I So Don't Do Makeup (22 page)

He laughs, long and loud. “You didn't tell her on purpose? So when she's secretly checking on you, it's not a secret for you.”

“Bingo.”

He laughs again. “You are full of surprises, Sherry Holmes Baldwin.”

“Look, you shouldn't blame my mother for what I did. Mrs. Howard warned me not to solve the mystery, but I just did it anyway. That's my problem. My mom was so thrilled learning animal mind control for you guys. Please don't take that away from her. Just because of me.” Embarrassingly, I'm crying again. Big rivers of tears splash down my face.

A box of Kleenex slides through the wall and settles on the table.

I pluck out a few and blow my nose.

He waits until I calm down. “What makes you think you've done anything wrong?”

“Mrs. Howard told me I ruined everything.”

“Ah, Mrs. Howard …”

An Oreo Cookies Blizzard materializes in front of me. “How did you know? Oh, my file.”

“Yes. Now, eat up and let me tell you a little about our Academy.”

I scoop up a bite. I'm always amazed at how hungry crying makes me.

“We are an Academy that has been around for a long, long time. Which means we've had centuries to determine which characteristics in our agents aid in our struggle to protect humans.” He pauses. “Above all, we value loyalty and creativity. Your mother has these in abundance. Anyone who would defy Mrs. Howard's rules to help her daughter is exactly the kind of individual we're looking for. The manner in which your mother relates to animals indicates someone who clearly thinks outside the box.” He pauses again. “And, Sherry, you possess the same admirable traits.”

“But Mrs. Howard said—”

“You must let this Mrs. Howard go. She doesn't have a creative bone in her body. Actually, she doesn't have a bone at all in her body.” He snorts.

He reminds me of my dad with his bad jokes. “You'll offer my mother the job?”

“Without a doubt.”

“How about me?”

“We'd like to keep that door open. At the moment, we don't have an assignment that fits your talents. But in the future? Perhaps.”

“Who are you? What country are you from? What is that smell?”

“All in good time, my curious friend.” He laughs again. “Besides the Kleenex and the Blizzard, is there anything else I can do for you?

“I want my mom.”

“I presume we're speaking of Real Time?”

“Please.”

“Is there a particular Blizzard your mother would enjoy?”

“She'd love a coffee. Black.”

The smell moves up above me. “While I find her, why don't you catch up on the WWWD headlines.”

The plasma screen appears on the wall.

“You have a half hour together, Sherry.”

A half hour? I didn't even know that was possible! I want to dance around the room. And sing and shout. A half hour! And I was hoping for five minutes.

The screen shimmers. Headlines appear and begin scrolling.

The screen dims and disappears. Another Oreo Cookies Blizzard and a large coffee exit from the wall and travel to the table.

There's a rush of French-roast-scented air.

And then she's here.

My mother is standing next to the table.

She looks exactly the same as she did the day she died. Right down to the haircut she needed, but never got. Her dark curls hang below her chin. Her brown eyes watch me with pride. She smiles, big and wide, just like I remember. “Sherry!”

All crinkly sounds from the aluminum foil, I jump up from the table. And run into her arms.

It's almost too much to grasp. I'm hugging my mother. I'm actually hugging her. And touching her. And feeling her. My mother, who died two years ago. My chest feels like it will burst open.

I step back. “Mom, am I taller than you?”

“Absolutely not. You're not passing me by at the age of thirteen.”

“Uh, I think I am. I'm a little over five feet one.” We're both short.

We stand back-to-back. I press my palm on the top of our heads. “I so am taller than you. By a smidgen. But a smidgen counts.”

Eventually, we sit. My legs stretched out to the bench across from me and my feet resting next to her, I dig into my Blizzard.

Mom pries off her coffee lid and sips carefully from the edge. Her lips leave behind an imprint of Perfectly Plum, her fave lipstick.

Her eyes widen with excitement. “Let's do our nails.”

My mother worked too much and was gone from home a lot. She definitely missed some major maternal moments. But something we've always shared is a love of painted nails.

I nod at the perfect suggestion. “But how?”

The question barely escapes my mouth when a tray of polish and emery boards and other manicure junk materializes from the wall. I so need a generous wall like this in my room!

The tray slides to a stop by my mom's elbow. She chooses an emery board. I stick out my arms. She takes my right hand in hers and starts filing.

My heart kind of stops. I'd forgotten little things, like how quickly she shapes my nails and how she
only files in one direction. And how her touch is soft but sure.

“Will I remember this time we're spending together?” I ask.

My mom sets down the emery board and looks at me. “You shouldn't. Humans don't remember Real Time. But you've surprised the Academy over and over.” She pushes the tray toward me. “Bottom line—we don't really know.”

“I hope I do.” I pick out a teal polish, Summer Breeze, shake it, then pass it to her. “Did the foreign ghost dude tell you they're giving you the assignment?”

Mom grins. “He did. I can't wait to get started. And it sounds like, down the road, they'll have something for the two of us.”

“So what country is he from?”

“He wouldn't tell me.” She paints a blue stripe down the middle of my thumbnail from base to tip.

“What's his name?” With my free hand, I scoop up some Blizzard on my spoon. “Maybe we could figure out his nationality from that.”

“I don't know.” She finishes by dragging the pad of her index finger across the edge of my nail, her fail-proof method to prevent chipping.

“He smells weird,” I say. “An herb or a spice that's new to me.”

“Working for their organization will be interesting.
Very different from here. Fewer guidelines, but somehow I think they'll expect more.” Mom's eyes twinkle while she talks shop.

This used to bug me big-time when she was alive. How into work she'd get until it was almost like I didn't exist. But it doesn't feel like that now. Strange as it sounds, our relationship is more balanced now that she's a ghost.

“How's French going?” Mom asks.

“That is one tough language.” I shake my head. “Hard to believe there's an entire country that communicates with it. I feel bad for them.”

“What's your grade?”

“C. But I think I'll raise it to a B with the French cultural project we're doing now.” I tell her how everyone's typing up a report on the computer. “But not me. I'm bringing in Sam's wagon. And pretending it's a French restaurant kiosk. Paula's getting me croissants and cold potato soup and bottles of water. And then everyone will order in French. And I have little bills I designed and printed on the computer. I even made a poster that shows what I serve. Madame Blanchard will totally love it.”

Mom glues five small sparkly rhinestones in a half-moon on my ring finger. It's our signature design. Each stone stands for a word: I. Love. You. Very. Much.

When my nails on both hands are dry, I say, “Hey,
let me show you what Sam gave me. I've been carrying it around with me.” I reach into the front pocket of my backpack. “He's on this kick of giving gifts for no reason.” I pull out the tiny frame.

Mom takes it from me. “Oh. It's the last photo of the three of us together.” She pats her heart. “He's such a sensitive little guy.” She examines the photo. “You remember this Saturday trip out to the desert. On the day the desert flowers bloomed. Every year, we kept missing them. But that time, we made it, and it turned out to be such a letdown.”

“Well, yeah. There were like three blooming flowers. Big whoop.” I roll my eyes. “But we still had fun. Especially when we stopped for huge milk shakes.”

We keep on chatting, mostly about ordinary stuff. Because that's what daily life is all about. And Real Time feels like a slice of life. I paint Mom's nails a muted pink. She does the half-moon design.

Our cups and the tray skim along the tabletop and through the wall.

A buzzer sounds.

“How much time do we have left?” My pulse races. I don't want this to ever be over.

“Thirty seconds.”

I stare at her, memorizing her face.

“We'll do this again.” My mother hooks my hair around my ears, then leans across the table and kisses my forehead.

We stand for a last hug, and I hold on tight, as if there's even a chance that'll prevent her from disappearing.

“Sherry, you're the best daughter a mother could hope for.” She squeezes me hard. “I'm so proud of you.”

Then,
poof
, she's gone. Not just invisible, but gone.

All alone, I gaze around the small back room of Dairy Queen, taking in the white walls that need a coat of paint, the empty table, my backpack on the floor.

I glance down at my nails, the rhinestones winking in the fluorescent light. I. Love. You. Very. Much.

I remember. Every single detail.

You so don't want to
miss Barrie Summy's
next book

i so
don't do
famous

Coming in 2011!

Barrie Summy
grew up in Canada with beaucoup de books, butter tarts, and Bonne Bell makeup. She lives in California with her husband, their four children, two veiled chameleons, and a dog named Dorothy. Barrie is hard at work on her next book. Visit her at
www.barriesummy.com
.