Prank List (11 page)

I'm practically hyperventilating by the time we get back to Ryan's Bakery.

“I don't think anyone followed us,” says Marisol, jumping on her bike.

I don't move. I can't believe Whit was the one back there. Whit talking to Lillian, as if they were friends. And then I remember what Whit said about living with his sister and about her dropping him off at pastry class on her way to work.

Holy spiced pumpkin. Whit is Lillian's brother. How did I not see it before? They even look alike!

“Rachel, are you crazy?” Marisol cries. “Come on! We have to get out of here.”

As if on autopilot, I jump on my bike and start pedaling after her. But my mind is still whirling.

I think of how I told Whit about our plans to prank the Ladybugs, about how I wanted to get revenge for what they'd done to us. And all that time, he knew who the Ladybugs were. He was related to one of them, and he didn't say a word. He even offered to help me get back at them! Probably so that he'd know the plan before it happened and could warn his sister.

No wonder the Ladybugs knew who to strike back at with those online reviews. Whit must have told Lillian everything.

What a mooseheaded jerk.

I can't believe that Evan would think I could like someone like that. I've never hated a person more in my life!

When we get to Marisol's house, I practically collapse on her lawn.

“Well, that was close,” she says, panting. “Somehow you lost your shoes, but we got away with it!”

All I can do is stare at my dirty feet. After a second, Marisol notices I'm not saying anything.

“What's wrong?” she asks.

“We didn't get away with it. He saw me. He's probably told the police everything by now.”

Marisol's face goes gray. “Who saw us? What are you talking about?”

I tell her about Whit seeing me and how he's bound to tell his sister everything.

Marisol looks toward her house in horror, as if her mom is in there already talking to the police. “Do you think he'd really report us?” she says.

“Yes! Lillian is his sister. Of course he'd take her side!” I put my head in my hands. My mom is going to explode when she hears about this. And if Marisol gets in trouble because she was trying to help me, I'll feel even worse.

“So what do we do?” she says. “Maybe you can talk to Whit and explain things to him. Maybe he hasn't turned us in yet.”

“It's too late. Lillian was already at the police station, remember?”

She sighs. “I guess you're right. Well, it doesn't matter what the police do since our parents are going to murder us when they find out. I bet my mom's sharpening her knives right now.”

I know she's trying to lighten things up, but it's not helping. Forget the caramel mess we made. The one we've gotten ourselves into is a hundred times stickier.

•••

When I finally slink home, I expect to find Mom sitting in the kitchen waiting for me, ready to shoot fireballs out of her eyes. But instead, she's kneeling on the living room floor, going through a box of old movies that she must have brought down from the attic.

“Oh good, you're home,” she says. “What happened to your shoes?” Before I can answer, she shakes her head. “Never mind. Just have a seat for a second.”

This is it. Maybe she's only pretending not to be mad, but now she's going to unleash a cruel and unusual punishment on me. I wouldn't be surprised if it involved cow manure. Weirdly, though, she doesn't look angry. Maybe the police haven't called her after all.

I hesitantly perch on the couch. “What's up?”

“I just got off the phone with the real-estate agent, and he kept stressing that it's a seller's market right now.” She sighs, like she's been doing nonstop for weeks. “I know you want to stay in this house, Rachel, and I do too, but what he was saying makes a lot of sense.” She shakes her head and picks at the carpet.

Wow. I guess she really doesn't know about the goo incident.

“Mom,” I say, when it doesn't look like she can go on. “I'm sorry. I know I should be doing more to help you save the business and everything.” I thought that the stupid pranks would fix everything. Instead, they've made everything worse. If word gets out about what I did, who'll want to hire us? No one.

“Oh, honey,” she says, putting her hand on my knee. “It's not your responsibility. It's mine. We did the best we could, and we'll keep fighting. But it might be time we faced reality and admitted to ourselves that—”

“No!” I cry, jumping to my feet. I can't stand to listen to this right now. “We'll figure it out. We will!” Then, before I break down and admit everything to her, I turn and rush to my room.

My room that might not be my room for much longer.

I lurk outside of Ryan's Bakery on Saturday morning feeling totally delirious. I barely slept all night, waiting for the police to call my mom and tell them what happened. But the phone never rang, so either Whit didn't tell his sister the truth or…I don't know what. Why wouldn't he tell on me? Was he eaten by giant pigeons? One sniff of that caramel, and they went crazy and pecked him to death? Great, now Whit's death by pigeon will be my fault, too.

Relax
, I can practically hear Marisol saying. But I can't.

I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of seeing Whit, so I wait until the last possible second to go inside the bakery. But when I get into the kitchen, Whit isn't there.

“Rachel!” Mr. Leroy says, waving me over. “I was afraid I wouldn't have a partner today. Ms. Gomez is away visiting her daughter.”

I smile weakly, watching the door, waiting for Whit to come in at any second. At least I won't have to be partners with him today.

Mr. Leroy tells me that he's been practicing a lot, and when I stand back and let him take the lead on the mini fruit tart recipe, I realize he really is doing better. Which is a good thing because I'm so distracted that I can barely pay attention long enough to sift flour. I keep expecting Chef Ryan to yell at me, but he's decided to pick on a couple of college girls on the other side of the room who committed the cardinal sin of using a measuring cup instead of a scale.

“How will you know you have the precise amount of flour if you're not using the proper tools?” he demands.

The girls look ready to cry. I should feel bad for them, but I'm just relieved that they're the ones getting Chef Ryan's wrath for once.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the kitchen door swings open and Whit comes in. For once he isn't wearing his leather jacket, and he looks flustered and sweaty. No sign of giant pigeon beak marks, though.

“Nice of you to join us,” Chef Ryan says.

Whit pushes his damp hair off his forehead. “Sorry. Someone put crap all over my sister's minivan. It took me forever to help her clean it off.” He shoots a death glare my way and then goes over to a table in the corner to work by himself.

“Rachel?” Mr. Leroy asks. “Are you all right?”

I realize I'm squeezing a pear in my hand so hard that I've bruised it.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “Um, what's the next step?”

“Is everything all right with you and that boy?” Mr. Leroy asks in a loud whisper. He winks, like he thinks we've had a spat or something. The thought makes my stomach churn.

“No, it isn't. He hates me, and I hate him.”

“Huh,” he says, rubbing the handful of gray hairs on top of his bald head. “Hate is a pretty strong sentiment. If you ask me, it takes too much energy.”

“Well, if he and his sister were trying to ruin your life, you'd hate him, too.”

Mr. Leroy gives me a long look. “Sounds like you two have a lot to talk about.”

I shake my head. “I'm not talking to him.” If I do, I might claw his face off. I turn back to the recipe, trying to make it clear that I don't want to talk about this anymore.

When our fruit tarts are done, I have to admit they're not bad. Even Chef Ryan doesn't have much to say about them. “Maybe you two should work together more often,” he says before moving on to the next team.

Whit's tarts aren't done by the end of class since he came in so late. Chef Ryan clucks like a chicken and shakes his head. “In this business, if you don't focus, you don't succeed,” he says.

Whit's jaw tightens so much that I can see it from all the way across the room. “It won't happen again,” he says.

“All right,” Chef Ryan says to the whole class, clapping his hands like a soccer coach. “Next week, we choose the three finalists who'll go on to the Bake-Off.” He shrugs. “Or maybe only two if some of you people don't step up your game.” I practically feel him shoot a look my way.

When class is over, I try to rush out of the kitchen, but Mr. Leroy catches my elbow.

“Talk to him,” he says, motioning to Whit who's still cleaning up his space. “Trust me.”

Mr. Leroy looks so frail and hopeful that I can't say no. What if he has a heart attack because I refuse?

I sigh. “Fine.”

When all the other students leave and Chef Ryan is busy washing pans in the back of the room, I go up to Whit and start helping him wipe the counter since I have no idea what else to do.

“Did you come over to apologize?” he says finally.

“Apologize?”

He stops and looks at me. “Yeah. I mean, you and your friend attacked my sister's vans. One of them had so much stuff caked on the windshield that we couldn't get it off. We'll probably have to pay to replace it. Not to mention all the jobs Lillian's employees were late for today because of what you did.”

I don't bother pointing out that that was the whole point. “I didn't start all of this,” I say. “Your sister's the one who spread rumors about us that weren't true and messed up the flyers that I spent hours putting all around town.”

Whit blinks at me. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please. Don't play all innocent. The whole reason you wanted to hear about my plan to get back at the Ladybugs was so that you could tell Lillian about it.”

He swallows. “Okay, that's kind of true, but only because my sister is having such a hard time. I couldn't let you mess up what she's been working toward for so long.”

“What about what my mom and I have been working toward? Do you have any idea how important this business is to us?”

“Um, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “I think you might have mentioned it, like a million times.”

My cheeks burn as I remember how much I've complained to Whit over the past few weeks. What was I thinking, spilling all that stuff to him? “So why didn't you tell your sister that I was involved with the van thing?”

“How do you know I didn't?”

“Because she went to the police. If she knew I was part of it, they would have done something about it.”

“I felt bad getting you in trouble,” he says, twirling a spoon between his fingers.

“Why do you care?” I say.

He shrugs like it's no big deal.

I should be relieved that he didn't report me to the police—and I am—but I don't understand why he wouldn't. “Come on,” I push. “Why didn't you tell your sister?”

Whit shrugs again, but his face turns serious. “Because even though what you did was beyond stupid,” he says, “I know you did it because you thought you were helping your mom. If I thought wrecking someone else's stuff might be the only way to help my sister and her family, I'd probably do it, too.” He taps the spoon on the counter. “I guess I was trying to help you.”

“Help me?” I repeat in disbelief. “You could have helped me by telling me who you were from the beginning, and by not letting me think you were on my side when you're on theirs, and by telling me the truth about the pranks they've been pulling on us. Maybe even warning me!”

“What pranks? What are you talking about?” He's yelling so loudly that Chef Ryan turns from washing pans and shoots us a look across the room. “Okay, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “My sister and I heard some rumors about you guys and kind of jumped on them, but that's it. I swear.”

“Yeah, right,” I say. “Why should I trust you after everything?”

“Why should I trust
you
?”

We stare at each other with laser-beam hatred.

“Forget it,” Whit says finally. “I have to go help my sister fix the mess you made.” Then he turns and thunders out of the kitchen.

I stare after him, still furious. Okay, what I did to his sister's vans was bad, definitely worse than I'd planned for it to be, and I'm lucky that Whit pitied me enough not to turn me in. But I can't believe he'd deny everything and keep lying to me! Whit has thought he was better than me—than everyone—since he first walked in here. And the best way to cut him down to size is to win the Bake-Off.

The next day, after I blow a bunch of my meager savings on ingredients at the grocery store, I have Marisol come over to help me train for the Bake-Off. When she shuffles into my kitchen, I can see from the tight look on her face that she's stressed out. I'm glad to finally have some good news for her.

“I got a message from Evan earlier,” I tell her. “He said he found some sound equipment we can use for the Bake-Off.”

“Really?” Marisol squeals. “That's perfect! Andrew emailed me this morning and said he can DJ.”

“I didn't know he's DJed stuff before.”

“He hasn't.” She laughs. “But it's better than nothing, right?” Her mood suddenly feels a million times lighter. “Now, what do you want me to do?”

I have her sit at the kitchen table and test my pastry-making skills by choosing random recipes out of a cookbook. We set it up like the Bake-Off so I only have a certain amount of time to get the recipes done. I rush around like a reality-show contestant, desperate to do everything right.

“Hmmm,” says Marisol, peering into the cookbook as I'm making banana nut bars. “It says you're supposed to mash the bananas first before you put them into the dry ingredients.”

I shrug. “I know, but this way works better. Trust me. I've done it a bunch of times.”

Marisol doesn't look convinced, but she leaves it alone. When the entire kitchen is full of baked goods and Marisol's approved them all, I ask my mom to taste test everything. She yums her way through one pastry after another, which makes me feel pretty good.

“I'm sure you'll win,” Mom says, but I can tell she's pretty distracted.

After Marisol leaves, I force myself to ask Mom what's wrong, even though I'm afraid I won't like the answer.

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “I just…found another job, that's all.”

“What? That's great! You won't be working at the law office anymore? Does this one pay better? Will people be nicer to you? When do you start?”

Mom shakes her head. “No, Rachel. I'll still be at the law office, but I'll also be waiting tables a few nights a week at Rib-Eye's.”

I gawk at her. “What about the cleaning business?”

“I'll still be doing that, but things have been so slow lately that waiting tables will help bring in the extra money we need to be okay.”

I can't believe it. I thought Mom working two jobs was bad enough, but three?

“No, you can't,” I say. “Having your own business was your dream. I'll do anything to help. Tell me what I can do.”

“Oh, Rachel.” She pulls me to her in a sideways hug. “You've already done more than enough. Just keep working hard like you have been. I don't want you dealing with any more stress.”

Of course, that's crazy. I'm so stressed all the time that I feel like my muscles could snap at any second like a too-tight string.

“Now,” she says. “Marisol told me you're going to be in a fashion show? When did that happen?”

I groan and hide my face. With everything that's been going on in the past few weeks, at least I haven't had time to think about the upcoming horrors of the fashion show.

“My daughter the supermodel,” Mom adds, smiling.

It's nice to see her happy, if only for a second. But even if I hopped up and down the runway in a bunny suit, I don't think anything will really make things okay.

The only solution is to beat Whit at the Bake-Off and then find some way to drive the Ladybugs out of town for good.

•••

That night, for the first time in weeks, I'm desperate to hear my dad's voice. We used to share everything when he still lived with us, but I guess that was bound to change after he left.

“Hey, Roo,” he says when he answers the phone. “Long time, no talk. You haven't been returning my calls.”

“Sorry. I've been pretty busy.” Which is true. But I think part of me has been afraid to talk to him since he announced he might be coming back. What if he suddenly changes his mind and decides to stay in Florida? I have enough disappointment to deal with right now.

“I had to call your mom the other day to make sure you were all right.”

“You talked to Mom? Did you tell her about…you know…what you said to me?”

“About coming back? No, not yet. I'm still figuring things out.”

“So does that mean it could actually happen?”

“It might,” he says. “But that will depend on a few things.”

“Like what?”

“I don't really want to get into all of that right now. But I'll come to visit soon, no matter what. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, stifling a sigh. How can talking to one of the people I love most in the world be so frustrating sometimes?

“So I hear you have yourself a boyfriend,” Dad says with a teasing tone to his voice.

I suck in a breath. “Oh. Um…”

“Now don't be mad at your mother for telling me. She was so excited that she couldn't help herself.”

I chew on my lip. Dad must have talked to her before Evan and I broke up. I open my mouth to tell him the truth, but I can't do it. The words are too hard to say. The truth is, I still don't believe it.

“Roo? Are you there?”

I make a noise that kind of sounds like a grunt.

“Is everything okay? Did you two have a fight?”

“Yeah,” I managed to choke out. “I mean, no. I mean…”

I don't know. I don't know anything. I thought Evan was the perfect guy for me, but maybe he's not. Maybe I'm wrong about him. I feel like everything I've done the past few weeks has been wrong, wrong, wrong.