I So Don't Do Spooky (6 page)

I sip my water, willing my throat lump to shrivel up and disappear.

“You know anything about The Ruler's after-school tutoring?” Josh asks.

“It's good. I had to go.”

“I'm gonna try it.” He spoons extra salsa into his burrito. “You know, to raise my math grade.” He takes another big bite. He likes to eat a lot, especially after a game.

With my fork, I push Spanish rice around while Josh wolfs down his food.

“Aren't you hungry?” Josh asks.

“Not as much as you. I didn't just play an amazing water polo game.” I scoot my plate toward him. “Plus, I'm saving room for fried ice cream.”

“Thanks, Sherry.” Josh spears a chunk of avocado. “Guess what? I'm gonna be making some money. My dad's worker quit. I'm gonna get to dig trenches for the sprinkler system at this new apartment complex.” Josh pops the avocado into his mouth. “I'll take you on another date.”

How romantic. He wants to spend his first paycheck on me. But next time I'm suggesting an unsad place like KFC. “How will you fit in tutoring and water polo and digging?” And me?

He picks up my burrito. “It'll be busy. Like tomorrow I have polo practice, English project with Candy and one section of the apartment's front lawn to dig.”

Yikes. Josh is going to be crazy busy, and I'll be tied up with the stalker mystery—hanging with The Ruler, meeting with my mom and Junie, going to Donner robotics meetings, investigating clues. Eek. Candy'll see more of Josh than I will.

The waitress brings our fried ice cream. Josh digs in. One look at my family's fave dessert, and it's like two Ping-Pong balls are lodged in my throat. It's a miracle I can even breathe and haven't keeled over in a dead faint on Tio Roberto's could-be-cleaner floor.

After the waitress drops off the bill, Josh picks it up and stares at the numbers, a cute pencil-thin wrinkle across his adorable forehead. Finally, he un-Velcroes his wallet, pulls out a couple of dollars for the tip and flattens them next to his plate.

At the front of the restaurant, Josh pays the bill. I snag a few cinnamon candies from a ceramic bowl by the cash register. For Sam.

It's dusk outside. His mom's not here yet, so we plop down on the curb.

“Thanks for dinner,” I say, knocking my knee against his. “It was really cool of you to plan something for our anniversary.”

Josh is beaming. “You're welcome, Sherry. I had a good time.” He puts his arm around me. “I always have a good time with you.”

I suddenly remember something I keep forgetting to say to him. “Thank you so much for the gorgeous flowers this morning.”

Josh's beautiful snapdragon blue eyes open wide. “What flowers?”

I
t's Saturday, about two in the afternoon. Junie's over. We did our homework and now we're cross-legged on my bed, painting our nails with this really fun photochromic polish. Mine changes from blue to green in the sun. Hers changes from lilac to rose. She's definitely more interested in clothes and makeup lately. Finally, my best friend is growing up.

“Junie, keep your hand flat. I'll get the polish on more evenly.” I make a broad brushstroke down the middle of her nail.

“If Josh didn't send you the flowers, who did?” She glances at the vase on my dresser.

I shrug. “At first, I was thinking maybe I have a secret admirer.”

“Yeah, right.”

I ignore her sarcasm. “Anyway, the card did say ‘Happy Anniversary.' So the secret-admirer theory doesn't fit.”

“Maybe the flowers were delivered to the wrong house.” Junie blows on her nails. “Maybe one of your neighbors had an anniversary, and the flowers were delivered to your address by mistake.”

I shake my head. “There was a Post-it with our address stuck to the cellophane around the bouquet.”

“Maybe the flowers were meant for The Ruler. And your dad arranged for the delivery while he's out of town.”

“It's not their anniversary. You know they just got married over spring break.”

“Could be an anniversary for something else.”

There's silence while we both consider this. Then, at the exact same second, we both squeal, “Ewww.”

My face all scrunched up, I say, “So I might've taken the flowers my dad sent to The Ruler for their first date or first kiss or something? And she doesn't even know she got flowers? She still thinks they're for me? Grooooss.”

“It's a distinct possibility. Why don't you ask your dad?”

“Believe me, I will. I talk to him every day. It's almost like he's not out of town, we hear from him so much.”

Junie waves her hand in the air, letting my perfect
polish job dry. “Got any nail jewels? I feel like going all out.”

“Wow.” I slap her shoulder. “What's with you?”

Her face reddens. Which happens easily because she's hugely freckled.

Anyway, I better stop teasing her. I've been trying forever to get Junie more interested in makeup and clothes and how she looks. You know, to catch up with me socially. And if I tease her too much, she might regress.

From my nightstand, I pull out an envelope loaded with nail jewels and decals.

“Do you think my lips are on the thinnish side?” I jut my face toward Junie's.

She looks surprised. “Say what?”

While I'm telling her about Candy, I get off the bed and root around in my desk for a ruler. “Let's measure our lips.”

Junie sighs, but untangles her legs and follows me into the bathroom.

I get up close and personal with the mirror above the sink. I press the ruler against my top lip, then my bottom lip. “One-quarter inch and one-half inch. I'm guessing that's below average width.”

Junie takes the ruler and measures hers. She gasps. “One-eighth inch and three-eighths inch. If your lips are too thin, what does that say about mine? And you've already got better eyebrows.”

The eyebrow thing is true, so I don't comment. “Wear lip liner and draw your lips bigger,” I suggest. “That's my plan.”

Junie sighs. “Once you start with makeup, it never ends.”

Also true, so I don't comment again.

We trundle back to my room, where Junie chooses a few nail decorations. She ignores the butterflies and flowers and goes straight for the geometric shapes.

I glue a black spiral onto her index finger. “About the stalker …”

“What do we really know about The Ruler? Why would anyone want to stalk her?” Junie sounds so TV cop show. “We know she taught middle school somewhere else, probably in Phoenix, before coming to our school last year. We know she's married to your dad. We know she's obsessed with robotics.” With her free hand, she counts off the points. “That's not much. I say we Google her.”

“I like your thinking!” I finish off her nails and we head downstairs to our midget office. The Ruler took Sam to Little League practice, and then they're going shopping for new cleats. Phew. That would've been way odd—Googling her while she was in another room.

I boot up the Dell, tap in Google's address and type in “Paula Paulson.”

There's an entry for The Ruler with our school website and the robotics club.

Right under it is an entry for a Polly Paulson.

Which I click on.

Polly Paulson.

A psychic.

“She's done readings for lots of different people,” Junie says, skimming the screen.

“I wonder how many bad readings she's done,” I say. “You know, where she told people stuff they didn't want to hear. Like you're going to have a horrible life or you'll never get the guy you love.”

Junie clicks all over the site. “There's no photo of her. I'm curious to see if she looks anything like The Ruler.”

Like it's the Fourth of July in my mind, I'm sparking on the bad readings idea. “What if she went into a trance and said stuff to the police like, ‘I see this guy in my mind. There he is breaking into the bank. Yup. He's drilling into the safe. And now I see him hiding the money.'”

Another spark flashes in my brain. “Then the police catch the guy and lock him up. And he has a cell mate with a lot of insider info who tells him, ‘You were nailed by a psychic named Polly Paulson.'”
Spark
. “So now he's out of prison and stalking The Ruler.”
Spark
. “Why? Because he's mixed up. He
thinks she's the psychic who fingered him.”
Spark
. “And maybe he has big big plans for revenge.”

“Sherry, slow down.”

But there's no slowing me down. “Maybe our bad guy has bad hearing. From too many prison fights where he got smacked in the ears.”
Spark
. “Which means instead of ‘Polly Paulson,' he hears ‘Paula Paulson.'” I am so on a roll. “The Ruler could be the victim of mistaken-identity stalking!”

“I don't know, Sherry.” Junie frowns. “It seems pretty out-there.”

Sometimes, in detective work, you have to take giant leaps. Definitely difficult for Junie, who is logical and practical and lives life step-by-step. Not me, though. I'm a leaper. Practically part kangaroo.

I click on “Events with Polly.” “Junie, she's at a psychic fair. In Chandler. Today.”

“We can go check it out.” She's not leaping, but at least she's hopping.

“Can your mom or dad drive us? The Ruler won't be back for hours.”

“They're working today.”

Junie's parents are both workaholic engineers. Junie's family is just her and her parents, and all three of them are major brainiacs.

“Call Amber,” I say. “She can drive us.”

Junie stops nodding.

Amber is Junie's gorgeous, blond, stylish, boy-expert, seventeen-year-old cousin. She's a senior in high school, works part-time at the makeup counter of the department store at the mall and is never without at least one boyfriend. Amber's not always nice to us, but she does have her driver's license and a car.

“Come on,” I wheedle. “You know you want to see what Polly Paulson looks like. I'm thinking accent, turban, crystal ball, wrinkled, with hairs growing from a mole on her chin.”

Her tongue between her teeth, Junie's deciding on a description. “I'll say thin, big earrings, lots of shiny bracelets.”

“Loser buys winner a Slurpee.” I fake sucking from a straw.

Junie flips open her cell and scrolls through her address book. “I'll text her.”

I lean over Junie's shoulder, watching the phone screen.

J
unie, me, Amber and Amber's überskinny friend, Dana, are in downtown Chandler, standing on a sidewalk and waiting in line to get into a park. It's a large flat, grassy area, bordered by a low Western-style wooden fence.

“The psychic fair's here?” Amber doesn't actually say, “Pathetic excuse for a psychic fair that's set up outside instead of in a swanky, mirrored, air-conditioned building,” but you can hear it in her voice.

Junie and I nod, then shuffle forward. Sometimes—make that, usually—it's better not to call Amber on her attitude. The two older girls follow us.

Sitting in a plastic chair behind a card table, a
woman with a rainbow turban and a matching shawl collects money.

“Love your turban,” I say. A blue raspberry Slurpee is clearly in my future.

“Five dollars for entry into the fair,” she says. “Readings are ten dollars, payable to the psychic.”

After we pay, Turban Lady stamps the back of our hand with the date.

I was expecting a more mystical stamp, like a star or moon or crystal ball. Now I just feel like I'm at the school library.

“There's food in the tent at the far corner of the park.” Turban Lady points over her shoulder with the stamp. “The exhibits are throughout the grounds.”

“Let's check out the exhibits first,” I say.

Tables are set up helter-skelter. The gazillion different colors from various tablecloths and posters and flyers make me feel like I'm trapped in a kaleidoscope. Incense burns on several of the tables, so there's this strange mixture of smells. It's noisy, like at the start of class before the teacher walks in.

“Amber, we so have to see a psychic,” Dana says. “I just don't know who to go to the spring dance with.” Dana has poufy brown hair. Which she flips back with a jerky hand movement, like she's under a blinking strobe light.

“Who asked you?” Amber says.

“Ryan and Jesse.” Dana flips her hair. Flips it again.

“You don't need a psychic for that.” Amber's looking past Dana, scanning the area. “Go with Ryan. Obviously.”

“Ryan?”
Flip
. “Why?”
Flip
.

Amber's finished surveying. Her eyes back on Dana, she shoots her the do-I-really-have-to-explain-this look. Like Dana asked something way simple à la should you buy your jeans a size too small or so they fit? Holding up a finger topped with a long violet nail for each point in his favor, Amber says, “Ryan has a car. Ryan has cuter hair. Ryan has a cool part-time job at Electronics City. Ryan has an older brother with lots of friends.”