her head to one side and chews on her tongue, thinking.
“I've got the solution,” she says. “Female problems.”

“Yes.” I'd make a victory fist in the air, but I'm too
weak with depression.

She marches along, hauling me with her. “Mr. Franklin will buy it.”

Our English teacher freaky-deaks at the mention of female problems. Just look like
you're going to say “period” and he'll shoo you down to the nurse
ASAP. And technically I am having female problems.

Female problems of the heart.