Prank List (6 page)

I get to pastry class early on Saturday, ready to show Chef Ryan what I can do. I'm so early that he's still setting things up, but when I ask if I can help, he waves me away.

I spot Mr. Leroy in the corner, poring over the directions for today's assignment. He's bent over the paper, squinting through his bottle-thick glasses and obviously still having trouble reading the list of ingredients.

“Do you need some help with that?” I finally ask. I haven't had a lot of experience with old people—Dad's parents live on the West Coast and Mom's both died before I was born—so anyone with all-gray hair usually scares me, but Mr. Leroy looks pretty desperate. Plus, he's about half my height, so if he tries to suck the youth out of my bones, I should be able to defend myself.

He straightens up and gives me a denture-ific grin. “That would be lovely,” he says. “I think Ms. Gomez is getting pretty tired of reading things for me.”

I assume Ms. Gomez is the woman with the kindergarten-teacher smile. I can't imagine her getting tired of helping anyone.

As I go over the ingredients, Mr. Leroy nods his head slowly like he's trying to memorize them. Then he lets out a dry laugh. “Seventy-six years old and I'm only now learning how to cook. Can you believe it?”

“Better late than never, right?” I say, sounding like my mom.

“My wife was always the cook in the family. I tried to help her, but she didn't like how I accidentally set things on fire.” He laughs again and pushes up his enormous glasses. Then his smile fades. “Now that she's passed on, it's just me.”

I swallow. This is exactly what scares me about old people. Not only do they have a hard time hearing me since I'm quiet and shy, but half their stories end with someone dying. How are you supposed to respond to that?

“I'm sorry,” I manage to choke out, hoping he doesn't start crying or something. Then
I'll
probably start bawling, too.

Luckily, he smiles again and says, “Well, I figure if I'm going to learn, it might as well be now.” He glances over as Chef Ryan stomps out of the room. “I only wish our teacher was a little more patient,” he adds in a whisper.

“No kidding!” I say. “At least he doesn't hate you. He can't even stand to look at me.”

Mr. Leroy chuckles. “I don't think the young man hates you. He's just a grump, that's all. Like my old cat, Martha. She gets cranky when things aren't done her way.”

The thought of Chef Ryan as a cranky old cat makes me smile. I can imagine him hissing at anyone who gets too close to his favorite cutting board.

“Aha!” says Mr. Leroy, like he's caught me red-handed. “I knew there was a smile in there somewhere.”

That makes me smile wider. Maybe old folks aren't that scary after all.

Other people have started filing into the kitchen, and Chef Ryan storms past with a bunch of ingredients. As I head over to grab an apron, Whit comes in. He's wearing his leather jacket yet again, which is plain nutso in the July heat.

“Hey,” he says, coming over to me. “Want to team up?”

I'm shocked he'd want to work with me again after seeing my “inferior” chocolate chip cookies. But since everyone else seems to have already found a partner, I guess I don't have a choice but to agree.

As we get our ingredients together for today's project—maple-glazed éclairs—Whit doesn't say a word, so I find myself blabbing on about how Marisol has been talking to Cherie on the phone practically every day, making plans for the Bake-Off.

“It's going to be huge,” I tell him.

Whit's face goes from bored-looking to a little green. “I didn't think there'd be a ton of people there besides our class. At my school, the crowd was always pretty small.”

Wow, who knew Mr. Confident could be as freaked out by the idea of getting up in front of a bunch of people as I am? “I was hoping it would be kind of small, too, but I think it'll be good for the bakery, you know? Plus, that way the winner will feel really official.”

Whit nods. “It
will
be nice to win in front of everyone.”

I snort. “So you just assume you're going to win?” Just when I start thinking Whit might not be such a bad guy, he has to go and say something like that.

“Why? You think you can beat me?” His eyebrows shoot up.

“Yes! I won a big competition at my school this year, with a cash prize and everything. I know I can win this, too.” I'm not usually the type of person to brag, but come on. How can Whit assume he's going to win? Even I'm not that full of myself when it comes to baking.

He shrugs. “I guess we'll see.”

I could scream at the smug look on his face, but at that moment I see a Ladybug van zip past the bakery window.

“Ugh!” I cry. “I can't believe it. Those things are stalking me!”

“What things?” he says.

“Those vans.” I point just as the minivan turns onto another street. “They're trying to put my mom's cleaning company out of business.”

“What are you talking about?” For once he looks mildly interested in what I'm saying, but I'm not about to start spilling my secrets.

“Never mind.” I go to grab the recipe, but Whit's already swiped it.

“Step one,” he reads in that loud, slow voice of his, like he's talking to a toddler. I can't stand to listen to it for another second. Anything is better than that.

“You want to know about those vans?” I say, cutting him off. “Why they're ruining my life?”

He looks up from the recipe, clearly interested again. “Why?”

“If you make the filling and let me make the dough—without micromanaging me—I'll tell you,” I say.

Whit thinks this over for a second and then nods. As we get to work, I tell him about my mom's business losing clients because of the Ladybugs and about my plan to plant evidence at Angela's house to get back at them. It takes me forever to explain, mostly because I keep having to stop to do another part of the dough recipe. Beside me, Whit just listens and works on the filling without even looking at the instructions.

“It's fighting fire with fire, you know?” I say as I start squeezing lines of the dough mixture onto a baking sheet. “I don't like the idea of doing it, but hopefully it'll even things out again so that we won't lose any more clients.”

Whit nods slowly as he works on the maple glaze now that the crème filling is done. “What if they make up another lie about you guys?”

I drop a whisk so that it goes clattering into the sink.

“Rachel!” Chef Ryan calls across the room. “Be careful!”

“You think they'd really do that?” I ask.

Whit shrugs. “I don't know. What if they come up with an even bigger lie to tell? What will you do then?”

I hadn't thought of that. Foolishly, I'd imagined my one lie would be the end of it. But if telling a few more is what it takes, I guess I'll have no choice. “I'll do what I have to.”

When Mom asks me about class during dinner that night, I mumble something and focus on shoving food in my mouth. I was convinced that our éclairs had come out great, but Chef Ryan only pursed his lips after he tried one and said we should spend less time talking and more time following instructions. Every time I think about it, I want to strangle something.

After dinner, I'm still in a terrible mood, so I'm relieved when Evan calls to invite me over to watch reruns of
Pastry
Wars
with him.

As I ring the doorbell, I'm hoping his sister doesn't open the door. So, of course, I see her unsmiling face when the door swings open.

“Oh,” she says. “It's you.”

“Hey, Briana,” I say. “Um, is—”

She doesn't even wait for me to ask if Evan is home. Instead, she turns on her heel and stomps down the hallway. At least she leaves the door open instead of slamming it in my face. In Briana terms, that's practically a warm welcome.

“Hello?” I call, poking my head inside. “Evan?”

“Rachel?” I hear him call back. “I'm in the living room.”

It feels strange to walk around his house as a guest and not as a cleaning lady. Even though we could use the money, I'm glad Mom decided we shouldn't clean the Rileys' house anymore. It would be super weird to be scrubbing a toilet with my maybe-sort-of-kind-of-boyfriend in the next room. I bet that's why Mom stopped cleaning Mr. Hammond's house.

When we curl up on the couch to watch the show, Evan surprises me by putting his arm around me. A shiver goes through my whole body. Evan Riley has his arm around me!

I snuggle into him, enjoying the peppermint-and-soap smell of him. I've never felt so happy.

“How was your class?” he asks during a commercial.

I sigh. “Fine, I guess. I'm pretty sure Chef Ryan hates me. At this rate, he'll never let me be in the Bake-Off.”

“What about Whit?” Evan asks. “Will he be in it?”

“Probably, at least if you listen to him. He thinks he's the best pastry chef in the world and that he'll win the Bake-Off with his eyes closed. Isn't that obnoxious?”

I expect Evan to agree with me, but he's frowning at the TV, which is weird since there's still a commercial on. Then again, I guess I have been whining about my class a lot.

“Sorry to complain so much,” I add. “It's just that the class isn't what I thought it was going to be.”

Evan nods. “I understand. It's okay.” But his voice sounds strange.

I wish I could ask him what's wrong, but I'm afraid what his answer might be. Even though he's sitting here with his arm around me, he might be starting to wonder if he's made a huge mistake. Maybe that's why he hasn't asked me to be his girlfriend yet.

When the show is almost over, Briana marches through the living room on her way to the kitchen. She shoots us a disgusted look.

“Get a room,” she mutters. As she walks away, her phone beeps. She glances down at it and then puts it in her pocket. A minute later, it beeps again. Briana ignores it as she digs around in the fridge.

Almost immediately, I hear her phone start to ring.

Evan shakes his head in amusement. “Angela's been stalking her all day,” he says.

“Angela Bareli?” I ask stupidly, as if it could be anyone else.

“Yeah, I think Briana's getting pretty sick of her, but Angela can't take the hint. She keeps calling and texting and—”

Ding
dong!

“And coming over,” he finishes as the doorbell echoes through the house.

I turn to Evan, my mouth open. “Do you think that's her?”

He nods. “She's always ‘in the neighborhood' whenever my sister doesn't answer her calls.”

“Creepy,” I say as the doorbell rings again.

“Briana!” Evan calls into the kitchen. “Are you going to let your stalker in?”

Briana rushes back through the living room. “Tell her I'm not here,” she says before darting up the stairs.

Evan chuckles and waves for me to follow him. Whatever weirdness was between us seems to be gone. I guess I have Angela to thank for that.

When Evan opens the door, sure enough, Angela Bareli is standing on the stoop grinning back at us.

“Hi, Evan!” she chirps. Then her eyes go over to me and her smile dims a little. “Hi, Rachel.” I have to give her credit for at least pretending not to hate me. “Is Briana home?”

“Um, no,” says Evan. “She's out. I can tell her you stopped by.”

“Could I wait here until she gets home?” she says.

Evan blinks, clearly surprised by the request. “Um, I don't think that's a good idea. She'll probably be gone a while.”

Angela's face falls. “Oh. Okay. Well, I'll try back later.” She smiles her totally fake smile and hurries away.

As we watch her prance down the street, Evan turns to me. “You don't think she's going to lock my sister in a basement and try to take over her identity, do you?” he says.

“Hmm, just in case, you might want to tell Briana not to go anywhere by herself.” I sigh as my mom's car pulls into the driveway. “Time to go.”

Evan reaches out and takes my hand in his. Then he squeezes my fingers and waves as I walk away.

My hand doesn't stop tingling for what feels like hours.

On Monday morning, Marisol and I watch as Angela hops into Mrs. Riley's car all decked out for the beach. She can barely fit in the backseat, thanks to a sun hat that's easily the size of a satellite dish.

My body is pumping with nervous energy when the Ladybugs pull into the Barelis' driveway a few minutes later to clean the house. I can tell Marisol is even more nervous than I am. I try to distract her by asking her to tell me about the wacky personalities Andrew has been dealing with at film camp, but her eyes keep going to the window any time a car drives by.

Finally, after the Ladybugs leave, it's showtime.

As we make our way out of Marisol's room, I notice her hands are shaking.

“It'll be fine,” I say as we leave her house. “Angela's mom won't suspect anything.”

Marisol nods and goes toward the Barelis' front door, while I rush around the side of the house and ease my way through some bushes. Then I stand under Angela's bedroom window, trying not to look too conspicuous.

A minute later, I hear the doorbell ring and then catch snippets of Marisol explaining to Mrs. Bareli how she let Angela borrow a sewing kit a few weeks ago and how she's wondering if she can come in and look for it since there's a special needle that she needs for a project she's working on.

I hold my breath as Mrs. Bareli lets Marisol in. The minute the door closes, I count a few seconds to give them time to go upstairs. Then I pull out my phone and dial the Barelis' number.

“Hello?” Mrs. Bareli says after a few rings. Yes! That means Marisol is currently all alone in Angela's room, free to plant an enormous hairball in the middle of the carpet. Now I have to give her some time.

“Yes, hello,” I say, trying to make my voice sound older and more official. “I'm calling about your latest order with…” My mind goes blank. I open my mouth and close it again. Nothing.

“My order from where?” she asks.

“Uh…penguins!” I call out, blurting the first word that comes to mind. Oh my goldfish. Did I really just say that?

“Penguins?” she repeats. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No! No, ma'am. Of course you didn't order penguins. That would be ridiculous. Where would we even get penguins this time of year?” I clear my throat, stalling. “I'm calling from, um, Penguin Refrigeration about your latest freezer purchase.”

Great. She'll tell me she didn't order a freezer and hang up on me.

“Did my husband call you? We've been talking about getting a deep freezer for years, but as far I know, we didn't… Wait!” She lets out a laugh. “I see now. This must be a surprise for my birthday. It's coming up in a few weeks. I probably shouldn't even be talking to you!” She giggles in a way that reminds me of Angela.

Uh-oh. I'd wanted to distract her for a little while, not get her hopes up about a birthday present that will never come.

“Is there a problem with the order?” she says.

“Oh, um…no, we're just confirming it.”

Suddenly, I hear Marisol in the background. “I found the needle,” she calls. “Thanks, Mrs. Bareli!”

That's my cue to hang up. I try to think of something to say to Mrs. Bareli to help smooth things over, but my mind is unhelpfully blank again. Finally, I wish Mrs. Bareli a happy birthday and hang up. Then I run like the wind to the back door of Marisol's house, almost tripping over a garden hose on the way.

A minute later, while I'm still panting, Marisol opens the door for me and lets me into the house. She's grinning like a monkey, which I guess means her part of the plan went smoothly.

When we go up to her room, we both erupt in hysterical giggles.

“I can't believe that worked!” says Marisol. “Did she suspect anything on the phone?”

“I don't think so,” I say. “Although next time you see Mr. Bareli, you might want to convince him to buy a freezer.”

Marisol's smile fades, and she looks at me with a strange expression that almost looks like guilt. “So, I didn't totally follow the plan.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I got to Angela's room, I went to put the hairball in the middle of the carpet, but then I saw her favorite T-shirt on her chair. You know, the one she got from Disney that she wears all the time? And I thought, the Ladybugs are accusing you of stealing. Why not make people think that they steal things, too? So I…” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I took it.”

“You
stole
it?”

“No! I only moved it. I put it under her bed where she probably won't find it for a while. So I didn't steal it. It's still in her room. But she'll think the Ladybugs took it.”

My head starts pounding. Tricking Angela feels wrong, but at the same time, Marisol might be right. Maybe the prank needed to be bigger to really get people's attention.

When I tell Marisol that, she grins. “I can't believe it, but I actually had fun! I felt like James Bond or something.”

I shake my head. Clearly, I've unleashed Marisol's dark side. I only hope I can stuff it back into whatever dungeon it came from before it does any actual damage.

•••

After dinner that night, I watch Mom slumped at the kitchen table, sifting through a mountain of bills. I can see the frown lines on her face from all the way across the room.

“I don't understand,” she says. “We were finally doing okay a few weeks ago.” She sounds tired and defeated, which is totally bizarro coming from her, Ms. Optimism.

“We've only been cleaning houses for a few months,” I say. “Maybe we need more time.”

She sighs. “I wish I knew why we're losing so many clients. I've been trying to spread the word around town, but it doesn't seem to be doing any good. I think there's too much competition.”

I consider telling Mom about the rumors about us, but I can't imagine how much more defeated she'll look. Besides, there's nothing she can do about the rumors. And if she found out that I was playing dirty, too, she'd flip out.

“Would you mind asking some of your friends if they could mention our service to their parents?” she says.

“Um, Mom?” I'm about to remind her that I don't have friends. Then I shut my mouth, partly because I have more friends now than I've ever had before, but also because I want her to see that I'm on her side. “Sure. I'll spread the word.”

It hits me that maybe there are different ways of advertising that we haven't tried yet. It's not enough to stop losing business. We need to find ways to get new clients, too. Maybe something as simple as putting up flyers around town would help.

I'm willing to try anything if it means never having to see my mom look so defeated again.