Prank List (4 page)

After I get home, I call Evan to tell him about Marisol's ideas for the Bake-Off.

“It sounds great,” he says.

“And here's the best part. I think you should do the music.”

Evan goes quiet.

“Hello?” I say finally. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. It's just that I'm not in a band, remember? Not yet, anyway. And I don't think I'm brave enough to go up on stage by myself.”

“Well, you have a month to get a band together,” I tell him. “And even if you can't, think of it this way: if Marisol can force me to get up in front of everyone and
model
aprons
, then you playing by yourself will be nothing.”

He laughs. “Since when did you get so bossy?”

“Since you started encouraging me to talk. If you'd let me be my shy, mute self, you wouldn't have this problem.”

I can practically hear him grinning over the phone. “Oh well. I guess I deserve what I get then, huh?”

“That's right.”

“I wanted to ask you, what are you doing on Wednesday night? I was thinking we could go get some ice cream or something.”

“Yes, please! Anything to get me away from here.”

“Why, what's going on?”

“My mom's having a real-estate agent come over to see how much our house is worth.”

Evan lets out a surprised half-cough. “Wait, what? You guys are moving?”

“No!” I cry. “It's just in case things don't pick up with the cleaning business.”

“Wow. I thought the business was doing okay, even with the Ladybug people moving in.” I hear him suck in a breath. “If you had to move, you'd still stay in town, right?”

“I–I don't know.” I focus on a loose thread on my bedspread, not sure what else to say.

“Well,” he says finally. “We don't have to worry about that yet. Maybe not at all, right?”

“Right.” Hopefully not ever.

•••

That night, Mom lugs a big box into my room that she's labeled “Rachel's Things” in her scratchy handwriting.

“What's that?” I ask.

“Some items from the attic,” she says. “It's high time we organized up there. Could you go through and see if there's anything you'd like to keep?”

I stare at her. Mom's been avoiding doing the attic for years. She's always said that it would be wrong to clean out the memories up there. And now here she is, emptying the place like it's a trash can.

I have a feeling this is connected to the real-estate agent's upcoming visit, but there's no way I'm going to ask Mom about that.

“Rachel?” she says. “I could really use your help.”

I sigh. “Fine. I'll look through it.”

She gives me a tight smile and hurries out of the room.

I get to my feet and pull up one of the flaps. The box is full of old toys and books and drawings. I unpack some beat-up alphabet books and laugh at the sight of Mr. Hip, a pink hippo that I used to sleep with every night when I was little. He's more gray than pink now, but he's still as huggable as ever. How could I have ever put him in a box?

I give Mr. Hip an apologetic kiss and place him on my bed before I keep going through the box, surprised at how much easier this is than I expected. Then I grab a piece of paper that's sticking out of an old sketchbook and my stomach curls into a ball. On the crinkled paper is a crayon drawing I did when I was in kindergarten. It's of Mom and Dad and me and my imaginary turtle, Norm, all standing in front of my house.

Blinking furiously, I shove the drawing back in the box and slap the flap closed.

When I get over to Marisol's house in the morning, I hear giggling coming from next door as I go up the walkway. I glance over and, as usual, Angela Bareli is perched on her porch swing spying on everyone who goes by. But for once Briana Riley is sitting next to her, giggling right along with her. It doesn't take a genius to figure out they're laughing at me, especially since they're both staring me down as I get closer.

“Good morning, Rachel!” Angela calls out. Then both of them start cracking up again.

My cheeks ignite. I try to ignore them, but I can't help freezing in my tracks as Briana says: “So I hear you're a thief now.”

“What?”

“That's what my mom told me,” says Angela. “She heard from our new cleaning lady that your old clients have been firing you guys now that you've started stealing jewelry.”

“I didn't steal anything. I swear!”

“Like you swore you didn't make up a fake boyfriend?” Briana chimes in.

It's been weeks since anyone's brought up the fake boyfriend Marisol and I made up months ago to try to make Steve Mueller jealous. It was a giant mistake, and I swore I'd never do anything that dumb again. But I guess making up one huge lie makes people think I can't be trusted. Leave it to Briana to totally take advantage of that.

Briana fingers something at her throat, and I see she's wearing the other half of the necklace that matches Caitlin's. Maybe this is more about her hurt feelings than about me, I realize. If she still wears her necklace, then some part of her must miss being friends with Caitlin. The fact that Caitlin left her necklace behind without a second thought must have stung Briana's pride.

“I didn't take anything,” I say. “The necklace must have just fallen somewhere.”

Briana and Angela exchange knowing smiles. “Sure, Rachel,” says Angela. “If you say so.”

I want to knock their heads together like two melons. To them this is all a game, a way to get back at me for encouraging Caitlin to leave them behind and start her own popular crowd. They have no idea how desperately my mom and I need the cleaning money.

The front door of Marisol's house swings open, and she comes outside with an uncertain look on her face.

“What's going on?” she says.

“Oh, we're just chatting,” Angela answers. “Aren't we, Briana?”

Briana shrugs and looks down at her perfectly manicured nails. It's weird to see Angela suddenly taking the lead. For years, Briana has been the queen bee of my grade, doing whatever she wants and making everyone else miserable. But now that both her boyfriend and her best friend have dumped her, leaving her with the biggest social climber in school as her only friend, maybe she's a little less sure of herself.

Still, I don't exactly feel bad for Briana. She's been picking on me nonstop for the past year. She might be Evan's twin sister, but she is absolutely nothing like him.

When I go inside Marisol's house, her eyebrows are raised expectantly. “What was that all about?”

I explain what Angela and Briana said about people firing us because they think I've been stealing.

“That's crazy,” says Marisol. “You guys have only lost a couple of clients, and for all you know, that's a coincidence.”

“But how would they know the necklace is gone unless Ms. Montelle told someone about it? What if she never called my mom back because she hired the Ladybugs instead, and she told them about the necklace? If they start spreading that around town, we'll lose all of our business!” I take a deep breath. “Do you still have that Ladybug business card?”

Marisol nods and pulls the card out of her panda-shaped purse.

My stomach flutters at the thought of calling a total stranger, but I have no choice. “Okay, I'll ask how much they charge. Then I'll try to work in something about stealing to see if she brings up the necklace thing. And then I'll hang up. It'll be easy, right?”

Marisol looks a little skeptical, but she nods. I go lock myself in Marisol's bathroom—I definitely can't talk on the phone with someone listening!—and then dial before I chicken out. It rings a few times, and finally a woman's voice answers.

“Hello, is this Lillian?” I say, trying to lower my voice to sound older. Instead, it comes out weird and squeaky.

“Yes?”

“Oh, hello. My, um, my daughter, um, gave me your card. I wanted to ask about your…um, your price.”

“My price?”

“No!” I cry. “Not
your
price, obviously. I mean, you're not for sale or anything! Um, no, just how much it costs to have you clean my house.”

“Ah,” she says, like she's finally figured out this isn't some kind of prank phone call. “I just need some general info.” She starts asking me about the location of the house, the square footage, and the number of bathrooms. I do my best to answer her questions without saying anything else ridiculous. When she tells me how much the Ladybugs would charge, I realize it's pretty much what my mom would ask for, too. “We've recently expanded into your area,” Lillian continues, “but the company has been in business for over five years.”

That explains why I'd never seen the Ladybugs around town before a couple weeks ago. If they've been in business for five years, they've had plenty of time to get things down to a science. No wonder their employees remind me of cleaning machines.

“Hello? Are you still there?” Lillian says.

I realize she stopped talking a minute ago, and I've just been breathing into the phone. Maybe I
should
be a prank caller. I seem to be perfect for the job.

“Sorry. One more question,” I say. My hand is so sweaty that the phone is about to slip out of it at any second. “Have you had any problems with, um, people, um, thieving things?” Oh my goldfish.
Thieving
? Who even says that?

“Not at all,” she says. “In fact, we pride ourselves on being professional, unlike some other businesses in the area.” She lowers her voice. “I don't want to gossip, but I've heard another cleaning service in town, one that's brand new, already has a pretty questionable reputation. That's not something you'd ever have to worry about with us.”

“Do…do you know the name of the cleaning service?” I whisper.

“Lee Cleaners,” she answers. “I'd watch out for them.”

“Thanks,” I mumble and hurry to end the conversation. When I hang up the phone, I feel sick. I open the bathroom door to find Marisol sitting on her bed with an expectant look on her face.

“What did she say?” says Marisol. “What happened?”

“It's not our prices. It's me. I'm the reason people are firing us.”

After dinner, Mom rushes around the kitchen, scrubbing every surface she can find. It takes me a minute to notice that something's off. Then I realize what it is: Mom isn't whistling. Ever since she started dating Mr. Hammond, she's always humming or whistling or even—my poor ears—singing. But today she has a far-off look on her face.

“Are you okay?” I ask her.

Mom glances up from scraping a saucepan and gives me an obviously forced smile. “I'm great,” she says.

I can't help wondering if this is about us losing clients. I consider telling Mom what the Ladybug woman said about us, but I can't make myself do it. Not only will it kill her mood even more, but I already feel guilty enough that this is my fault.

I wish there was something I could do to prove to people that I didn't take that necklace, but what?

Then it hits me. What if I go over and help Ms. Montelle look for it? If we find it, then Lee Cleaners will have its reputation back. It might not convince our old clients to rehire us, but at least it'll keep us from losing any new ones.

If I call Ms. Montelle, I'm afraid she'll make some excuse and hang up on me. She's always been so nice, but ever since the necklace incident, I'm not sure how she feels about me. My best bet is to show up on her doorstep and hope she doesn't turn me away.

After telling my mom that I'm going to meet Marisol, I ride my bike over to Ms. Montelle's house. When she opens the door, I can tell she's just gotten home from work. Her business suit is rumpled, and she looks exhausted.

“Rachel,” she says, almost sighing my name. “What a surprise. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to come help you look for Caitlin's necklace,” I say. “I feel really bad that it's missing. Even though I didn't take it. I promise.”

She gives me a tired smile. “I guess it couldn't hurt to take another look.”

We go into Caitlin's room, and I start peering into every nook and cranny I can think of. As Ms. Montelle helps me move the dresser and roll up the rug, I can't help wondering if she's watching me extra carefully to make sure I don't take anything else.

After a half hour, we still don't find anything. I'm so frustrated that I want to start throwing things, but I don't think that will exactly improve my reputation.

“We did our best,” she says finally. “I suppose it's just one of those mysteries.” Ms. Montelle smiles at me again, and I'm at least glad to know that she doesn't blame me.

As I leave her house, I notice that there aren't the usual piles of papers and dirty coffee mugs in the living room that my mom and I have had to clean up every weekend. Even though we haven't been to this house in almost two weeks. That's weird.

Then, on my way through the kitchen, I spot it: a Ladybug Cleaners magnet hanging on the fridge.

My feet freeze, like they're suddenly bolted to the floor. “Ms. Montelle?” I find myself saying. “Have you heard people saying bad things about my mom's cleaning business?”

She looks surprised. “I–I don't think so. Why?”

“Well, that new cleaning business, Ladybug Cleaners? I keep hearing rumors about them, so I wondered if people talked about us like that, too.” Whoa, what am I saying? It's like my mouth is just going without me.

Ms. Montelle frowns. “What kinds of rumors have you heard about them?”

I wait for my mouth to make something up, but it seems to be done talking. “Um, only that they're not very good at their jobs, that's all,” I say. “You might want to watch out for them.” I realize I'm echoing what Lillian at Ladybug Cleaners said to me.

Ms. Montelle nods, her face still serious. “Thanks, Rachel. I'll keep that in mind.”

As I pedal home, my mind is spinning faster than my tires. Part of me can't believe I just lied like that, but another part of me feels strangely hopeful. Maybe we
can
do something to fight back.

Okay, it might be low and sleazy to make up rumors about people, but isn't it pretty much the same thing the Ladybugs are doing to us? They have no proof that we're thieves, and yet they're telling everyone that to help their business.

They're the ones who started the fight. I'm flinging a little mud back at them, that's all.