Death by Eggplant (12 page)

“Let him go,” Mrs. Dekker said to Mrs. M. She turned back to the class. “Any legitimate questions?”

Mrs. Dekker was as cool as a cucumber. I bet she could be defending a guy for murder, have him break down in the witness chair and confess in a crowded courtroom, and she would change tactics without a blink—and win.

“No, that's enough questions,” said Mrs. Menendez. “Mr. Lindsay, apologize to Mrs. Dekker, then take yourself down to the principal's office.”

Jerome pulled himself to his feet, mumbled an apology, then left the room. Mrs. M. whispered her own apology, which Mrs. Dekker waved off. The two walked out into the hall. Mrs. M. returned for a second. “I want a five-hundred-word essay from the lot of you on the meaning of courtesy. Start now. Finish it up for homework. Miss Boynton, hand out paper from my desk to anyone who needs it. Mr. Hooks, come with me to the office, please.”

Stunned, I trailed behind them to the principal's office.
Why did I have to go with them? What had
I
done? It wasn't fair.

When the three of us reached the office, Mrs. M. asked Mrs. Dekker if she knew about Tuesday's incident with my father. No, Mrs. Dekker didn't. She had been away on business and apparently neither her husband nor her son had shared that bit of news on her return. So Mrs. M. summed it up, then explained how Dekker might have misinterpreted both his mother's presence here today and any comment I had made. Skating around the really important points, Mrs. M. never mentioned that my family was loony or that Mrs. Dekker's son was rotten. The bell rang, and Mrs. M. kept talking.

Finally there were apologies all around, from Mrs. M. for letting the class get so out of control, from me for not keeping my mouth shut, from Mrs. Dekker for not knowing her son had been causing problems in school. It was a real lovefest. Any minute, I thought we were going to exchange friendship bracelets.

“Don't let me keep you, Mr. Hooks,” Mrs. M. said to me.

“Yeah, I've got that long,
long
essay to write, too.”

This was Mrs. M.'s chance to say, “Why, of course that didn't apply to
you
, Mr. Hooks. After all, you're the poor victim in this dreadful mess.”

Instead she said, “Five hundred words. And I
will
count. One day you'll thank me, Mr. Hooks. You can go now.”

Since it was so late, I could leave the building straight from the office. That's when I realized that I didn't have my knapsack with me. I had been so shocked about going to the principal's office that I had left my knapsack in the classroom.

My knapsack! My toque!

The class was empty by the time I ran down the hall and burst into the room. The bus kids, after-school-care kids, even walkers like Indra had all left. But there was my knapsack, just where I left it. I grabbed it up, unzipped the inner pocket, and stuck in my hand. The feel of cotton was smooth, cool, and comforting.

Relieved, I scooped up the pens and paper on my desk in one hand and went to grab Cleo with the other.

Cleo was gone.

And on the floor beside my foot, as ghastly as a smear of blood, was a smudge of flour.

It was three
A.M.
I had spent five sleepless hours tossing in bed. I was a wreck.

Over and over, I kept thinking, what can I do? What can I possibly do?

Absolutely nothing.

I had failed the assignment. Now I would have to go to summer school, maybe even repeat eighth grade. My own class would be gone, and I would be left alone to tower over shrimpy seventh graders. Worse, my having to repeat a grade would look horrible when I reapplied to the Culinary Institute.

Worser—Indra would be gone, too, over to the high school across town. No way would she want to be seen with someone from junior high, even though I was older than her fiancé.

At last I fell asleep. The worrying became a dream with a very sarcastic voice.

“Oh, boo hoo,”
it said.
“Poor Bertie might have to go to summer
school. What about poor Cleo? Have you given a second's thought to her? Her life is in danger!”

“She's a flour sack,” I answered.

“She's your baby!”

Cleo appeared.
“I'm your baby!”
she pleaded. She started to grow little arms and legs. Then Cleo turned into Chuckie, the demon doll from all those horror videos I never should have watched.

“Ah ha!” Cleo/Chuckie crowed. “I'm the child of lies!”

Suddenly I was in school, running down an endless hallway, as Cleo/Chuckie chased me with a knife. A door appeared. I rushed through it into a huge kitchen. I began to throw egg grenades. From nowhere, I grabbed a hose and milk spurted out. The powdery white legs became sticky. Cleo/Chuckie got stuck to the floor and couldn't move. I had just turned on the electric beater when Cleo/Chuckie became Cleo again.

“Save me,” she whispered. “Be brave, Chef Bertie, and save me . . . ”

She melted into a puddle of white goo, wailing pitifully, “Save me, save me!”

I woke up, heart pounding, body sweating. I rushed to my parents' bedroom.

“Mom! Dad! Help!”

My mother popped straight up.

My father, snoring loudly, lay sprawled on his stomach. His hand was stretched toward the floor, where his cell
phone, calculator, pen, sheets of paper, and a book light, still on, were scattered.

“Dad!” I grabbed the big toe that stuck out beneath the sheet and shook hard. “Wake up, Dad!”

“Sixty-two one hundredths, and not a point more,” he mumbled.

“Mom, Dad! It's Cleo!”

“What?” they asked, both waking up.

“Remember last night when you asked where Cleo was and I told you she was at a sleepover at Patty Cakes?” I took a deep breath. “Well, I lied. Cleo's been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?!” they shrieked in unison. Two of my mother's curlers popped—
sproing!
—right off her head.

“At first I didn't care, and I wasn't going to do anything about it,” I confessed. “I mean, she's just a flour sack and this whole thing has gotten way out of hand, and so what if I have to go to summer school or even repeat eighth grade? I do
not
want a flour sack for a sister. Well, at least I thought I didn't. But Cleo's been saying, ‘Save me, Bertie' over and over, and she knows who I really am because she calls me ‘Chef '—”

“Cleo can talk?” my mother interrupted.

“She
can't
talk, she's a flour sack! But I've got to save her, at least until I can bring her to class, then afterward I think we should all go see Dr. Zimmerman together and maybe find out if there's some special therapy group for
people like us, you know, for flour sacks who pretend to be kids and the families who believe them, but until then, all I really need is to get Cleo to class to be graded.” I gasped for breath.

“Mrs. Menendez is going to grade Cleo?” my mother asked. “Isn't that, well, severe? After all, you're an eighth grader and Cleo's a . . . a . . . ”

“A flour sack!”
I roared. I ran my fingers through my hair. I was never going to be able to explain this right. I tried another tactic. “Mom, Dad. Listen carefully. Nicholas Dekker kidnapped Cleo. Can you help me save her?”

“Kidnapped?!” they both shrieked again.

They jumped out of bed.

“Quick, Bert, get dressed while I call the police!” My father punched 911 into his cell phone.

“No police!” I snatched the phone and cancelled the call. “The . . . the kidnapper's note said to come alone . . . or else.”

At those ominous words, my parents looked at each other. My mother's eyes started to fill up. Then she shook her head a little, frowned, and massaged her temples.

“But wait a minute,” she began. “I mean, Cleo isn't—”

“Mom,” I pleaded. “
Who
ever she is,
what
ever she is, however she got here, Cleo needs us, all of us, right now. Please?”

“You're right,” my father said solemnly. “We've got to do it for Cleo.”

“For Cleo,” I agreed. We both looked at my mother. There was a very long pause.

Finally she smiled a bit, then nodded half a bit. “For Cleo.”

Fifteen minutes later, with just a hint of dawn in the sky, we were ringing Dekker's doorbell.

Suddenly I wondered, What were we going to say?

Mrs. Dekker answered. She was no longer the dynamo who only yesterday transformed our class into a courtroom. Now she had half-closed eyes and a bad case of bed head, and on her feet were pink bunny slippers.

“Wha—?” she asked. “Who has the nerve to ring my bell before my first cup of coffee?” She squinted at me. “Oh, the flour-sack boy,” she murmured, closing her eyes again.

“So
you're
in on it, too,” my mother said.

“In on what?”

From the door came the smell of Mocha Java coffee mingled with the scent of something cooking.

“Where is she?” I demanded.

“Who?”

“Cleo!” answered my father.

“Who's Cleo?” asked Mrs. Dekker.

Embarrassment, heavy as a blanket, seemed to drop on us from the sky. My parents shuffled their feet. What bad timing for a reality check!

“She's my flour sack,” I explained. “My special project,
my key to high school.” Nothing seemed to penetrate her fog. “She's my baby!” I blurted out. “Cleo's my baby and I've got to save her!”

“From what?”

“Your son. He kidnapped her yesterday while you and I were in the office saying nice things to each other. Maybe you
are
in on it.”

One eye peeked open. “Nicky did what?”

“What are you cooking?” Maybe I could get her to slip and confess.

“I'm brewing coffee. Coffee. I need my coffee,” she mumbled.

“What else?”

“I don't need anything else, just my coffee.”

“No, what else are you cooking?”

“Huh? Oh, waffles.” The one eye closed. “To go with my coffee.”

“Waffles?” My mother's lower lip started to tremble.

“Frozen or homemade?” I asked.

“Young man,” Mrs. Dekker said, trying to open both eyes at once. “What possible business do you have with my waffles?”

“They might be my sister.”

“What?”

“Frozen or homemade?” My mother elbowed past me and grabbed the collar of Mrs. Dekker's bathrobe. “Frozen or homemade?!”

“Frozen! Now
shoo
!” Mrs. Dekker stepped from the door to wave us away. “All I want is a cup of coffee or two, maybe three, not twenty questions. And you people—” She turned her scrunched-up face toward my mother's voice. “What sort of parent comes along on a prank like this?”

“What sort of parent?”
I repeated. I felt the heat rise up my neck and make my brain simmer. “Nobody calls my parents ‘what sort of parent.' Besides, what sort of parent condones torture, kidnap, the destruction of the sacred family unit?”

“Who's been kidnapped?” Mrs. Dekker asked.

The solution I'd been looking for was finally obvious.

“You!” I shouted.

At last, both sleepy eyes popped open at once. “Me?” She took a step backward.

I grabbed her hand. “No, not really, don't go—just listen to me.
Your
son took
my
flour sack. I can't graduate without it.”

“Nicky? My little Nicky?”

“Your little Nicky—” Is a future #1 on the FBI's Most Wanted List, I wanted to say. But I had to be diplomatic. “He . . . he has issues.”

“Issues?”
Her eyes bulged and her cheeks turned pale.

“Yes, issues. He needs help fast,
I
need help fast, and you're the only one who can help us both.”

I tugged on her hand gently.

“I know a place where we can talk about Nicky, and
where there's lots and lots and
lots
of coffee,” I said. “I promise you the biggest cup they have.”

She glanced back at her house.

“Mocha Java,” I said softly. “French Roast. Espresso shots. Doubles.”

She nodded once, sharply. “Okay, let's talk.”

She took the lead down the walk to our car.

“Bert!” cried my dad, hurrying to catch up. “Where on earth are you going?”

“To arrange an exchange of hostages.”

After circling the Dunkin' Donuts three times to make sure there were no cops taking their break, my father pulled into the drive-thru and put in an order. Takeout in hand, we parked at the rear of the lot. I switched seats with my mother, going from the back with Mrs. Dekker to the front with my father. Then I made my call on the car phone and hit the speaker button. When a sleepy-voiced Dekker answered on the fifth ring, we could all hear him.