Prank List (2 page)

When the doorbell rings the next day, I have clumps of caramel in my hair and a thick layer of flour on my apron. Mom is out on a lunch date with Mr. Hammond (her new boyfriend and my middle-school vice principal—how's that for awkward?), so I asked Evan to come watch our favorite show,
Pastry
Wars
, and do some baking.

“Whoa,” he says when he sees me. “Looks like you started without me.” His green eyes twinkle at me with amusement.

“Sorry. I was trying to figure out these caramel squares.” Just then, the timer goes off, meaning the squares are ready. I hold my breath as I go to take them out of the oven, hoping they come out less horrible than the ones I made in pastry class. I pull open the oven door and gasp.

“Wow,” Evan says, coming up beside me. “Those look awesome.”

“They really do,” I say as I put them on the counter. I can practically hear angels singing up in baking heaven. “Why couldn't I do that yesterday?”

“Why, what happened yesterday?”

As we wait for the squares to cool, I tell Evan about the disastrous first day of class.

“You had an off day,” he says when I'm finished. “Happens to the best of us.”

“I hope you're right.” Maybe I was just nervous and that's why I messed up every single step. I grab a spatula and quickly cut up the squares, doing it my usual way instead of the weird way Chef Ryan showed me. This time it works fine. Finally, I grab a gooey piece and place it on my tongue. “Mmmm.” It's amazing, if I do say so myself.

“These are amazing,” Evan says after he's swallowed a bite. I guess it's unanimous.

“That'll show Chef Ryan and Whit,” I say.

“Who's Whit?” Evan asks, popping another bite of caramel square into his mouth.

I sigh. “This guy in my class. He was my partner yesterday, and he probably thinks all I'm good at is making a mess. Next week I'm going to wow him and everyone else with my super-incredible baking skills.”

Evan gives me his trademark crooked grin. “They're definitely incredible.”

Could he be any cuter? I practically float over to the couch. “Which episode do you want to watch?” We've both seen every episode of
Pastry
Wars
ever made, which is one of the things that first helped us get to know each other. If we hadn't had that icebreaker, I probably would have been too scared to talk to him.

“Whichever one you want, Booger Crap.” He flashes a smile as I roll my eyes at the goofy fake swear turned nickname. “It doesn't really matter as long as we get to watch it together.”

My heart starts flopping in my chest like a fish. When he says things like that, I have no doubt that he really likes me. Even if he hasn't called me his girlfriend yet, he must think of me that way. As far as I know, he's not hanging out with any other girls.

I wish I could ask him about it, but I think my tongue would turn black and fall out if I even tried. So, instead, I turn on the first episode I find and tell myself to calm down.

“What's wrong?” Evan says after a minute.

“Huh?” I realize that instead of looking at the TV, I've been staring at his profile. Honestly, sometimes I think my body and my brain aren't even connected.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah…I was…”
Do
it
, a little voice in the back of my brain says, one that sounds suspiciously like my best friend, Marisol.
Just
ask
him
if
he
thinks
of
you
as
his
girlfriend. At least then you'll know.
Maybe my internal Marisol is right, and I do need to come out and ask him. I open my mouth, excited and terrified at the idea that I might actually manage to spit out the words, when—

Riiing
!

I jump at the sound of the house phone. As I rush over to pick it up, I wonder if it's a sign that asking Evan about our relationship is a bad idea. Maybe it would scare him away.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Rachel,” a woman's voice says on the other end. “It's Linda Montelle.”

“Oh, hi. My mom's not home right now, but you can try her cell phone if you need—”

“Actually, you're the one I was looking for. I was hoping you could help me. I was planning to take Caitlin's necklace in to the jeweler to be fixed. You know, the one you and I were talking about yesterday? But I can't seem to find it.”

“I'm pretty sure I put it back in her jewelry box.”

“I thought so, too,” she says. “Maybe it fell behind the dresser. Sometimes, I think we must have fairies living in this house!” She lets out a light laugh. “Anyway, I thought I'd check with you first before I started moving furniture around.”

My brain is spinning. I
did
put the necklace back right where I found it, didn't I? “I can help you look for it when we're there next week, if you want,” I offer.

“That's all right. In fact, I forgot to tell your mom that I'll be out of town next weekend so you two don't have to worry about stopping by. I'll be in touch with her to set up another time, okay?”

“Oh. Okay, I'll let her know.”

I slowly put the phone down after she's hung up, still racking my brain. I swear I put the necklace right back in the box. Unless there was an earthquake last night—one that only hit underneath Caitlin's house—I don't know how it could have fallen out.

Ms. Montelle was acting like it wasn't a big deal, but what if her suddenly not wanting us to come by next week means that she blames me for the necklace going missing? No way. I'm being a paranoid panther. Ms. Montelle has been our most loyal client from the beginning. Her canceling on us next week is just a coincidence. It has to be.

When I was younger, Mom would ship me off to camp for the summer where I'd be forced to weave ugly, lopsided baskets and half drown in a swampy lake. Thankfully, those days are over. Now Mom drops me off at Marisol's house on her way to her office job so she doesn't have to worry about me spending the whole day by myself.

When I get to Marisol's, her mom lets me in and then promptly goes back to her laptop. She's a freelance writer, which means she spends most of the day in sweatpants, furiously typing away. It drives Marisol nuts that her mom is always home because she gets almost no privacy. I have to admit that the whole thing makes me a little jealous. Now that my mom and I are getting along better, I wish she were home more often.

Ever since school ended, Marisol's been painting a mural on her wall, so her bedroom is particularly chaotic when I go in. One end of the room is draped with sheets, and there are fans going in all the windows. She only has one corner of the mural done so far, but I can already tell it's going to be amazing.

“What's that?” I say, peering at the newest sketch she's added near her closet. One of the people looks hunched and bloody. “Wait! It's a zombie, isn't it?”

She smiles. “How'd you guess?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because your boyfriend is obsessed with the undead?”

Marisol's eyes widen, and she rushes over to shut the door to her room. “We have to be careful about using that word, remember?” she whispers. “My mom is right downstairs.”

“Sorry!” I whisper back. Marisol's mom thinks she should wait until she's older to start dating, so her relationship with Andrew has been top secret. “Has she ever met him?”

Marisol shakes her head. “Not yet. You know how weird she is about me even having friends who are guys.”

“You should have Andrew come over so your mom can see how nice he is. Then she might not care that you two are together.”

“Maybe when he gets home from camp in a few weeks, I'll give it a try.” She sighs and shoves a paintbrush in my hand. I'm not good at making actual art, but I'm not bad at filling in the parts that Marisol tells me to. “You're so lucky that your mom is okay with you having a boyfriend.”

I sigh right back as I start painting a patch of grass near the zombie's feet. “He's not my boyfriend.”

“Of course he is! Even if you guys haven't had ‘The Talk' yet, that doesn't mean anything. There isn't anyone else you're interested in, right?”

For some bizarre reason, I think of Whit from my pastry class.

“Rachel?” Marisol's eyebrows shoot up. “Is there another guy I don't know about?” She gasps. “You're not still stuck on Steve Mueller, are you?”

“No!” I might have been obsessed with Steve Mueller for most of eighth grade, but Evan is a million times better than him. Besides, after Steve dumped Briana Riley, he started dating Caitlin Schubert. They're kind of perfect for each other, which makes me especially glad I'm finally over him. “It's nothing…I mean, no one. I was just…”

Unfortunately, Marisol can always see right through me. “Who is he?”

I shake my head. “It's really nothing. There's this guy in my pastry class. He's cute and everything, but I'm not interested in him at all. He's too…” I can't even find the words. Whit might be cute, but I didn't get the friendliest vibe from him the other day. Besides, he's not my type. Evan Riley is my type, plain and simple. “I guess meeting him got me thinking about what would happen if he asked me out on a date or something. I couldn't say I had a boyfriend because I don't, not technically.”

Marisol laughs. “Look at you. Remember two months ago when you were convinced no guy could ever like you? And now you're worried about having too many of them swooning at your feet.”

My cheeks start to burn. “Shut up!” I say, threatening her with my paintbrush. I know she's joking, but for some reason it still embarrasses me. I'm definitely not over the shock of Evan actually liking me. Maybe that's why this whole boyfriend thing has been worrying me so much. “Anyway, we haven't even held hands yet or anything.”

Marisol waggles her dark eyebrows. “Maybe not yet, but wait until he kisses you.”

My face is suddenly so hot that I have to go stand in front of one of the fans to cool down. Just as I'm starting to feel better, I spot a Ladybug Cleaners van driving by. I press my face to the window and watch it stop outside Angela Bareli's house next door.

“Holy poached pears!” I cry.

“What's wrong?”

I quickly tell Marisol about the new cleaning business in town. Together, we watch as two identically dressed women pile out of the van and go into the Barelis' house. Considering that Mrs. Bareli is in my mom's book club, it's kind of an insult that she wouldn't hire us to clean for her.

“I bet Angela convinced her mom to get someone else,” I say. “She probably hates me for winning the bake sale this year.”

“She might still be mad about that, but she should be thanking you for finally making Briana Riley all hers.” Marisol rolls her eyes. “Now that Briana and Caitlin aren't friends anymore, Angela can't stop talking about how she and Briana are ‘the bestest besties.' I'm waiting for them to get matching tattoos or something.”

I try to laugh, but I'm still staring at the Ladybug Cleaners van. What do they have that we don't?

“I'm pretty sure Mr. Jacobs lied to us about being out of town,” I say. “He wanted the Ladybug people to do his house instead. Do you think they're better than us?”

“Definitely not better,” Marisol says in the reassuring tone she uses when she thinks I'm taking things way too seriously. “But is it possible they're cheaper?”

“I–I don't know. My mom based her prices on the other places in town, but maybe they're charging less.” I shake my head. “We can't compete with that. If we charge any less than we already do, we'll barely be able to pay for the gas to drive around town.”

Suddenly, I'm gasping for air. After Dad left, my whole world felt like it was falling apart. If anything else goes wrong…

“Rachel, relax,” says Marisol, clearly noticing that I'm about to hyperventilate. “It'll be fine.”

“What if we have to move out of town?” I say, still wheezing. Is this what a panic attack feels like? “I can't leave you and Evan and—”

“I know, but you guys will figure it out.” Marisol gives my hand a squeeze. “And I'll help you, okay? Whatever it takes.”

I nod, finally able to suck in a breath. “Whatever it takes.”

When pastry class rolls around again on Saturday morning, I'm ready. I've been practicing all week, and I'm determined to impress Chef Ryan.

Except he's not there.

Instead, a woman I don't recognize greets us with a smile, her short curls bouncing like they're made out of Slinkies.

“Hi, everyone!” she says. “My name's Cherie. I'm Chef Ryan's wife. He's a little under the weather, so I'll be taking over the class today.” Something about the way she blinks while she's talking makes me think that she's not being totally honest. Maybe Chef Ryan couldn't deal with another session of watching me accidentally destroy his kitchen.

“We'll be making chocolate chip cookies,” she announces.

I stifle a groan while everyone else around me perks up. I guess they're excited to make something easy, but I've been making chocolate chip cookies from scratch since I was a little kid. The whole reason I wanted to take this class was so I could push myself to make things I might not be brave enough to try on my own.

Whit lets out a grunt beside me. Maybe he's not thrilled about making something easy, either. Or he's part gorilla.

“Let's get in pairs so we can help each other,” Cherie calls out.

People start to team up while I stand in the corner having traumatizing flashbacks to gym class. Finally, I glance over at Whit and realize he's the only one without a partner. I guess that means he has no choice but to work with me.

He seems to realize the same thing because he comes over and hands me the recipe Cherie passed out to us.

“I'll take the lead,” he says, as if it's obvious that he'll be the one in charge. I'm tempted to argue, but I figure it's not worth it. Since Chef Ryan isn't here, there's no one for me to impress anyway.

Whit goes to gather the ingredients while I bring over the pans we'll need. A sinking feeling keeps growing in my stomach. I've been looking forward to taking a pastry class for so long, and so far it's been one huge disappointment.

“Rachel,” Cherie says, coming over to me. “My husband said you were having some trouble last week.”

Great. And now I've been labeled the dunce in the class.

“I was having an off day,” I say. I can practically hear Whit listening to our conversation as he stands behind me.

She smiles brightly, obviously humoring me. “Well, if you need any help, I'm right here. I'm not as skilled as my husband, but I'm not bad.”

“Is he really sick?” Whit asks over my shoulder.

Cherie's smile fades. “No…not exactly.” She looks around and then lowers her voice. “The truth is, I'm the one who talked him into doing this class, hoping it would bring in more business. My husband loves being in the kitchen, but talking to people…” She laughs. “That's more my department.”

Now that's something I can understand. I'm always much better in the kitchen by myself than with other people around. If I had to teach a cooking class, I'd probably hate every minute of it, too.

“Okay, I'll stop distracting you!” Cherie chirps before going to check on Mr. Leroy, the little old man who was having even more trouble last week than I was. He looks just as nervous today, but at least he's teamed up with a middle-aged woman who has a patient, kindergarten-teacher smile constantly plastered on her face.

Whit and I get to work, and after only a minute, I already want to smack him. He keeps reading the instructions aloud and then stopping to explain every step to me, like I'm a two-year-old. Clearly, he thinks he's too good for this class and too good to be working with a klutz like me. I wonder why he's here in the first place since he seems convinced he already knows everything.

“You're doing that wrong,” he says, after we've made our dough and he's “letting me” scoop it onto the cookie sheet. How did I ever think he was cute? He's one of the most annoying people I've ever met.

“What are you talking about?” I say. And then, because I can't take it anymore, I add, “I've baked chocolate chip cookies a million and a half times in the past few years. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.”

He ignores me and says, “If you make the cookies smaller, they come out better. Watch.” He grabs the spoon from me and starts dishing out tiny scoops of dough, like he's making cookies for a little-kid tea party.

“Fine,” I say. “We'll do half your way and half my way.” Then he'll see that my way is better.

He smirks, and I have a feeling he's thinking the same thing. “Fine.”

When our cookie sheet is filled, we put it in the oven. I realize we're done before anyone else in the class, so now all there is to do is wait.

The silence between us grows and grows until it's an eight-legged monster. The fact that Whit's a total snob doesn't make me all that eager to get chummy with him, but the silence is so thick now that I'm afraid it'll clog my lungs.

“So,” I finally say, determined to make conversation like a normal person, “what grade are you in?”

“Going into ninth,” he says.

“Me too. Did you just move to town?”

He shakes his head. “I live in Plainville, but when I found out that this place had a pastry class, I convinced my sister to drop me off on her way to work.”

“Oh,” I say. More silence.
Think, Rachel. What would Mom say in this situation?
“So your sister is older?”

“Yeah, I live with her and her family,” he says, playing with the strings of his apron. “That's why I'm here. I already know all this stuff, of course, but if I can say I've taken some classes, it'll help me get a job at a bakery. Then I can help my sister out with paying the bills.”

Suddenly, my hatred for Whit is a little less intense. Helping your family is something I can definitely understand. I want to tell him about working with my mom, but instead I find myself blurting out: “I don't have a sister. Or a brother. I had a guinea pig once, but that doesn't really count.” Wow, my conversational skills keep getting better and better. “Do your parents live with your sister, too?” There, that's a normal thing to ask.

His face darkens. “My mom's having a rough time right now and my dad died a few years ago, so my sister and her husband took me in.”

“Oh, I–I'm…” Luckily, the timer goes off, saving me from sticking my foot even further into my mouth. Whit and I hurry over to take out the cookie sheets and put them on the counter to cool.

“Those look great,” Cherie calls to us. “But why are they two different sizes?”

Whit and I exchange looks. “Hey, Cherie,” he calls back. “Can you do a taste test for us?”

Her face lights up as she bounces over to us. “Of course.”

She tastes one of Whit's tiny cookies and one of my normal-sized ones. As she chews both carefully, like she's making an important decision, I'm dying from the suspense.

“Well?” I finally say.

“The smaller ones are cooked more evenly,” she says slowly, “but they're a little dry.” I'm about to let out a triumphant hoot when she continues: “And the bigger ones are nice and chewy, but they're a little underdone.” She smiles at us. “So I think I'll have to call this one a tie.”

I feel myself deflate while Whit's face goes boiling red. “Are you serious?” he says. “I know my stuff is better. My school did baking competitions all the time, and I always won.”

“Sorry!” Cherie chirps. “I just call them like I see them!” Her brow furrows. “A baking competition? How does that work?”

I'm afraid Whit's anger might boil over like a pot of soup, but he seems to calm down enough to explain about the “bakefest” at his middle school. Kids would be given an hour to make an assigned recipe and then be judged in front of an audience. I have to admit that it sounds amazing.

“Wow! That's like something you'd see on TV,” Cherie says. “We should do that here! I bet Chef Ryan would love it.”

I give her a skeptical look.

Cherie laughs. “Okay, he might not love it. But I think he'd like judging that kind of competition if I organized it. Maybe we could do a bake-off at the end of the class as a way to show off what you guys have learned. What do you think?”

“Sure,” Whit says with a smug smile that I know means he's convinced he's going to win yet again.

“That sounds great,” I say. Maybe the bake-off will finally give me a chance to prove myself to Chef Ryan. And to put Whit in his place.

I leave class smiling this time. As I go over to Mom's minivan, which is waiting for me on the corner, I spot a blur of red and black driving past. My smile fades as a Ladybug Cleaners van goes by, its engine buzzing like a big, ugly insect.